A Good Year for the Roses (1988)

by Timlin, Mark

  Everyone had told me to get off the case, and everybody was probably right. But it just seemed too pat. I felt as if every move I made was pre-ordained. I was being manipulated at every turn, and I couldn't see where the manipulation was coming from. I felt like Pavlov's dog without a biscuit for my troubles.

  Patsy Bright must have made some pretty heavy friends, or enemies; which, I didn't know. But I was determined to break the chain. Because only by doing so could I solve the mystery in which I was involved. I sat and drank, and came up with theories, and had another drink, and discarded them. Finally the bell for last orders interrupted my tangled thoughts. I finished my last drink and left the pub. I got into the car and drove to Clapham Junction. I parked the heap on a yellow line close to the market and walked through the crowds to Emerald's Club.

  Now, a little about Emerald's. It's not the kind of establishment that you'd take your old mum to visit, unless of course your old mum is a raving piss artist. It's a rough little drinking club down at the end of a seedy alley close to the Junction station. There's only one reason to go there, and that's to get an alcoholic drink outside licensing hours. Apart, that is, to fence a little bent gear, get laid by one of Emerald's young ladies, connect for some dope, plan a little villainy in private, or, as in my case, to purchase a gun without the formality of the license required by the law of this fair country of ours. It is not a nice place, believe me.

  I made for the alleyway where the club was situated and walked down towards the blind end. The blank front of the crooked old building gave no indication that there was a jolly little afternoon drinking club within. An open door led to a flight of stairs that disappeared down into the basement. Once at the bottom there was another door. I could just make out the steady beat of music through it. Emerald's was open for business. Leaning against the second door was a huge black man dressed in a maroon track suit. His muscular arms and legs stretched the fabric almost to splitting point. He sported a modified afro and a gold earring. I showed him my most fetching smile.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said cheerfully.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he demanded. Which was hardly the warm welcome I'd expected.

  ‘I want to see Emerald,’ I replied.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Emerald,’ I repeated.

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘I think you have, and I think he's in there,’ I said. Emerald had been holding court in his bar between three in the afternoon and eleven at night for the last twenty years to my certain knowledge. Although he would occasionally pop out for some nefarious business during that time, I didn't think he'd ever missed an opening or closing. The black man poked my chest with a forefinger the size of a small cucumber. I noticed that his fingernails were bitten down to the quicks.

  ‘If I say I've never heard of him, I've never heard of him. You'd better believe me white boy. Now get the fuck away from here. We don't want you around.’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, still smiling. ‘All I want you to do is to go inside and tell Emerald that Nick Sharman is here. Nick Sharman, got it? If he doesn't want to see me, fair enough. I'll turn right round and leave. But I do need to see him urgently, and I'm not going until he knows I'm here.’

  ‘And if I don't?’

  I looked at the huge man. His arms were as thick as my legs. I knew I had less chance of forcing my way past him that I had drinking soup with a fork. I was just fed up being pushed around. I wanted to push back a bit.

  ‘There'll be a row,’ I said. ‘And the last thing I really want right now is a row, especially with you. But I promise you, if there is one you'll regret it. I'm not leaving unless Emerald says so.’ The black man stared at me. I stared back. I thought he was going to smack me right in the mouth. There was nothing I could have done about it if he did, except fall over.

  ‘What do you want with him?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘That's my business, but he'll want to see me,’ I said, I hoped the bouncer was convinced, because I wasn't. He kept staring, then shrugged and turned and knocked heavily on the door. After a moment it was opened by another, equally large black. That one had dreadlocks to his waist and wore a green, orange and black sweatsuit. Behind him I could clearly hear Ramsey Lewis belting out of the juke-box.

  ‘Tell Emerald that Mick Sharman wants to see him,’ the first bouncer said to the second.

  ‘Nick,’ I said.

  The door was slammed shut on us and I heard a bolt click. The first black man pushed past me and looked up the stairs.

