The Snowfly

by Joseph Heywood

  “Sod off,” the big man said menacingly as he stumbled around to face me. “This is none-a your bleedin’ business.”

  I matched the man in size and was quite a bit younger and ready to take a shot if he made a move, but there was no retaliation. The man glared at me momentarily, took a halfhearted kick at Charlie, fetched his hat and overcoat, and stalked away.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” the man on the floor said. “I was settin’ ’im up.”

  “For what? Homicide?”

  He looked at me, then laughed out loud. The laugh reminded me of a horse’s nicker. Charlie Jowett brushed himself clean of floor dust and checked his jaw several times. He had a bruise, but there was no blood. “Shouldn’t have jumped in,” he said. “You know who that was?”

  “No idea.”

  “Name’s Thigpen, stuffer for the Motuzas Brothers.”

  “The Motuzas Brothers?” Stuffer?

  He grinned. “Listen and learn, Yank. The Motuzas Brothers lead a quite notorious gang of very nasty bastards. Thigpen’s the muscle.”

  Not good news to hear. “Why did he punch you?”

  “I bettered the bugger in a wager, see? I bet Arsenal over his club and gave him two goals and Arsenal won by three. Not a lot of quid; I expect it’s the principle of the thing. The Motuzas Brothers control the full menu for depraved appetites in the West End: boosted whiskey, pay-birds, drugs, and so forth, but gamblin’ is by far their biggest earner. I think Thigpen suffered a bit of angst over losin’ to an amateur.”

  I knew vaguely that Arsenal was one of the country’s top soccer clubs, a sport the Brits called football.

  In thirty minutes I heard Charlie Jowett’s life story. Born in Cornwall, apprenticed to Arsenal’s youth development team at sixteen, he had moved up to the professional side at eighteen and scored seventeen goals in his first season only to have his back broken just before a European tournament; doctors feared for his future and, after that, no club would touch him because he had become a medical liability. He told the story straight on, evincing no bitterness.

  “What do you do now?”

  “Take a few shots, chase birds, fish.”

  Shots were photos, I knew. “Hunt and fish?”

  He smiled. “No mate, birds’re for bed, though it’s okay to eat ’em!” he said, breaking into his nickering laugh again.

  “Women.”

  “Right, ridin’ punt,” he said with a suddenly thick accent.

  “What?”

  “Cockney, Yank. Punt rhymes with cunt, see? Gotta think.”

  I could only laugh and offered to buy him a beer and then he bought me one and over the rest of the evening we discovered that we were both “mad about trout.”

  He asked me about the job I “had on” for us and I told him about baton rounds and sheep and the things Shelldrake had said. Charlie nodded attentively and told me that he would be privileged to be not only my photographer, but my ghillie as well, which he explained meant “guide”; the term was usually reserved for professional angling guides.

  We migrated from Nolan’s to a dark, smoky cellar where several musicians with electrified instruments were knocking out loud, discordant riffs. The sweet smoke swirling above us did not emanate from regular cigarettes. The dance floor was filled with men and women in outrageous and gaudy costumes. The women favored mini skirts, skin-tight satin or velour tops with bare midriffs, and patent leather boots with high heels or platforms. The skirts were garments in name only and it seemed to me that there was an unofficial contest to see who could get by with wearing the least cover without resorting to nudity. One woman near the musicians danced topless. I didn’t notice any dirty feet.

  Sometime during the night we left the bar with two women and took them to Charlie’s place, which turned out to be a four-story house complete with servants and a fire raging in a huge fireplace in a room where the walls were covered by mounted fish and the floor carpeted with something as thick and soft as a cloud.

  The women were gone when we awoke the next morning and we sat down to what Charlie’s cook called a “proper English country breakfast”—eggs fried sunny-side up, fresh tomatoes, pork sausages he called “bangers,” dark toast and orange marmalade, tea and honey.

  “Informative night?” Charlie asked over tea.

  “What I remember of it.”

