Turning the page, an article caught his eye. The radio was forgotten now.
“Suedeheads,” the article said, “are difficult to define. They belong to no known bands nor do they amalgamate into gangs as their skinhead predecessors did. They are an enigma. An anti-social anti-everything conglomerate affecting status as their protective cover whilst engaging in nefarious pursuits more savage, more brutal than other cultists we have seen rise – and fall in this past decade.”
“...and now, the Glen Miller sound. Little Brown Jug has been requested by Staff-Sergeant Harry Carr from Munich...”
Joe dropped the magazine to the floor and fiddled with the dial.
“Ici...”
He turned on. Foreign language programmes gave him a headache trying to cut through nasalness and unintelligible garble.
“...Berlin: British troops staged a three day exercise to prove their readiness for any Soviet sneak attack...”
He whirled the dial viciously and then switched to another wavelength.
The suedehead article was a magnet he could not fight against. His fingers playfully shifted the selector to a music programme and dropped away. He picked up the magazine again and got involved in it to such an extent he did not hear the foreign disc-jockey’s voice gutturally berate the latest offering from an established English pop group.
“...and suedeheads have been known to use their umbrellas as weapons...”
Joe glanced across the room at his furled umbrella.
“Many adherents of this strange, loosely-joined cult have resorted to sharpening their umbrella tips...”
Immediately, Joe saw the possibilities. What a beautiful cover-up! Leaving the radio blaring on its alien station, he got his umbrella and examined the tip. By removing the metal end, he could easily have the staff fashioned into a lethal weapon. A dab of black paint would effectively camouflage his handiwork...
*
Being a suedehead with its loose links appealed to the new Joe Hawkins. He began to study those other young men on the Underground, trying to separate the wolves from the ewes. He found it next to impossible to distinguish a sharpened umbrella point from a satisfied middle class stick-in-the-mud.
And, for a final try-out, he visited Mrs. Bernice Hale one evening by appointment. The killing he’d made from the queer’s suite could be dented, but never fully given away.
“I’ve saved some money,” Joe said as he reached ten quid across to her. “I promised to repay...”
“Oh, Joe!” Tears moistened the woman’s eyes. She took the cash and hurriedly wrote a receipt. “I...” She wiped her eyes with a cheap cotton handkerchief. “My son would like to know you, Joe.” She reached the slip across to her protégé. “It isn’t often our judgement is justified, but you’re the exception to the rule. It makes all our efforts worthwhile.”
Joe felt like a louse until he gave due consideration to his own ambitions. It had been more than a good gesture making one simple repayment of his outstanding loans. It had got him in solid. Now; anything, any time... “Are you sure you can afford this?”
“I’m sure.”
“You must be living on a meagre budget.”
“I’m existing.”
“Well, Joe, if you should ever...” She hesitated. A brief flash in his eyes disturbed her.
“I think I’ll be able to manage alone, Mrs. Hale.”
Thrusting doubt into dark, forgetting recesses, she smiled. “Keep in touch, Joe. I’d like to know what you are doing and be able to quote you as an example for other unfortunates to follow.”
Getting to the door, Joe dropped the hint he thought would bring her running. “You’ve got my address, Mrs. Hale. If you ever want to visit me I’ll be home. I haven’t found that girl yet...” He waved nonchalantly and made a hasty exit. But not before he caught a brief glimpse of her face. It gave him hope. He liked to imagine she was lonely – doing without. If only...
*
Soho at night was no place for a City type. Certainly not an affluent young man alone. Joe didn’t give a damn. He could handle himself better than most of the long-haired touts flogging their wares. Almost as well as the heavy boys menacing frightened tourists into taking a walk down a back alley to watch a series of blue films performed by the most brazen of brass and defeated layabouts. Joe knew all the tricks or thought he did. After all, he had worked for “God” recently...