  ‘This isn't a raid,’ I said. He ignored me. The bolt clicked again on the other side of the door and it slowly opened. The second bouncer beckoned me to enter, and I passed into the inner room.

  Emerald's club consisted of one huge cellar, which smelled in equal parts of clamp, cheap perfume and the odour of fish and chicken being cooked in the kitchen behind the bar.

  The bar itself was L-shaped and made of polished mahogany. It ran for three quarters of the wall opposite the door which I entered. In the centre of the room was a pool table covered in blue baize. Against the right hand wall sat a massive Wurlitzer juke-box. It used to contain one of the finest sets of singles in London. There had been many a long afternoon spent feeding coins into its slot and listening to Otis and Aretha and their soul brothers and sisters wailing their hearts out. Along the left hand wall was a bank of fruit machines, the old fashioned kind with hundred pound payouts. None of the new electronic trash, where you need a degree in advanced electronics to win three nicker. These were one armed bandits, battered and chipped with use. Where there was room on the floor, a few lino topped tables and wobbly wooden chairs were clustered to form an eating area.

  In the gap formed by the right angle of the bar, stood the other seats in the place. Two tall wooden bar stools with thick, red plush covers. The one nearest to me was empty, on the other perched the gross form of my old friend Samuel Watkins, aka Emerald, aka Em the Gem. In front of him, on the bar stood a white, push button telephone. Next to the telephone was a folded newspaper.

  As it was early in the afternoon, there were few customers in the place. A man sat trying to eat fried chicken and smile at the same time and two Rastas were playing pool for their giro cheques, watched by a third one leaning against the juke-box and minding the stakes.

  The second bouncer who had allowed me to enter, tossed his dreads like a debutante and closed the door behind me. The pool match stopped and the chicken eater paused with his mouth agape to check me out.

  I walked over to where Emerald was sitting. He was a huge man. Quite how big, I'd forgotten, or else he'd been eating too many of the cook's fish dumplings since we'd last met. When Emerald stood, he was a shade over six foot tall and must have weighed close to twenty stone. His bulk was shoe-horned into the tightest, baddest, most stylish suit this side of the Motown Revue, 1964. It was a single breasted, grey, shot silk affair. The jacket was button free and very short with two tiny hacking vents at the back. The trousers were suffocatingly cut and were short enough to show an inch or two of black sock. His feet, which were incredibly small for such a big man, were laced into tiny, patent leather, pointed toed shoes. His shirt was violet with a tab collar with which he wore a narrow dark grey tie. On the little finger of his left hand was a gold ring that contained the biggest green stone I'd ever seen. Hence his nick-name.

  ‘Still sharp, Em,’ I said as I reached the bar.

  He spun on his seat and opened his arms as if to embrace me. ‘My man Nick,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Suffering, Em, suffering,’ I replied.

  ‘So you've come to Emerald's for some solace. A wise move my friend.’ His face took on a serious expression. ‘I've heard that bad things have happened to you Nicky. Why have you stayed away so long? I thought that friends stuck together in times of tribulation.’

  Emerald's mother was a Baptist. She'd brought her boy up strictly by the good book. When he was drunk, Emerald could quote great chunks of the
scripture verbatim. His speciality was the Book of Revelations. In another life he would have been a preacher, and a good one at that. ‘Into every life a little rain must fall,’ I said. ‘And I'm fucking drowning.’

  He laughed a good deep laugh.

  ‘How's your little Judith?” he enquired. He'd had a soft spot for my little girl, since, when she'd been no more than a toddler I'd bought her up to see Father Christmas at a West End Store. On the way home I'd stopped off at the club for a well deserved drink, being trampled on by hordes of weeny-boppers not being my idea of a fun afternoon.