  “You’ve seen it all, old boy: men, women, pot, beer, loud music, darkness, bad air, easy fuckin’. That’s Dear Old London.”

  I liked Charlie Jowett and had a feeling there was much more to him than he was letting on. How did a freelance news photographer afford servants and a house like this?

  “Like to hunt the trout when spring rolls around?” he asked.

  “Love to. Where?”

  “Southwest. To my mind it’s the only tolerable place to angle, eh? The browns there are small and reclusive, but feisty when engaged. And few anglers. I so loathe crowded waters.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Charlie Jowett was a thoroughly professional photographer and over the next few weeks I took him on several assignments and learned that we worked well as a team. I told Dolly I wanted to work with Charlie as often as I could and she looked at me and said approvingly, “I knew you lads would get on famously.”

  •••

  Having seen the books in the Trout House, and my UPI duties notwithstanding, one of my first concerted efforts was to try to get a lead on Sir Thomas Oxley. Gillian had said he had “oodles” of books like the ones I had seen and naturally I wondered if there was another copy of the manuscipt somewhere in his collections. The Oxley Trust, I quickly discovered, still existed, but had a private, unlisted phone number. I enlisted Dolly’s help and she used her husband’s contacts to get the number for me. I took the underground north to Hampstead and emerged to find myself on a tree-lined ridge in a small, tidy village, looking south over the city of London. Before making the journey, I weighed my options and decided that arriving unannounced might produce better results than trying to arrange a meeting.

  A short walk from the tube took me to the Oxley Trust, which was in the center of Church Row, a short street of narrow Georgian homes pressed tightly together like bread slices and set off by ornate wrought-iron fencing.

  I was met at the door by a young woman with thin lips, crooked teeth, freckles, and red earrings the size of fried eggs. She wore thick white lipstick.

  “Sah?”

  “My name is Rhodes,” I said, handing her one of my business cards. “UPI.”

  She squinted at the card. “I see,” she said thrusting her hand out awkwardly. “Freegift Heartfield.”

  “‘Freegift’?” I said.

  “Yes, sah, it was me mum’s idea. Throws people, it does. At first. Can I help you, sah?”

  The woman was genially formal, with the hint of a playful smile ready to erupt.

  “I’m interested in the Trust’s collection of Sir Thomas Oxley’s angling books.”

  “Are you now?” she said. “Why would that be, sah?”

  “I’m considering a possible feature story. Great trout-fishing traditions of England and so forth.”

  “Can’t help you,” the woman said. “So sorry, sah.”

  “No?”

  “The Trust is soon to be no longer. I’ve been ’ere six years and meself have been given notice.”

  “The Trust is folding?”

  “I don’t know the technical term,” the woman said. “I’m just one of the girls, see?”

  “Secretary?”

  “That’s a Yank concept. Here I’m just a girl, sah.”

  “What about the books?”

  “Everything to be flogged off,” the woman said. “Liquidated.”

  “When will they be sold? Is there an inventory?”

  Too many questions all at once
. The woman made a face. “I think you’d best talk to the trustees, sah,” she said, suddenly turning wary.

  “Are they here?”

  “No, sah, they comes every fortnight or so. For meetings, you see.”

  “Frankly, it’s only the books that interest me. I’ve been told that Sir Thomas built an amazing collection.”

  “There were some books,” she said tentatively.

  “‘Were’?”

  “Are, I should say. They’re on consignment for sale.”

  “On consignment to whom?”

  “I really couldn’t say, sah.”

  “Won’t tell me or can’t?”

  “Can’t, sah. Truth is,” she whispered, “I don’t know, do I?”

  I was disappointed. The Trust was folding and there were books, but they were to be sold. I left Hampstead thinking that my hoped-for lead had fizzled out before it even got going.

  That evening I got a call around ten o’clock. There was a tremendous racket in the background.

  “Mister Rhodes?”

  “Yes?”

