Lennox killed his lager, stretched out with a sigh, and thoughtfully opened the second can. He said: “Cathy and I used to come here and sit. Place close by on Theobald’s Road sells some of the best fish and chips I’ve ever had. Used to carry them back, sit and eat here, and then we’d walk back to The Sun and wash it all down with pints of gut-wrenching ales.”
He closed his eyes and took a long pull of lager, remembering. When he opened his eyes he saw the worn benches stained with pigeon droppings, the dustbins overstuffed with cider bottles, the litter of empty beercans and crisps packets. The square smelled of urine and unwashed bodies; the derelicts slept all about here at night.
“Let it go, Cody.”
“Can’t. Nothing left to hang onto but memories.”
“But you’re just killing yourself.”
“I’m already dead.”
The church steeple tolled ten. Lennox had always suspected that its bells were an array of old iron pots. A deaf gnome banged on them with a soup ladle. The steeple was a ponderous embarrassment that clashed with what remained of the simple Queen Anne architecture.
“The Church of St. George the Martyr,” Lennox said. “Loads of history here. See that steeple? Hawksmoor had a hand in it.”
“Who’s Hawksmoor?”
“The hero of a famous fairyland fantasy trilogy. Did you know, for example, that the church crypts here are connected by a tunnel beneath Cosmo Place to the cellars of that pub on the corner—The Queen’s Larder?”
“Didn’t know you read guidebooks.”
“Don’t. Old pensioner Cathy and I used to drink with there told us. Name was Dennis, and he always drank purple velvets—that’s stout mixed with port. Haven’t seen him since then.”
“With that to drink, I’m not surprised.” Martin tossed his juice carton into a bin. “So why St. George the Martyr? I always thought old George slew that dragon. Must have been another George somewhere.”
“Or another dragon,” said Lennox. “Let’s just see if my room is ready by now.”
His room was ready. Lennox poured himself a glass of Scotch from the coals-to-Newcastle bottle in his suitcase, then phoned Mike Carson. Carson said he’d meet them at The Swan soon after eleven, and he did.
Lennox was at the bar buying the first round. The day was turning warm and bright after last night’s rain, and they had seats at an outside table on Cosmo Place.
“You ever notice,” observed Carson, “how Cody always seems to bring good weather when he’s over?”
“No, I hadn’t,” said Martin. “Just must be luck.”
Carson offered a cigarette, and they both lit up. “Cody once said to me,” he said, inhaling, “that the English carry umbrellas because they expect it to rain. Cody says he never does, because he expects the day to be clear.”
“First optimistic thing I’ve ever heard about that Cody said.”
“It’s not optimism,” Carson explained. “It’s bloody arrogance.”
Martin turned to peer into the pub. Lennox was still waiting to be served. Martin said: “God knows it can’t be good luck. Not with Cody.”
“So, then. How is he?”
“God knows. Not taking it well. I’m worried.”
Jack Martin was short for his generation, neatly groomed with a frost of grey starting in his carefully trimmed beard, and there was a hint of middle-age spread beneath his raw silk sports jacket. He had known Lennox from when they were both determined young writers in Los Angeles, before Lennox had connected and split for New York; and while his own several books in no way competed with Lennox’s sales figures, he had scripted at least three successful horror films (one from an early Lennox novel), and he had a devoted following among discriminating readers of the genre. Martin’s ambition was to become an emerging mainstream writer. He had known Lennox as a friend since high school days.
Mike Carson was taller than Martin, shorter than Lennox, and spare of frame, with short black hair and a brooding face. He wore a long overcoat, loose shirt and baggy trousers, and stopped just short of punk. He looked like an unbalanced and consumptive artist who was slowly starving in a garret; in fact he was Irish and scraping out a fair living between moderately frequent assignments and his wife’s steady job. Carson had done the British paperback covers for the last five of Lennox’s novels, and, although Lennox had never said so, Carson knew that Lennox had insisted that his choice of artist be included in his contracts. Carson had known Lennox since the first time Cody and Cathy had visited London—when West End pints cost 30p, and Carson had made the mistake of trying to drink him under the table.