  She'd totally taken over the place. The language from the punters would have graced a Sunday school outing. The girls had fussed over her like a princess and Emerald had sent out for enough toys and sweets to sink the Titanic. At first Judith had been wary of the big black man. Then he'd shown her the ring he wore on his finger. I've never seen him take it off before or since, but he gave it to the child to hold. She was fascinated by the way the stone reflected a thousand lights into her eyes. Within thirty minutes she was curled up asleep in Emerald's lap grasping the ring in her tiny fist. Before we left I had to prize it from her. Of course Laura had gone crazy that I'd taken Judith into ‘a den of thieves’ as my dear wife described the club. But when I remembered how my little girl had looked snuggled up against the big man's jacket, I knew I could trust her with him any time.

  ‘She's not so little now,’ I answered. ‘And she's fine.’ I didn't want to go into details for a while.

  ‘It's good to see you, Nick. But I can tell you are very troubled,’ Emerald said.

  ‘You're right Em,’ I replied. ‘I've got a few problems.’

  ‘You know I'll help if I can, but first let me get you a drink. I find a drink in my hand always helps with mine, and believe me, I've got plenty too.’

  I looked over at the dread-locked bouncer who was leaning, arms crossed by the door.

  ‘I see you've bought in some muscle to help you solve them,’ I said. ‘You used to be more discreet in the old days.’

  ‘I need obvious muscle these troubled times. Things have changed around here since we last met. Now, what about that drink?’

  ‘What've you got?’ I asked.

  ‘Same old stuff.’ Emerald's had never been noted for its long wine list. I opted for a light rum and Coke. Emerald gestured to the girl behind the bar, who was hovering just out of earshot. No-one liked to be accused of eavesdropping on the boss of Emerald's.

  ‘White rum and Coke for my friend, and the same for me,’ Emerald called. She brought us two large drinks then moved back to the far end of the bar and began polishing glasses whilst watching the pool game that had recommenced. I walked over to the juke-box and picked out a few good tunes to keep the noise level up, so that Em and I could talk in private. I chose some Four Tops, Thelma Houston and a selection of Blue Note 45's that Emerald had picked up somewhere. The opening bars of ‘The Preacher’ helped to lower my stress level a little. Then I went back to join the big man.

  ‘Nice stuff, Em,’ I said. ‘Been going round the jumbles again?’

  ‘French imports,’ he replied. ‘Expensive, but worth every penny.’

  The sound of Jimmy Smith's Hammond swirled through the club.

  ‘Still the old mod, aren't you?’ It was as much a statement as a question.

  ‘Always, my friend, always,’ he replied with a giant grin.

  We sat for a while in silence, as old friends can, sipping our drinks and listening to the jazz. I leaned over and picked up the paper lying on the bar. It was the early edition of that day's ‘Standard’. It was folded back to the racing pages. I re-folded it so that I could see the front page. T S's murder was headline news. ‘HEADLESS BODY HORROR’ read the banner headlines. I carefully placed my hands face down on the bar to still the shakes. I scanned the story. The hard information was sparse.

  Apparently an anonymous call had been made to Scotland Yard. It must have been just after I arrived. The nameless girl was in hospital suffering from shock. The police were waiting to interview her. One unidentified man had fled the scene on foot. That must have been me. Terry's past had been dredged up briefly. Fashion designer, fashion photographer, war correspondent, a smattering about his capture, then the fact that he was a GLC funded drugs counsellor. Finally the reporter started guessing. ‘Drug murder.’ ‘Ritual slaying.’ Because the killing had taken place in Brixton all sorts of innuendo was allowed. I ignored it, I knew better. Only the last sentence worried me. It read:

  ‘Police are anxious to contact Precious Smith, who worked at the drug centre with Southall. It is understood she may have relevant information about the murder.’

  I guessed Precious had done a quick runner. She hadn't struck me as someone who'd welcome police enquiries. Stay away Presh, I thought, and if they do catch up with you, forget I ever existed.

  I folded the paper again and tossed it across the bar. When I looked up Emerald was staring hard at me.

  ‘Don't ask, Em,’ I said.

  ‘I won't,’ he replied. ‘But I thought I recognised the name.’

  ‘Put it out of your mind.’

  ‘He's been here, yeah? With you?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Bad news.’

  ‘You said it.’

