Paint It Black

by Mark Timlin

  ‘It’s a good gun,’ he said. ‘And a bargain at one-fifty.’

  ‘Ammo?’

  ‘Fifty rounds, Smith and Wesson long. Fifty notes.’

  ‘All together?’

  ‘Nine hundred sovs.’

  ‘No discount for bulk? And an old customer?’

  I heard him chuckle. ‘Eight-fifty.’

  I pulled out one of the five-hundred-quid bundles and four more of the tons, split one of them in half and held the money out to him. As he reached for it, I pulled it back. ‘There’s something else I want,’ I said.

  The fat man looked at me and the money. ‘Like what, dear?’ he asked. ‘Always happy to oblige if I can.’

  ‘A machine pistol,’ I said. ‘Fully auto, with a suppressor, and more ammo to go with.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘We are getting ambitious, aren’t we, dear? That’s a very heavy request.’

  ‘I’m dealing with very heavy people.’

  ‘It’s not really my type of merchandise. Those type of weapons are more for the younger, wilder element of society. Crackheads, etc.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘But I can give you a name. However, let me warn you. The gentleman is not fond of people of our ethnic persuasion, although we have done business on one or two occasions. And his abode is in one of the less salubrious areas of this fair city of ours.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances,’ I said.

  ‘And chances they will be, I can assure you. The individual you want is called Darkman.’

  I gave the fat man a quizzical look.

  ‘Yes. Just Darkman,’ he said. ‘And he conducts his affairs from an apartment on the Lion Estate.’

  Shit, I thought. ‘The Lion,’ I repeated.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  I’d had dealings on the Lion before. It’s down Deptford way, and is without doubt the worst estate in London. A stinking drain for every lowlife in south London.

  ‘I know it,’ I said.

  ‘Who doesn’t, dear?’ The fat man gave me a flat number in one of the highrises that dominate the place, and I gave him the cash, which he counted off with his chubby fingers. When he was satisfied, he tapped on the glass partition between us and the driver and we headed back towards Clapham. The same as the last time he told me he’d buy the guns back at 25 per cent of the price he’d sold them to me for. And just like the last time we’d done business too, he dropped me off about five minutes’ walk from the pub. A careful man.

  I watched the cab speed off towards the river as I walked back to my motor, and his final words echoed in my ears. ‘Good luck, dear,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it.’

  I took the guns back to the flat, cleaned and dry fired both of them, loaded the clips for the automatic and tried to give Dawn some idea of the basics of using the .32. Now, it’s difficult to teach someone to shoot without actually using the gun. Sure, any fool can hold a pistol and pull the trigger. Everyone’s seen it a million times on TV and at the cinema, but it’s a lot different when the gun is loaded with real bullets. First of all they make a hell of a noise, and they kick, and finally you’ve got to remember that bullets do serious damage. They hurt. Dawn had seen what sort of damage and hurt before, but had never actually fired a gun, even if she’d looked pretty cool toting that shotgun in the field outside Banbury.

  ‘We’ll try and get some practice in soon,’ I said. ‘But the constabulary in this country doesn’t take kindly to people blasting away with illegal guns all over the scenery. So we’ll wait until we get the machine gun, if I can get hold of one, and we’ll test it out somewhere quiet early one morning.’

  At least Dawn didn’t seem scared of the piece. She held it confidently, dry fired it happily, clicked out the cylinder and spun it like an expert, but I still wanted her to get the feel of real shooting before we got serious. Right then there was nothing I could do about it. In this life, I’ve found, you work with what you’ve got, and vamp the middle eight.

  I told her what the fat man had told me about the geezer who could supply us with a machine pistol, and we decided to go visit him the next day.

  * * *

  I got Dawn to drive me to the estate around noon and left her in the car on the outskirts with the doors locked, the loaded thirty-two tucked into the waistband of her jeans and the Browning under the driver’s seat, cocked and unlocked. She also had a wicked-looking kitchen knife with a nine-inch blade under her bra strap at the back. On the way we stopped at our bank and withdrew another couple of grand, which Dawn put in her handbag. I didn’t know what the deal was going to be, if in fact a deal there was. I knew it was dangerous for us to carry that sort of money in that sort of area, but I needed some cash handy just in case.

