Full of Money

by Bill James

  Priscilla had taken the full glass unhurriedly to her lips and let it stay there an unhurried while, though Larry thought she had certainly passed the unhurried, savouring, small sip, connoisseur stage. The movement came from her sex depository. It was intended to show she had lips, in case this hadn’t been sufficiently noticed, and that the lips exercised discrimination and persistence, and always knew to a t what they were sucking on. She spilled none of her drink. So, maybe not entirely pissed? Not yet.

  A little way off from Sandine and Edgehill, Tom Marland, who would direct the programme tonight, must have caught bits of The Godfather conversation, or monologue, and looked terrified. How would she react on camera? Sandine wrote a books column in one of the broadsheets – good, sensible articles. Marland and he had agreed she deserved a run-out on the show. Mistake? Priscilla was an unpredictability. Some unpredictability could be good for a TV show. Too much might sink it. At least that know-all prick Rex Ince wasn’t on tonight’s panel and liable to increase the hazards: Ince with his dud impishness and ludicrous jacket. Sharp-chinned Selina Mysan and those massive Bedlam chuckles didn’t feature this evening, either.

  Bale had just returned from his supplementary visit to make-up, and Edgehill recrossed the room to him. ‘I saw you and Priscilla enjoying each other’s company. Full of vim and so on, isn’t she?’ Larry said.

  ‘Sandine? Oh, yes. She’s great. Intuitive. And so on, as you say. We sat in the stalls together at On the Frontier.’ He sipped the safe drink. His mood seemed to sink again. ‘What do you make of those fucking slaggings off, Larry?’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘You know. Me pilloried,’ Rupert said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The heavies.’

  ‘Have they pilloried you, then?’

  ‘You’ve seen the stuff. You get a clippings service.’

  ‘I don’t recall it, and I wouldn’t give weight to that sort of thing, anyway.’

  ‘What about upstairs?’

  ‘The boardroom? Nobody’s mentioned bad reviews to me.’

  ‘If I get drubbed in the papers, it reflects on you, Larry. Ultimately, Flo Tait, as Head of Programmes, is going to ask what you think you’re doing.’

  Get him off this theme. He has to be confident in the studio. Bale had a youthful face under brown curly hair kept short and, yes, could usually go into instant likeability when the cameras came on. Nothing must endanger that.

  He went for a final pre-programme pee. Nerves. Natural enough. Priscilla Sandine may have been watching him and Edgehill from elsewhere in the room, and approached Larry now. She had finished with The Godfather. She took another good sip of her drink. ‘You’ve been trying to comfort Rupe, have you?’ she said. ‘He’s had a bit of a critical bashing lately, poor duck. And perhaps there are other worries, too. He’ll have a life of some sort off screen.’

  ‘Yes, we all have that.’

  ‘His might be . . . well, stressful.’

  ‘Is it?’ Had she heard something?

  ‘I’m asking – is it?’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘As producer of the show, shouldn’t you? Didn’t I read he lives on Temperate?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Probably not entirely restful.’

  ‘Where is? It’s not significant.’ No? But he said: ‘As producer of the show I produce it. That’s the lot.’ He might have said to her, instead: ‘Yes, he does have a life outside the studio and you could easily add to its threats and stresses tonight, if on-screen you look as though you’re about to flash cleft at him and, incidentally, at viewers, of whom there are one or two – three, actually – who might dangerously resent this – your flashing at Rupe, that is.’

  Edgehill didn’t, couldn’t, say it.

  ‘I’ve always thought Rupert a terrific chairman,’ she said. ‘He helps make A Week in Review so consistently brilliant.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Larry said.

  ‘But he needs someone to bring him out of himself a bit more on air, don’t you agree? Tap his potentiality. Sex him up. Unencumber him.’ She drank some more.

  Oh God, she drank some more.

  ‘I think we should let Rupert set his own pace,’ Edgehill had said hurriedly, though he hoped without obvious panic. ‘People have come to expect a certain, very recognizable style from him. We mustn’t interfere.’

