Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  ‘The whole operation was run by the Unione Corse boss, one Paul Carbone.’

  Vince jotted the name down. ‘Sounds Italian?’

  ‘Corsica’s got a very mixed history and heritage. It’s French, but it’s an island stuck out in the Med, with the Italians, Sicilians, Greeks and Turks passing through. Lots of invasions. A real melting pot.’

  ‘Carry on, Mr Chips.’

  ‘Anyway, here’s the thing. The French coppers uncovered a processing plant by accident. But it had already been up and running for about five years, because Carbone had protection.’

  ‘Gangsters getting protection? There’s a novel twist.’

  ‘Yeah, and it came from way up top. During the war, the Unione Corse worked with the French Resistance. Doing what they were good at, getting in and out of places they shouldn’t be and killing people. Assassinations of Gestapo officers, high-ranking collaborators, spies. They did a good job, apparently, even had medals pinned on them. Then after the war, they were used by the American CIA and the French SDESE.’

  ‘Snappy name.’

  ‘It’s the French Intelligence service. They used the Corsicans to stop the French communists taking control of the harbour of Marseilles, which is the busiest port in the Med. Lots and lots of money involved, so the Unione Corse has big connections with the French government. I reckon they see them as the muscle, get them to do the dirty work that they can’t be seen doing themselves. The pay-off, you ask? They let them get on with what they do, turn a blind eye. As long as not too much dope turns up in Paris, and most of it ends up safely in the States, they’re happy.’

  ‘Do you think Jack Regent’s got anything to do with these people?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Vince weighed it up: Marseilles, Corsica, New York. It all sounded a little exotic, but why not? And anyway, there was nothing else to go on. And, like with Ray, it was the kind of intrigue that fired Vince’s imagination. It was why he became a cop – seeking the bigger picture, the bigger story.

  He eventually replied, ‘He’s Corsican, he’s a criminal and three junkies have just OD’d on heroin. In my book, that’s a connection. What else should I know about this Unione Corse?’

  ‘Its members always carry the emblem of the Corsican flag with them, wearing it engraved on a piece of jewellery, like a ring or a medallion. The higher echelon members also have a tattoo. But they always have it on them somewhere. It’s a badge of honour to them to never be without it.’

  ‘What does the Corsican flag look like when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s a Moor’s head. You know, the Moors?’

  ‘Yeah, plays left back for West Ham.’

  ‘Er, a coloured fella’s head … North African or Arabic.’

  Vince laughed. ‘Yeah, thanks, Ray, I know what a Moor is. How’s the glamorous world of Interpol treating you?’

  ‘Our international police force, Vince? I haven’t left my office once since I got here! The only time I see foreign climes is in the Greek or Italian place at lunchtime. Listen, I think this is good stuff. If we can build a case with—’

  ‘We?’ asked Vince.

  ‘Yeah, you putting in the heavy footwork, and me the brains behind the operation. Who knows, if we put enough of a case together, we could both be out in the Mediterranean sunning ourselves.’ Vince laughed, but Ray continued. ‘Ah, Vincenzo, I know a wonderful restaurant in St-Tropez. And the women, the fiery temperaments, the exotic looks …’

  ‘How’s this for exotic? Bobbie LaVita?’

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Ray Dryden.

  ‘He’s a she.’

  ‘Mmm, sounds promising. A date?’

  ‘Hardly. But she’s quite an eyeful apparently. She was Jack Regent’s paramour.’

  ‘Gangster molls are not my type.’

  ‘Me neither, but I’m curious. Might be the closest I’ll get …’

  Bobbie LaVita, Bobbie LaVita, Bobbie LaVita, Bobbie LaVita, Bobbie LalalalalalalaVita …

  The name kept running through Vince’s head mambo-style as he stepped out of the station into Edward Street. It was a sunny day, not too hot, just lit up. The sun hung low in the sky, throwing a vivid light over everything.

  ‘Detective Treadwell?’

  Vince turned around sharply, and there he was.

  Giving him the benefit of the doubt, he was about five foot seven inches, maybe less. Podgy with sandy hair, he looked as if he’d be bald by the time he hit forty. But that day looked at least twenty years off.

  ‘I’m Terence. Terence Greene-John, reporter for the Evening Argus.’

