Mr Love and Justice

by Colin MacInnes

‘More or less, it is.’

  ‘But some of them are prostitutes?’

  ‘Of course. Nothing illegal about that, either. Under the new act they mustn’t solicit in the streets, and if there’s more than one of them it’s a brothel. Otherwise … it’s just a business: and believe me, half the time we’re called in to protect them.’

  ‘From the ponces?’

  ‘Not usually … In the first place, a ponce with any sense won’t live with his girl: they’ve two addresses, like any other business couple. And in the second – well frankly, most of the stories you hear about brutal bullies putting innocent teenagers on the streets are crap.’

  ‘But that does happen?’

  ‘Oh, yes. With young, or mental, or maybe masochistic girls. Most of the girls are tough and quite intelligent, though. They have to be. And girls of that type simply wouldn’t wear it.’

  ‘But the men do thump them …’

  ‘Oh, frequently! But that’s part of the kick: it’s all for love!’

  The star sleuth took Edward’s arm and said, ‘As we pass again, just take a look at the bottom left-hand corner one.’

  Ted did, and he read:

  BETTINA

  Is a Continental girl

  and very serious. All

  poses by appointment.

  VEN 5121.

  Further along, the star sleuth said to Edward, ‘Well?’

  ‘I’d say she’s one.’

  ‘Of course! But what sort of one?’

  ‘Go on … Don’t tease me, I’m very willing to learn …’

  ‘Well. “Continental” doesn’t mean she is, but what she’ll do. “All poses” rams the point home and “by appointment” says you can tell her what, over the blower, to see if your kinks match up. “Very serious”, of course, suggests the sexual slant in this particular case. New Olympia typewriter with a clean ribbon, so she’s possibly expensive.’

  ‘In this area?’

  ‘Why not? Where whores are concerned there is no fashionable section if she’s good – I mean for where her gaff actually is. Anyway, kinky clients like a slum, and respectable gents prefer an area where they’ll not be known.’

  ‘The notice cost her much?’

  ‘Pound a week, unless the tobacconist’s an imbecile. For honest landladies, only 2s 6d or something similar.’

  ‘But, tell me. Doesn’t advertising like that put us on to her?’

  ‘Why not? It’s legal: and even if not, it’d take every cop in London to trace all the notices on boards … Besides: put yourself in the poor girl’s place. The new laws make it difficult for them on the streets: so how do they contact their clients – tell me that, please?’

  ‘No, you go on …’

  ‘Well: best is, take a chance and go on the streets three months or so, and build up a clientele.’

  ‘And give them the phone number.’

  ‘Clever boy – exactly. Then, as we know, there’s the notice-board technique. Another one: a good contact in the drinking-clubs or all-night garages: barman, doorman, owner, anybody.’

  ‘These pimps take a cut?’

  ‘Don’t waste my time! Then there’s the escort-businesses – know about them? No? All right: you’re a wool-grower from New Zealand, shall we say. You want to meet a nice friendly young lady for a sociable evening out. You’re with me?’

  ‘That’s legal too?’

  ‘Who for, the agencies? Well, lots of the dates they make are kosher. But several of these agents have gone inside on procuring charges …’

  ‘What about Madams?’

  ‘Ah! Yes, there are those: and respectable clients actually like to deal with them because though it costs five times as much, she irons out all the awkward creases for them. Failing the Madams, a new mystery can also find a successful call-girl who’ll sub-let clients to her at a percentage.’

  Edward laughed. ‘We do make it difficult in this country, don’t we!’ he said.

  ‘That’s probably half the charm: the mugs like it to be awkward and mysterious – but not, of course, too dangerous for them.’

  ‘So the new laws have made the whole thing harder.’

