Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  ‘That’s good to hear, Murray,’ replied a distracted Vince, more worried now about his own localized predicament than international affairs. ‘You didn’t trust me?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t take it personal. I don’t trust anyone.’

  ‘I trusted you, Murray.’

  ‘And that’s your problem, kid. You trust too much. Should have frisked me.’

  Vince reached over to pick up the Swan Vesta box – not going for the fast grab, but fast enough to feel a muzzle of cold steel at the nape of his neck. He realized that the Volcano was now behind him holding a gun.

  ‘The Head painting his nails, and the Volcano with a shooter,’ observed Vince. ‘What a turn up.’

  ‘We’re nothing if not different down here,’ she said.

  ‘Second time I’ve had a gun pulled on me by a woman today. The first one was naked.’

  ‘That can be arranged, sweetie.’

  ‘What do you want, Murray?’

  The Head weighed it up, then nonchalantly replied, ‘What we all want in this life: some peace of mind. So I’m just showing you the little insurance policy I took out, which will pay for that little peace of mind. Just in case you experience a sudden case of the uncorruptibles and forget that this little caper ever took place.’

  ‘I won’t forget. You have my word.’

  The Volcano ran a playful finger through Vince’s hair and said, ‘I believe him, sugar.’

  The Head’s eyes narrowed in judgement, then he quickly concluded, ‘Me too, babycakes.’ He pocketed the Swan Vesta box.

  ‘We done?’ asked Vince.

  ‘And dusted.’

  Vince felt the cold muzzle of the gun withdraw. He collected the rolled-up canvas from the table. ‘Like I said, when I’m finished with this, Murray, you get to keep the painting. I’ll drop it off with Long George.’

  ‘Forget it. I don’t like the painting. More importantly, the Volcano doesn’t like it – thinks it’s sordid. And she’s a broad-minded woman.’

  ‘Very.’

  Vince stood up and made for the exit. The Volcano was already at the door and opened it for him, saying, ‘Take care, sweetie, and give my regards to Bobbie LaVita.’ Before he could reply, she puckered up her plump red lips and planted a big fat kiss full on his mouth.

  CHAPTER 23

  ROOM SERVICE

  Vince had parked outside the Grand Hotel. Back in the car, he’d unrolled the canvas and was now looking at the painting. Up close, full size, and in the flesh, as it were. Vince’s thoughts on the painting were the same as Max Vogel’s: it made his skin crawl. But his disgust wasn’t born out of a cold analytical critique; it was because he knew where it came from and where it was going. And what it had inspired. He’d seen it made flesh, screaming up at him from the silver screen, begging for mercy, for help, for his help. And he’d been unable to give it. On reflection, that’s what disgusted him the most, because he too had became a voyeur – just another man watching her demise.

  He rolled the painting up roughly, not caring if it incurred any damage, and stashed it under his seat. He was about to get out of the car when he saw a cab pull up, and Tobin stepping out with a woman. Vince realized that Tobin hadn’t yet discovered that the painting was missing.

  After the Volcano had left him, he must have gone in search of a replacement. She was obviously a brass, and a cheap one at that. The Volcano had evidently set off something in Tobin, something that needed to be sated. Unable to have the real thing, he’d settle for an out-of-the-bottle redhead, a second-rate parody who looked as if she spent most of her time in the bottle, too. Her hair was not so much a beehive as a bird’s nest, and the heavy makeup covering up a hard life looked as if it had been trowelled on during a power cut. And, to add to her considerable woes, Tobin was now at her elbow, pulling her out of the cab, pushing her up the steps, and dragging her rapidly through the hotel lobby. He didn’t see Vince sitting in the car because Vince had ducked down, just in case. But there was no need for that. Tobin kept his head bowed, his hat pulled down, collar up. He wasn’t proud of his companion and wanted to get her up to his room with the minimum amount of attention.

  Vince made his way into the hotel lobby just in time to see Tobin yanking his companion into the lift. Poor thing wasn’t even getting a nightcap in the bar. Vince pulled a wicked grin and, with a spring in his step, headed briskly back to his car and retrieved his camera from the glove compartment.

