Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  ‘I’m glad you like me, because you’re going to spend some time with me. To discuss your whereabouts. Tomorrow, nine-thirty, Edward Street. If you’re not there I’ll come and find you.’

  Vince turned his back on Pierce and walked away.

  Pierce bellowed, ‘You wanna know my whereabouts, copper? Ask your brother.’

  Vince stopped walking.

  ‘He was my chauffeur around about that time. I had a little uniform and cap made for him, to cover his bald spot.’ Pierce laughed loudly, encouraging those around him to join in.

  Vince felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach churn, not through the shock of it but the obviousness of it. Vaughn was made to measure for Henry Pierce: small, scared and pliant.

  ‘And a nice pair of kid gloves, too, so his hands wouldn’t chafe on the steering wheel and gearstick. Oh, he did look a picture.’ Pierce was really playing to the gallery now, whipping up the audience response. The crowd joined in eagerly, not because it was funny, but because it was the safest thing to do. And Henry Pierce playing Widow Twankey was always preferable to him playing Attila the Hun. Christmas had come early for the men in his immediate vicinity, because to have Pierce laughing lowered the odds of him randomly glassing someone, or putting an ice pick into your groin.

  Spider had sidled back under his protective wing, and reverted to the Richard Widmark/Tommy Udo giggle.

  All eyes were on Vince as he turned around when his tormentor continued.

  ‘Detective Treadwell, don’t you want to know what Vaughn’s been up to whilst he’s been squiring me about? Don’t you want to know what she’s been playing at? Oh, she is a real cup of tea, that one!’

  More laughter; Spider cranked up the Tommy Udo.

  Vince was livid. He could feel the balance slipping away, the police badge melting in his hand. Time to take back control. He strode over to Pierce, snatched the heavy stick out of his hand and, swift as you like, before Pierce even knew what was happening, he jabbed the gnarled end into Spider’s groin. Three times in succession: one, Spider bent over, winded; two, Spider let out a guttural groan; three, Spider dropped to his bony knees. And another one for luck … Vince went to smash the cane into the nape of Spider’s neck. But, in a trice, Pierce had unclenched his fist and caught the descending finial in the palm of his hand. His fingers wrapped themselves around the contested cane. Vince had hold of one end, Pierce was holding the other.

  The audience hushed. Like Vince, it awaited Pierce’s next move.

  Pierce dipped his head towards the floor, where his sidekick was squirming at his feet. Spider wasn’t doing his Richard Widmark/Tommy Udo bit any more. He was doing his doubled-up and whimpering-in-pain bit. Pierce considered Spider as if just a minor embarrassment, then redirected his attention to the young detective.

  Vince still gripped the cane. He didn’t want to let go, partly because he was worried what Pierce might do with it, and partly because it gave him a strange buzz. So he continued to clutch the lightning rod that kept him plugged into Pierce, plugged into a childhood fear of this monster of his past. Until the buzz faded, the surge subsided – and he wasn’t scared anymore.

  Pierce emitted a low, thoughtful growl in his throat, then said, ‘Mine, I believe.’

  Vince considered this suggestion, like handing over a loaded gun. ‘Yours, I believe.’ Finally he let go of the stick.

  Henry Pierce held the retrieved cane ambiguously, neither as crutch nor cudgel. Straightening his back, he extended himself to his full height.

  ‘Edward Street police station,’ said Vince calmly. ‘Nine-thirty. I’ll see you there, Mr Pierce.’

  But, before Vince could turn away, Pierce suddenly upped the ante in the madness stakes. He fell to his knees, arms outstretched like he’d just been felled by a sniper’s bullet, yelling, ‘Police brutality! Can I get a witness? Can I get a witness?’

  All eyes were on Vince, who was trying to ignore the madman on the floor.

  ‘Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! Can I get a witness here?’

  As Vince turned away, he felt a shooting pain in his head, and an incipient surge of nausea. It gathered apace and washed over him. It came on him so quickly, he feared he’d been stuck with a syringe and shot through with bad medicine. Vince attributed this to Pierce: he’d allowed himself to get involved, to get tangled up in his web of madness. But tomorrow would be his day. ‘Nine-thirty. I’ll be waiting. So don’t make me come looking for you.’ He strode out of the bar, and could hear Henry Pierce laughing behind him.

