Please

by Peter Wild

  He raised the shirt up and pointed to the dark red tinge of the skin.

  ‘PM lividity here,’ Rodgers pointed out.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rich asked.

  ‘Means he went to disco heaven last night,’ Rodgers said impatiently. He wanted to get this shit over and done with.

  Edwards explained that the colour came about because the heart was no longer beating and mixing the blood up, so the heavier red blood cells sank through the serum and settled.

  Rich scribbled all of this down, emitting a constant low groan-moan as he wrote.

  Rodgers felt Tubbs’s head for wounds then turned him over. There was a smashed champagne flute under the body. He checked the neck for signs of bruising consistent with strangulation, and prised open his closed eye sockets to check the eyeballs for burst capillaries. Edwards gave a running commentary on what he was doing and why for Rich’s benefit.

  Rodgers spotted a white crust of cocaine residue at the edge of the corpse’s nostrils.

  ‘Who called it in?’ he asked Edwards.

  ‘Cleaner, came in this morning, found the body,’ Edwards said. He’d talked to the two uniformed cops who’d been waiting for them on the jetty.

  Rodgers looked at the body.

  ‘No sign of external trauma. I think what happened was he was partying with some girl–probably a hooker–did some coke, had a heart attack. Bye-bye. Girl takes off. Doesn’t want to hang around for questions because she’s probably got a record,’ Rodgers said.

  Rich moaned more loudly, wrote furiously.

  Rodgers carefully turned the body over back on its front.

  ‘Guess that about wraps it up in here,’ Edwards said.

  ‘You haven’t finished here, guys,’ Rich piped up. ‘You gotta go check below deck too. In fact, one of you should’ve checked the whole boat out while the other one looked at the body.’

  Rodgers and Edwards exchanged a ‘what the fuck?’ look. Rich was, of course, right, but Rodgers wasn’t going to take that kind of shit from him.

  ‘You tellin’ us how to do our jobs?’ he said angrily.

  ‘You don’t seem to be following procedure is all I’m saying. I’d hate you guys to get into trouble.’

  ‘Man’s right,’ Edwards said, making a calm-down gesture to Rodgers, as if he were patting the back of a large fearsome dog. But Rodgers wasn’t having it.

  ‘You wanna look below deck?’ he said to Rich, just about holding his anger in. ‘You go down and check it out and come back here and make a full report.’

  ‘Really?’ Rich gasped excitedly, looking at the two of them.

  ‘Our gift to you,’ Rodgers said sarcastically. ‘You can do some real police work, help with your show.’

  ‘Sure, OK. Neeet!’ Rich said keenly.

  He started to go down the stairs.

  When he was out of sight, Rodgers bared his teeth and flipped him the finger. Edwards guffawed.

  Then, suddenly, from downstairs, they heard a piercing–

  ‘JEEEEZUSSSS CHRIST!’

  –and saw Rich scrambling back up the stairs, glasses askew, panic stricken.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Edwards asked

  Then he saw.

  ‘FUCK ME!’ Edwards yelled.

  Then Rodgers saw.

  He couldn’t quite believe it.

  A gator!

  A nine-to-ten-foot-long set of deadly, grinning jaws on tiny legs, encased in solid brownish-green hide, sprinting up the stairs after Rich.

  Rich ran behind Edwards. Edwards reached for his gun, but he was too late.

  The gator sprang up at him, jaws open.

  Rodgers pulled out his ankle piece and shot the animal four times in the centre of its body.

  The gator flipped and landed on its side with an almighty crash, which shook the whole boat, toppling speakers and lights and bringing down the mirrorball, which shattered into a hundred shiny pieces.

  ‘Fuck me!’ Edwards repeated.

  ‘Where the fuck did that come from?’ Rodgers asked Rich, who just pointed at the stairs.

  ‘How many more down there?’

  ‘I just saw that one.’

  Two uniformed cops, who’d been standing outside the boat, rushed in, guns drawn.

  ‘Call your people in,’ Rodgers told them. ‘Plus gator handlers.’ Then he turned to Rich. ‘Show’s over. We’re outta here.’