  ‘Give me an hour,’ I said. ‘If I’m any longer, I’m in trouble. Then you should call the cops.’

  She shook her head. ‘If you’re more than an hour I’ll come and get you.’

  There was no point in arguing. ‘Don’t cut yourself getting out of the car,’ I said, leant over from the passenger side and kissed her.

  I was wearing my old Schott leather, blue jeans, a denim shirt and soft slip-on Timberlands. I’d left my watch at home. Around this estate they’d mug you for an old Swatch, let alone a solid gold Rolex, and my wrist felt naked without it. I carried no weapons, cigarettes, matches or money. Nothing, except my driving licence for ID, for what it was worth. I was going in cold and I was scared stiff.

  I walked away from the car with as much swagger as I could muster but I could already feel the sweat running down from my armpits.

  I strolled on to the estate proper and picked my way through the broken glass, dog shit, and fast-food wrappers that littered the streets. It was quiet between the highrise blocks. Too quiet, as the Lone Ranger would have remarked to Tonto. I wasn’t crazy about it, I’ll own up to that.

  I found the right block and walked up the four flights to the floor I was looking for. It was quiet inside the block too. No music or screaming and shouting. I was willing to bet it wasn’t this quiet come Saturday night when the pubs chucked out.

  The flat I wanted was protected by a metal fire door and the one window that looked out on to the corridor was screened with mesh.

  I hammered on the metal of the door and the noise boomed down the stairwell.

  After a few seconds a slot in the fire door opened and a pair of brown, bloodshot eyes gave me a blimp.

  ‘Whaddya want?’ said the voice belonging to the eyes.

  ‘I want to see Darkman.’

  ‘We all darkmen in here, man. Aincha heard?’ And he laughed.

  ‘Darkman,’ I said again.

  ‘You filth?’

  I shook my head. ‘My name’s Sharman. Nick Sharman.’

  ‘Who sencha?’

  ‘A geezer in a taxi. Sells hats.’

  The slot closed with a bang and I stayed where I was. I didn’t have much choice.

  After a couple of minutes I heard the rattle of chains and the sound of bolts being pulled back, and with a screech from the hinges, the fire door opened outwards, and the biggest black geezer I’d ever seen stood in the doorway. ‘Got any ID?’ he said.

  I showed him my driver’s licence. I felt like I was trying to cash a cheque. But if this fucker bounced, I probably would too, on the concrete pavement four floors down.

  He looked at it, then at me, and sneered, ‘This don’t mean nothin’.’

  I shrugged. ‘What do you want?’ I asked.

  It was like we were having a friendly chat over a pint in our local, instead of standing outside a crack house where I was trying to buy an automatic weapon.

  ‘Tell me about the hat man,’ he said.

  ‘He’s fat, sounds like an old queen and drives around in the back of a black cab.’

  ‘Why’d he send you here?’

  ‘He said the Darkman could get me what I want.’

  He made a sizzling sound with his teeth against his lips. ‘He got that right,’ he said. ‘You better come inside.’r />
  He stood back to allow me entry, and when I was inside tugged the fire door closed with another screech of metal.

  The front hall of the flat was dark, with a dingy carpet on the floor and the walls decorated with graffiti.

  A big black woman came out through a door and stood looking at me. She wore a short, scarlet dress cut low at the front to show off most of her big, hard-looking boobs. Her hair was in dreads and caught up in a pineapple look, and she carried an open flick-knife in one hand.

  The black geezer pushed me up against the wall.

  ‘Jacket,’ he said.

  I took off my Schott and he examined it inside and out, checking all the seams. When he was satisfied he dropped it on the floor.

  ‘Shirt.’

  I unsnapped the front of my western-style shirt, took it off and passed it over. He checked the pockets and the double yoke, then dropped it on top of my jacket.

  ‘Shoes and socks.’

