For The Death Of Me

by Jardine, Quintin

  As soon as I got back to my office from lunch with Dylan, I called Sly Burr. He didn’t know who Wilde’s agent was, but he undertook to find out. It took him less than an hour. ‘He’s with Porter and Green,’ he told me. ‘They’re international: they got offices in London, New York, LA and Sydney. Big outfit, too big for the likes of Sandy, I’d ’ave thought, but people are always surprising you.’ He gave me their London number, and filled me in on their top people.

  I called it straight away, and asked to be put through to the executive who handled Sandy Wilde’s account. The receptionist was efficient: she took less than two seconds to tell me that he had gone back to Australia. ‘I know that,’ I replied. ‘But that wasn’t what I asked you. It’s midnight in Sydney: I want information now.’

  ‘What’s your interest in Mr Wilde?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a producer, Elmer Productions. I’m starting to cast a movie project and he’s been suggested for a part.’

  ‘I see.’ It sounded as if she was deciding whether or not to brush me off: I decided to push her.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘put me through to Jez Green. I don’t have time to be fannied about.’

  I’d given her my icy, authoritative voice, the one I’d developed playing Douglas Jardine in Red Leather: it worked as well on her as it had on his team. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘I was just checking our files. Mr Wilde’s account executive was Alanah Day. I’ll put you through to her, Mr . . . er?’

  ‘Gantry.’

  I held the line, listening to Sir Elton singing about a porch swing in Tupelo, and wondering if he was being paid for it, until he was cut off in mid-chorus (pity, I like that song; I reckon Peachtree Road is his strongest album in years) and replaced by a slightly tired female voice, so languid that I wondered if she’d had a liquid lunch. ‘Mr Gantry,’ she drawled, ‘Aimée says you have a part for Sandy Wilde.’

  ‘He’s been put in the frame,’ I replied obliquely. Unusually for someone whose fortune is built on pretence, I try to avoid telling flat-out lies.

  ‘You’ll have to go a long way to audition him, darling. He’s gone back to Oz.’ I said nothing. ‘You know Oz, as in Oz Blackstone. Down under.’ She gave a small squealing laugh. ‘Oz Blackstone, down under,’ she exclaimed, awake all of a sudden. ‘I should be so lucky.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ I said. ‘Can you put me in touch with him?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ she replied, the drawl returned. ‘We’ve dropped him.’

  Bugger it! I thought. ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ She fell silent. I thought she was waiting for me to come back, but I was wrong. ‘Listen,’ she murmured confidentially, ‘I shouldn’t do this, but Sandy’s an all-right guy and if you’ve got something for him, I’m not going to stand in his way. This is the last personal number I had for him.’ She recited a phone number with an Australian prefix. ‘It’s a mobile. He may still have it, he may not; it’s all I can do for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Alanah,’ I told her. ‘I appreciate it. A tip in return: don’t waste your time having wet dreams about Oz. He’s no use in the sack . . . or so his wife told me.’

  I thought about waiting until next morning, Australian time, before calling Wilde, but I decided that if one of us was going to be disturbed at midnight, it might as well be him, so I dialled the number. It took around fifteen seconds to connect, but only five to produce an answer.

  ‘Sandy,’ a voice snapped. ‘Who the fuck is this?’

  I switched identities. ‘My name’s Dylan,’ I lied. (Okay, sometimes I can’t avoid it.) ‘I’m calling from Monaco.’

  ‘Monaco?’

  ‘Yes, it’s where I’m based. I’m doing a background report on someone, and your name’s come up.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A woman named January, Madeleine January.’

  I heard an intake of breath on the other side of the world. ‘You want good stuff, or do you want bad stuff?’

  ‘Bad stuff will do?’

  ‘That’s fine, ’cos there ain’t any other kind with that . . .’ (I have to tell you that here Sandy used the C-WORD.) ‘I used to have a career. Now I don’t and it’s her fucking fault.’

  I hadn’t been expecting this. ‘How come?’