  ‘Wah-hair! That was just so awesome! The way you shot that gator, man! That move you made–that ankle piece! That was so damn neat! Neat! Neat!! Neat!!!’ Rich squealed when they were leaving the Marina. He was scribbling away like crazy. ‘God, this material is just sooooo neat! How come you didn’t tell me about your ankle gun?’

  Rodgers didn’t answer. He was doing the driving now and Rich was really pissing him off. He decided not to talk to the jerk at all for the rest of the day, so he could at least avoid telling him what he really thought of him. He wished that ten-foot luggage set had taken a bite out of the fuck. That would have solved having to spend the rest of the day with him.

  ‘Man gotta have some secrets,’ Edwards said before the silence became too awkward. Edwards was pretty shook up by what had happened. He’d turned a shade of grey.

  ‘What kind of gun was that?’

  ‘Detonics Combat Master,’ Edwards answered, still in tourist-guide mode. ‘It’s like a cut-down version of my Colt. Same bang to it.’

  ‘Oh! Neeeet!’ Rich gushed. ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘You already did,’ Rodgers said. Jesus–not even a thank you for saving his arsehole life.

  They toured Liberty City’s desolate streets, Edwards explaining the history of the ghetto and telling war stories. He tried to put the crime into context, to explain how the city’s other ghetto–Overtown–had once been an affluent place, a kind of Dixie Harlem, before city officials had decided to build I-95 right through the middle of it, as good as driving a stake into the heart of the place. Business had collapsed and people had moved to the Liberty Square projects–the first of their kind in Miami. Rich wasn’t interested. He kept on prompting Edwards for more black-on-black crime stats, more horror. He wanted to hear about the recent riots during which a black mob had dragged a white driver from his car and killed him. Edwards grudgingly complied and the producer scratched away at his pad, moaning very pleasurably.

  ‘You got any actors in mind for your show?’ Edwards asked, changing the subject.

  ‘A few for the leads, yeah,’ Rich replied. ‘I don’t know whether to make one of the cops white and one black, or have a white guy and a Latino–maybe get a black Latino, cover both demographics. And we’re talking to Pam Grier about a part.’

  Rodgers couldn’t help himself.

  ‘You know Pam Grier?’ he asked.

  ‘Met her a couple of times, yeah.’ Rich nodded.

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘To be honest, I couldn’t get past her tits.’

  Rodgers smiled.

  ‘Do you like Pam Grier?’ Rich asked him.

  Like her? Rodgers thought. I fucken love her. That passion had started way back in 1972 when he’d gone to see Hit Man at the drive-in with a girlfriend. He’d seen that movie all five nights it had played, just for her. He’d felt like a pervert, but what the hell? He’d seen pretty much every film she’d made in the ’70s.

  ‘I seen a couple of her films on TV, yeah. She’s OK, I guess.’

  ‘Have you seen Fort Apache, The Bronx? Paul Newman flick just opened. She’s in that.’

  ‘What as?’

  ‘A prostitute.’

  ‘Yeah…?’ Rodgers said, thinking he could take his fiancée then deciding maybe it’d be best if he went alone.

  ‘She’s a psycho junkie, too. Kills her clients. And she keeps her clothes on–for once.’

  ‘Oh…’ Rodgers said. Maybe he’d skip that one.

  Rodgers took North West 71st Avenue.

  ‘And I’m thinking of getting some famous musicians to play cameo roles,�
� Rich continued.

  ‘Like who?’ Rodgers asked.

  ‘Talking to Frank Zappa. You know his stuff?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And I’m also considering Willie Nelson, Jerry Garcia, Johnny Cash, Miles Davis…’

  ‘Miles, huh?’ Rodgers smiled. Maybe this guy wasn’t such an arsehole after all. He loved Miles Davis.

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ Rich looked out of the window and locked eyes with a guy standing with a group on the sidewalk, talking and smoking. The guy mouthed something in his direction. Rich waved. The guy flicked him the bird. Rich did the same back.

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘Not personally, but my people are talking to his people.’

  ‘What kind of role would you have him play?’ Rodgers asked.

  ‘Thinking of him as a real cool pimp.’

  Rodgers suddenly hit the brakes. Rich flew forward, hit the back of the front seats and bounced back, glasses askew.

  ‘A PIMP!’ Rodgers turned around and roared. ‘The finest fucken musician this country has ever produced and the best thing you can fucken think of is gettin’ him to play a PIMP on your bullshit cop show!’

