Zip Gun Boogie

by Mark Timlin

  He finished the call with a ‘Ciao, bambino’, dropped the phone, swung round on his executive chair, and jumped up to greet me. I looked round again for his benefit. ‘Love it,’ I said.

  ‘I just knew you would. Come over and have a drink.’

  We adjourned to two leather and chrome chairs by the window that looked over the river, and Kennedy-Sloane conjured up two Japanese beers in freezing black bottles. ‘You can’t get it here,’ he said. ‘I have it shipped in.’

  ‘Chris,’ I said, ‘you are a prick.’

  ‘Agreed, but the beer is superb.’

  He was right, it was.

  When we’d both lit cigarettes, and settled down comfortably, Kennedy-Sloane said: ‘So what do you want to know?’

  ‘It’s purely academic now,’ I said. ‘The whole thing’s over bar the shouting.’

  ‘How come?’

  So I told him. The whole story from first to last. It had all the ingredients I knew he’d love. Murder, mayhem, intrigue. The whole nine yards. When I’d finished he fetched two more beers from the fridge. ‘Well, Sherlock,’ he said, ‘the boy done well.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But funnily enough, I don’t feel very proud of myself.’

  ‘You should.’

  I pulled a face and lit another cigarette and looked down at the tiny cars and people in the street below, and envied them. I wished it was me going home to a house and a family and a wife and children and a hot meal and a night in, in front of the TV.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘You wouldn’t last a week.’

  ‘What, are you a mind reader now?’ I asked.

  ‘I know that look. At least you’re not in such a bad way as Pandora’s Box is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re in shit. Very deep shit indeed. The band are not doing well at all.’

  ‘I thought they sold records by the truckload.’

  ‘Used to.’

  ‘And they’ve sold out five nights at Wembley Arena soon.’

  ‘If you believe that, my friend, you’ll believe anything.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  He nodded wisely.

  ‘So what’s up?’

  ‘Tastes change. The band has changed.’

  ‘They’ve been doing that for over twenty years.’

  ‘Getting old maybe.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  ‘We’re all not in the business of human happiness.’

  ‘Chapter and verse,’ I said.

  ‘Simple. Receipts are down. Expenses are up. That little posse spend like money’s going out of fashion sometime this evening.’

  ‘I heard they could afford it.’

  ‘They could once.’

  ‘They can now.’ I showed him my new Rolex.

  ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘If a little ostentatious.’

  ‘Chris, I never thought I’d hear you complain at ostentation.’

  ‘Times have changed, I told you. It’s tough out there these days.’

  ‘Well, it may be tough out there, but Pandora managed to stump up for over twenty of these suckers the other night.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He actually sounded impressed.

  ‘Yup. At ten grand per.’

  ‘Show,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. I took off the watch and passed it to him. He took it over to the window. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d taken off the back and examined the movement with a jeweller’s eye glass.

  ‘Well?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s real,’ he said.

  ‘I could have told you that.’

  ‘Over twenty you say.’

  ‘That’s right. And you say he’s skint?’

  ‘Definitely. The income is drying up. And at least two members are in serious personal financial trouble.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Pandora and Box. The founding fathers of the band.’

  ‘What kind of financial trouble.’

  ‘Bad investments and too much blowski. Talking of which, would you…?’ He fished a paper wrap from his breast pocket. I was tempted, but I didn’t want to get into a long session and end up at 3 a.m. in some hooker’s bar with Kennedy-Sloane in full cry. ‘Not for me,’ I said. ‘I’ll have another beer. But you go ahead.’

  ‘It’s the best.’

  ‘It always is. Next time maybe.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ he said, and got up and went to his desk. He opened the wrap and tapped a few rocks out on to the shiny top, and cut them with one of his credit cards. He rolled up a twenty-pound note and took a snort up each nostril, then got two more beers and came back. ‘It was unlucky that Shapiro survived the OD,’ he said as he sat down.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Unlucky for the rest of the band, that is. And anyone with an ear for real music, of course.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘The best career move right now is for one of them to kick the bucket.’

  ‘Tell me more.’ I was interested now.

  ‘When a band like that gets as big as they did, if one of them died, it could spell disaster for the rest. End of story in fact, a lot of times. And the more popular a band gets the more temptation is put in the little bastards’ ways, so the first thing you do is to get every member of the band to take out a life insurance policy on every other member. Big ones.’

  ‘How much?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? A million dollars. Five. It depends. The premiums aren’t cheap, but it’s worth it.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘Perfectly. Tax deductible even.’

  ‘So if someone wanted a quick bob or two…’ I said.

  ‘… kill off one of the others,’ he finished the sentence for me.

  ‘Precisely. And when the band’s on the skids like The Box are, it could solve a lot of problems for the rest of them.’

  ‘Cold-blooded.’

