by Don Winslow
Neal was thrilled. It was all he had ever wanted. He dug into his Peking duck and listened. Boskin was on a roll. His black eyes glowed.
“You see, Smollett struggled for years just to get noticed. He had an inferiority complex like a mule at a donkey convention. He was Scottish, he was relatively uneducated… in those days surgeons were pretty low on the social scale. So when his first novel, Roderick Random, came out, he thought he’d finally be accepted by the London literati.” Boskin paused to lay some strips of duck and some plum sauce onto the pancake and to take a sip of Tsingtao. “But he wasn’t. Johnson, Garrick, all the boys still snubbed him. So then he writes Pickle and he lets them have it. Really vicious satire. Not to mention the Lady Vane memoirs he throws in for the hell of it. Imagine it, here is the supposed diary of a highborn lady all about fucking around; and people are wondering, where did Smollett get this shit? And Pickle is a smash! The public loves it! And he’s picked up by London society. Johnson, Garrick, all the boys.”
Neal watched Boskin shove a huge hunk of the pancake into his mouth, chew it quickly, and wash it down with a slug of beer. It was true, Neal thought, Boskin really would rather talk about Smollett than eat.
Boskin set the beer down and continued. “But now he’s feeling badly about all the vicious shit he wrote in Pickle, so when he’s asked to do a second edition, he takes most of it out. But he has one copy somewhere-one copy in which he puts all the notes: who’s who, what the joke is, and the truth about Lady Vane. Was she his mistress? Is all the juicy stuff true?”
Boskin jabbed his chopsticks into his Dragon and Phoenix and came up with a piece of shrimp. “So Smollett gets old. As do we all, so drink up. He goes to Europe for his health. Gets a tumor the size of a baseball on his hand. His daughter and only child dies. Life sucks the big one. Miserable, bankrupt… he finally croaks in Italy. But we know for a fact that he had a copy of every one of his books with him when he went for the deep drop. So what would the widow do? No money… no prospects… no piece of The Rock…”
“Sell them.”
“Right! All she had to trade on was her late beloved’s fame. So she sold his whole collection, one by one. And every other book has surfaced except his Pickle. The Pickle. Four volumes of literary treasures. That’s how the rumor started. They say it’s never surfaced because it has all these marginal notes with all the goods on Samuel Johnson, Garrick, Akenside, and, of course, the sporting Lady Vane.
“Any collector, any eighteenth-century scholar, would give his left testicle to have a look at those volumes. Except they don’t exist. The rest of that duck is yours, by the way.”
Except they did exist-in Simon Keyes’s apartment. Neal had held them in his hands, books that could provide his future, his fortune, and his freedom. And he’d put them back on the shelf.
16
The piccadilly hotel was as simple as its name. Not plain or unattractive, but simple in the sense that it knew what it was: a good solid place from which to do business, tour the city, go the theater, and take in the sights of London. It offered large rooms, big beds, decent food, and room service. You could ring up for anything you wanted at the Piccadilly Hotel. The Piccadilly Hotel knew that people went to hotels to do things they didn’t do at home.
The lobby was large, built in the days when people met socially in hotel lobbies. It featured a lounge with old wing-back chairs big enough to seat Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet, and a decently dark, mahogany bar that was somehow always cool in hot weather and warm in cold weather. It was the kind of bar where the men always kept their ties knotted but felt relaxed, anyway; the kind of a lounge where the barkeep would never disturb you to ask whether you wanted another but was always there with your drink at the slightest glance.
The lobby ended at the registration desk. The Piccadilly Hotel had too much sense to make a new guest search for the bloody thing, and it was always staffed by at least half a dozen red-jacketed clerks who knew their business: See that the room was paid for, and get the guest to it. If you made a reservation at the Piccadilly Hotel, you always got a room. They didn’t believe in overbooking; in fact, they always kept a couple of rooms saved for emergencies. You could stay for a night or a year at the Piccadilly Hotel. The rules were the same. You paid your bill, and kept your jacket on.