  ‘B–bu–but—’ Rich stammered, scrabbling for his pen and notebook.

  ‘Al—’ Edwards said.

  ‘Keep out of it!’ Rodgers snapped at him.

  ‘Kind of Blue! Sketches of Spain! In A Silent Way! Bitches Brew! Porgy and fucken BESS!…All that groundbreakin’ fucken music he made and you want him to play a fucken’ PIMP on PRIMETIME TV! Who the FUCK do you think you are?’

  ‘But–but—’ A confused look crossed Rich’s face. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said to Edwards. ‘Didn’t you just call him Al? I thought you—’

  ‘Get the fuck outta my car!’ Rodgers yelled at Rich. ‘NOW!’

  ‘Wh–what–here?’ Rich looked out of the back window at the group of men, all of whom were looking at the car.

  ‘Yeah, HERE, you cocksucker! You wanted to “capture the ethnicky beat of the streets”? You can start right here–with an ethnicky beat down! Now fuck off!’

  ‘Listen, please–I–I–it isn’t safe here.’

  ‘FUCK! OFF!!’ Rodgers yelled.

  Rich scrambled out of the car.

  Rodgers floored the pedal and sped off.

  ‘Al…?’ Edwards said.

  ‘WHADDAYAWANT?’

  ‘Miles was a pimp,’ Edwards said quietly. ‘That’s what you tole me.’

  ‘I knew THAT!’ Rodgers shouted, seething.

  ‘So–why the fuck d’you kick him out for?’

  ‘That little prick was pissin’ me off! Had enough of that cocksucker!’

  Edwards laughed loudly and shook his head.

  ‘The guy was an arsehole,’ Edwards said. ‘But…Hartman’s gonna be pissed.’

  ‘Fuck Hartman! I’ll take responsibility.’

  They drove on in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘What did that arsehole say his series was called again?’ Rodgers asked.

  ‘Miami Homicide,’ Edwards said. ‘And it ain’t a series, it’s a pilot.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, it won’t fly.’

  The Queen Is Dead

  Jeff Noon

  Here lies Old Blighty, devoured by feedback. The song spins off from the incident in 1982 when an intruder broke into the Queen’s bedroom for a bit of a chat. At the same time the lyrics admit to the difficulty of finding a real love. I pictured a punk romance in which England struggles to dream. Advice to young royals of any stripe: beware not the enemy without, but those who love you the most.

  Several young punks were strolling along, talking of the night to come. To look at them you would think they were kings of the town. In truth, they hardly knew their next step, while acting as though they knew every step and swearing life was theirs and theirs alone. Presently, they stopped beneath a neon sign to light up a round of cigarettes and one of them said to another, ‘William, I can’t help but brood over the fact that one day you’ll have a great desire to leave this behind, friends and all.’ Now William of course denied this, he swore his loyalty both to the gang and to Johnny Boy especially, Johnny being the speaker and the leader thereof.

  The two men stared at each other.

  And then Johnny smiled at William and at his underlings one by one, as smoke fluttered in the red-and-yellow halo above their heads, above their sculpted hair. He said, ‘I’m just warning you, that’s all. Do you hear me?’ William did. And with that, they set off once more on their adventures, if such they might be called.

  The gang. Johnny, aforementioned. William, the same. And then Brick, and Danny, and Doug. In age they ranged from almost nineteen to just gone twenty-four. William was the youngest of them, the most handsome, but the weakest, and despite what he had just claimed, the least loyal. Certainly, he had a need to be among the others that these others would hardly understand, and yet Johnny spoke the truth in part, that another force entirely tempted William away, out of orbit. It was a subject not to be mentioned.

  All this took place on a Tuesday night in the winter of 1979. The promenade was more or less deserted of life, with only a few tramps huddled in a bus shelter, and a dog or two, shivering. The sea was bitter, grey-washed at the wave-edge, black otherwise. No moon. The small drab town was sleeping. The gang walked on until they reached the pier with its lacklustre parade of light. Only the penny arcade was open during the cold months. Here they stood, Johnny combing back his hair to its correct tangle of spikes. Resplendent in his brand-new second-hand suede jacket, he said, ‘God would wear this, if he could find one.’ Indeed, the others longed for one of similar cut and colour. William’s eyes sparkled.