Lethargic crowds paraded the maze, seeking pleasures for a price. Hurrying inhabitants of the rabbit warren hawked their bulky packages of pornographic books in sight of strolling fuzz. Brass kept alert eyes peeled from bedroom windows as pimps worked their charms on possible targets in a variety of sleazy clubs and near-beer joints. The young didn’t require pimping services. They got it free, for kicks, or for a pill or two. They got it better than the nervous, introvertish lecher afraid to ask for “special treatment”. The youth cult had taken over old Soho. The coffee bars, the invasion of freelancing teenage nymphs and the vicious gangs roaming what had always been a stable belonging to older, wiser, shadowy figures had changed the area. Old-timers could no longer compete. Youth demanded, and refused to run scared of Manson “gods”. Drugs gave courage and ill-advised bravado.
Joe considered the scene with a discriminating gaze. He was not interested in the flighty bits displaying their thighs nor the coaxing pleas of his generation trying to ensnare what they believed to be a provincial mark into a dark, over-priced den where even the ginger beer was watered.
Joe wanted companionship. Not womanship. He wanted to find his own... Dean Street, Frith Street, Old Compton Street, Greek Street. He walked them all; leisurely, alert. He saw the sweating bald-headed ones dart from dirty bookshops with a wrapped parcel clutched feverishly in clammy hands. Saw tarted-up birds from Ilford, Battersea, Highbury and a score of other outlying districts scamper between clubs. They were easy to spot. Heavy eye shadow, hungry lean features, shimmering sweaters hoisting up fake breasts. Small make-up cases swinging to the beat of their tight, not-fleshed-enough bottoms. He saw the rolling drunks, the pop-eyed trippers, the swaggering thugs showing off a new horse-blanket made into a suit.
And there were the prowling cars with their look-everywhere-save-the-road drivers creeping from skirt to skirt hopefully affecting a it’s-the-traffic-congestion-that-makes-me-drive-slow attitude.
There were cops and detectives. There were ordinary decent tourists or Londoners out for an exotic meal in one of the dozen or so famous restaurants. There were hard-working bartenders and waitresses going and coming as shifts started and ended. There were wide-boys studying passing faces for a good old-fashioned “steamer”. There was Danny, Freddie, Bob, Fat John, Robin, Kenny, Harry, Angie, Mary, Molly and – always – Julie. Flies stuck in the ointment called Soho. Dying flies all. Too steeped in the terrible rat race, the daily routine to seek greener fields.
To think he had once considered this the acme of ambition! He wanted to belong to the West End – not Soho’s grubby counterfeit acres. He wanted to be acceptable in that luxurious quarter adjoining this barbaric haven – the one across Regent Street. The one called Mayfair. That’s where the money was – in every sense.
But he was inside Soho’s hellhole. Looking for one sign. Searching for another who felt exactly as he did.
He had about given up hope when he entered Shaftesbury Avenue a third time. Traffic moved faster here. The people did not have those hard-bitten eyes now. These were theatre-goers and Soho-proper avoidees.
The youth came out of the coffee bar and stood momentarily alone on the pavement. Joe tensed. A gaggle of chattering females descended on the youth and he quickly moved. Joe followed through fume-spluming taxis down into Rupert Street. Do-nothing teenagers hung around doorways leading upstairs to juke-box squalor. Music blasted into the drawing night like great blankets of sound enshrouding those not in sympathy with modern noise.
A queer minced into sight, blond(e) locks flying in a slight breeze, perfume wafting from his flo
ral shirt in waves. If he wasn’t in such an exposed position I’d kick his sexy-ass, Joe thought delightedly. Queer-bashing was not on the cards tonight, though. Some other time he could vent his hatred and capitalise from the pleasure.
The youth paused as he reached Leicester Square. Joe could feel his indecision – right, or left. To the Tube or back into Piccadilly Circus. Home or mixing with the drug-pushers forming their nightly queue as the desperate ones drifted into town.
Joe reached the youth’s side. “I’m Joe Hawkins... mind if I join you?” He sounded too polite. That’s what working under Totter’s gimlet gaze did for him!
The youth stepped back a pace and deliberately studied Joe’s mode of dress. “Do you read...?” he started to ask with carefully modulated tones.