  Five minutes later, he was standing outside Tobin’s room, with his Leica M2 ready in his hand. Vince put his ear to the door and heard voices. High-pitched and whiny, the brass was running through her available services: what she would do, what she wouldn’t do, and what she might do if the price was right. Everything sounded negotiable: even the stuff she said she definitely would not do sounded as if it might be done for the appropriate money. Either way, whatever Tobin was planning hadn’t started yet.

  Satisfied that they were both in a state of undress, Vince rapped on the door and pulled out of the hat a last-minute, ill-conceived and improvised voice; not much different from his normal one, just pitched a couple of octaves higher and suffused in subservience: ‘Room service, courtesy of Mr Eton.’

  Vince heard Tobin’s muttered swearing, but didn’t hear him questioning the courtesy of his host. And if Vince had any lingering doubts about the deal taking place, they were now fully confirmed.

  ‘At this time of night?’ Tobin demanded.

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble, sir. Mr Eton said we were to take care of your every need, and he thought you and your lady wife would enjoy a nightcap.’

  There was a cackle of laughter from the brass, then Tobin responded with, ‘I don’t want it!’

  ‘It’s free, sir. Free champagne,’ said Vince, getting further into his role and settling into his new voice which was becoming foreign, fruity and a little Peter Lorre. Vince heard the girl protesting that she wanted the free champagne. He rather suspected she needed the free champagne. Still with his ear to the door, Vince heard Tobin cursing under his breath.

  The door opened, offering a perfect snap. Cecil Beaton couldn’t have hoped for a better composition. Foreground: Tobin stood framed in the doorway, late fifties, ex-muscle gone flabby, his midriff hanging over a hotel towel. Background: the brass sprawling on the about-to-be-pummelled bed in red bra and panties, sucking on a cigarette and reeking of toilet water.

  Vince stood back, saying ‘Cheese’ and took the shot.

  Tobin slammed the door shut. Vince heard the brass asking what was wrong, whereupon Tobin told her to ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  Vince called out, ‘Eddie, we need to talk.’

  A muffled voice could be heard, the brass’s. Tobin had now obviously shut her up with his hand. Then twenty seconds later came his vexed tones: ‘I’m warning you, Treadwell, get out of here or I’m calling Tony Machin. I’ve got friends in this town, more than you do, you little prick!’

  ‘I don’t doubt it for a second, Eddie. You’re a very likeable fella. Very likeable and pliable, so you’re bound to make friends. Be my guest, call Machin. Let’s have it all on the up and up. Think about it, Eddie. You think I took the photo just to stick your ugly mug on the wall next to Brigitte Bardot? What would the real Mrs Tobin think when it comes out that you’ve been entertaining two-bob brasses?’

  ‘Bleedin’ cheek …’ came a high-pitched protest, soon muffled.

  Tobin threatened, ‘I’ve got a gun, Treadwell. What do you want?’

  ‘Relax, Eddie. I’m not interested in your love life. It’s the painting I’m interested in. The painting that I’ve got.’

  Vince heard Tobin scrambling about in a panic, looking under the bed, he suspected. Then another ‘Shut the fuck up’ to the sadly put-upon brass. Then a compilation of curses followed by a baying mantra of: ‘Fuck! fuck! fuck!’

  ‘Stand back from the door, Treadwell!’

  Vince stood back obediently, thinking Tobin was going to do something stupid, like fir
e the gun. The door opened and the brass was propelled out, clutching her clothes.

  ‘What the bleedin’ hell’s going on?!’

  Vince badged her silently.

  ‘I’m a good girl, I am. Just trying to earn a living.’

  He pocketed his badge and said, ‘You’re OK.’

  ‘I’ve never been treated like this.’

  ‘That I doubt. You been paid?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then you’ve had a result, so vamoose.’

  She ‘vamoosed’ down the hall, disappearing around the corner to where the not so private dressing room of the lift awaited.

  ‘OK, Treadwell, what d’you want?’

  ‘Only to talk. Then you get the painting back.’

  Silence.

  Vince knocked on the door. ‘Eddie?’

  ‘Meet me downstairs in the bar.’

  ‘Be better in private.’

  ‘In the bar, Treadwell!’

  ‘OK, nice and public. What are you drinking these days, Eddie? Still too much?’

  ‘I wouldn’t accept a drink from you, you poncified little prick!’

