Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  The party was at Third Avenue, another basement. There were four Avenues in total, not including a Grand Avenue. They were all lined with tall ash-coloured brick town houses that descended from the main drag of Church Road to the seafront.

  As Vince made his way down the steps with Bobbie, he thought of Terence, the young Classics undergraduate and wannabe writer, with his scholarly romantic ideas of an Underworld. From Hades to Brighton basements. The smell of reefer hit him even before the door opened.

  As they made their way along the narrow hallway lined with joint-toking West Indians in straw trilbies and knitted shirts, Bobbie was greeted like she probably always wanted to be – like a star. A sea of red-eyed, smiling faces parted and all nodded their respects to Jack Regent’s girl.

  The place’s official title was the Beach Bottle club – or the BBC for short. Four walls trapping smoke and sweat, and loud music pumping out of huge stacked-up speakers. Murals on the walls: a sunny Caribbean scene peopled with elastic-limbed islanders dancing and smiling under palm trees. Clouds of reefer smoke hung in the air like incense, and the crowd moved with the kind of swampy rhythm that only potent ganja produces. They weren’t so much dancing to the music as dancing in the music. White girls hanging off the necks of black guys, while white guys in three-button tight-fitting Italian-cut suits stood around eyeing up the alluringly aloof black girls. The white boys did their own little dance, with their arms up tight by their chests as if they were going into a fight, and feet shifting as if they were grinding out cigarette butts. The music system blasted out Jamaican Blue Beat, American Soul. The Miracles, Prince Buster, Carla Thomas, The Mar-Keys, Major Lance, Curtis Mayfield and The Impressions.

  There was a homemade bar in one corner, with optics on the wall behind – all of them serving different shades of rum. Only rum. Two bins were chock-full of ice and bottles of Red Stripe. A gorgeous black girl, with straight bleached hair piled up in a beehive, was busily serving the drinks.

  Vince saw a man enter the room and prop himself up against the bar, and decided he recognized the face. It was pinched and gaunt under a skinny-brimmed trilby, while its owner was stick-thin and failed to fill out his flashy houndstooth-check suit. Spider’s nickname was obvious and soon apparent to anyone around him, from the skeletal frame and the fast-moving limbs. He held a brown bottle in each hand, one a bottle of Red Stripe, the other a phial of pills; swigging beer out of the one and dealing dexies out of the other. If Spider had truly lived up to his sobriquet, he could have worked even faster, using all eight limbs to either open the other bottles that he kept retrieving from his pocket or to bank the constant flow of cash. The besuited, buttoned-up Mods had ceased their uptight twisting and were now gathered at the bar to hand over the notes, before tuning up on blues, dexies and purple hearts. Spider was the medicine man they’d all been eagerly waiting for, to loosen them up and get their party started properly.

  Spider’s malicious features had already come up on the list of known Regent associates, where it easily fitted in. Jack Regent had been rumoured to be manufacturing amphetamine pills at a farmhouse somewhere in the Sussex countryside, in a big operation said to be supplying most of the South, and also making inroads up North. Mods regularly visited clubs in Soho like the Scene, the Flamingo, the Marquee, La Discothèque and the Twisted Wheel in Manchester, where they played American Soul and R&B. They wanted to dance all night if they could and fuelled by this gear, they certainly could.

  Vince glanced around to see that Bobbie was now in possession of a big fat joint. She stood in the midst of a crowd enveloped in smoke and loud with laughter. One of the men he seemed to recognize: a handsome, square-jawed Harry Belafonte lookalike. Vince could have sworn he’d seen him somewhere before, but couldn’t precisely put his finger on it. An old collar maybe? Looking at Bobbie and the handsome fellow laughing it up together, as they enjoyed the cordiality of a shared joint, Vince felt a distinct twinge of … jealousy?

  He shook off the inappropriate thought, and returned his attention to the bar, instantly realizing that Spider was gone.

  Because Spider had gone running as fast as his skinny legs would carry him. He was already out of the basement flat and ringing the front door of the building above. As Spider was buzzed in, Vince came darting out the basement after him. At the top of the stairs he scoped the street. No sign of Spider, but there was a telephone box about fifty yards up the road.