  ‘Not really. No, I wouldn’t say so. Who they’ve made it harder for are stupid girls and semi-pros who’ve been knocked out of business because they can’t use the streets any longer. The clever ones have just gone on the phone. And here’s a funny thing: once they’re established with their clients, it’s actually easier for them.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Well yes, it is. Take gaffs. A crooked gaff with the landlord in the know cost forty a week at least with maybe key money in decent areas – when you could get them. That was for street girls. But once you’re on the phone, you can get a straight place just like anyone else for ten a week or so. Of course, if the caretaker or some friendly neighbour rumbles you – out you go! But you’d really be surprised, if the girl’s discreet and chooses her clients carefully, how little people notice. You see: English people are nosy, sure enough, as we all know; but they’ve also got a great thing about minding their own business. That’s very valuable to the girls. So with the new laws I’d say this: there’ll be just as much vice, just as many millions spent on it, but fewer women. Conclusion: profits per head – or tail – will rise. That’s all.’

  Edward was overwhelmed by this expertise: and, like an anxious angler, handled his companion with the utmost care lest an inappropriate reaction or remark might plunge him back into taciturnity. With prudence, though, there seemed little danger of this: like many silent men the star sleuth, once started, was a chatterbox, and opinionated (not without reason), and something of a fanatic: which the speed and urgency of his narrow voice conveyed vividly to Edward as they walked on along the Harrow Road.

  ‘And what,’ Edward asked, ‘about the ponces?’

  ‘Those bastards,’ said the officer, stopping by the canal bridge.

  ‘Yes. How do they fit in?’

  ‘They come out best of all,’ the star sleuth said.

  ‘With the new laws?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Like this,’ said the star sleuth, peering at the cats and contraceptives floating on the Grand Union canal. ‘You’re a ponce – right! Your girl is on the streets – yes? Well, if she is she’s certainly had several convictions. But if she’s a call-girl – particularly if she’s started out as one without going on the streets at all – there’s quite likely nothing known against her: no convictions, anyway. Very well. Try proving to a magistrate – let alone a jury – that the male companion of an innocent, unconvicted woman is living off her immoral earnings!’

  ‘So what can you do about them?’

  ‘We’re working out techniques to meet the situation. The best is, opinion seems to be, to raid her premises with a warrant for suspected brothel-keeping and sweep him into the net, somehow, in the process. Then, once you’ve got him, a little chat will probably produce results. That is, if you can find him: because the craftier among the ponces are naturally very elusive. And if their woman’s loyal to them it’s going to be tricky in the extreme.’ The star sleuth took out a halfpenny and dropped it in the canal. ‘But not impossible,’ he added.

  MR LOVE

  Frankie had paid his last visit to the Labour because he’d told the clerks there, without venom but with extreme precision and contempt, that he wasn’t going through the comedy of ‘signing on’ any more just like a schoolboy, and that it was their job to get him a ship and if they couldn’t, well then, fuck them. They’d said – also without malice but with all the equal contempt of the employed official for the jobless – that that was up to him, here was his week’s money and if he didn’t want any more then of course he needn’t bother to sign on. With these few pounds Frankie went down among the seamen’s homes of Stepney to try to arrange to stow away: not on a long trip, he was not so daft as that, but just to another port where the proportion of mariners to landsmen might be more favourable to his ho
pes and mental comfort.

  On his way down by Leman Street, on the other side of the road, approaching him, he saw the girl: and walked straight ahead, ignoring her; but as they passed his eyes pulled his head round … and he saw it wasn’t she but just another: and as soon as he knew it wasn’t, wished it had been.

  Like children (and most men), Frankie was attracted by what, for reasons of pride more than real inclination, he had rejected. The episode near the courts had left him speculating – naturally – on what, if he had been her ponce, the life would have been like: and as with so many of us, what we have speculated on at length becomes with time the thing we mean to do. A few weeks’ reflection, too, had taught him that essentially the girl, by her oblique and crafty offer, hadn’t really meant him any harm: her manoeuvre had in its way been flattering; and also – for Frankie was unusually free from self-delusion – had been one that, things being as they were, might as well be rationally considered.