  I slid out of my loafers and, as he examined them, took off my socks and stood barefoot on the crummy carpet.

  ‘Strides.’

  I looked at the woman and she looked back at me and cleaned her long, scarlet fingernails with the point of the flick-knife blade.

  I unbuttoned my 501s and took them off, hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other as I did it.

  The black geezer checked them thoroughly too, pulling out the pockets then consigning them also to the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

  ‘Shorts.’

  ‘Hey man,’ I said, and looked at the woman again.

  ‘You shy?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You might be wired. If you want to see Darkman, I check everywhere.’

  I dropped my shorts and he looked at my groin. ‘See, Marsha,’ he said. ‘White meat is smaller.’

  ‘I seen white meat before,’ she retorted.

  I could actually feel my balls shrink as they discussed the size of my genitals. It wasn’t one of the highspots of my week.

  ‘Don’t tell Darkman,’ said the black geezer with a frown. ‘He don’t dig inter-racial sex.’

  ‘Unless he fuckin’ some blonde bimbo,’ she said, and with a sneer at my privates, went back through the door she’d come in by.

  The black geezer turned me to face the wall, then back, and tossed me my shorts. At least he hadn’t given me an internal.

  ‘You travel light,’ he said.

  ‘Best way,’ I replied.

  He nodded. ‘Get dressed, man,’ he said. ‘You clean.’

  I didn’t need to be told twice, and struggled back into my clothes almost quicker than it takes to tell. Then the black guy opened another door off the hall and waved me through politely.

  I walked into a hot room that smelled equally of marijuana, stale sweat and Chanel perfume. The curtains were tightly closed over the windows, which I would have been willing to bet were masked with steel themselves, and only one dim light burned in the ceiling fixture. A tired-sounding electric fan moved the air around the room lethargically. There was a quantity of expensive-looking leather furniture, but it was scarred with cigarette burns and knife cuts. A huge, glass topped coffee table sat in the centre of the room covered with cigarette papers, grass, disposable lighters, two small hand mirrors, shredded cigarettes, crack-smoking paraphernalia, dirty cups and dishes, fag packets, a pile of new fifty-pound notes, a couple of portable phones, some oblong paper wraps for coke or smack, razor blades and all sorts of other shit. Behind the coffee table on a raised dais was a beaten-up looking, high-backed, gold-painted chair, with red velvet cushions and armrests, that looked like some kind of throne. Seated on it, with one leg over one of the arms, was a skinny, thirty-something black man in a single-breasted silvery-grey sharkskin suit, a white shirt with a tab collar, and a narrow black tie with a gold clip. His feet were immaculately shod in grey, Italian loafers, the one hanging over the arm of the chair tapping to the beat of music that only he could hear.

  ‘He’s cool, chief,’ said the huge geezer from behind me.

  The man in the chair nodded and said, ‘Come in. Welcome to my world. If you’re Babylon you’re dead.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve got more sense.’

  He nodded sagely, and I walked further into the room and the huge geezer followed me, closed the door behind him and took up position leaning against the wall next to it with his arms folded. I looked over my shoulder at him and he nodded, like he was saying, ‘Now you’re in, you stay here till we say you can go.’

  I turned my head back to the guy in the chair. ‘Darkman?’ I asked.

  ‘In the flesh. What brings you to my kingdom?’

  So he did think it was a throne.

  ‘I was sent here.’

  ‘By the mad hatter.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We’ve done business.’

  ‘So he said.’

  ‘I hope that was all he said.’ His tone was menacing.

  ‘It was,’ I reassured him.

  ‘Good. So what can I do for you?’

  The door behind me opened again and the woman in the scarlet dress came in, walked over to the table, knelt down, opened one of the wraps, dumped the contents on one of the mirrors and started cutting out lines with a razor blade.

  I looked at her, then at Darkman.

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ he said. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘I want to buy a machine pistol. An Uzi or an Ingram, and some ammunition. Plus a silencer. That’s very important.’

  ‘And why should I sell to you?’