  ‘I met the . . .’ (He used that word again.) ‘. . . in Edinburgh. She was with some small-time Scots bit player with a spot in the show I was in. She worked on the PR side. She made a play for me; all over me, she was. She told me she was hacked off with the other guy, but that she fancied me rotten. Normally, I don’t pitch for women, but this one really turned me on. I took her back to London with me, she got a job with an agency and everything was great for a while. Then it started to stall. She started staying out nights; I got suspicious, but she laughed it off. Finally I started staying out nights; I got close to a guy on my show, got back to my old style. I didn’t tell her, though: I wasn’t sure how she’d react, but I knew it wouldn’t be good. She’s a strong woman and I didn’t fancy losing any important bits. So I decided that the only way was for me and Byron to come back down here. I left her, just like that. My agency played ball, they came up with a great part in a TV show, and Byron got a gig in Les Mis too, out front of the chorus, billing, everything. We were top of the world, man, like Cagney, and then it all went up in flames, just like him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The part I had in the show, I played an outback hunk, a real stud. I was a big hit, and I’d just signed a recording deal, the kind I’ve been after all my life. Then some pictures appeared in a scandal sheet down here. No warning, no nothing. I woke up one morning and there they were. Me and Byron, naked, nothing left to even an Aussie’s imagination. That was that. The show dropped me, the record contract was torn up, my agency blew me out and, to top it off, Byron got fired too. You know where I am right now, mate? I’m between shows in a fuckin’ gay club. That’s all the work I can get.’

  ‘That’s a sad story, but how does it relate to Madeleine January?’

  ‘Are you fucking thick?’ No, I’m not, but I wanted him to tell me the whole story, for the tape on which I record all my phone conversations. ‘I don’t know how she got those pictures, but she got them. Maybe she snooped on us herself, for she was a good photographer, or maybe she paid someone to do it, but she was behind it, no question.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I know, because after it’s all done, and Byron and I are sitting at his place . . . we were discreet, Mr Dylan, we didn’t live together . . . still in shock, I had a call, on the very fucking phone I’m talking to you now on. It was Maddy, and you know what she said? She said, “Gotcha!” in the most vicious, scary voice I ever heard, and then she hung up.’

  ‘Jesus!’ I whispered, and not for Sandy’s benefit.

  ‘This report you’re doing?’ he asked. ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ I replied, very sincerely.

  ‘Well, whoever it is, you tell him that if he’s crossed Maddy in any way, he should be in fear of his life, or at least of the bits of it that he loves.’

  I thanked Sandy and wished him well. Before I hung up I had him give me all his contact details; I told him it was in case I needed a formal statement from him, but the truth was that I felt sorry for him and intended to do what I could to revive his career. I was pretty sure that when Miles Grayson heard the story, he’d want to help him too, and a good word from Miles is the Aussie equivalent of a papal blessing.

  I decided I had to call my brother-in-law to give him an update on my progress. When I told him where Dylan and I were going he announced that he would be picking up our costs . . . as if I’d have allowed it. When I told him what Maddy had done to Sandy Wilde he fell silent for a while.

  ‘I may not be able to sort this by being nice, Harvey,’ I said. ‘In fact, I really don’t want to. I promise you that I will protect and preserve your reputation, but after what I’ve learned about this lady, my
strong inclination is to crush her like a nut.’

  18

  We left on Friday morning. I didn’t enjoy it, but I knew I couldn’t just send Dylan out there alone and hope. I didn’t trust him that much; in fact, I barely trusted him at all. I tried again to talk Susie into coming with us, and leaving the kids with Ethel, Audrey and Conrad, but she still wouldn’t have it.

  ‘I’ll trust you not to make another drama out of it,’ she said. ‘Your idea’s sound, and Mike’s the ideal guy to play the part of a duplicitous sleazeball. Get the business done and get home as quick as you can.’

  Audrey had booked us on Lufthansa; we could have gone KLM, through Amsterdam, but I didn’t even suggest that to Mike. Officially he might be dead, but in my experience the security guys there are real sharp bastards, and I didn’t fancy taking even the outside chance that one of them might recall a face from the past, especially if he saw it alongside mine.