Neal shucked his off the moment he stepped into his room, a nice large one on the sixth floor, with a small window air conditioner that struggled bravely against the heat. He kicked his shoes off on the ubiquitous red carpet and surveyed the room with a consumer’s eye. The blue wallpaper was the color of the sea after a storm, and was decorated with prints of heavily muscled, bare-chested, bare-knuckled boxers toeing the line. A manly room.
The bed had been built in an era when gentlemen kept their riding boots on for afternoon expressions of affection. Like the hotel, it was large and sturdy, and proclaimed itself the focal point of the room. A small bathroom led off from the right. It had a deep old tub, an adequate sink, and newly refurbished countertops and mirrors. One small window broke up the wall, and a double-jointed gymnast might have made out the view of Piccadilly Circus.
Neal gave the bellhop a grotesquely large tip and dismissed him with a “What’s your name, in case I need anything?”
Then he carefully hung up his jackets-the all-purpose no-wrinkle blue polyester blazer and the striped seersucker-and his summer-weight trousers. He laid his folded shirts out in a bureau drawer, placed his cheap travel alarm clock on the bedside table, and put some paperback books on the lower shelf. He carefully laid out his toilet kit on the bathroom counter and took some manila folders out of his briefcase and laid them around the room, then placed the British editions of that month’s Playboy and Penthouse on the floor in the bathroom.
After ringing room service for a bottle of scotch and a bucket of ice, Neal changed into a fresh blue shirt and red regimental tie. He knotted the tie, then undid the top button of his shirt and yanked the knot down. Next, he lit a cigar, puffed on it until it started to smoke, and left it burning in an ashtray to stink up the room.
He overtipped the room-service waiter, poured three fingers of the scotch down the bathroom drain, and made a weak one for himself. Then he sat down with his copy of the classified ads that had lured Scott Mackensen into the world of big-time sin, and started to dial numbers.
Team Number One showed up a half hour later. They were each rather pretty. The senior member sported flaming red hair, freckles, and wore a green dress and impossibly cliched black mesh stockings. Her colleague was a pleasantly plump blond lady. Neither of them were the ones who had dated Scott and friend. Both of them tensed up when they saw only one man in the room.
“Relax,” said Neal. “I just want to talk.”
“Don’t you like us, love?” asked the green dress, just about fed up with freaks.
Neal gave them their standard fee in cash, with his apologies and reassurance.
Team Number Two was made up of two black-haired, blue-eyed, black-dressed, severe types, who accepted Neal’s apology and cash with a dry sneer of contempt.
Team Number Three consisted of two Irish girls, who were delighted with the money. Team Number Four was a pair of positively gorgeous black women, and Neal secretly felt abashed that his dismissal stuck in his throat for a long moment. Team Number Five claimed to be a mother and daughter team, and might have been for all Neal knew. It made him wonder what kind of man would go for a threesome with the older woman and a woman who was at least twenty-five dressed up as Alice in fucking Wonderland. Team Number Six arrived about one, and were smashing-looking, with a smashing fee, but still not the right ladies. Neal felt he was getting close, though, and showed them the Polaroid. “Hard up, are you, darling?” “You could say that.”
“Sorry. Never seen them. If that’s it, then, we’ll just be tripping along. Are you a frustration freak, is that it?” You don’t know the half, lady.
Number Six offered to perform for him, if that’s what he wan
ted. Number Seven were transvestites. Number Eight was a cop.
An enormous cop. His wide shoulders sloped from years of stooping under small ceilings and through small doors. His large head was matched by a large nose. He had sad, cop eyes. Eyes that had seen it all and wished they hadn’t. He was wearing a three-piece gabardine suit and refused to sweat. Neal put him in his late forties. “May I come in?” he asked, entering. “Sure.”
Good cops take possession of a space, and this one was a good cop. Most rent-a-cops shove their ID at you, but this guy didn’t bother. He sat down and invited Neal to do the same.
“My name is Hatcher,” he said. “I’m from Vine Street Station. Do you know where that is?”