  The woman finished cutting out half a dozen fat lines and rolled up one of the fifties into a tight tube. She took the mirror and the banknote over to Darkman and offered it to him. He scarfed up two lines, threw his head back and swallowed hard, then looked at me again.

  ‘Why?’ he repeated.

  ‘Why not?’

  He thought about it as the woman stood silently beside him. After a moment he flapped his hand and she snorted two lines herself, then walked over and offered the mirror and note to me.

  I touched the tip of the pinky on my right hand to the end of one line and licked off the residue. I got a freeze right away, plucked the note from between the woman’s fingers and snorted a line up each nostril. I felt the coke kick in immediately and the taste of aluminium at the back of my throat as my mouth filled with saliva and I swallowed.

  ‘Good stuff,’ I said.

  ‘Only the best for Darkman. And you’re careful. I like that.’

  I said nothing in reply.

  ‘You know a cat called Emerald?’ Darkman asked after a moment.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘We’re old friends.’

  Darkman nodded. ‘Do up a blunt, bitch,’ he said to Marsha.

  The woman knelt down in front of the table again and started to put a five-skin, all-grass joint together.

  ‘Can I have a cigarette?’ I asked.

  Darkman flapped his hand again and Martha took a Marlboro Lite from a crumpled packet, lit it with one of the disposable lighters and passed it to me. The tip was red with her lipstick and I could taste the tang of the cosmetic as I took a drag. She went back to rolling the joint.

  ‘You helped him out a while back,’ said Darkman.

  ‘That’s what friends are for.’

  ‘How much cash you got?’

  ‘On me. None. How much will it cost?’

  He shrugged. ‘A lot,’ he said. ‘Dangerous things, machine guns. Who you gonna shoot?’

  ‘Some drug dealers,’ I said. Honesty being the best policy.

  Darkman frowned, and Marsha stopped rolling and looked up at me.

  ‘I a drug dealer,’ said Darkman.

  ‘I’m not interested in you, except for the gun you can get me.’ Maybe next time, I thought.

  ‘So who ya gonna use the gun on? Black men or white men?’

  ‘White men,’ I said. ‘At least I think they are.’

  He grinned, showing a mouthful of pe
arly teeth. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘You could get some of the black trash off the street for me.’

  I smiled. Marsha finished rolling the joint and lit it with another of the disposable lighters. She took down a huge mouthful of smoke, held it until she almost choked then let it out in a long grey plume that drifted up to the ceiling before being dispersed by the fan.

  ‘Draw,’ said Darkman, and Marsha passed him the joint and he took a long hit of his own. I finished my Marlboro and stubbed it out in an ashtray.

  ‘Want some?’ asked Darkman, holding up the joint.

  I shook my head. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Leave your number, man. I call you soon. Make sure you’ve got your cash handy.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I said, and with a wave he dismissed me.

  The huge geezer showed me the front door, where I gave him my phone number and I walked back to the Chevy and Dawn.

  Darkman called up the next morning. He didn’t introduce himself, just said, ‘Got what you want, man.’

  ‘Good. How much?’

  ‘A long ’un and a half.’

  ‘Good kit?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘It’d better be. Where and when?’

  ‘Brockwell Park. In front of the big white house. Be alone. One o’clock.’ And he put down the phone.

  I collected fifteen hundred nicker from Dawn and put it in a brown envelope which I tucked into the left-hand pocket of my leather. In the other I put the Browning, cocked and unlocked, with one in the chamber.

  At twenty to one I got Dawn to drive me to the Norwood Road and Brockwell Park Gardens entrance to the park. She turned the car round so that it was facing the main road and put the .32 under the sun visor, butt outwards for a quick draw. I gave her a kiss, exited the motor and took a stroll amongst the flowers. I walked up the hill towards the white house that sat on top. On a wooden bench in front of the place, I saw Darkman sitting, dressed in a Burberry mac. On the seat beside him was a briefcase and two Tesco’s carrier bags. I couldn’t see anyone else close. I walked up and sat next to him and let the sun warm my face for a moment.