  There’s no quick flight to Singapore, even in first class. When we took off, I popped a couple of melatonin pills, not just to help me sleep on the flight but to minimise the jetlag when we got there. For some reason, melatonin isn’t encouraged in the UK, but you can buy it everywhere else in the world.

  Even with a couple of hours’ sleep I had time to watch three movies, before the information system told us that we were flying down the Malaysian coast and beginning our descent towards Changi Airport. It was mid-afternoon when we touched down and began the long taxi to the gate. I looked out and saw blue skies, acres of grey tarmac and some very modern terminal buildings.

  When we disembarked, the interior lived up to the promise of the rest. I’ve been in more than a few international airports in my time, but I have never arrived in more pleasant surroundings than Singapore. The whole atmosphere was welcoming, from the helpful guys who directed us to the carousel, and through to the immigration process, where we were greeted with a smile and a welcome, in complete contrast to the grim-faced people who guard the gates of the USA and appraise you on the basis that you, and everyone else on the flight you’ve just come off, are a terrorist until they say that you’re not.

  I’ve often wondered why Americans are surprised that they’re unpopular abroad when their immigration officials show such open hostility towards every other nationality on the surface of the planet . . . and sometimes their own, if they happen to be black or Hispanic. I thought this aspect was exaggerated until Roscoe Brown explained to me what ‘DWB’ means. It stands for Driving While Black, and it’s a common reason to be pulled over in the US, if your face fits, so to speak.

  There’s none of that in Singapore.

  We stepped out into the airport concourse and straight into a big mistake. A limo driver stood there, in lightweight grey suit and peaked cap, holding up a sign that read ‘Mr Os Blackstone’. It hadn’t occurred to me until that minute, but I’m a pretty big name internationally these days (misspelled or not) and the last thing I needed at that time was to advertise my presence in Singapore, or to have someone else do it in a public place.

  I stepped up to the guy, said, ‘That’s me,’ and quietly but firmly took the card from him. He smiled nonetheless, bowed and took charge of our baggage trolley. We followed him outside, into an afternoon temperature that wasn’t much different from what we’d left in Monaco. I looked around as the driver opened the door of the limo, and loaded our cases: the place was much greener than I’d expected and more breezy. I got the sense that without the wind we’d be experiencing the humidity as Susie had described it.

  I asked the driver to show us something of the island before taking us to the hotel. A licence posted on the glass divider told me that his name was Mr Goh. ‘My pleasure, sir,’ he said, with a trace of American in his accent. ‘That’s part of our service.’

  He took us along a broad highway, heading west, I judged, which he told us was the Pan Island Expressway. He talked us through the trip as we passed through the northern suburbs, skirted the nature reserve, then swung round past something he called Mount Faber, although I confess I saw only a hill, with a cable car leading up to the summit. As we passed the port, I realised we were heading into the heart of the city, and that it boasted some pretty impressive buildings. Finally he swung off the main highway, and drove towards Raffles Hotel, then past it and swung round until he stopped in front of the big impressive foyer of the Swissôtel Stamford.

  Dylan stared up as we stepped out; our hotel looked as if it was the tallest building in Singapore. We soon found out how tall: when we checked in we were allocated adjoining suites on the sixty-fourth floor, with killer views across the city. Dylan suggested a trip to the complimentary cocktail bar, but I put that on hold and headed instead for the eighth-floor gym to work off some of the after-effects of the flight. As I ran on one of half a dozen treadmills, I had my choice of eight different television channels including BBC World, CNN and CNBC. I saw our Prime Minister on all three at different times; there really is no escape, you know.

  The melatonin was working. I’d insisted that Mike take some, and he seemed to be okay too, so much so that after we’d eaten enough of the complimentary nosh in the executive club, we decided to head out for a beer, rather than drink in one of the umpteen restaurants in the hotel, or in our rooms, for all the view to end all views. We asked the concierge to mark our card: he did more than that. He pulled over a taxi and instructed him to take us to Clarke Quay, and then gave us detailed instructions on how to find a place called the Crazy Elephant.