  Meaning, you mustn’t interfere with it, you hazardous, presumptuous, well-shod, nicely barbered, piece of arse. Edgehill had to ask himself, whom would Pellotte and Dean blame if Sandine did try to sex Rupert up on-screen? Who picked the people and shaped the show? Who oversaw the drinks supply? Answer: the programme’s producer, L. Edgehill, known familiarly to Pellotte as Larry, but this did not guarantee everlasting mateyness or safety.

  ‘Style?’ Sandine said. ‘Well, yes, he has a style. And to a degree it works. But we could up it a notch or two, I feel. We need to get his blood moving, don’t we, Larry?’

  We? She spoke as if they had a partnership task to transform Rupe. ‘Oh, I don’t see it like that.’

  ‘Are you . . . are you, well, scared of something?’ she asked.

  ‘Scared?’ Wouldn’t most people be scared to hear Pellotte and Dean had been data delving in the BMW around Bell Close, and specifically 19a there?

  ‘Does Rupert have special pressures?’

  ‘Just the usual. We want a good show. A lot of good shows.’

  ‘And I’m sure you will get one, get a lot.’

  So fucking well behave yourself. ‘I know you’ll contribute effectively and memorably to the programme’s reputation.’

  ‘Honoured,’ she said. No hiccup.

  It had been time for the studio. All taking part went downstairs then. Edgehill left Sachev to tidy up the Suite and prepare for their return, post gig.

  Five

  Thurs

  Bumped into that group of slumming drinkers again, this time in the Dragon on Temperate Acres. They’re friendly, treat me as if I’m one of them, but I don’t like it, and if I ever write them up must do it cool. They talk too loud, draw attention, possibly antagonize. They’re middle-class, professional/artistic/media, I think. I try to avoid. But they do occasionally come up with good information – good enough to dig further into. NB – non-attributable information, of course. Very. And NB further – some of what they relay as fact is rumour, buzz, gossip that they’ve picked up on their jaunts. Starting points only for real investigation.

  This opened another set of the journalist, Tasker’s, laptop notes. Esther reread them. Later, she’d get on to the summarizing transcripts of the interviews with Pellotte’s Dean Feston and Gabrielle Barter Cornish, when they were pulled in on suspicion of the murder.

  (1) League-tabling: I hear Harold Perth Amesbury, present head of the Temperate Acres firm, and Adrian Pellotte are among the 2,500 –3,000 major drugs wholesalers in Britain. (Would have guessed something like this, though without actual numbers. To have figures is confirmation of a sort.) Minor pushers on salary or percentage – compare affiliati in Naples Camorra drugs firm.

  Esther knew her husband would watch A Week in Review tonight. She’d have to watch with him. The programme was almost sure to put Gerald into a loud, farcical, possibly violent rage. Most likely this would begin before the show actually came on. She decided to stay for a while, peaceful in her office, dawdling through the notes.

  (2) Cover firm for the Temperate Acres operation is Abracadabra Leisure Facilities based in Uxbridge, Middlesex.

  Of course, Gerald’s rages could be fun, but when defending herself and/or retaliating she had to be careful she didn’t hurt his hands or mouth in case this messed up his bassoon playing.

  (3) Harold Perth Amesbury: caretaker chief only. Succeeded to leadership six months ago on retirement to his estate in County Wexford of Percival Acton Verity (aka Incremental) through illness (kidneys) and recurrent trouble with old gunshot wound (thigh). Two deputy-chairmen, perhaps angling for Supremo job. S
ee below. Amesbury seeking chance to secure his position (i.e., via successful campaign(s) against Whitsun).

  There might be a big concert due with Gerald soloing. Betty Grable insured her legs, and Esther often told him to do the same for his lips because her left lacked the absolute accuracy to avoid them always. Her right, better. Her right usually chinned. From somewhere in his genes, Gerald had an ironish chin, and rarely went down, although he might stagger about dazed and bleating for a while. She’d get him into a chair and fan him with a music score while humming some Bach, to make sure he stayed evil, so they could continue it. A fat lip, or lips, caused by knuckles slackened grip on the bassoon mouthpiece and Gerald wind that should have produced accurate music got wastefully blown into the open air. Some notes would sound dodgy – frail.

  (4) Pellotte’s daughter, Dione, involved, so far non-cohabit, with TV personality, Rupert Bale, a Temperate resident.