  Vince waited in a corner booth. A drained Club soda bottle sat on a doily on the glass-topped table in front of him. Three huge crystal chandeliers lit the place up a little too brightly for his liking. There were only about twenty people scattered around the bar, and all out of earshot. Mostly couples, he decided. Nice place to take a date.

  His own date entered the bar. Tobin was wearing a fresh suit and a well-worn scowl. He clocked Vince but didn’t come straight over. Still the copper, he scoped the bar, checking all the angles before going into a situation – any situation. And casing the place for a quick getaway if things didn’t turn out right for him. Finally satisfied that he knew the layout, he came over to the table and sat opposite Vince.

  Tobin’s face was red and tense, blood pressure popping. He kept his hands on his lap, ready to ball them into fists. Or reach for his gun if he had to, which Vince was sure was tucked into his waistband. Everything about the way he sat was defensive, but ready to attack at a moment’s notice.

  ‘That’s a novelty.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The gun you’re carrying. I thought it was just women who carried guns in this town.’

  Tobin gave a slow, measured nod. ‘Always with the smart mouth, eh, Treadwell?’

  ‘Did you make your call?’

  ‘What call?’

  ‘You took your time, so did you call your paymaster, Lionel Duval?’

  No reaction from the ex-copper.

  ‘Sure you don’t want a drink, Eddie? I hear they do a good cocktail. A redhead I know told me about that.’

  Tobin’s already slitty eyes narrowed even more. His face reddened up further. Vince could see the humiliation seeping in and settling. Tobin balled his fists and spat out, ‘Who was that bitch – your girlfriend?’

  ‘My girlfriend? What would I be doing with a girlfriend, Eddie? I thought you reckoned that everyone who goes to university is a queer.’

  ‘I do!’ barked Tobin,

  ‘Calm down, Eddie.’

  Tobin’s blood pressure now looked as though it was going through the roof. He was actually purple, his boozy face lit up with a firework display of exploding capillaries.

  ‘If I ever catch up with her, I’ll smash her to pieces!’

  ‘You’d never get mistaken for David Niven, would you, Eddie?’ With Tobin a shade of puce now, Vince thought he should get off the humiliation caused by the Volcano. ‘Let’s talk business. The painting.’

  Tobin nodded and took several deep, calming breaths. His face cooling down through the cardiovascular colour chart to something resembling ruddy. As he took control of his temper, a smugness crawled across his face and he creased his mouth into a smirk. ‘Think you’re holding all the aces, don’t you, Treadwell?’

  ‘No, just a painting that I know belongs to Lionel Duval. One that portrays an image very similar to the one I saw screened in the private cinema of his club. The one I reported, and the one you said didn’t exist. Let me refresh your memory; it was not exactly Spring in Park Lane.’

  ‘I read your report, Treadwell,’ said Tobin. ‘Two spades raping and beating a blonde junkie, if I recall.’

  ‘That’s right. There seems to be a theme emerging as to Mr Duval’s taste in art, don’t you think, Eddie?’

  But Tobin wasn’t listening. His attention was distracted, looking over Vince’s shoulder. Vince followed his gaze and saw a tall, slim-built man in his mid-twenties. He was wearing a brass-button, double-breasted blazer, an open-neck shirt with a polka-dot silk Windsor knotted around his long neck. He wore pristine white slacks, sockless with blue canvas deck shoes, and looked as if he’d just stepped off a yacht in the Med. He was also deeply tanned, with short, neatly groomed and brilliantined curly hair. He walked straight up to the table with a graceful measured stride, smiled a pleasing toothpaste smile, and said to Tobin, ‘Mr Eton’s ready to receive you now.’

  Tobin gave a blunt nod.

  Vince recognized the handsome lad, but last time he was wearing boots, a peaked cap and a grey uniform with gold brocade. It was Dickie Eton’s chauffeur. Vince stared at the chauffeur, but he didn’t look back at him. Eddie Tobin stood up.

  ‘Where you going, Eddie?’

  ‘You want to know the truth, and Dickie Eton wants his painting. So let’s go.’

  Tobin undid his jacket to reveal the gun tucked in his waistband. Vince didn’t know if the chauffeur was dressed heavy too, but it was clear Vince was going for a ride.