  ‘You should see this. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t say that, but you should see it. This is out of sight. It’s wild!’ The voice spoke in a mid-Atlantic showbiz drawl. ‘She’s a real looker this one, and so is he.’ There was a gasp. ‘Oh lord, it’s enormous!’ Another gasp. ‘Oh my, carrying that thing around would ruin the cut of your trousers, it really would! It’s a sight to behold, Henry. Sorry, I know I shouldn’t say that, but it really is!’ The voice spilled over into high-pitched giggles.

  The man commenting was in his early thirties. He remained stick thin not from malnourishment or from any chemical metabolism, like Spider, but through vanity. And he also was small. Size-wise, there really wasn’t a lot to him. But there was a lot on him, for what he lost in stature he made up for with his dazzling panoply of duds. Kitted out in as vivid a collection of clothing as could be assembled on such a meagre and unpromising canvas, he was from head to toe a dandy. A regular Regency fop or a pint-sized Beau Brummel. The hair worn in a high bouffant was centre-parted and kept in place with lashings of hairspray. He had a white collarless shirt with ruffles spilling down the front; a purple satin flared frockcoat with pleats, darts and bows; drainpipe trousers in crushed black velvet; and shod in a pair of black patent-leather Beatle boots equipped with stacked Cuban heels that elevated this five-foot three-inch peacock to a level slightly above laughing-stock. With rings on his fingers and no doubt bells on his toes, the Sartorialist in question was Dickie Eton.

  He was sitting in the dark, peering through the viewing side of a two-way mirror, as an orgy took place in the next room.

  The man he was commenting to was Henry Pierce, seated next to him. Time had played its tricks, of course, but Pierce was the same giant, lethal block of a man he had always been. His scars had weathered slightly, melding in with the more natural lines on his face, but were still brutal reminders of the man he once was. The hair, however, was still unnaturally and refulgently as black as boot polish. He sat there impassively, like granite, behind his small, round blacked-out glasses, as Dickie Eton yelped, guffawed, giggled and talked him through what was occurring in the room next-door.

  At a knock on the door, Pierce tapped his heavy white stick on the floor.

  Spider entered.

  Vince made his way back to the party, and straight over to Bobbie. He’d been gone ten minutes, and she hadn’t missed him. She introduced him to the Harry Belafonte lookalike as a fellow musician, then she drifted off somewhere. Belafonte smiled and offered Vince the joint. Ignoring it, Vince clicked his fingers three times and, in rapid recall, pointed at him and said, ‘I know you. You played at Ronnie Scott’s last year.’

  The handsome Harry took a long draw on the skinny marijuana joint he was holding, then nodded his head and smiled, ‘Sheeet, Ronnie’s, that’s right, man. I’ve played that joint.’

  He was a Yank.

  ‘You were on the bill with Dave Brubeck. Alto sax?’

  ‘You’ve got me, baby. First time I played with Dave in London. Laid down some good shit, if memory serves. You enjoy it?’

  ‘I loved it. You tore the place up that night,’ said Vince, casually reaching into his pocket and flashing his badge. ‘I’d like to catch you again sometime, so if you value your work visa, you’ll split. Now.’

  Handsome Harry stopped smiling, chipped the joint, gave Vince an appreciative salute for the tip, and split as recommended.

  Bobbie drifted back over to Vince in a haze of smoke. ‘Let’s dance,’ she said, her diction slowed by the pungent, multi-papered hash joint that she kept waving aro
und like a magic wand.

  ‘I think we should go,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not having a good time?’

  ‘You’re forgetting something. I’m a copper. I could nick everyone in here. I could even nick you.’

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, stoned white girl style, more for support than anything else. Her eyelids were at half mast, yet when he looked into her eyes he saw them light up, her pupils dilating and contracting, in and out. Her head lolled back and she erupted into a peal of laughter; then stopped it as suddenly as she started. Her face rolled towards him as she said, ‘You won’t, will you, Vincent? You wouldn’t put me in jail?’ Her voice was slurred, but managed to sound teasing and coquettish. And altogether incredible.