  (5) Possible skimming off the top by operative(s) and/or over-mixing on Whitsun. Pellotte aware and displeased.

  Gerald was certain to regard A Week in Review as intellectually decrepit, pretentious: lightweight but deadweight. His notion that getting invited to take part constituted an insult would be strengthened. Of course, he meant to accept the invitation if it came and knew he did. His fury arose from the tumult inside him: contempt for the show, and frenzied determination to get on to it. Esther would never accuse Gerald of being uncomplex or rational. He could hold one position and its opposite at the same time. Gerald gloried in the contrariness of this, thought it proved freedom of spirit, but also knew it was mad; and the two-way tug caused his twitchy, idiotic anger. Above all, Esther hated to see froth-spit on one of his already loathsome bow ties. She thought she’d go home just in time for the programme, so she wouldn’t have to witness Gerald working himself up into a pathetic, all-round passion ready for it. He’d expect her to be with him for the actual show, and she did occasionally feel obligations to Gerald. If you’d often nearly felled someone with old one-two punches, and been eye-gouged and nearly felled yourself, it set up quite a little helpmeet bond, a sort of mutuality.

  (6) I hear that about half of British wholesalers live on their main trading ground, rather than in bigger, more lavish, and therefore more conspicuous, properties elsewhere. Pellotte, Verity and now Amesbury fall into this category. (Dubious? Can’t see how any of these slumming tipplers could know this.)

  (7) Management structure of Temperate firm:

  (a) Chairman: Amesbury

  (b) Joint deputies: Jake Ilton Underhill Camby Piers Watmough (known as Tame)

  (c) Head of buying: Wilma Renee Charteris

  (d) Personnel director: Joel Jeremy North

  (e) Collector: Vernon Rice-Laidlaw (known as E.R. – Equity Release)

  (f) Legal liaison: Maud Lucy Field

  (g) Security: Philip Gain

  (Argument among group about North and Gain. Several say Gain is Personnel, North Security, not vice versa. NB again, CHECK INDEPENDENTLY. Unwise to persist with queries to group. Liquored, these people semi-shout their views, regardless of bar staff and other customers – possible jungle drums to Amesbury etc.)

  Definitions as given to me:

  (a) Chairman: Overall control, biggest earner.

  (b) Joint deputies: Split duties: Camby, street and rave trade, Watmough high quality clientele. Amicable arrangement???

  (c) Head of buying: bulk deals with importers. Much travel.

  (d) Personnel director: recruitment, discipline.

  (e) Collector: responsible for company income from pushers.

  (f) Legal liaison: organizes defence lawyers and general support when staff charged with supplying and/or violence.

  (g) Security: armourer and press relations. Protection of firm’s leadership and maintenance of battle readiness in case of Whitsun or other attack. Suppression of inconvenient publicity.

  (8) Management structure of Happy Gardening Solutions, Whitsun firm:

  (a) Chairman: Adrian Pellotte

  (b) Multi-role assistant: Dean Feston

  (c) Live on Whitsun in adjoining houses 21, 22 and 23 Hawthorn close. Pellotte has had 21 and 22 knocked into one.

  (d) Tone of firm unflamboyant and super-muted. No further information available.

  Sat

  Tribe – a Temperate club. Disco. Queue at eleven p.m., about twenty minutes. Bouncers: dark suits, white shirts, silver ties, earpieces. No bother getting in. Converted furniture depository? Burgundy walls, false ceiling, stainless-steel bar, biggish dance space, low lighting. Music by Say Again, Stones, Aptitude, Causeway’s Cause and others I can’t pick. Took a while to spot dealers. Jacketed. Pockets. Undrinking. Invitational. They hang back to be approached. Obviously, many people are regulars and know them. I make it four. And an overseer? Gets to the four in turn, dumpy, jeans, dark hair rubber banded behind, training shoes, maroon shirt, crimson jacket overlong, pockets. Restocks pushers? Done discreetly. A slob but dexterous and a lovely mover. I see no packets. Harvests their deal money? Done discreetly. I see no notes. Might be Vernon Rice Laidlaw – E.R., the firm Collector, or possibly Jake Ilton Underhill Camby, deputy chairman who does discos.