  Vince swung straight into the gents’ toilet, headed into a cubicle, kicked the seat off the bowl and puked up.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE ORACLE

  Back in the betting ring, Vince spotted Terence dutifully standing by Sammy Bellman’s pitch. He looked as inconspicuous as a man who had been told by the police to stand next to a bookie and watch what occurs. Sammy B and the people around him obviously viewed him with suspicion, and just then Terence was approached by Sammy B’s tic-tac man. ‘Long George’ Silverman was in his late fifties and, as the nickname suggested, he was tall: a good six foot plus something ridiculous. Height was a great advantage for a tic-tac man, enabling him to loom high above the crowds and see all the action occurring in the betting ring. Long George wore big black-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to clownish proportions. In fact his entire face had a comic appearance: big, fleshy and bulbous, as if designed not to be taken seriously. He’d obviously been sent over by Sammy B, to get the SP on this suspicious-looking fellow hanging about. Vince watched as Long George struck up a conversation with Terence who obviously wasn’t furnishing him with the right answers, because the long fellow started prodding him in the chest with a pointed finger, backed up with accusations.

  Vince stepped in. ‘Gentlemen.’ He whipped out his badge.

  Long George studied it, then gestured at Terence, saying, ‘This man has no cause to be here. He has no cause at all! He’s loitering without intent of having a bet. Not one wager has he made. We’re just trying to earn an honest living.’

  Terence protested: ‘It’s a free country.’

  ‘The bloody young farshtinkener! It’s only free because men like me fought for it! For the freedom to get on with our business without being bothered by loiterers.’

  Vince gave a conciliatory smile and announced, ‘He’s with me.’

  ‘Him? No disrespect, officer, but he looks too small to be a bogey.’

  ‘He’s not. He’s just a friend.’

  Long George stared at Vince, a glimmer of recognition lighting up his big brown eyes. ‘Mmm, I reckon I know that face.’

  Vince smiled. ‘Detective Treadwell, Vince Treadwell.’

  ‘Ach, boobalah! I knew I recognized that face!’

  Long George cupped Vince’s face in his large fleshy hands, shook it from side to side in disbelief, slapped both cheeks, twice, then gathered the reddened cheeks up in pinches and shook it from side to side again. It was a show of affection. It was a very painful show of affection that Vince wished would stop. But it was all so genuine that he didn’t have the heart to tell Long George. After a back-breaking bear hug, the pain stopped.

  ‘So how are you, Long George?’

  ‘Ach, still a million shy of becoming a millionaire. Much I care!’

  Vincent knew, however, that Long George’s use of the word ‘Much’ meant the opposite to most other people’s use of the word.

  ‘Terence, I want you to meet Long George Silverman.’

  Long George grabbed up Terence’s hand and began to shake the life out of it. ‘Why didn’t you just say you were a friend of young Vincent?’

  Vince intervened. ‘You got a tip for me, Long George?’

  ‘You’re much too smart to bet on the gee-gees, so what’s the game here, Vincent? Why was your man here posted beside Sammy’s pitch?’

  ‘I thought Jack Regent might turn up to keep an eye on Sammy, what with all this London muscle knocking around tod
ay.’

  ‘No one’s going to move Sammy from the number-one pitch.’

  ‘So where is he, Long George?’

  ‘From what I hear, he’s in the wind. But, ach, what do I know?

  ‘In this town? You know everything.’

  ‘Would I kibbitz you, boobalah?’ Long George looked around as if for eavesdroppers, then leaned in surreptitiously. ‘Listen up, you wanna tip? I’ve got a tip for you, Vincent. The Oracle. It’s running in the last race. It’s a sure thing, so bet the house. But do me a favour, and don’t bet with Sammy. We’re doing our money!’

  Vince smiled at the way Long George was changing the subject by throwing him a tip. If only all lines of questioning were this profitable, he reflected. ‘Don’t worry, Long George, I know my racing etiquette, I won’t bite the hand that feeds me. Oh, one last thing,’ he said, trying to sound casual, ‘how can I get into the Brunswick Sporting Club?’

  Long George gave several slow, thoughtful nods, as if he was waiting to hear more from the copper before he answered.