  The chief – in fact, the only real – reason against it all was that Frankie thought ponces were bums, and seamen princes. But suppose you were a prince without a throne? That it was criminal didn’t worry him particularly, since Frankie’s code of honour (which most certainly existed) at times coincided with, but at times departed completely from those enshrined by any established sets of laws. For example: he wouldn’t hesitate a second to wound a man – or even, if it came to that, to kill him – if it was to help a friend – a rare and real one. And as for the sexual aspect, this didn’t worry him at all: because for Frankie, sex was love; and sexual attachment the only profound relationship with a woman that he considered possible. The money, of course, would be – well, obviously – useful. Like many seamen, Frankie wasn’t greedy about money and only felt the urgent need of it for explosive blow-outs when ashore in port. On board – with food and a berth and working clothes – he felt no need of it at all and even forgot at times, completely, how much back pay the company might owe him. But to be destitute: and on land! That was a real horror, a most shameful and miserable misfortune.

  So – all things considered – hadn’t he been a fool to turn her down so finally and abruptly? Quite clearly, poncing would be dangerous … you’d need to find out a lot more about the tackle and ropes of that. As obviously, a great deal would depend on how far you could trust the woman; and – more to the point – dominate her. Because in Frankie’s sharp and hard experience a woman, like a ship, was reliable only if you had her under strict and complete control.

  Nevertheless: the sea, certainly, came first – and far away so – if it would have him back. No woman and no fortune would hold him from that great and utterly dependable she. So, filled with the determination of a wise and right decision, he spent an energetic day among the nautical layabouts of Wapping. But though he drank a very great deal – and they – no one, apparently, could fix anything or even make a practical suggestion. And as night fell he grew not just dejected and intoxicated, but – worst of all for a man whose mind and spirit waxed and waned in power with the strength of his animal energy – he grew spiteful, tired and angry. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘anything rather than the Labour’ – and he set off on foot to her address.

  Repeated ringing brought no answer: till he became aware from the movement of a curtain that there was someone up there. He withdrew ostentatiously; returned and waited a whole hour in a nearby doorway (fortifying himself from a hip flask) and then, when another lodger entered, ran up and got his foot inside the door. This man (in fact, the landlord) vigorously protested, but Frankie simply lifted him up and placed him on one side, walked up the stairs, banged on the door, heard angry shouts, heaved against it several times and broke inside. The girl was standing by the table holding a breadknife, and her companion, a short, dark man, remained sitting watchfully beside his loaded plate.

  ‘Get out!’ the girl cried.

  ‘Not me,’ said Frankie, ‘him.’

  ‘You’re drunk!’ she shouted.

  ‘Of course. Is he a customer? Tell him to go!’

  ‘He’s not. He’s what you were too bloody high-and-mighty to want to be.’

  And now the man made a rush. Frankie was used to the Maltese, and didn’t underestimate them at all. They’re fast, fearless, and mean business, he knew. He raised a whole leg quickly and braced himself against the wall: the Malt ran into it and lost his knife. Unfortunately for him his shoes were off his feet, and Frankie (recalling an episode in Williamstown, Victoria) had gone for both of them with all his eleven stone while keeping a fraction of a weather eye on the girl and, more particularly, her breadknife. But she didn’t use it or move, and the Maltese was in agony. Frankie kicked him again, ripped his slacks down by a swift tear at his belt (another Victorian expedient), then closed in, heaved him to the open door and literally ‘threw him down the stairs’.

  The girl ran out and cried, ‘Give him his coat here or he’ll call the law!’

  Frankie threw it down after him. ‘You want me call the law?’ the Bengali landlord echoed.

  ‘No, no – I’ll see you straight: a fiver!’ cried the girl.

  The front door slammed on the Maltese. They went back in the room. ‘Well!’ said the girl. ‘You are a lively boy!’ He grabbed her and got to work ferociously.

