“Ooh,” Fitzgerald said again, regarding the pair of them with glittering eyes. Slightly the worse for wear, Bream stumbled as he walked forward, offering his hand.
“Mr Fitzgerald,” he said, “it's such a pleasure to meet you. Teddy's right; that was a terrific gig. I wondered if you wouldn't mind,” he fished around in his jacket pocket for his notebook, “signing an autograph for me old ma. Shirley's the name,” he went on, pressing both notebook and a fountain pen into Fitzgerald's hand. “Shirley Bream, that's B-R-E-A-M…” He grinned, breathing toxic fumes over the singer, who wrote his signature down quickly and passed the book back, looking over uneasily at Teddy.
“Harry Wesker, you say?” he said to him.
“That's right.” Bream stared at the signature, a beatific smile spreading over his face. “Uncle Harry. He talks highly of you, Simon.”
Fitzgerald looked somewhat pained.
“That's right,” Teddy encouraged. “Mrs Wesker is a big fan of yours, remember? Dolores?”
“Oh yes, of course.” Fitzgerald's smile was entirely false. He turned quickly to Pete.
“Lovely to meet you,” he said, offering a limp hand. “Any friend of Harry's…”
Pete cringed at the other man's clammy touch. There was something really repellent about him that went beyond the faux-sophisticated patter and the girlish shade of his suit. But Pete had no intention of upsetting Teddy, or Bream, who was just reaching an interesting, loose-lipped stage of drunkenness. He also had Joan to think of.
“I don't suppose you'd mind doing the same for my wife?” he asked, proffering his own notebook. “I would have liked to have brought her with me tonight, but we were on duty 'til late, dealing with a riot.”
“Of course.” Fitzgerald smiled politely and signed his name. “You must have had a terrible time with all those awful beardy Bolsheviks – do you need something to drink?” He indicated the table as he handed the notebook back. “Champagne, beer, spirits – it's all there. Help yourselves, please.”
There was a ring of desperation in the last three words and Pete took the hint, ushering Bream forwards with him. Clocked Fitzgerald putting his hand on Teddy's sleeve and moving him out of earshot, talking quickly but inaudibly.
“Look at that,” said Bream, still staring at the autograph as if he was having problems focusing on it. Bream had been taking nips out of his hip flask all day; mixing them with a rapid succession of pints had pushed him over the ledge of intoxication. He had obviously found the events of the day too much to handle too; the incident with the bricks undermined his usual cautious defences, otherwise he wouldn't have spoken out of turn in front of the prisoners the way he did.
“Me ma's gonna love that.” He lifted it up to his lips and kissed the page. “You beauty,” he said. “This is gonna buy me a lot of favours.”
“You should be in a jazz band, Frank,” said Pete, fishing a bottle of pale ale from one of the ice buckets and wiping it on a linen napkin.
“Why's that?”
“You can improv better than Louis Armstrong. Terrific gig indeed. We never saw five minutes of it.”
Bream laughed. “Well,” he said. “You have to flatter these sensitive types.”
Pete let the ambiguity of this last sentence run through his mind and put the napkin back down. The pink and green food was congealing on the table, a film of sweat breaking out over the top of it. A bloody waste it was too, adding to the underlying feeling of claustrophobia and fake bonhomie that rang around the room and down the edge of Pete's nerves like the shrill laughter of the women. He couldn't see a bottle opener anywhere so he prized the top off with his teeth, a trick he'd learned in the army. Bream stared up at him admiringly.
“Get that down you.” Pete passed it over to him and picked another bottle out of the water.
“How d’you do that?” Bream asked.
“It's a knack,” said Pete, watching Sampson Marks and the fat man in the mirror. He bit off the second lid and spat it into an ashtray, saw the manager pass Marks an envelope that he quickly palmed into his jacket pocket.
“You're a man of many talents, Pete.” Bream wiped foam off his moustache with his sleeve. “Talking of which, take a butcher's at that,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of Simon Fitzgerald, still talking nineteen the dozen to Teddy, but now with one hand rested proprietarily over a showgirl's sequinned buttocks. “If my ma only knew what a sweetheart her Simon really is.” He looked back at his autograph one more time before finally putting it away. “Just as well she doesn't, eh?”