  On the afternoon previous to the night in question, he’d been sitting around cutting up his father’s Daily Mail, making haphazard poetry out of the fragments. He was that kind of person, filled with such desires, such crazy dreams, but with no real clue as to how to bring them alive. He had a plan that maybe he would move to London one day, dressed up like a character in a play. He could see himself clearly, wearing a pork-pie hat and a black raincoat and a thin, perfectly ironed tie held in place by a pin of gold. Thus wise, he would recreate himself. Oh, you’d swear then that he could go along easy, dodging around the dog shit of life, no problem. Instead, he stayed put, signing on the dole, scribbling his verses, singing melodies. Once or twice he wrote something that he could call halfway decent; most times he went down to the sea alone and tore up the papers, letting go the words, so many windblown tatters. Only the gang gave him any fixed purpose. He’d said exactly this to Johnny once, receiving in answer: ‘Don’t get all sloppy on me, boy. Or else I’ll slice you, good and proper.’ That was as much as they got from each other. It passed for love.

  Being now suitably natty and spruced, the five young men entered the arcade. They were the only punks in town, and proud with it. Proud of the bruises, the scars, the bitter remarks flung their way, proud even of the glimpse of a knife brandished by way of warning. England was theirs, if only they could find it among the dirt, the puddles, the dust, the damp and the rain, the cracked windows, the grey skies, the litter and the boarded-up shops. And so they passed along between the machines, uncaring of the staring. They lived and breathed and played that evening amid artificial songs of bleep and spark and one by one lost their way in the games, being zapped or losing energy, or running out of cash. Until only Doug was left. He was the fairest of them all when it came to shoot-’em-ups. A small crowd gathered around the Zombie Squad box as streaks of light flew across the screen and rectangular flesh exploded into smaller rectangles. He was a surly wreck of a boy most times, was Douglas, his face a broken mask, but at moments like these his skin was painted hot by life and the blood jolted through his veins, electrified. His eyes were more than halfway closed, and yet his hands moved with unguided confidence on the buttons.

  Zap! Zap! Zap!

  His friends watched from the sidelines, gathered together, and Johnny leaned in close to William’s
ear, whispering, ‘I’d like to take a knife to the milk-white body of the sleeping world, slit its little throat wide open.’ William would swear he had never been happier than at that moment. But then Johnny led him out on to the pier itself and they watched the sea broiling against the pillars below. Salt crusted the handrail where their hands almost touched. William could hardly speak. Johnny said, ‘We can talk about things both curious and divine, if so you wish.’ His eyes held his friend’s nervous gaze within them. ‘Or we can kiss.’

  The wind blew ragged flecks of the sea against their faces as their lips met.

  Tingle at the brief contact, then full.

  Warmth. Softness.

  Ghostly shimmers of the blue and still midnight air, flashes of light from the arcade doorway.

  This moment. A chance to write a sonnet made of flesh, of speed and cigarette smoke, of blood and sex, of love, of death, a chance to write your own name and that of your lover, the two names entangled in street code, unreadable but to those in the know, to scrawl it seven feet tall on the side of a building, a real production number, multicoloured.

  Johnny Boy. William.

  The night wore on. Brick and Doug had chanced upon two local girls and the whole throng of them went round to Brick’s house, empty at this time on account of his mum and dad being half cut in a gutter somewhere, clinging on to each other for fear of falling off the world completely. The boys raided the drinks cabinet and started to bang out Bowie on a cheap acoustic. The girls joined in on perfume and harmonies. Brick was strumming with careful fingers the six dull, yellowing, rusted strings. Johnny sat alone meanwhile, ruffling through his hair, worrying at the slight recede, even at such a tender age. A mere human being, after all.

  Around Brick’s bed hung a string of little coloured lights. The two girls looked beautiful in the soft glow. One was Abigail, the other Denise. Abigail in particular was a thing to gaze upon, a new girl in town. Short black hair, black eyes shaded by mystery. The brief smile, her face turning towards William. He had to look away. Meanwhile, Danny was wiping down the grooves of the first Velvet Underground album with a sponge and a spray of mist from a can. He was seeking to hold back the pop and crackle.