“Articles mentioning how suedeheads should dress?”
The youth smiled broadly. He nodded and tipped his bowler with an exaggerated welcoming gesture.
“You, too?” Joe asked tightly.
“Me, also!” came the easy reply. “I say, this is rather nice.”
Joe shuddered inside where his East End skinhead longings still manifested some aversion to plum-in-the-mouthisms. He forced himself to remember his ambitions to rise above the common herd. He would have to accept an Oxford accent as he would have to refrain from instantaneous explosion whenever he heard those hoity-toity assumed sayings of the Mayfair fraternity. He was not to know then that the characteristics were as false as the strippers’ bursting tits.
“We’re a rare breed,” the youth said over traffic roar. “Not many of us about, eh what?”
“I was beginning to wonder if I was the only one,” Joe laughed.
“Not quite, old chap. There are others. I guarantee that.”
Controlling an urge to turn tail and run for cover Joe asked: “How did you decide to join us?”
The youth flicked a speck of imaginary dust from his expensive Crombie coat. “What does that mean?” he asked suspiciously.
“I was a skinhead,” Joe replied honestly.
“Oh!” There was a slight tinge of disappointment in the voice. “A skinhead!” That sounded like a curse.
“What were you?”
For a few seconds the youth stood frozen in deep dark thought. Then, suddenly, he relaxed. He was as tall as Joe, handsome without being attractive, and sported a huge solitaire diamond ring which flashed in the headlight passing of cars.
Joe shuffled his feet as the suspense mounted. What the hell was wrong with this guy? Couldn’t he give a straight answer? Or was he pretending to be a suedehead and mocking me? In another second Joe’s fists would have dented that smile.
“Mate...”and the vocal inflection changed drastically, “I’m like you – an ex-skinhead. Chelsea Shed type.”
Joe laughed softly, letting the tension within him then vaporise in a loud guffaw. “I thought you were from...”
“Some expensive college?”
“Yeah!”
“Shit on them! I was born in Shepherd’s Bush.”
“Up Plaistow and The Hammers!”
“A year ago I’d have done you for that!”
“A year ago me mates would have backed The Hammers.”
“I’ve been inside,” the youth said quietly next.
Joe hesitated. Confessions like this came hard after all those efforts to cover tracks.
“You’ve done bird, too!” the youth accused.
“The Scrubs,” Joe admitted with reluctance.
“Derby, me.” Their “old school tie bit” broadened conversation. “I met some big men there.”
“I ignored ’em all, “Joe said as if he had been the biggest man in The Scrubs.
“How did they nick you?”
Joe stood straight, proud still. “I done a sergeant in Hyde Park.”
“I beat up on a Pakki and stole his savings.”
“They gave you bird for that?” Joe sounded and felt amazed at such injustice.
“He was hospitalised for sixteen weeks,” the youth explained. “And I got away with five thousand.”
“They took it back, “Joe said knowingly.
“Like hell they did! I hid it all.”
Joe wanted to scream. The next question was so very important. “What did the magistrate give you for that?”
.The youth’s gloating rose above traffic, passersby, London’s beating heart. Beating his mental breast for the world to witness his harsh sentence, he moaned: “I got a lousy eighteen months for doing a fuzz!”
“We all learn by our mistakes,” the youth said, pouring on the misery.
“Have you got the cash?”
“Most every penny.”
“And what next?”
The youth bent forward and whispered directly into Joe’s receptive ear: “I’m going to make it work for me. I’ve got a plan...”
Joe didn’t give a damn what plans the Shed bastard had. He had a few of his own. If only he could get his hands on that amount of money! God, what a haul! What a lovely set-up he’d landed himself in!
“I’ve a friend,” the youth explained secretly. “He’s got connections and I’ve promised to invest in his operation. I stand to double my loot in forty eight hours if all goes well.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Joe wanted to know.
“Shit, we all make mistakes as the telly commercial says.”