  Vince gave the cub reporter a thorough once-over: noting a brown Harris-tweed hacking jacket; burgundy V-neck jumper, probably with holes in the elbows but he couldn’t see; Tattersall check shirt; green tie with small blue mallards flying all over it, and tightly knotted like a noose; faded bottle-green baggy corduroy trousers worn high with braces, exposing red socks and battered brown brogues. In fact, everything about the fellow’s garb looked battered, baggy, well worn and handed down. He looked like a ruddy-faced young farmer from good stock.

  ‘If it’s about the three in Kemp Town, I don’t know any more than Detective Machin already told you people.’

  Terence dismissed this with a vigorous shake of his head. ‘No, no, no, Mr Treadwell—’

  ‘Detective Treadwell.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, sorry sorry—’

  ‘It’s OK. What can I do for you, Mr Green …?’

  ‘Green-John,’ he corrected, reaching into his jacket pocket and handing Vince his card. ‘Jack Regent is the story I’m covering.’

  Vince inspected the card which, on closer inspection, was not a card at all but a piece of thick, scissor-cut paper. It just had his name and a number on it in plain typewriter font. Vince inspected Terence, noting the reporter had the inky fingers of multiple ribbon changes. But the card was wrong, because he’d obviously knocked it up himself. Vince raised a doubtful eyebrow. ‘You really work for the paper?’

  Terence couldn’t meet his gaze, instead his eyes darted downwards. Vince noticed he had exceptionally long eyelashes, like a girl’s.

  ‘To be honest, sir—’

  ‘Honesty’s always a good policy when talking to a policeman. I could easily arrest you for misrepresenting yourself and wasting my time,’ he half joked. But he could see, straight off the bat, that Terence was the type that would offer up the truth before any lie.

  ‘I’m at Cambridge, reading Classics, but I want to be a writer.’ Terence paused, waited for a reply. He was obviously used to getting impressed looks or at least a ‘Good for you’ when he told people his career plans as a writer. None was forthcoming.

  ‘So you go around impersonating hacks?’ asked Vince.

  ‘No no, sir,’ said Terence, eyelashes fluttering anxiously. ‘I’m genuinely doing an internship at the Argus, during the holidays. Making tea mostly. Messaging. A bit of copy-editing and some—’

  ‘Terence, good luck with it, but I’m in rather a hurry,’ said Vince, handing him back his business card and striding off down towards Lower Rock Gardens.

  Thirty seconds later, Vince heard a tap-tapping sound behind him. It sounded like a drunken Gene Kelly, but it was Terence, who was wearing Blakeys in his brogues. Terence continued tap-tapping away, trying to match Vince’s stride.

  ‘Sir, sir, I can help you,’ he persisted, with breathless enthusiasm. ‘I’m from Brighton myself. I know you’ve been brought down from London on the Jack Regent case. I can help you. I know things.’

  Vince stopped walking and looked round at him. ‘What do you know, Terence?’

  ‘I know what happens in this town. Maybe I … maybe I can be of some assistance?’

  ‘So, tell me, what goes on in this town?’

  Terence pulled a big eager grin, happy to have been asked. Then, in an instant, he became very sombre and serious. ‘Well, sir, I’ve made rather a study of it: the history of Brighton. The people, the places, the under
world.’

  ‘The underworld,’ repeated Vince, savouring the word, but not as keenly as Terence, who gave it a grandiosity that only a nineteen-year-old undergraduate studying Classics could give it.

  ‘I’m from Brighton, too, Terence. And, being a copper, I sort of make a living from it – the underworld. And sometimes getting help from the press can be construed as interference. Help from undergraduates wanting to work for the press could be construed as a downright nuisance and bloody dangerous.’

  At this knock-back, Terence looked crestfallen. Vince could see his face palpably collapse under the weight of disappointment.

  Vince studied his expression. He’d never seen any face quite so ridiculously honest. Every emotion and thought he had flickered across his countenance. It was a sighing mass of tics and tells, sad-eyed disappointments and dimple-cheeked excitement. He should certainly never be allowed near a poker table. Even with his retreating hairline and fogey clothes, Terence just looked like a kid who really did believe in an underworld of grandiose and mythic proportions.