“Two bitters, and here’s your lager, Jack,” said Lennox, sloshing their pints on the pebble-grained aluminum table. “Christ, I hate these straight-sided glasses. They look like oversized Coca-Cola glasses.”
“Cheers.”
“Oh, thanks, Cody.”
They drank.
“Well,” said Lennox, halfway through his bitter at a gulp. “So who else is over here?”
“Haven’t seen very many stray American writers,” Martin told him. “Still a bit early, I guess. Geoffrey Marsh is here—staying over at the Wansbeck. Saw Sanford Vade coming out of an off-license with two jail-baits and a bottle of Beam’s Choice. Oh, and I did run into Kent Allard in the lobby this morning. He asked if you were coming over.”
“He would.” Lennox finished his pint. “You said you were staying at the Russell?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll get these.” Carson downed his pint.
“I’m still OK.” Martin sipped at his lager.
Lennox belched. “Crazy town where you have to do your drinking between eleven and three—and then try to find a loo. At least this time next year they’ll have twelve-hour opening.”
“Why don’t you come down to Mexico with me sometime?” Martin suggested. “We could stay a week for what a day here costs. I know some great places.”
“My destiny lies here.”
“Bullshit. You can get just as drunk in Mexico for a lot less money.”
“Money means nothing to me.”
“Bullshit.”
“Besides, in Mexico I might run into my father.”
Carson crashed down three pints. Martin had started to raise a hand in protest. The aluminum table tipped. Martin’s fresh pint of lager rocked and tilted. Lennox reached across his own pint glass to catch Martin’s. His heavy wristwatch band shattered the top off of the straight-sided glass. Lennox caught Martin’s pint and set it safely upright.
“Reflexes,” said Lennox proudly.
“You’re bleeding,” said Martin.
“No, I’m not.”
Carson pointed. “Then where’s all this blood coming from?”
Lennox examined his wrist, then pulled out the splinter of glass. “Shit. I’ve ruined my pint.”
It was a minor cut, but it bled stubbornly. Martin gave him a crumpled tissue to use until Carson returned with several paper serviettes and another pint of bitter.
“Don’t drink the other,” Carson advised. “It’s all full of glass and blood.”
“I’ll hide the evidence,” said Lennox, dabbing at his cut wrist. He carried his broken glass to the sewer grating between The Swan and The Queen’s Larder. As he bent to pour out the blood-tinged mess, he noticed a playing card balanced against the grating. It was the Queen of Spades.
Lennox reached down for it clumsily, but a splash of his blood was faster and struck the edge of the card, flipping it into the darkness below.
III. Wicked Malt
“I UNDERSTAND YOU just slashed your wrist.”
“Hello, Kent,” said Lennox without enthusiasm. “Nice to see you again. Been over here long?”
Kent Allard had joined their table while Lennox was disposing of his shattered glass. Kent looked like any well-to-do Hollywood hustler—permanently tanned and forever 35. He wrote about writers, made books about books, and had ghosted half the celebrity kiss-and-tell autobiog
raphies of the past decade. Lennox had heard that Allard was somehow related to one of the Great Departed. Martin liked Allard and called him a demonic genius in wolf’s clothing; Lennox saw in Allard most of the reasons why he had fled from Los Angeles.
“What a coincidence,” said Lennox, reaching for his fresh pint.
“Slashing your wrist?”
“No. Running into you here.”
“It’s all because of the Harmonic Convergence,” said Allard. “Synchronicity is in the air. Besides, I’m staying down the block at the Russell, and Jack said you might be meeting here for lunch. So, how are things going for you, Cody?”
“Keeping busy. What’s the Harmonic Convergence?”
“You mean you missed it? August 16–17? Scant hours ago.”
“I was in transit. Just got in scant hours ago.”
“Didn’t really miss anything. Now, what about lunch?”
“I’m on jet-lag,” Lennox begged off. “Think I’ll just mellow out with a few more of these and hit the sack.”
“I ate just before coming over,” Carson lied.
“You and me then, Jack,” said Allard. “I’m in a mood for Italian. Anyone know a good place?”