  No answer from Vince, now too busy admiring those hypnotic green-brown eyes. Someone next to them lit up an even bigger joint than the one Bobbie was holding. It crackled and spat like a firework and, even in the smoke-filled gloom, it threw light on to her face. Her eyes widened, till Vince could see his own reflection in them. The sheer proximity made him feel good.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Vince again, hands around her waist, guiding her out of the crowd and into the fresh night air.

  Just as they hit the pavement, three panda cars and a paddy wagon pulled up. No warning sirens. Ginge was bang on time and, as always, in a hurry. Flushed red and raring to go, he was the first out of the car. He then looked more than a little surprised to see Vince propping up Jack Regent’s girl.

  Vince gave him the nod and said, ‘Enjoy yourself, Ginge. You’ve got pills, marijuana, hash and booze being sold down there. A real good collar. Run a check on a fellow named Spider, about five foot ten inches and skinny—’

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘He was the one dealing the pills.’

  ‘Gotcha, guv.’ Ginge raced down into the basement, with six uniforms following him.

  Bobbie was now stoned out of her box. The lit-up Sophia Loren eyes were fast losing their glow and turning red and tired-looking. But for her the night wasn’t over. She declared she had a craving for a ‘Nickerbrorrahrrrrrrorlywithasherrryontop’, and kept giggling and slurring, her tongue lolling around redundantly in her mouth and failing to baton out the words. And her legs weren’t feeling too clever, either.

  What she had a craving for, it seemed, was a Knickerbocker Glory with a cherry on top; and she knew a Wimpy bar in East Street that served them. Vince tried to explain that it wouldn’t be open at this time of night, but she kept insisting. Vince tried to remind himself that this wasn’t a date, and that he was a copper, and that, with her tongue loosened up by the copious amounts of reefer, this was a good opportunity to get more information out of her.

  On the promenade, the sea air worked its magic and sobered her up. Vince tried his best to keep up with her as she performed an Isadora Duncan routine, running ahead, then jumping and dancing around him. To grab her attention he asked, ‘What’s with the surname, LaVita?’

  Bobbie stopped dancing immediately. She didn’t like this line of questioning and could sense the cynicism in his tone. Understandably, while on Jack’s arm she never got pulled up about anything, however silly. She could have called herself Helen of Troy and no one would have dared bat an eyelid.

  ‘Was it you who called the police, party pooper?’

  ‘I am the police, remember?’

  She threw him a playfully alarmed look and said, ‘Then I’d better answer your question, Detective, before you lock me up. It’s Roberta.’

  ‘That makes sense. It’s the LaVita bit I’m curious about. Are you Italian?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’d surely know, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  Vince gave a resigned shrug. ‘LaVita it is, then.’

  They walked in silence for a few moments, then she announced, ‘It’s Drinkwater. Roberta Drinkwater.’

  Vince stopped in his tracks and put a hand archly to his ear. ‘Drink … what?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Miss Drinkwater, you’ve got some nerve taking the mickey out of my name.’

  She laughed. ‘I know. Tread-well and Drink-water, they do have a certain ring to them. That’s why I’m having second thoughts about marrying you, Mr Treadwell. It would be out of the frying pan into the fire.’

  Vince didn’t take the hint of flirtation too seriously, as she was stoned.

  ‘And anyway, I’m looking for something more exotic. Like a Rockefeller or a Getty.’

  That remark he did take seriously. He was about to tell her she was keeping the wrong company to run into those boys, but stuck with the affinity in their names instead, ‘Treadwell and Drinkwater, they’re not names, they’re instructions. Could be worse, though. Could be Roberta Guinnessisgoodforyou.’

  She laughed. ‘Or Vincent Anappleadaykeepsthedoctoraway.’

  ‘So what made you settle on LaVita?’

  ‘Have you seen La Dolce Vita? It’s my favourite film.’

  He had. Fellini’s Eternal City rendered godless, with Anita Ekberg dancing in the Trevi Fountain. It made sense: the look, the gown, the shoes in hand. All now done as a cheeky seaside parody.