  “Freegift Heartfield. We met this afternoon at the Trust? Is this a bad time, I’m so sorry to interrupt, sah.”

  “I remember you and you’re not interrupting.” Mostly I remembered her unique name and white lipstick.

  “Bleedin’ bastards,” she said. “I’d been given notice for next month but this afternoon Sir Sinjin Wonbrow—he’s the director—called me on the carpet and sacked me on the spot. Like a bleedin’ execution it was. One minute I was employed and the next minute I wasn’t, was I?” The woman sounded very upset and her speech was slurred. I guessed she had been drinking or smoking dope. “Bleedin’ buggers,” she repeated. “Those books you was inquirin’ about?”

  “Yes?”

  “I no longer feel compelled to maintain confidences. The books you seek, Mister Rhodes, are on consignment with the firm of Broker, Brogger and Grant, New Row, Covent Garden. Do you dance?” she asked.

  Dance? “On occasion.”

  “I never get enoof dancin’,” she said. “I’m with some of me mates at the Kitty Kat Klub in Soho. You know it?”

  I had seen the facade. “I know where it is.”

  “And where might you be?” she asked.

  “Rupert Street.”

  “Loovely,” she said. “Fite, you think, both of us in Soho at this very minute? Shall I pop on over to your place?” she asked. “Dancin’ in private is much less inhibited than in public, do you agree?”

  I more or less stared at the phone, not sure how to reply. “I suppose.” Was this the wide-open London of current legend?

  “Is half-eleven too soon?” she asked.

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “Right, then,” she said brightly. “Half eleven and we shall dance, yes?”

  “Yep.” I had no radio, tape recorder, or phonograph. “It’s number fourteen,” I said. “First floor.”

  I would learn that dance was one of many street terms for “sex” and that Freegift Heartfield was laboring under the misconception that sharing information with me would somehow enable her to strike back at her employers. While this was a possibility, it was not a likelihood, but I did not try to disabuse her of her logic or her hope. I wanted to know the secrets of the snowfly and if I had to tell a few small lies, so be it.

  She knocked on my door precisely at eleven-thirty. She wore a red mini skirt, red patent leather boots, and a huge red hat with a wide floppy brim, a gold band around the crown, and a tuft of bright feathers extending out the back. I opened a bottle of red wine for us and after several clumsy kisses we sat on my bed, using it as a couch.

  She was all smiles. “I like a bitta chat before dancin’,” she said. “It’s very old fashioned, very civilized.”

  She was from South London and had ended up at the Trust after three years of working in city government. “Treat you worse than day labor,” she said. She told me trustees had done all they could to keep Oxley’s sole surviving relative from squandering the Trust’s resources, which were reserved primarily for buying prime trout beats around the world.

  She also said that the Trust had severe financial problems and the trustees needed desperately to sell Oxley’s book collection, but were “frighteningly aquiver” over possible government intervention.

  Why would the government intervene in a book sale? “You said the consignment is with Broker, Brogger and Grant. Which one do I talk to?” I asked her.

  “Mister Brogger,” she said with open disdain.

  “Why do trustees fear government intervention?”

  “Something about antiquities and law,” she said, sliding her arms around my neck and looping a leg over my hip.

  After a while she jumped up and shed her mini skirt to reveal crinkly black panties.

  “Those sound like paper,” I said.

  “Aye!” she said with a squeal of delight. “You see, paper wears to cover a girl’s wares. Called Tear Wears, they are. Very groovy, the very latest. Like to rip ’em off?”

  •••

  Several days later I was in Covent Garden. The office was in a small building flanked by exclusive shops and restaurants. The business was called Broker, Brogger & Grant. It had a small brass sign, tastefully done, and an immaculately appointed interior. I had called ahead and made an appointment with Brogger on the subterfuge of doing an article about rare-book sales in England. I’d gotten a less-than-enthusiastic response over the phone but persisted and used what charm I could summon to eventually talk myself into an appointment. A receptionist with silver hair showed me to a seat and got me a cuppa and there I sat for thirty minutes past my appointment.