Neal sat down on the edge of his bed. “No.”
“It’s across Man-In-The-Moon Passage. Do you know where that is?”
“I don’t know where anything is.”
Hatcher nodded. “It’s just outside the kitchen and the laundry. Do you know why I’m telling you this?”
Yeah, I do, Neal thought. You could tell me what you want to tell me straight out, but you’re establishing a pattern of question and answer. “Not really.”
“This hotel does not require a house detective, because I can be here on a moment’s notice. I am not the house detective. I am a London police inspector.”
“Would you like a drink? I have scotch, scotch and water, and scotch on the rocks.”
“Scotch, thank you.”
Neal poured three fingers into a glass and handed it to Hatcher. Then he sat down again on the bed and waited.
“The hotel staff cannot have helped but notice considerable traffic in and out of your room.”
“I’m looking for a girl.”
“Apparently.”
“A particular girl.”
“Rather particular indeed, Mr. Carey.”
Neal shrugged and tried to look stupid. It wasn’t tough. He hadn’t figured on a cop stepping into this.
“And you have yet to find her?” Hatcher asked.
“Not yet.”
Hatcher sipped at his drink. “But you intend to continue this search for… the Holy Grail.”
“Yup.”
Hatcher’s sad eyes grew a little sadder. Then he stared at the floor before staring back at Neal. It was an old cop move and it didn’t surprise Neal much. It did surprise him that it shook him up a little.
“Not in this hotel, lad.”
Neal stood up and freshened his own drink. He held the bottle up in an invitation that Hatcher accepted.
“Why not?” Neal asked.
“We don’t mind a little of the old in-and-out, man. But you have them trooping up here at a pace that would do credit to an Australian rabbit.”
Neal took a chance on getting his ribs bashed in. “So? It’s not illegal.”
“It’s unseemly.”
“So you don’t mind guests running whores up here, you just don’t want to get a reputation for it.”
Hatcher shook his head. “I don’t mind guests ‘running whores up here,’ I just want to receive a piece of it.”
Neal smiled.
“Understand, Mr. Carey,” Hatcher said. “This telephone business tends to cut the lads out-the bellboys, the concierge, the local constabulary who are coming up on retirement and who aren’t likely to get that promotion before the pension is set… The referral fees are missed.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Neal could see the cop was annoyed at having to spell it out.
“I am suggesting that you try to exercise a bit of control over your libido, and that when the need does arise, so to speak, you ring the bellboy.”
And if I was looking to get laid, Neal thought, I wouldn’t mind at all. But my only shot at Allie is over the phone. He stepped to the door and opened it. “Sorry.”
Hatcher ignored the door. “You don’t mind if I have a look-see?”
“It’s your town.”
“What brings you to London?” Hatcher asked from the bathroom.
“Business.”
“You have been busy.”
Neal knew what was coming.
“Oh dear,” Hatcher said.
And here it comes.
Hatcher came back from the bathroom holding a plastic film canister.
“It’s not mine,” Neal said.
Hatcher reached into his jacket and took out a set of handcuffs. “Nevertheless.”
Neal held his hands out in front of him to show his spirit of cooperation and said, “Why don’t I tell you what I’m really doing here?”
Hatcher was back in half an hour with the hotel’s telephone records.
“Your Mackensen lad made only three calls from the room.”
They checked the phone numbers against the classified sex ads. Number eleven matched. Neal reached for the phone.
“No longer in service, lad. I checked already.”
“But the next number should be the dealer’s.”
“True, but it isn’t much help. It’s a phone box in Leicester Square.”
They were there in ten minutes. Hatcher pointed to the phone box. It was unoccupied.
“Your dealer is a cute one,” he said. “The girls knew to reach him there. Maybe he keeps regular hours. Different phone booths at different times.
“You haven’t asked me for my advice, lad, but I’m giving it to you, nevertheless. Give it up. Go back to the States and tell your aunt and uncle to forget about their daughter. It’s a fine thing you’re trying to do, but… Even if you were to find her, you’re more likely to get a knife in your innards than get your cousin back. You’ve no business being on the Main Drag.”