  ‘Also I was in a hurry to get away from Drinkwater. Anyway, what’s in a name? I can always change it again.’

  ‘Life could get very confusing,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know who you are.’

  ‘Do you know who you are?’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘But you changed your name, too. You went from Vincent to Detective.’

  ‘It’s a job title, not a name.’

  ‘And are you always the detective?’ she asked as she sidled up to him, hooking her arm in his. He didn’t answer.

  They walked down from the lawns on to the promenade. The tide was out, revealing the wet sand. On a beach full of hard stones the sand looked exotic, and almost erotic, like soft forbidden flesh only glimpsed under the cover of night. And as he gazed out at its moonlit iridescence, his memory rolled back to the long summers of his youth, when the tide was right out, and he could almost feel again the wet sand squeezing between his toes.

  About twenty yards ahead stood a man leaning on the railings, looking out to sea. He looked like a tramp, with layers of shabby clothes, and a length of string keeping his trousers up. Yellow hair clumped like straw; a beard covering his face as freely as moss. In scabby hands he held up a copy of the Evening Argus, and he was reading the obituaries out loud. His voice sounded haunted and sad, as if he’d known every dead person intimately.

  Vince felt Bobbie draw closer. ‘He’s here every night,’ she whispered. ‘Always the same routine.’

  They were about to make a detour round him when his head turned sharply in their direction. The tramp had looked so caught up in his eulogy that they didn’t even think he’d notice them. Bobbie wanted to keep walking, but Vince stopped, because he recognized the man. Even though the face was one of those that had become unrecognizable, weatherbeaten features blunted like the stones washed over on the beach. But he still had two distinctive features. One side of his nose was bulbous, with a red-veined whisky river running through it, the other side was withered and fleshless, so it seemed hardly there. But what really marked him out was what was written there. Scrawled on his forehead in blue biro were the words: I AM DEAD.

  Bobbie said softly, ‘Why would anyone do that to himself?’ Vince knew the answer, because he’d witnessed it first-hand. But this wasn’t the time to enlighten her.

  The tramp stared at them vacantly with glazed eyes. He lowered the newspaper and spoke in a raspy, barely audible voice. ‘Never be without … never be without …’

  Bobbie asked Vince, ‘Do you have any money?’

  Vince nodded. He took out a ten-shilling note and offered it to the derelict. The offer was accepted, and a scabby hand grabbed the note. He then lifted the newspaper again and returned to delivering his eulogies. ‘Elizabeth Creighton, lo
ving daughter of Ethel and Peter Creighton, died peacefully on …’

  Vince and Bobbie walked on.

  ‘What did he say?’

  Vince shrugged. ‘Who knows. Best ask the sea.’

  ‘That was good of you, to give him that much money. I was thinking of just enough for a cup of tea.’

  ‘He looked like he could use something stronger. A lot stronger.’

  They made their way past the angel statue that divides Brighton from Hove. The crowds were coming out of the pubs and clubs and dance halls. Things could get lively now. And a stoned blonde turning cartwheels could prove a hazard. Vince stuck closer to Bobbie as they passed the pub on the seafront, between the two piers, where the Mods had clashed with the Rockers earlier. It had portholes for windows and a ‘seafaring’ wooden facade that jutted out like the bow of a boat about to set out to sea.

  There were about thirty boys and girls milling outside. They were dancing around to Major Lance being played on a plastic portable record player, and clearly well tuned up on pills, speeding the night away. Bobbie wanted to join them, but Vince saw the looks some of the girls were giving her. Under all that makeup were hard little faces, hailing from Shepherd’s Bush, as tough and territorial as any of the boys. Vince steered Bobbie away, but she saw something else taking her fancy, and spun away from him.

  A small bonfire was dying all alone on the beach, and that’s where Bobbie was now heading. Still barefoot, she skipped over the shingle, which didn’t seem to bother her. Vince followed obediently and laid down his jacket for Bobbie to stretch out on it, her eyes closed as if moonbathing on the beach.

  He sat down beside her and stared at the crackling embers of the dying fire. ‘Are you originally from Brighton?’ he asked.