“What do you mean?”
Bream leaned closer, lowered his voice to a whisper. “He's a twister that Simon. Kinky. You know. Makes out like he's a real family man, with his pipe and slippers and his loving wife at home, but once he's off the leash there's no stopping him. I bet you a monkey he'll be leaving here in the company of both those two darlings.”
“Really?” Pete watched as the other showgirl moved back in, bringing the bottle of whisky to replenish Fitzgerald's glass. The girl at his side winked at her as she did it, twirling the stem of her Champagne glass coyly, resting her hand on Fitzgerald's other arm. “I was beginning to wonder if his bread wasn't buttered on the other side, like.”
“He does come on like a bit of an iron hoof, granted,” nodded Bream. “But don't be fooled. I've heard some funny stuff about him in my time.”
“What like?”
“Parties,” said Bream, swaying slightly. “Orgies. There's a certain scene that caters for, shall we say, bizarre tastes. Ropes and whips and whatnot. Mainly it's toffs that set it up, which is why you never hear about it. Only they can't always be that choosy about what girls they can get to do that kind of thing, and you know how toms can talk.”
Bream belched. “I nicked this piece one time for running a house of ill-repute,” he went on. “Big Tits Beryl they called her. I still see her around sometimes in Soho, only she's a lot more discreet with her business these days. I give her a packet of fags and she started telling me some tall tales, dropping some names, hoping I'd let her off with a caution, which in the end,” he put his empty bottle down on the table and fished around in the ice bucket for another one, “I did. But he was one of the names she mentioned. Simon Fitzgerald. She didn't like him much. Reckoned he could get a bit rough with a girl when he'd had a few. Had a reputation for it.”
Bream finally got purchase on another bottle, started waving it around in the air.
“Let me,” said Pete, taking it off him, not wanting him to lose his train of thought with the effort it would take to get the lid off.
“Ah, yeah, thanks Pete. So you see, he ain't all that he seems to be, old smoothie Simon. I reckon it's something to do with him being so short – you know what I mean. It's always the littlest ones that fight the hardest ain't it, got the most to prove? Now Teddy, on the other hand, is a big man and she couldn't say nothing but good about him.”
“Teddy?” Pete didn't like to think of him being involved in anything like that.
“Yeah, Teddy's a real gent, apparently. Doesn't play away from home much, but when he does, he knows how to treat a lady.” Bream waggled his eyebrows. “Even if she is just a lady of the night. He don't have nothing to prove.”
“Right.” Pete took a swig of his drink to hide his own discomfort, attempted to join some dots in his head between prostitutes, madams, showbiz stars and toffs. Rewinding Giles Somerset, held overnight in his cell. Gypsy George and his bag of filth. Parties. Bizarre tastes.
“Frankie boy.” He saw Wesker again in his mind's eye, tucking under his armpit the envelope of evidence he'd snatched off Sergeant Cooper – the porn films Gypsy George was stealing. “Get in there and deal with young Somerset, I'll be helping myself to our friend George. Derek me old beauty, if you could just show me the way…”
Cold chills started prickling down Pete's spine.
“Lucky bastard is what I say,” Bream burbled on, “two of them. I wouldn't mind…”
“…pair of Bristols like that, it's enough to make your eyes water…”
“Gents.” Sampson Marks appeared at Bream's shoulder. His lips formed a thin line that hardly moved as he spoke, a cigarette dangling between, smoke drifting up. His eyes, just as narrow, moved coldly towards Pete.
“Looking a bit the worse for wear tonight, Frankie boy,” he said, putting a hand on Bream's shoulder, keeping his gaze levelled on Pete. “I heard you was in the wars today,” the left side of his mouth curled slightly upwards, “bit of trouble with all that long-haired scum.”
“Here Sam.” Bream's eyes slowly focused in on Marks. “Got any more showgirls going spare? I don't half fancy some crumpet.”