“I have to try.” He gave it a nice touch of nobility.
“Suit yourself.”
“Thanks for your help.”
Hatcher smiled. “Forget about it. Literally.”
Neal straightened up the room. he picked up the magazines and newspapers and tossed them in the trash bin. He opened up a window to let the cigar stench out. He rinsed the glasses out in the bathroom sink and then fixed himself a fresh drink while he drew a bath.
It isn’t so bad, he thought as he lay in the hot water. He didn’t have an address but he did have this phone booth, or box, in the vernacular. And the location fits Mackensen’s story. And tomorrow I’ll check it out. And find the dealer. Who’ll lead me to Allie.
Right.
17
Except he wasn’t there. Like a road-show Shakespeare when Hamlet’s missed the bus, the dealer wasn’t onstage when the lights came up and the supporting cast was in place.
So Neal waited for him, which wouldn’t have been so bad except for the bloody heat. Neal had learned to say “the bloody heat,” because everybody around him was calling it that. In a country where air conditioning is considered decadent and they sell you an ice cube in your drink, temps in the nineties were a pain indeed.
Neal sweated through long afternoons in the square. He had picked a bench that gave him a nice view of the phone box and its surroundings. He also could check out most of the square’s pubs, movie houses, and eateries. Now a bench in a public park is a jealously guarded commodity, so Neal was careful not to monopolize his spot and draw unwanted attention from any of the long-timer winos, senile pigeon aficionados, or schizoid bums for whom the square and its benches were something called home. Public parks and gardens, built by proud city patrons and matrons as a pleasant gathering spot for the upper middle class, had long since become one of the few surviving habitats of society’s detritus, a crucial place to sit or lie down. So a regular in Leicester Square was more or less tolerated unless he caused trouble. Screaming above the city’s natural decibel level, pushing the panhandling act too hard with a tourist, dealing dope too visibly, or whipping out a weapon to lay claim to a spot on a bench were but a few of the offenses that might disturb the sensibilities of the local gendarmerie. The serene London bobbies, those fabled paragons of patience and civility, might drag a repeat
offender into a convenient alley or doorway and stomp the bejesus out of him. The judicious application of nightstick to shin discouraged recidivism. The occasional hard case might require a more thorough going-over, and the rawest copper soon discovered that a trip to hospital could keep a nuisance off the beat for weeks at a time. Neal wasn’t surprised to discover that the London cops had their own version of New York’s Finest’s “Teacher, May I” technique, in which one officer raises the student’s arm high above his head, stretching out the thin sheaf of muscle that covers the rib cage. Then his partner administers the lesson in one of two modes: If he just wants to get his point across, he jams the butt end of his nightstick into the student’s ribs, inspiring an instant shortage of breath coupled with a few moments of searing, albeit temporary, pain. But if the teacher wants the pupil absent from class for a few days, he swings the nightstick like a Jimmy Connors forehand at Wimbledon, cracking the student’s ribs. Class dismissed.
So Neal took pains not to attract attention, which was more or less his role in life anyway, and therefore came naturally. Anyone who tries too hard not to attract attention almost invariably does. This is particularly true on the street, where the denizens have antennae finely tuned to the least twitch of the unnatural gesture. The only way to be inconspicuous is to be so plainly obvious, people don’t see you.
“This comes from our cavemen days,” Joe Graham had explained during one of the interminable anthropology lectures he had delivered to young Neal, “when we operated under the theory that what isn’t moving can’t hurt you. This was a fallacy, of course, but that’s what they thought, because they weren’t that smart to start with. They had about as many brains as your average transit cop. Anyways, they thought, Until it moves, it’s a rock. When it moves, it’s a saber-toothed tiger or something else that can eat us. This is why, to this day, people see motion. Sitting still, they don’t see. You show me a saber-toothed tiger that can sit still. I’ll show you a fat tiger.”