  It wasn’t difficult: even if he hadn’t mentioned the tethered bungee ride machine next door, or the cage in which some poor idiot volunteer was dropped into the Singapore river, we’d have found it by the noise. Wherever you go, Saturday night is the same. (Okay, maybe Vatican City doesn’t quite rock like the Kasbah, but you know what I mean.)

  The Elephant turned out to be the best blues bar in Singapore, with live music on stage and beer on draught. My Scots instincts will live as long as I do: I’d been in Sing for about five hours and already I’d spotted a fundamental truth about the place. Wherever you go, the booze is always more expensive than the food. That doesn’t mean they don’t drink there, though.

  We found space at a high table on the quayside by the river. As Dylan ordered two pints of Tiger from a Filipina waitress, I glanced into the bar and did a double-take when a guy who looked very like Eric Burdon jumped up on to the stage at the back. There was nothing for it, we left the table and drifted to another indoors, braving the heat to get closer to the action.

  And then it bloody happened, didn’t it? I got clocked again.

  I hate to say it, but it’s sadly true. Wherever you go in this world there’s always some drunk Jock who thinks that because you were born north of Hadrian’s Wall, like him, you and he have a special relationship . . . unless you’re wearing a blue replica shirt, that is, and his has green and white hoops, or vice versa. (No, come to think of it, especially vice versa.) I suppose in those circumstances the relationship can still be special, but in a different way altogether.

  Happily I wasn’t wearing my East Fife replica shirt that night, but I might as well have been. The stare usually registers first: it draws me to it, like a fucking magnet. I turn my head and it locks on to me. Then the eyes widen. Then the jaw drops slightly and the grin widens. Then comes the ‘Hey!’ And finally, ‘Hey! It’s the boy himself, it’s the boy Oz Blackstone, is it no’? What brings you tae a place like this Oz, big star like you?’

  That’s how it all came off. By that time the whole fucking place was looking at me, Eric Burdon, or his double, was seriously pissed off because it was meant to be looking at him, and I was trying to work out what lunacy had brought me there. I had it in mind also to have a serious word with the concierge when we got back to the hotel for sending us to a zoo like this one. (I know, he was only doing his job as best he could. My mum raised me better than that, so I didn’t actually say anything to him, other than ‘Thanks for the advice,’ but, still, it was w
hat went through my mind at the time.)

  The geezer left the bar and lurched towards me, clutching a pint bottle of Heineken; he was in his late twenties, I’d have said. He wore a black silk shirt covered with dragon images, light tan slacks, and his fair hair was mussed up. I know from experience that all you can do at such times is let it happen for a while, but somewhere deep inside Dylan, his copper reflexes kicked in. He stood, and I knew that he was going to have the guy’s arm up his back and huckle him outside, maybe accidentally drop him in the river. That I needed even less than the unwelcome local publicity, for it might have attracted the attention of the real police, so I reached out, caught his belt and jerked him back down on to his seat. ‘No,’ I said quietly, as the triumphant Glaswegian reached us. Had I forgotten to mention the unmistakable accent? Sorry.

  ‘Hey, therr!’ he breathed in my ear, as his arm went around my shoulders. I flexed them very slightly, but very quickly, letting him feel the sudden bunching of the muscles under my shirt: it’s my patented invisible warning signal and it always works. The arm was withdrawn, and the guy straightened up. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’ he asked, a little more circumspectly.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I confessed. ‘Now, do me a favour and shut the fuck up. I don’t like being embarrassed in public.’ I nodded at the stone-faced Dylan. ‘My pal here likes it even less.’

  The man noticed my companion for the first time. ‘Is this your minder, like?’

  ‘No. Like I say, he’s my pal. Mostly, I do my own minding.’ I shouldn’t have answered him; when I did it was like an invitation to take a seat, which he did. I glanced around: a few people were still staring at me, but mostly they had gone back to looking at the stage. ‘Eric’ caught my eye: he’d recognised me too. I gave him a nod and mouthed a quick ‘Sorry’, half-way through the chorus of ‘We got to get out of this place’. That didn’t seem to be a bad idea, but I reckoned we were stuck with our new pal for a while wherever we went.