  ‘Life in the fast lane is cold-blooded.’

  ‘And The Box do live in the fast lane. Someone told me they were the dyingest band in the world.’

  ‘Convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I sure would.’ For the first time I had qualms about Boyle’s guilt. But it must have been him, I thought. ‘I suppose if you leave the band, the cover would lapse too?’

  ‘Yes. That’s written into the policies.’

  ‘So Bobby Boyle wouldn’t benefit if any of the others died?’

  ‘No. Anyway, if what you say is true and he gives his royalties away …’ His tone of voice told me that he considered the act to be worse than sacrilege. ‘I don’t suppose he’d be interested in benefiting if one of the others died.’

  ‘I don’t think it was money that motivated him. I think he just hates them for kicking him out.’

  ‘Who can blame him?’

  ‘So, Chris,’ I said after I’d finished another beer, ‘thanks for the info.’

  ‘A pleasure. A great shame that I can’t see a way to make a few bob out of it. But still, it’s always good to see an old friend doing well.’

  ‘I don’t know that I am.’

  ‘You are. Take my word for it.’

  ‘Thanks again. I’ll be off now, I think.’

  ‘You won’t join me for dinner?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Another time then.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Very,’ I said.

  ‘Ring me.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ he said, and did. I caught a passing cab, and got him to head back to the hotel.

  28

  I suppose I got back to the hotel around eight, eight-thirty. I went up to my suite and called Lomax. There was n
o answer on his number, and he wasn’t in the bar or the restaurant. I wondered exactly what my status was now. I was still on wages but the job was over so far as I was concerned. Now it was up to the police to catch Boyle. So did I stay or did I go? I decided to wait and see. I changed into jeans again, made a drink and switched on the TV. I sat down and thought about what Chris Kennedy-Sloane had told me.

  Just before ten, as I was waiting for the news to come on, there was a knock at the door. I got up from the sofa and went and opened it. Pandora’s two teenybopper playmates were standing outside. Slash was wearing a mini skirt so tiny that I could have used it for a wrist band. It was teamed with a black bra top that left her midriff bare, black tights and shoes. She was carrying a small black suede clutch handbag. The Flea wore black footless tights and high-heeled shoes, and a huge Pandora’s Box sweat-shirt that had had the sleeves, bottom and neck chopped raggedly with scissors and hung off one shoulder to expose the tops of her tiny breasts. She was obviously wearing nothing underneath. I was looking at prime jailbait, with a capital J and a capital B. ‘Hi,’ said Slash. ‘Remember us?’

  ‘Sure I do,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Someone to talk to. We’re bored. Can we come in?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The place is a mess. The maid service has gone to hell lately.’

  ‘We don’t mind.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Will you buy us a drink then?’ asked The Flea. ‘We’re all alone.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy you a Coke each. In the bar.’ What the hell? I thought. They’re just kids, and I could do with the company.

  ‘A Coke?’ said Slash disgustedly. ‘We want a proper drink.’

  ‘It’s a Coke or nothing,’ I said.

  The Flea crinkled her nose and looked at her sister.

  ‘Slash?’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ replied Slash. ‘Cokes it is. Come on then.’

  We took the lift down to the first-floor bar. It was dark and empty. ‘Where is everyone?’ I said.

  Slash shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  We went to a booth, and I turned up the small light so that I could see their faces. A barman legged it over and I ordered two Cherry Cokes and a whisky sour for myself. ‘We want whisky sours too,’ said Slash petulantly.

  ‘The young ladies will have a Cherry Coke each,’ I said to the barman. ‘Straight. No chaser.’

  The two girls looked a bit confused at that, but didn’t argue further and the barman left. ‘Gotta ciggie?’ asked Slash.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Give us one then?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Hell! Why not? No one else cares if we smoke.’

  ‘That’s almost certainly the problem,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked The Flea. ‘We don’t have no problems.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. And we were all silent until the drinks came.

  ‘So where’s your mother tonight?’ I asked when the barman had delivered the order and left.

  ‘Out getting laid, I expect,’ said Slash.

  Nice, I thought. ‘And you’re bored?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘My daughter suffers from the same ailment.’

  ‘You gotta daughter?’ said The Flea. ‘How old?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘A baby,’ said Slash dismissively.

  ‘Listen to the old lady,’ I said. ‘I’m surprised you get around without a bath chair.’

  They both giggled at that. ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ asked The Flea.

  ‘Judith,’ I said. I don’t think they were impressed. Not raunchy enough, I imagine. ‘What are your real names?’ I asked.

  ‘Slash,’ said Slash.

  ‘The Flea,’ said The Flea.

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘The ones on your birth certificates.’

  They looked at each other and giggled again. ‘Promise you won’t tell?’ said Slash.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Clarissa and Alice,’ she said. ‘I’m Alice. Isn’t that a joke?’