Martin pointed. “One right here’s a good one.”
They left, and Lennox said to Carson: “Let’s get out of here.”
Lennox kept dabbing at his wrist, but it had long since quit bleeding. He and Carson ended up at the Nellie Dean in Soho, for no particular reason. Inside it was crowded, loud, smoky and hot, so they leaned against the wall outside and drained many pints. Lennox had twice already bashed his head on the rafters going downstairs to the gents’.
“English pubs have a distinct aura,” said Lennox.
“What’s that?”
“A smell of strong tobacco, spilled bitter, stale clothing, sweat and breath.”
“That’s aroma you meant.”
“Very possibly.” Lennox glanced at his watch, saw no blood, decided they had less than half an hour to drink. “Have you noticed that all the women are dressed in black?”
“It’s the fashion,” Carson explained.
“Black everything. Neck to their shoes. Everything very tight. And those wide belts to cinch their waistline. Do you know what it all signifies?”
“My round,” said Carson.
“It’s the return of fin de siècle decadence. This is 1987, the dawn of a new fin de siècle. A new age of decadence. All of it kicked off by the Harmonic Emergence.”
Carson remembered that Martin had asked him to look after Lennox. He bought another round.
“Some wicked malt,” Carson nodded.
She was dressed in a black leather mini and might have been 17. They solemnly watched her parade by on her stiletto heels.
“Christ, I’m horny.” Lennox downed his pint. “And I need to piss. And I need some sleep.”
“It’s your round,” prompted Carson.
And soon it was three o’clock closing time.
The walk back to the hotel was a staggering muddle of crowded side-walks and near-misses when crossing streets. Carson served as a guide of sorts.
“Here, have you seen these?”
They were leaning against a telephone kiosk, catching their breath and getting their bearings.
“Seen what?”
“These here.”
The inside of the booth was papered with a dozen handprinted stickers, all offering sexual services and a phone number to call:
. . . PUNISHMENT FOR WENDY—NAUGHTY SCHOOLGIRL & UNIFORMS . . . LET’S GET ON YOUR KNEES, BOY . . . TIE & TEASE TV RUBBER . . . WANT SAFE SEX? GET BREAST RELIEF . . . PUNK BOYS AGAINST THE WALL . . . NAUGHTY BOYS GET BOTTOM MARKS . . .
“Here.” Carson abruptly began peeling off stickers, handing them to Lennox. “In case you get lonely.”
Lennox dutifully stuck the torn patches into his notebook. “I don’t think I’m really into caning punk boys until they cry and all that. I’m just horny. Do any of them say anything about just that? I mean, just screwing?”
“You said you were decadent.”
“Well, not that way. What happens when you call one of these numbers? Do the cops come around?”
“Don’t know. Never tried. But I know this geezer who did. Woman comes up to his hotel room, and there’s a big bloke lurking back down the corridor to make sure there’s no trouble for her.”
“What happened?”
“She let the ponce in, he bashed the geezer, and they took his wallet and watch.”
“Did he have to pay extra for all that?”
It was about four by the time they managed to get back to his hotel. Lennox was feeling the double effects of jet-lag and too much booze on an empty stomach. Carson dutifully saw him to his room, had a glass of whisky with him, then left Lennox with the advice that he have a lie-down. Lennox did.
He slept soundly, which was rare for him these days, and it was past ten when he awoke. Lennox sensed the familiar throb of an incipient hangover, so he washed his face, changed shirt and jacket, and headed for the residents’ bar.
He was briefly confused, as the new management had moved the residents’ bar into the former restaurant on the ground floor. In the course of remodeling the foyer, they had evidently inserted some striking stained-glass panels beside the steps leading to the downstairs bar. Some sort of heraldic designs, Lennox noted in passing, one of them a little garish.
Lennox decided on a large whisky, then chased it with three aspirin and a pint of lager. The lager settled in nicely, and he had another—drinking it slowly as his hangover receded. He began to feel almost alive once again, and with his third pint he was chatting up the willowy blonde barmaid. She was patient, if not receptive. The bar was nearly empty, and Lennox might have pressed onward, were it not for the table of blue-haired widows who were discussing the quaintness of the British in voices that probably carried all the way back to New Jersey.