  Vince responded, all smiles and congeniality. ‘I’ve got some holiday pay due, and Tony Machin told me that club was the right place to lose it.’ Vince noticed how the mention of Machin’s name put the long fellow at ease.

  ‘Ah, Machin, yes. Surprised not to see him here today, being a degenerate gambler and frequent visitor to the tables. ’Tis a pity for him, and blessing for us, that he always leaves his luck at home. Let’s hope, for your sake, that you’re not of the same luckless disposition.’

  Vince felt a tug at his sleeve. He’d almost forgotten about Terence, who rose on tiptoe and whispered in Vince’s ear, ‘The password?’

  Vince favoured him with the kind of conspiratorial nod that he knew he would appreciate.

  Long George shook his head. ‘What’s with your boy here? He’s all whispers and secret squirrels. Doesn’t he know we’re all friends around here?’

  ‘He’s asking about the password to get into the club.’

  ‘The password?’ Long George’s fleshy face screwed up as he examined Terence more carefully. Then he leaned towards Vince conspiratorially and murmured, ‘Swordfish.’

  ‘Swordfish?’

  Long George gave a solemn nod and repeated, ‘Swordfish.’ After that revelation, he gave a curiously Germanic click of his heels, about-faced and headed back to Sammy Bellman’s betting pitch.

  As Vince turned towards the line of bookies, in the distance he caught sight of his brother Vaughn studying the runners and odds chalked up on the boards.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said to Terence, and began picking his way through the crowd. As soon as Vaughn spotted him making his way over, he took to his heels. Vince uttered a heavy-hearted sigh, and gave chase.

  Vaughn’s usual luck held out, all of it bad, as ever. While he scrambled up the steps leading to the exit, someone trod heavily on his foot. Vaughn carried on scrambling away with one shoe still trapped under the man’s foot. Vince spotted the abandoned footwear lying on the ground and snatched it up, then grabbed Vaughn himself at the rear of the stand.

  Doubled over and wheezing heavily, Vaughn took a couple of minutes to straighten up. Automatically he then pulled a crumpled pack of Craven A out of his pocket, sparked up and inhaled a long, deep drag. He coughed and hawked, then through a shaky exhalation of smoke asked reproachfully, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I think you forgot something.’ Vince handed him the shoe. ‘Why are you always running away from me?’

  Vaughn’s eyes darted everywhere except towards his brother, and eventually settled on his feet, where he slipped his slip-ons back on.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Henry Pierce,’ Vince continued.

  Vaughn redoubled the attention focused on his feet. Vince followed his brother’s gaze down to his slip-on/slip-off shoes. Not the most sensible footwear for a burglar, quick-getaway artist and leg-it merchant like Vaughn.

  ‘Look at me, Vaughn. Pierce says you used to drive for him. Is that true?’

  The apple never falls far from the tree, so the maxim goes. And, as maxims go, in Vaughn’s case this was spot on. The man began to sob, like his father would have done years before him, and in much the same circumstances and much the same locale. The betting ring, the dog track, the card school, the spieler, anywhere that money and luck were inextricably linked, rather than a demand for hard work, skill or brains. Vaughn’s luck, like his father’s before him, had all run out.

  ‘I needed the money,’ Vaughn sobbed.

  Vince handed him the handkerchief from his top pocket. ‘Then why didn’t you come to me?’

  ‘You – my kid brother?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I can look after myself.’

  Vince felt exasperated. ‘How the hell does getting involved with Regent, Pierce and the rest of them count as looking after yourself!’

  ‘You don’t have to live here,’ Vaughn protested. ‘You want to turn a pound in this town, you gotta work with them. Fucksake, they run everything!’

  ‘You ever thought about getting yourself a job?’

  Vaughn blew his nose into the handkerchief. Vince suddenly grabbed his arm. He rolled up his brother’s sleeve to reveal the bony white limb. It looked almost transparent, the blue veins so pronounced they looked as if they’d been piped on by a cake decorator. No track marks, yet.

  ‘How long you been on the gear?’

  ‘What gear?’

  ‘Vaughn the Junkie, that’s what I’ve heard. And I believe it, so don’t lie to me, Vaughn.’