  I ask a girl, three-quarters cut and/or high: ‘Is that Camby?’ Then conversation (undisclosed recorder) – NB might be useful to (a) lighten article and (b) indicate condition of typical clientele:

  ‘Is it what?’ she says.

  ‘Camby?’

  ‘Is what Camby?’

  ‘Him.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Roll-top maroon shirt.’

  ‘Who’s Camby?’

  ‘You know – Camby.’

  ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘Roll-top maroon shirt. Ponytail.’

  ‘I don’t mind ponytails. Some hate them. My friend Delia says ponytails make her sick, just the sight, except on ponies.’

  ‘Or he could be Laidlaw. Also called E.R.’

  ‘You’ll do my head in, all the names. E.R.? Like on TV as used to be? I’m with someone. He’s in the toilet.’

  ‘Might he know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Camby. Or E.R.’

  ‘He won’t like it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Talking – you with the names and things, such as “maroon shirt”.’

  ‘It’s only names.’

  ‘I don’t believe in bunking off with someone else while a boyfriend’s in the toilet for whatever reason. I’ve only been out with him once before, though. He’s crude as snot.’

  ‘No, I’m not asking you to do a flit.’

  ‘So why fucking not? What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘I’m interested in these names.’

  ‘Fuck the names. All men. You gay? You want to lift his roll-top maroon shirt?’

  Enough.

  Sun

  Went to the ten a.m. morning service at St John’s on Temperate for background/atmos. Pretty, quite big, Norman church, probably from the days when Temperate Acres was temperate acres and a country village. Roofing lead looks intact. Crowded. People in their best gear. Lots of families. Youngish sidesman sees me looking for a seat and comes forward helpfully. Dark, good suit, darkish tie, black lace-ups, head slightly bowed in general reverence but face visible and radiant with Sunday Christian joy, neat, multi-spike, fair hair, unobtrusive ears.

  ‘Come,’ he invites warmly. As we walk up the long aisle to where he knows of spaces, he says gently, inaudible except to him and me (no recorder) something along the lines of: ‘We guessed you’d turn up for a gawp here, you fucking fuck.’ (‘Gawp’ definitely the term and ‘fucking fuck’ also verbatim.)

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘We did. We think you ought to fuck off out of it now, love.’

  ‘Who do?’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘But which?

  ‘There’s only one us.’

  ‘You Philip Gain of the Temperate firm? Or Joel Jeremy North?’

  ‘I don’t want my name p
ut about, especially not in church.’ He steepled his hands before his chest for a moment to emphasize the undoubted church qualities of churches, evident inside a church.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘A board decision.’

  I ask along the lines of: ‘Fuck off out of what?’

  ‘The whole fucking shebang. Nosing at the Tribe. Trawling with the pub crawl mob at the Dragon. And so on. They’re harmless, but are you? What is it the Psalm says?’

  I reply: ‘“Behold, these are the ungodly, who prosper in the world; they increase in riches. Their eyes stand out with fatness. They have more than heart could wish.”’ (Think that’s right – sticks from school Relig. Educ. BUT CHECK.)

  He replies: ‘“Let the lying lips be put to silence.” That means you, arsehole, and what you’re going to write in the paper. Were going to write in the paper. “Let the lying lips be put to silence; which speak grievous things proudly and contemptuously.” Here, sir.’ With a big, gracious wave of the arm he indicates a free seat.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, if you can believe that.’

  ‘I think fat eyes suit you.’

  Lady vicar. Good sermonette. Title: God’s graffiti. Summary: generally graffiti a pain, but God used it to warn Belshazzar with those words on the palace wall during a feast. ‘Mene. Mene. Tekel. Upharsin’ – meaning ‘You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting.’ Daniel interpreted it for the king and was promoted to Number Three. But, that night, Belshazzar, king of the Chaldeans, got killed, his kingdom taken by the enemy. God will always look after those on his side, like Daniel, who came out fine from the den of lions later. But the writing is on the wall for those who defy God. We should all ‘dare to be a Daniel’. These were the words of the last hymn of the service: ‘Dare to be a Daniel, dare to stand alone.’