  Vince took pity, then took the mocked-up business card that was still in Terence’s hand. He pocketed it and started walking away from him.

  ‘Here’s what, Terence,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘If I need help, I’ll call you. On that you have my word, OK?’

  Terence beamed with joy, his eyes lighting up like the low-slung sun in the Brighton sky.

  ‘Thank you, sir!’

  CHAPTER 5

  THE SWEET LIFE

  With just the establishment’s name as its main selling point, Vince recced his room at the Seaview Hotel. Boats and anchors decorated the wallpaper, a ship in a bottle sat on the dressing table, and small sepia-framed prints of fishermen and their vessels adorned the walls. The bathroom continued the nautical theme: a dried-out starfish positioned on the cistern, a natural sponge in the bath, while a fresh block of classy Imperial Leather sat in a scallop’s shell in the washbasin.

  It was just as Vince remembered it, for he had stayed in the same room once when he was at university. A dirty weekend with a sociology student called Paula. He took off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and lay down on the springy mattress. It was so springy he thought he’d be seasick, but the bed soon subsided into calmer waters.

  He laced his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Markham’s words, as Vince left his office in Scotland Yard, replayed in his head: ‘Keep your head down, relax, spend some time with your family. Who knows, maybe make a case. You’ll be back in a few weeks.’ This case would do for a few weeks, and counting …

  Bobbie LaVita, Bobbie LaVita, Bobbie LaVita …

  The name. The moll. The Blue Orchid club in Oriental Place. What did she look like? Vince smiled to himself and thought about his intended ports of call. She would be the first. On the way to the club, he could call in on his brother, Vaughn. And tomorrow the big one, the monster from his past, Henry ‘Redskin’ Pierce.

  Vince stood up to draw the curtains, so he could get some proper sleep. He hadn’t heard the big bang, but when he got to the window he was greeted with a view of Armageddon. Khrushchev and LBJ had finally thrown their toys out the pram and sent them rocketing into the firmament. An atomic bomb had gone off and was blasting the sky red and orange. Vince smiled at this nonsense but it really did look more like the end of the world than just the end of a day. He stood and watched as the Earth set its sun.

  Vince left the Seaview at 9.00 p.m. He walked along Marine Parade to the Aquarium, crossed over by the Palace Pier, and headed along the prom to be nearer the sea. True to bank-holiday form, a balmy night had been seasonally usurped and blown away by cold gusts of wind and storm clouds. The sea tore at the beach before it and sucked it into its belly, greedily reclaiming the stones, seaweed, cuttlefish and tin cans, fish-and-chip paper and French letters. And then threw them back up again.

  The revving, stopping, starting and spitting of small engines, as Vespas and Lambrettas in red, white and blue, festooned with lights and mirrors, wove in and out of the traffic. Astride them sat young men kitted up in Italian-tailored three-button suits and US Army-surplus fishtail Parkers. The scooter in front of the pack carried a girl whose hair was cut in a short Jean Seberg crop. She had heavy panda eye make-up, and wore a short sequined dress that looked as if it had been fashioned from tinfoil. Her skinny, goose-bumped arms were wrapped around her boyfriend. In an Ivy League striped boating blazer and a Paisley cravat, he looked as though he was wearing almost as much eyeliner as her, but Vince thought they looked good weaving in and out of the traffic, like Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn in the 1953 film, Roman Holiday.

  The seafront was gridlocked with drinkers spilling out of the pubs, a disgruntled queue of clubbers awaiting entry to Sherry’s dance hall. The boys and the girls moved in packs, the girls linking arms and discharging choruses of catcalls and shrill laughter at the boys who were circling around them, showing off, swaggering and swearing.

  Then, somewhere in the distance, the breaking of glass and a gap in the laughter that let in a scream of pain. In a pub down on the seafront, smart-suited Mods had just met and locked horns with leather-jacketed, battle-ready Rockers. Both were vying over the pub jukebox and the soundtrack to their night ahead. Otis Redding versus Gene Vincent, their fortunes would be decided over hurled beer glasses and upturned tables.