  Vaughn grabbed back his arm and pulled down the sleeve. ‘I don’t shoot. I just smoke it.’ A defiant smirk crossed his face as he tried to rustle up the bravado to put some distance between himself and his policeman brother. ‘You don’t get it, man. It’s cool. It’s jazz. It’s Bird.’

  Vince didn’t even sneer. ‘It’s a mug’s game, and smoking it don’t make it any better. It’s just the start, Vaughn. You can’t beat that stuff. It’s bigger than you and it will get you. Just ask those three they found in Kemp Town how …’ Vince’s voice trailed off and he shook his head, more at his own ineffectuality than at his brother’s plight. He could see his words were useless, were merely falling on deaf ears, and, if he wasn’t careful, his brother would soon be a lost soul mired in the haze of the ‘nod’ that all junkies perpetually craved.

  ‘You know anything about that business?’

  ‘They were out-of-towners, so how would I know them?’

  ‘Because you share the same hobby.’

  Vaughn again stared at his shoes. There were more questions Vince might have asked him about the Kemp Town deaths, and the body on the beach. But he didn’t have the stomach for it now. So he kept it simple: ‘You been winning today?’

  Vaughn gave a noncommittal shrug, but then confirmed his losing status by asking, ‘You couldn’t lend us a few quid? I’m a bit shickered at the moment.’

  Vince had lost count of how much his brother was already into him for, so he didn’t bother mentioning it. ‘How much do you need?’

  Vaughn lowered his gaze and inspected his footwear again. ‘A pony?’

  Vince pulled out his wallet. He didn’t need a deerstalker and a meerschaum pipe to deduce that the money was most likely destined for the bookie’s satchel. But equally, it could have been any number of bad luck scenarios, from shylock repayments, to back rent, to hocked belongings. And now there was a new one added to the list – scoring junk. Vince extracted all the notes he had on him: a fiver and two ones. ‘That’s all I’ve got right now.’

  Vaughn snatched the money eagerly out of his hand. ‘I’ll get it right back to you.’

  ‘The Oracle. Go back it.’

  Vaughn’s head shot up. ‘It’s fifteen to one.’

  ‘Trust me, and you can buy your girlfriend something pretty.’

  ‘How d’you know about her?’

  ‘I was at your flat, remember? Unless you’ve started wearing lipstick, it looks like you’ve got your
self a girl.’

  Vaughn gave a cautious shrug. Normally he’d be boastful about being able to snag himself a girl, so his hesitant reaction merely confirmed what Bobbie had told Vince earlier.

  ‘You’d better get going, if you want to get on to it at that price.’

  Vaughn shuffled off as fast as the loose shoes would carry him. ‘I’ll pay you back, I promise!’

  ‘Keep it,’ Vince replied. ‘Buy yourself some decent shoes.’ He stood, watching Vaughn disappear into the crowd. Then, to no one in particular, or maybe to the ghost of his brother, he said softly, ‘Then you’ll be able to run faster.’

  CHAPTER 12

  SWORDFISH

  Vince entered the Seaview Hotel. The lady at the desk informed him there was one call for him, Ray Dryden, who said to get back to him ASAP. There was no mail for him, but his wife was waiting for him in the lounge.

  Vince stepped into the lounge, and there she was. His ‘wife’, Bobbie LaVita, was on the sofa by the bay window, while the bartender fetched her a brandy. She smiled at the man as he took away an empty glass. Five French cigarette butts sat in the ashtray, their white filters smeared with her coral lipstick.

  Bobbie was wearing a short light-blue skirt with a matching tunic-style jacket with a black border round the collar, done up with six brass buttons. It looked expensive, Chanel perhaps. A navy-blue, patent-leather clutch bag, with a gold clasp in the form of a woman’s hand, rested by her side. Her long slim legs were curled under her. It seemed to be a position she favoured. As with a cat, there was never any hesitation about making herself comfortable; she just did it. A pair of elegant black slip-on shoes with low heels and silver buckles lay discarded on the floor. Her hair, worn a touch higher, looked as if it had been backcombed and sprayed. She was fragrant, and her face was made up, powdered and pale. The eyes were framed by black eyeliner, with little ticks in the corners that gave the almond-shaped eyes more emphasis. It looked heavier than she had worn it before, the black lines seeming not so crisp. The eyes had been redone, and with a not so steady hand, because she had been crying.