  We sat in silence again, but a subtly different silence. The bar was beginning to fill up as the afternoon progressed. I sat and watched as the crowd grew and drank and gossiped and checked out the only white man in the place. Finally Emerald broke the silence again. ‘Nicky, my boy,’ he said, ‘you've been absent for a long time. Now you've come in all uptight and trying to be cool and hide it.’

  I flashed him a warning glance. ‘OK, OK,’ he admonished, putting a giant hand on mine to placate me. ‘I'm not saying anything about that.’ He tapped the paper. ‘It's just that I've missed you since you became a stranger, and I don't think this visit is for old times’ sake.’

  ‘It's not entirely,’ I replied. ‘But even if it was, you make it very hard to get in here these days. Your man at the door said you didn't exist.’

  Gales of laughter shook Em's huge frame.

  ‘I know man,’ he said. ‘We don't get many honkeys,’ he put a long inflection on the last word, ‘down here now. You're too much trouble. Too many fights, and the girls said there was a lot of bad mouthing going on. And you change the subject too quick for us poor darkies.’

  I ignored the last comment and said, ‘Still girls, eh Em?’

  ‘But naturally,’ he replied. ‘The old place wouldn't be the same without them. Stay awhile and meet the new faces.’ He paused. ‘And get re-acquainted with the old.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’ I asked.

  ‘Don't bullshit me Nick. You know who I mean.’

  ‘I've no time for that today Emerald.’

  He was silent again, then he said, ‘I can't help unless I know what the trouble is. Don't you trust me any more?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I replied, then reluctantly told him something of my story. I briefly mentioned T S, and was a bit more detailed about the letter concerning Judith. When I had finished the edited highlights he sat and regarded me gravely.

  ‘You have got big troubles,’ he said quietly. ‘But what can I do about them?’

  ‘Get me a gun.’

  ‘Hey man, who are you kidding? Don't give me that gun shit.’ He laughed with his mouth, but his eyes were cold.

  ‘I'm deadly serious,’ I said in a low voice.

  ‘Guns aren't my style no more. I told you things have changed.’

  ‘For the worst, Emerald. There's at least one blood in here right now, tooled up,.’ Emerald rolled his eyes. ‘Don't kid a kidder,’ I continued. ‘I know your form my friend, remember? One of the main reasons you've stayed open so long is because the CID know exactly who to keep an eye on.’

  ‘But not no more,’ Emerald interrupted. ‘I told you I'm clean.’

  ‘About as clean as a used Durex. Now are yo
u going to get me a shooter or not?’

  Emerald changed his tack and got offended all of a sudden. ‘You hurt me Nick,’ he said. ‘Coming in here and talking about offing people before you've finished your first drink. It's not friendly.’

  ‘Who said anything about offing people?’ I asked. I could get offended too.

  ‘You don't have to. The look on your face when you read that paper was enough. And even if it hadn't been, what the hell do you want a gun for? Swatting flies? They must be growing bluebottles as big as horses round your way.’

  I took his point. ‘It's for self defence,’ I said.

  ‘Not even for that, not any more,’ he said. ‘But listen, don't go away mad. I've got some calls to make, then we'll get drunk like in the old days.’

  ‘The old days have gone, Emerald, haven't you heard. Now times are hard. Old friends should stick together, so don't brush me off.’

  He leaned over and gently tapped me on the chest. His ring sparkled in the lights. ‘You've got no juice now Nick,’ he said. ‘Not being the law and all. We're still friends, but only as long as you stay cool. So just lighten up and everything will be fine.’

  I dug my fingers into his upper arm. Under the fat was hard muscle. I squeezed as hard as I could. I saw just a little pain behind his dark eyes.

  ‘Em,’ I said. ‘Don't make me tell tales. I may have no juice now, but I know some of your juicy secrets.’

  ‘Yesterday's papers,’ he scoffed, and shrugged my hand off.

  ‘We can always find out can't we?’ I asked. ‘Why don't you let me make some calls? I think I can remember the number of Lavender Hill nick.’