Marks laughed, a hollow bark that never reached his slits of eyes. “I don't think you're in any fit state for crumpet, Frankie. I think it might be time for bed and cocoa instead.” He slowly removed his cigarette from his mouth and blew a plume of smoke into Pete's face. “Don't you?” he asked.
“Aye,” said Pete, staring back, knowing now that Wesker had sussed him, that he'd passed his doubts along to the person who really ran this club and Christ knows what else besides.
“Aw.” Bream slumped like a disappointed child. But he must have caught something in the tone of Marks’ voice, because he offered no resistance, spread out his arms, palms up. “Well, I suppose, if you say so, Sam.”
“I'll call you a cab.” Marks was still looking at Pete.
“Don't go to any trouble,” said Pete, “I can see him home all right.”
“See that you do,” said Marks. “I don't want him bothering my girls when he gets in this state. I've cleared up after him too many times before.”
“What's that Sam?” said Bream.
“I'll see you to the door,” said Marks. “Make sure you're headed in the right direction.”
“There's no need,” said Pete. “We know the way.”
“I'm not sure that you do,” said Marks.
“Wh-what's this all about?” Bream looked confused now. “I haven't offended anyone have I?”
“No, Frankie.” Marks began to steer him towards the door. “I'm just making sure that your friend here takes care of you properly.”
Pete followed behind them as Marks drove Bream down a set of stairs that led directly to the rear exit. Wondered every step of the way whether Marks was about to pull out a shiv, or an iron bar, or a gun. Felt his blood hammering through his head, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes locked on Marks’ hands and what he did with them. When they came to the bottom of the stairs there was a fire door. Pete swallowed hard as Marks pushed it open. Would there be a reception committee waiting for him on the other side of it?
But it was just the car park behind the club, a cobbled yard with a couple of motors there. Nice motors. A Rover and a Jag.
“You'll be OK will you Frankie?” Marks was coming on all concerned now, putting his arm around Bream's shoulder. “I should use that cab firm down Goslett Passage there, seeing as your good friend won't let me call you one on the house.”
“Yeah.” Bream was even more unsteady on his feet as the night air hit him. “Yeah, that's fine, thanks Sam. What time is it?”
“It's past your bedtime is what it is.”
“Yeah,” said Bream, wandering over to the wall, undoing his flies and urinating like a carthorse down the brickwork. “You say so, Sam.”
Marks turned back to look at Pete. “You look after him,” he said. “The man's a friend of mine. But you ain't.” His voice dropped to a low hiss. “I don't want to see your face around here no more, Cuntstable Bradley. You get me?”
Pete smiled, the blood pumping a familiar tattoo now, the song it used to sing to him before he stepped into the ring, the same refrain that always came when he knew he was about to grab a villain and the villain just couldn't see it coming. “Gladys Small,” he said, “she ever turn up again, did she?”
For a second he saw a muscle twitch under Marks’ left eye. The question caught him unawares.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said.
Their eyes locked and the world turned, an eternity spun through a cobbled yard at the back of a nightclub in Soho, an empty forever reflected back in the black of Marks’ eyes.
“Cor, I needed that.” Bream came staggering back, zipping up his flies, bowling into Pete and breaking the spell. “Right then, are we off?”
“Aye,” said Pete. “That we are. Good night Mr Marks, thank you for all your gracious hospitality. I'll be sure and return the compliment to you one day.”
Marks said nothing, just spat on the ground.
Bream started singing ‘Show Me The Way To Go Home’. Kept it up all the way back to the station house where he still lived, almost kissed Pete goodbye as he slithered out of the taxi door. When Pete got back to Oxford Gardens there was a car parked at the end of his drive. Its headlights came on just as the taxi drove away.
Pete felt the bruises on his legs pulsing. Every bone in his body ached. He stood at the end of his drive, wanting only to crawl next to Joan and fall asleep for a thousand years.
But instead he walked towards the car, to DI Bell sitting inside.
They all knew.
18 IT’S MY PARTY
“Now then,” said Lenny, “you can open your eyes. What do you think?”