  ‘I like them,’ I said.

  Her look said, You would. ‘Go on, give us a ciggie,’ she said. ‘I’ll only go and buy some.’

  ‘So buy some then,’ I replied. ‘I’ll smoke yours.’

  ‘Give us a fiver for the tab.’

  ‘Use your pocket money,’ I said.

  She gave me another disgusted look, jumped up and flounced off to the bar, wiggling her backside as she went. She came back with a packet of Marlboro and lit up using a gold Dunhill lighter she took from her handbag. I thought, what the hell again, and had one myself. After all, they weren’t my responsibility.

  ‘Where’s your daughter now?’ asked The Flea.

  ‘With her mother.’

  ‘And you’re going out with Ninotchka?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘We’re just friends.’

  ‘Don’t shit us,’ said Slash.

  ‘Please yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Are you divorced?’ asked The Flea.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your wife took your daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said again. Although I didn’t know why I was discussing my private life with a pair of teenagers.

  ‘Do you see her a lot?’ The Flea again.

  ‘As much as possible.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘What all divorced fathers do. Spend too much money on her.’

  ‘Where do you go?’

  ‘McDonald’s. The Zoo. The cinema. Round the shops in the West End.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Mostly. When I had a steady girlfriend, she used to come too. But we broke up.’

  ‘Why?’ asked The Flea.

  I shrugged. ‘We just did.’

  ‘Was she nice?’ asked Slash.

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘So now it’s just you and your daughter?’

  ‘That’s right. You two could come sometime if you like. Judith would like that.’

  ‘But would we like her?’ asked Slash.

  The Flea shushed her. ‘We could handle that,’ she said. ‘Does she go to school?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said The Flea. ‘I quit.’

  ‘Sensible move.’

  ‘What bands does she like? Your daughter?’ asked The Flea, going off at a tangent.

  I shrugged. ‘She changes with the weather,’ I said. ‘But I know she still likes Madonna.’

  ‘Oh, Maddie,’ said Slash. ‘We met her backstage at the LA Forum. She’s so cool. And little. She’s the same height as me. But built. Boy, I gotta tell you! And guys flip over her.’

  ‘So I believe,’ I said dryly.

  ‘She’s awesome,’ said Slash.

  ‘Have you got a gun?’ asked The Flea, changing the subject again.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘How can you be a PI then?’ said Slash. ‘All PIs have guns.’

  ‘Not this one,’ I said. ‘I gave them up.’

  ‘Did you used to have one?’ Slash again.

  I nodded.

  ‘Ever shot anyone?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Horrible. About as bad as being shot.’

  ‘Have you been shot?’ said Slash, her eyes widening.

  I nodded again in the half light.

  ‘I told you,’ she said to her sister.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  The Flea crinkled her nose again. ‘She says you’re like Sonny in Miami Vice.’

  ‘I’ve seen every episode,’ said Slash excitedly, more like a fourteen
year old. ‘We’ve got them all on video.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re like Sonny at all,’ said The Flea. ‘He’s cute.’

  That put me in my place.

  ‘I agree,’ I said.

  ‘Nick’s got the same hair,’ said Slash. That was the first time either of them had used my name. It made me horny to think of the pair of them discussing me.

  ‘His hair’s black, stupid,’ said The Flea. ‘Sonny’s blonde.’

  ‘Apart from that,’ said Slash.

  I was getting embarrassed, and one of them was playing footsie under the table. I moved my leg.

  ‘Can we sleep with you tonight?’ asked Slash. ‘We’re lonely.’

  These two were expert manipulators. I was suddenly ashamed of what I’d been thinking. ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re too young. And I’m too old.’

  ‘I’ve slept with loads of older guys,’ said Slash. Just the way she said it made me feel even older, if that were possible. And very sad. And pleased I hadn’t let them into my suite.

  ‘Are you proud of that?’ I asked.

  She shrugged.

  ‘You shouldn’t be, I’m serious. It’s bad for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ask your gynaecologist.’

  ‘Who cares anyway?’ said Slash.

  ‘I do, if no one else does. When I look at you two I think of Judith.’

  ‘Our mother doesn’t mind,’ said Slash.

  ‘Then she should be ashamed.’

  ‘She thinks it’s kinda cool.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘Keith does too.’

  ‘That maggot should be squashed.’

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He’s cool. He buys us stuff.’

  ‘I just bet he does.’

  ‘Will you buy us presents?’

  ‘On your birthdays.’

  ‘My birthday’s soon,’ said Slash.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Some new lingerie. Sexy stuff. I’ll wear it for you.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’ I looked at my watch. It was past eleven. ‘Isn’t it time you two were in bed?’ I asked. Dumb question. I should have known better. They turned to each other and giggled. ‘That’s what we said already, dude,’ said Slash.