  A heavyset man with pink skin and a perfectly pressed suit finally emerged from an office and looked at the receptionist, who nodded in my direction. I could tell by his expression that he was hoping I hadn’t waited.

  “Bowie Rhodes,” I said, introducing myself.

  “Brogger,” he said gruffly.

  I followed him into a well-appointed office devoid of personal mementos. There was a fireplace and high ceilings.

  Brogger sat behind his desk, his hands clasped on a thick black leather desk pad.

  “Rare books?” he asked cautiously.

  “Specifically, the Oxley collection.”

  He blinked several times. “Quite minor in historical significance. Hardly worth a newshound’s interest.”

  “We have lots of collectors in America interested in angling.”

  “You don’t say?” he said.

  “Some with plenty of money to pay for the right things.”

  I saw him edge forward in his chair. The hint of sales potential had captured his interest.

  “You’ve taken the Oxley collection on consignment.”

  No blinking now. “May I ask the source of your information?” His voice was cool and edgy.

  “You can ask, Mister Brogger, but in my business—as in yours—certain sources must remain confidential.”

  His pink face and neck reddened.

  “What is it you want, Rhodes?” he asked impatiently.

  “It’s the books I’m interested in.” He did not look even a little relieved. “If I could just see the books, or have a list of the titles.”

  “Am I to understand that you’re interested in purchasing?”

  “I might be,” I said, lying.

  “Then you must send ’round your solicitor. This is England, sir. We do not engage in commercial intercourse face to face. England is not a nation of shopkeepers. I represent a seller and you as a potential buyer also must be legally represented. Much cleaner that way, you see?”

  “Is it possible to get a list?” I pressed.

  “Your solicitor may obtain one.”

  “No solicitor, no talk, is that it?”

&
nbsp; “This business depends on discretion.”

  I thought about making a smart-ass remark but held my tongue.

  I left the meeting frustrated, but at least I had confirmed that some of the Oxley collection still existed and that it was in the hands of Broker, Brogger & Grant and awaiting a buyer. This was better than nothing. All I had to do was get a solicitor. And check into the sale of antiquities laws.

  It was a Friday night at the end of my second month. I had been through a long, tedious week of uninteresting stories and dropped in to Nolan’s for a bite to eat. My plan was to turn in early and get some much-needed sleep.

  I was working my way through a shepherd’s pie when the bartender, Allan Admiral, informed me that I had a phone call.

  I was shown to the pub’s office and a private telephone.

  “Rhodes? Shelldrake here. You’ll be fetched outside Nolan’s at twenty-two hundred hours.”

  I tried to get my mind focused. “What about a photographer?”

  “Yes, of course, your colleague Jowett. He has been alerted and is standing at the ready.”

  Shelldrake’s voice and timing gave me the willies. It was a bone-­eating cold night with a heavy blanket of fog and mist. He spoke in military times, knew I was at Nolan’s, and already knew I planned to use Charlie Jowett. Was I being followed and monitored? Dolly was right. Shelldrake was SAS, at the least, and perhaps some other sort of intelligence type.

  I stepped outside the pub for a cigarette moments before the appointed pickup and wondered what Charlie would think of all this cloak-and-­dagger stuff.

  The pickup vehicle was a small dark lorry, a sort of panel truck. It pulled quietly to the curb, the back doors swung open, and I got in. Shelldrake perched on a bench seat by the door. Farther in I saw Charlie, who flashed a smile and gave me a Churchillian V. Then the doors were closed.

  I sat beside Shelldrake. We drove in silence for nearly an hour. We could not see into the cab of the vehicle and were forced to ride in virtual darkness.

  Eventually the lorry lurched to a stop. Shelldrake gave Charlie and me black wool hats and black rain slickers and told us to put them on.

  We clambered out of the lorry and stretched our muscles. The damp, night cold was penetrating. I tightened the hood of my slicker.