That was poor policy according to Joe’s current thoughts. A guy with five thousand in the sock should have more than a fifty-fifty chance. He should command a definite seven grand profit. No less. In this era money talked. More than in bygones. Especially illicit reserves. They spoke hardest, highest. What with inflation round the corner, bank loans tough to get and a semi-squeeze on, the guy with loot in hand had to be kingpin of all he surveyed.
“Have you handed him the money yet?” Joe asked.
The youth narrowed his eyes and pierced Joe with a menacing stare. “You’re wanting an awful lot of information, mate. What if I have or haven’t? Is it any concern of yours?”
Joe smiled to allay the other’s naturally suspicious nature. “I don’t give a damn. I was just being friendly.”
“With friends who stick unwanted noses in who needs enemies!” came the retort.
“Okay... okay, forget I mentioned it.”
“Forgotten, mate!” the youth held out his hand and they shook. “I’m Terry Walker. How about a drink?”
“Over there?” Joe nodded at the Green Dragon.
“No, thanks. There are too many ears in places like that. I know a small intimate club not far away. Care to become a member?”
“Not if it costs me.”
“It won’t. I guarantee that.” The noise of a skidding car blocked his next sentence and when the taxi driver involved in a near miss got tired of the sound of his own voice Joe asked: “What was that you said?”
Terry grinned and tilted his bowler to a carefree angle. “I said we might find a couple of dollybirds, too.”
“Nothing doing if they’re Soho tarts.”
“This club is in Mayfair, mate. Only the best for us suedeheads, eh?” He began walking down Shaftesbury Avenue with Joe matching stride for stride. The youth walked fast and Joe was out of puff when they finally entered a narrow, twisting street partway up Regent Street. Opening a door, Terry paused at the bottom of steep stairs. “No name. No publicity. Members only and no cops allowed.”
When Terry pushed him through a padded door which effectively deadened the sound coming from a L-shaped bar, Joe was instantly conscious of alert eyes watching his every move. There were about fifteen people in the bar – all with that quiet reserve associated with a better class Englishman. A brunette barmaid leant her small breasts on the counter and said: “Sorry – we only...” Her face broke into a large smile as Terry came into view. “Oh, you’re with a member. That’s fine. Come on, take a pew.”
Joe let Terry settle his rump on a stool first and took stock of the barmaid. She was in her middle thirties,
vivacious, darker skinned than the usual London girl, and she wore a mini-skirt which permitted the customers to see her very shapely thighs right to the flare of her buttocks.
“How about a membership card for my friend, Joe Hawkins?” Terry asked disinterestedly. His attention was focused on a slot machine standing idle in an end of the “L”.
“Tokens, Terry?”
“A couple of quids’ worth, Vera. I feel lucky tonight.”
“Monica got the jackpot last Wednesday. I don’t know if it’s worth chasing.”
“How much?” Terry asked.
“Sixteen pounds exactly.”
“About ten of that belonged to me.” The youth grinned, tossing his hat at a carved eagle. Apparently he made a habit of this feat. The bowler shook and firmly rested on the eagle’s beak.
.Vera slid a card across her counter in Joe’s direction. “What’ll it be gents?”
“Something strong and sexy,” Terry chided.
“Pink gin?”
“Hell, no. Rum and Coke.”
“And you, sir?” Joe loved the “sir”. Having to call old Trotter and the senior partners “sir” every day of his working week had made him yearn to get the same treatment elsewhere. “I’ll have a large Scotch with soda.”
“How about this?” Terry asked softly as Vera attended to their drinks. “Each of those blokes is worth a hundred thousand and more.”
Joe glanced down the bar. The men in question stood in a small group engaged in almost whispered discussion. It was evident they were dealing with business queries from the number of times they referred to catalogues and printed broadsheets.
“Who are they?” Joe asked.
“Antique dealers. They’re part of a ring.”
Joe had heard about such things although he did not know how rings operated nor why they were supposed to be illegal. He did understand the amount of money to be made from antiques though. Providing one had knowledge, that was.
“What about them?” He gestured at another group.
Terry shrugged casually. “Society layabouts. They’ve got money but more credit than a bank account. I wouldn’t waste time on them.”
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