  An hour or so later they sorted themselves out and resumed the meal abandoned by the Malt. She was gazing at him with frank admiration and also (but perhaps he missed this) with a triumphant, proprietary glint. Downing his VP wine, he said to her, ‘Hand me that thing.’

  ‘My bag?’

  ‘You heard.’

  She passed it over with a smile and he upended it. ‘Not much,’ he said.

  ‘Others have been at it.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘No? Hi! You’re not going to be one of those, are you?’ she cried as she saw him stuffing all the notes into his slacks pocket.

  ‘One of what?’

  ‘One who takes everything.’

  ‘Why – is this all you’ve got?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Don’t kid me!’

  ‘Darling, why should I? You’ll soon find out.’

  ‘Nothing hidden?’

  ‘Hidden? Are you crazy? In this dump? My bag’s the only safe place – it never leaves me.’

  He put it down. ‘Haven’t you got any savings?’ he asked her.

  ‘Savings? Darling! What you take me for!’

  ‘Well – we’re going to change all that; we’re going to save.’

  ‘Are we? Well, dear, I’m all for it – but it’s going to be up to you.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Nice of you. Meantime, could I have a couple of quid for pin money? Only two …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you. You are good to me!’

  He kissed her and upset some crockery. She disentangled. ‘And will you tell me,’ she said, ‘just how you’re going to save this money?’

  ‘How? Put it in the bank.’

  ‘Oh, yes? The GPO? The Midland?’

  ‘Well – why not?’

  She looked at him. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I love you, but honest, you worry me, you’ve got a lot to learn.’

  ‘Well – teach me.’

  ‘Suppose you’re nicked – just on suspicion. And they find you’ve got a bank account. What then?’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You do? Well, then. What next?’

  ‘We’ll put it in your name.’

  ‘Oh! So you trust me! Suppose I walk out on you?’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘Won’t I? Dear, in this business you just never can tell.’

  She got up, picked up her chair and came round and sat beside him. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Let’s get a few things straight. I love you, Frankie, but there’ll be rows enough if I know you – and know me – and there’s some we can skip by right from the start avoiding misunderstandings.’

  He lit a fag. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I�
��m new on board. Please clue me up.’

  She was looking at him again. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘before we think of anything like saving, we must get you a new suit.’

  ‘Oh, that can wait.’

  ‘And shirts and shoes and spare slacks and things.’

  ‘Come on – get on with it. Lay down the cards.’

  ‘Very well, then. And let’s have first things first. I don’t want a ponce who isn’t faithful.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘That’s what they all say! But please understand this, Frankie, very clearly. If you want to mess around with any other girl, do please just tell me and we’ll wind it up. But don’t try to deceive me.’

  ‘That seems right enough to me. And what about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You and any other men.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mean the customers … because, darling, they just mean sweet fuck-all to me.’

  ‘But what if one ever did?’

  ‘I’d not see him again.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I’m not the sort of girl who has to promise. If I say so, it is so.’

  ‘Me, too. All right, then. What else?’

  ‘I want to change my business completely. I want a big change in my whole life. I want to go on the phone.’

  ‘Like call-girl?’

  ‘Oh, Frankie! Your knowledge, boy!’

  ‘I’m a seaman, do remember. I’ve got stacks of foreign phone numbers in my diary.’

  ‘Throw it away, then.’

  ‘Okay. So call-girl: why?’

  ‘Because street business is getting too dangerous, because I’m reaching an age when I like to know who the client’s going to be, and because I’m tired of thirty bobs and call-girl money’s better.’

  ‘All right. Will that Asian of yours let you put in your private phone?’

  ‘You crazy, darling? We’re moving out! I want to go up west.’

  ‘I’ve no objection. Any particular area?’

  ‘I thought of Kilburn: it’s quiet and quite select.’

  ‘Not too select to get a place, I hope.’

  ‘Baby! This is a straight gaff I’ll be looking for – not a crooked one. In fact … I’ve had what I think’s quite a bright little idea: try and get a council flat.’