  CHAPTER 24

  ROCK & ROLL

  The purple Rolls-Royce made its way noiselessly to Dickie Eton’s mansion. They glided through the town and up to Dyke Road, an area long described as the Beverly Hills of Brighton. The further up the hill you got, the plusher the houses got. Gated mock-Tudor mansions with sweeping gravel drives, faux-French chateaux hidden behind elaborate topiary, neo-classical Palladian parodies, 1930s-style deco with life-sized plastic pink flamingos artificially feasting on manicured lawns, and sixties modernist bunkers in steel and glass, hunkering down next to small moated castles.

  Eddie Tobin sat up front with the chauffeur, who had introduced himself to Vince as Nick Soroya. He was a softly spoken young man who seemed more than happy to chat away while Eddie Tobin contented himself with just sitting there looking stupid and violent. Nick Soroya explained that he had been working for Dickie Eton for three years. He himself used to be a crooner who was once signed to Dominate Records, Dickie Eton’s label. But his career never took off (he hinted that certain indiscretions had come to light that ill qualified him for his target audience), so Dickie offered him a job as his driver. Nick Soroya proudly told Vince that Dickie Eton was paying for him to go to secretarial school, after which he would then be qualified to attend to Mr Eton’s personal affairs.

  Nick Soroya was singing Dickie Eton’s praises just as enthusiastically as he had once sung his own bubblegum pop tunes. He said that Dickie really looked after his artists, even the ones who didn’t make the grade and reach the heady heights in the fickle world of the hit parade. Vince could tell he was doing a preemptive PR job on the midget music mogul.

  Vince then piped up and pointed out that not all of Dickie Eton’s ‘artists’ got this treatment. Take Chas Starlight, the skiffle artist, for instance – dead in a seedy bedsit while on bad heroin. At this unpleasant little disclosure, Eddie Tobin made some ursine growling noise. Nick Soroya, however, politely ignored it, and went about his task of manoeuvring the car up the drive to Dickie Eton’s house. The car slowed to a stop, the window rolled down and Nick Soroya tapped in a code on the sidepost that opened the gates. They continued on through.

  Dickie Eton’s contribution to the eclectic mix of moneyed piles lining Dyke Road was an audacious assortment within itself: Gothic Hollywood baroque with a twist of pre-eruption Pompeii could best describe it, about twice the size of its nearest neig
hbour, or rival. The front lawn contained a water feature as a centrepiece: a Trevi-esque fountain that seemed to equal its Roman counterpart in dimension. Vince thought suddenly of Bobbie.

  There were about fifteen well-appointed cars parked alongside the sweep of the gravel drive. They themselves parked and piled out. Nick Soroya led the way, with Tobin tailing Vince, his paw indiscreetly hugging the butt of the gun in his waistband. They forwent the grand arch of the front door, and took the tradesmen’s side entrance. Through the large kitchen with shiny copper pots hanging from hooks, and along a red-carpeted hallway. Lots of oil paintings on the walls, but these were just fillers. Merely for decoration, not the private collection, and therefore they were all seemingly kosher. But, still, the themes and subject matter: naked flesh in classical settings or bloody battle scenes, all edged towards the kind of art Dickie Eton obviously preferred: sex and death.

  Ahead of them, a party was in progress in one of the rooms. There was laughter that seemed both raucous and furtive. Strange music was playing: sitars, Moogs; swirling, distorted sounds. The meaty whiff of cannabis smoke filled the air. Vince peeked through a partially open door at the far end of the hallway, and spotted naked flesh – lots of it.

  ‘Looks like I’m a little over-dressed for the party,’ he remarked.

  Nick Soroya blocked his further view and pointed to some side stairs. ‘This way,’ he said, with his easy congeniality, but one that Vince thought hid a darker purpose. He looked around at Eddie Tobin. His hand was still on the butt of the gun.

  They went up the stairs and along an unlit corridor until they reached an ancient-looking dark-oak door. The seemingly medieval theme of this part of the house, or certainly this particular floor, was augmented by two staunch-looking suits of armour standing sentry outside the arched door. They were about the same size, though one was a little more battered and looked sorely in need of a polish. Nick Soroya knocked on the door, and a reedy voice on the other side beckoned them in.