  Margate and Southend last year had been just a taster for the Mods and Rockers. Battle lines had been drawn, and Brighton was now the theatre. Headlines were ready to roll. And so were the police. A wail of sirens and two Black Marias manoeuvred their way on to the pavement and down the tarmac ramp to the pub on the lower front. Truncheons were drawn and, if the truth be known, the boys in blue were as ready and eager for a tear-up as the Mods and the Rockers themselves. Vince felt detached from the milieu and the mêlée. No allegiances either way, he carried on with his walk.

  Ten minutes later, he was in Waterloo Street, outside the address Machin had given him for his brother. A basement flat boasting a never-swept entrance littered with cigarette butts, crisp packets and other debris that had blown down from street level. No lights on as Vince knocked on the door.

  It was a door that looked as if it hadn’t always waited politely for an answer. Cops raiding, creditors collecting, bailiffs seizing. Vince thought about making the same kind of entry: one strategically placed kick would break the door’s cheap lock. Instead, he took out his notepad to write down the phone number of his hotel and a direct line to the station, and slipped it under the door. He didn’t expect to receive a call.

  Ten minutes later, Vince was in Oriental Place. Another basement, but of a different class. He stood in front of a varnished, oak-panelled door replete with spyhole and a big brass doorbell. Over the door a sign scripted in blue neon tubing: The Blue Orchid. Vince rang the bell and the door was opened by a gorilla in a tux and a toupee. Or maybe his hairline was naturally simian. Either way, it looked as if it was sliding down his face.

  The gorilla attempted something akin to a smile and grunted, ‘Welcome.’

  Vince handed over ten shillings entrance fee to the bored-looking brunette reading a paperback at the cash register, and entered the club.

  Like all these gaffs, it was bigger than the outside gave it credit for. It was the usual lounge set-up: a long bar at one end of the room, about fifteen tables, with a small dance floor and a stage. Framed photos of movie stars hung on the walls: Jean Harlow, Joan Crawford, Bogart and Bacall. The Blue Orchid had plumped for movie-set night-club glamour, with zebra-striped banquettes and bar stools, and lots of potted palm trees dotted around the joint.

  Four stooping waiters in little white bolero tuxes and black bow-ties were mooching around. The place was otherwise dead. Three men occupied stools at the bar; their faces didn’t register with Vince. A lone couple sat at a table near the stage.

  On the stage was a three-piece, playing jazz slow and low. The band consisted of a silver-haired, sleepy-looking drummer strokin
g the skins with his brushes, a hollow-chested codger leaning against a double bass for support, and an alto sax that hardly felt a breath from its goatee-bearded player. Just background stuff, the music hardly registered.

  Vince went up to the bar and ordered a club soda with Angostura bitters and a twist of lime – his version of a livener. He looked over at the couple who sat by the stage. The girl was about twenty, twenty-two, the man about mid-forties. He was paying her the kind of hands-on, drooling attentiveness that marked her out as the secretary, not the wife. And not Bobbie LaVita either. Even with Jack in the wind, no one could be that droolingly stupid.

  Vince was about to ask the barman where he might find Miss LaVita, when the lights dimmed. The rheumy-eyed drummer woke up, ditched his brushes, picked up the sticks, hit a rim shot and went on a roll. The double bass stiffened up and got well and truly plucked; while the alto sax wiped his face and blew a genuine blast of hot air.

  And there she was, Bobbie LaVita.

  Platinum blonde, worn in a short asymmetric bob cut, its sharp short fringe slanting down to the left. Like a bleached-out Clara Bow with a modernist twist. Slender, a gamine quality about her. Big brown eyes, heavy on the mascara that emphasized long black lashes and accentuated the feline shape of her eyes and light on the lipstick that was a shade of pale. She wore a crushed turquoise-silk gown, again asymmetrical, sweeping down from neck to armpit so as to expose one arm and cover the other. It worked the same way with the legs, one exposed almost to the hip, the other fully covered. She was in her early twenties – but no more than twenty-five he guessed.

  Over her left breast, she wore a brooch with silver plumes and a spray of diamonds. It depicted a bird of some description, but could easily have been a dragon or a phoenix. She held a cigarette in one hand, smooth slender fingers tipped with dark nail varnish. The other hand, swinging at her side, clutched a pair of silver-strapped shoes. Otherwise, Bobbie LaVita was barefoot.