Lennox finished his fourth pint and gave up. He stopped by the front desk on the way to his room. There were two messages: one from his British agent and one from a Mr. Kane. Both said they would ring back.
Lennox was just able to manage the plastic card that unlocked his door. Supposedly this improvement over the old metal keys made his room secure from hotel thieves. Lennox wished said thieves the possession of his dirty socks.
He poured himself a generous shot of Scotch and slumped into a chair. The nightcap had no apparent effect, so he tried another. The long nap had left him restless, and it was still early bedtime in New York. Digging out his pocket notebook, Lennox decided to tally the day’s expenses. Must keep the IRS happy.
And there he found the peeled-off stickers from the phone booths. Lennox had almost forgotten the incident, and he chuckled as he re-read them:
“MISS NIPPLES”
“SLAP HAPPY BITCH”
“FUN AND GAMES”
It might be fun to phone one of them, just to hear what they’d say.
Lennox studied his collection. Most of the stickers had torn when Carson pulled them off, and Lennox had stuck them all in a jumble onto the pages. No, he didn’t want to talk to the enema specialist. Lennox closed his eyes, stabbed a finger onto the notebook. There was a phone number under his finger, but nothing more; the sticker had torn in half in coming away, and all Lennox had left was a badly smudged phone number.
Better that way. Strictly random. Besides, he had no intention of telling Ms. Switch or whoever where he was staying. Was that a 2 or a 7?
Lennox had a third drink and just was able to sort out the buttons on the phone. He was still chuckling while it rang.
Three rings, and someone picked up the receiver.
“Howdy there!” Lennox answered the silence. “My name’s Bubba Joe McBob, and I’m here from Texas, and I sure could use a little action. What you all got for me, honey?”
“Do you wish me to come to you?” The voice was coldly formal, but at least it was a woman’s voice.
“
You bet I do, sugar britches.”
“As you wish, Cody Lennox.”
Lennox stared stupidly at the phone. There was only an empty buzzing from the receiver. He started to dial again, then began to laugh.
“That barmaid,” he chuckled, hanging up. “She’s watching switchboard, now that the bar’s closed down. Cut into my call.”
He struggled out of his shoes and considered trying another call. Was that barmaid going to come up to his room after work? She just might. She’d taken the trouble to remember his name. Why miss a chance to sleep with a famous author?
That last drink had made him sleepy. Lennox turned off most of the lights and stretched out on his bed to await the hot-to-trot blonde barmaid. Almost immediately he began to snore.
Lennox was certain he was awake when his door opened and the woman entered his room.
Passkey, he thought, raising himself on his elbows.
It wasn’t the barmaid.
“Well, hello now,” he said, thinking, so much for plastic keys and burglar-proof locks.
She stared at him as if he were part of the furnishings—her eyes slowly taking stock of the room. She was dressed entirely in black, and he could barely see her pale face beneath her low cap. If her eyes hadn’t so dominated, he might have seen her face.
Lennox cleared his throat, wondering how to handle the situation. Was she just a hotel thief, or did these call services have some sort of high-tech tracing device? The hotel management wouldn’t be amused if he phoned down for them to evict the call girl he’d summoned. Besides . . .
“Cody Lennox?” she asked, and it was the voice on the phone.
“At your service,” said Lennox. “Or vice versa, I suppose.”
She pulled off her cap, and her hair was straight and short and black. Its blackness accentuated the paleness of her face—devoid of any color other than the black-red bruise of her lips. Lennox thought her eyes must be black as well.
She had many rings on her fingers and her nails were varnished black. She unclasped the wide cinch at her waist, and when she tugged off the black turtle-neck, her breasts were small and her erect nipples were as pale as the rest of her body. She kicked off her black stiletto pumps, then wriggled free of black tube-skirt and tights with a sinuous motion that reminded Lennox of how a snake would shed its skin. Her hips were small and well-rounded, and her pubic hair was a narrow black vee against her white skin.
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