I blinked. Laid out in front of us on a scarlet tablecloth was a cake in the shape of the letters B&R, zebra striped in black and white icing. Surrounding it were plates of red cupcakes and sandwiches cut into neat triangles, bowls of black olives and red cherries and a line of Champagne buckets full of fizz. A pyramid of clean glasses gleamed in the sunlight that poured through the window, free of its shutters for the first time since we arrived at Marlborough Court.
“It all matches,” said Jackie. “Lenny, you're a genius.”
“Well I wouldn't say that. But I do know an awful lot of Jewish mommas who are good at these things.” Lenny winked and reached for a bottle. “And now, I think we should have a little snifter to wet this baby's head before the hordes descend.”
Pop went the cork and the fizzing of the bubbles as they slid down the glass matched the effervescence pumping through my veins. Now that we had actually got everything ready, the way it all looked was such an achievement that I couldn't feel anything but happy and proud. That I was doing the right thing with my life, after all.
“Cheers my darlings.” Lenny handed us a glass each and we clinked them together.
Jackie gave a whoop of delight. “We did it!” she cried. “We really did it!”
“Yes,” I said, my eyes rolling round the room; the clothes on their chrome rails, spaced neatly apart; the brand new black fibreglass mannequins displaying hipster trousers and Op Art shirts, a triangular shift dress with a target motif; the jigsaw blocks forming little stairways around it all. “We really did, you know.”
Jackie put her arms around me and bounced me around in a celebration dance.
“Aw,” said Lenny. “Ain't you sweet? Well my dears, here's to a raging success.” He took another sip of Champagne, picked an imaginary speck of dust off his purple suit and adjusted his cufflinks.
“And I can't tell you how good it felt to finally hand in my cards at the bank. Oops!” The doorbell cut through his reverie. “That'll be our top model.”
“Morning.” Jenny padded in wearing her usual off-duty get-up of black slacks, shirt and pumps. Her hair and make-up, though, looked as if she'd come fresh from the beauty parlour, her manicured nails the same shade of barest pink as her frosted lips. The dark eyeshadow, liquid liner and false eyelashes were heavier than usual – the effect was dramatic, but was it hiding the ravages of a couple of sleepless nights?
“Do you want to join us for a glass?” asked Lenny, lifting up the bottle.
She smiled wanly. “No thanks,” she said. “But I'd love a coffee if you possibly could?”
“Of course, dear, of course. I won't be a sec.” Lenny clattered off upstairs.
“Everything OK?” asked Jackie.
Jenny nodded. “We got him bail yesterday at the magistrate's court, thank God. Well, thanks to Chris, actually. The solicitor really knew what he was doing; I don't think they expected that. He's had Giles’ clothes taken off for scientific examination, to prove that he wasn't carrying that brick around with him and do you know what?”
We shook our heads solemnly.
“He had to hire an independent analyst, because if he hadn't, the same policeman that arrested Giles would have been able to take them to their lab. Can you believe how corrupt that is?”
Jackie whistled.
“Was it the same policeman Chris was already investigating?” I asked.
Jenny nodded. “Harold Wesker his name is. He's an utter bastard. In fact, that's what his nickname is, The Bastard – and he's proud of it.”
“Here we are ducks.” Lenny came back down the stairs and Jenny put a finger to her lips before turning round to take the mug from him.
“Thanks Lenny, you're the most,” she told him.
“Your hubby will be joining us today, won't he?” Lenny asked me.
I nodded.
“Hmmm,” Lenny attempted to look nonchalant, “is he bringing that Pat with him, by any chance?”
I smiled. Pat Innes tended to have that effect on people. He was dazzlingly handsome, tall and thin with jet black hair and violet eyes, always immaculately suited with a waistcoat and dandy striped shirt. He was some sort of Irish aristocracy, although you wouldn't guess from his highly mannered voice. But his eyes and his hair, his whole posture seemed so much more fluid than the stiff English types you normally saw inhabiting that style of tailoring.
Bad Penny Blues Page 18