by Mark Timlin
‘Sweet,’ he said as he counted it slowly. He never trusted my count did Jack.
‘So,’ I said, when all was merry and bright. ‘Ringo.’
He took a small leather bound note book from inside his jacket. ‘Ringo,’ he repeated. ‘Also known as Richard Stark, aka Big Ricky. Fat cunt. Comes from up north somewhere. Too many chip butties.’ Thus spoke a man who’d just chowed down a double portion of fried Maris Pipers with his battered cod. ‘Drug dealer, enforcer, gun for hire. Muscle the same or similar. This bloke would definitely favour the Rolling Stones, although he dresses like one of the Beatles.’
‘Record?’
‘Pretty light. Some assaults as a lad. Thing is, witnesses seem to take a powder when it comes to court. He’s webbed up with a nasty face, goes by the name of the Walrus. Long streak of piss. Wears a syrup. Both on the list of interest to the police. So, what’s your interest?’
‘Client confidentiality.’
‘Fair enough.’ He tore the page from his book and gave it to me, finished his beer and got up to leave. ‘Just be careful Nick. These blokes have a very bad rep. And you’re not getting any younger.’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘Much as I don’t like you, I’d miss you if you were gone. And of course there’s the occasional sweetener.’ He patted his pocket and left. Left me to my own devices.
So Ringo was the bad man. But had he got what he wanted from Tyler? If so, why shoot him? A done deal and everybody happy. But obviously not. And if he hadn’t, once again why shoot him? A conundrum tied up with an enigma. I looked at the page from his notebook Robber had given to me. An address in the Elephant and Castle. Time to take a look see. Tomorrow morning would do. People like Ringo liked their kip. So did I. So I took the remains of my all day hangover to bed.
I felt much better after a good night’s sleep and breakfasted on fried egg, bacon, beans, fried tomatoes and a slice of Warburton’s Danish, washed down with builder’s tea. I didn’t shave and dressed scruffy again. I mentally tossed a coin whether or not to drive. But as it was just a recce I didn’t need the aggro of parking. And besides, I was sure I’d end up in some boozer or other, and I needed my licence. I left my gun at home too.
So, happy as Larry on another beautiful London summer’s day, I headed north by London transport Routemaster. The address Robber had given me was a lock-up shop securely locked up. Or so it looked. Fortuitously there was a greasy spoon almost opposite, and I grabbed a Daily Mirror from a corner shop and a window seat in the cafe, and ordered a cup of tea and a bath bun which I really didn’t need, but was good camouflage.
But, as so often happened on a surveillance operation, nothing happened. No one came or went, and there’s only so many cups of thick, brown tea one man can drink, and only so many times he can re-read the Daily Mirror before something gives. Either the capacity of his bladder or his mental capacity to ingest bullshit.
I was home by mid-afternoon and popped a can of lager and popped a King Curtis album on the deck. Minutes later my mobile rang. It was Lisa with an S.
‘What are you up to?’ she asked.
‘Just detecting.’
‘Are you in a hairdresser’s?’
‘Why?’
‘That music.’
‘That music as you call it is the late, great King Curtis in his pomp.’
‘OK.’ I should’ve saved my breath.
‘How’s Tyler?’ I asked.
‘Much better. That’s why I phoned. Still out of it, but less tubes and monitors.’
‘Good news.’
‘Sometimes I wonder with that boy. You have a daughter.’
‘You did research me. Yes. But I don’t see her as often as I’d like.’
‘That’s tough.’ Almost human, I thought. ‘So I thought a celebration was in order.’
‘I’m still recovering from the other night. I don’t think I could take another go round in the bar with no name.’
‘No. There’s a Thai restaurant down the road who do take-outs. Arnold could fetch dinner, and we could crash a bottle of wine.’
‘Why me? What about Arnold?’
‘Like most food, Thai gives him wind, so we don’t want to go there. He survives mostly on dry biscuits and water.’
‘Bad luck. Spiders and food don’t agree with him. Tough life.’
‘He survives. And I enjoy your company. Didn’t think I would.’
‘Me being staff and all.’
‘Exactly. Then he can head downstairs to his apartment and we could shoot shit, or shoot pool.’
‘You have a pool table?’
‘A pool table, pin ball machines, a juke box. A proper games room.’
‘Some place you got there. And we should talk about this Ringo character. He probably shot Tyler. Have you told the cops?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll wait until Ty wakes up, and he can tell them himself. Besides I don’t like police. I wash my own dirty knickers.’ Sweet thought.
‘And if he hadn’t woken up?’ I asked.
‘That would be a white horse of another colour.’
‘Nice turn of phrase.’
‘You remember my place?’
‘Once seen, never forgotten.’
‘Seven o’clock.’
‘On the dot.’ And that was that.
I got prettied up in a pair of shiny black Tony Lama needle toed shit-kicker boots, a black H Bar C Rancher shirt with an appliquéd black and white rose motif and five studs on each cuff, faded Wrangler boot cut jeans. The boots were decorated with silver chains that jingle-jangled as I walked. I’d thought about buying a pair of spurs, but as I didn’t have a horse or a pick-up truck I thought it was going a bit far. The chains worked for me anyway. I added a black silk jacket that covered my gun in the pancake holster down the back of my jeans. I don’t know why I took it, I just did.
I drove my old Ford to Brixton and found the open door to the car park under Lisa’s block that I remembered from the other night. Arnold was standing by the Cadillac in the dim lights in the ceiling and I parked next to it. I got out and he wished me a good evening. I wished him one back, and realised that was the first time I’d heard him speak. He showed me to the lift that I remembered too, pressed the top floor button and left me alone.
When the lift doors opened I was in the penthouse and Lisa was waiting for me looking fantastic in an outfit with a wide net skirt, a tight bustier which pushed her breasts up, and black, high heeled, lace-up boots. She looked a bit like a black haired version of the blonde bird in Fleetwood Mac, although that wasn’t my kind of Musak, she was worth looking at. Lisa had a cigarette in one hand and an old fashioned cocktail shaker in the other. ‘Hello cowboy,’ she said.
‘Hello cowgirl,’ I replied.
She smiled as I took off my jacket, tossed my pistol onto a chair by the dining table that was set for two, and the jacket on top.
‘I like your shirt,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ I didn’t mention her top.
‘Black Russian?’ she asked.
Here we go again, I thought and nodded.
She poured, and we both drank and she told me about her visit to Tyler and how he was improving. The lift door pinged and Arnold came in looking unhappy carrying a white carrier bag in each hand which had to contain our supper, then he got shoved in the back and two blokes came in too, both carrying handguns.
‘I’m sorry, miss Lisa. I left the door open and they ambushed me.’
Lisa shook her head. ‘Not your fault.’
The two intruders looked like half a Beatles tribute band, or possibly a quarter of two Beatles tribute bands. One very tall, one very fat. Fatty pushed past Arnold who stood, still carrying the bags with an ever more hangdog expression than usual. ‘Shut up,’ Fatty hissed at
Arnold as he came. He had long dark hair, a black suit with a velvet collar strained to the max and a white tab collared shirt, and skinny black tie that looked like it was strangling him. The fingers of both hands covered in rings. Silver, gold, with stones that twinkled as he moved. Ringo, as I lived and breathed. The bloke behind looked like he was almost seven feet tall in his Cuban heeled Chelsea boots. His suit was black too and hung on him like a shroud on a coat hanger. He was as skinny as Ringo was fat, but his hands were huge and made the nickel plated pistol he held look like a toy. On his head was the syrup as Robber had called it. Long and black, and just a little bit crooked like he’d put it on in a hurry. This pair would have been funny, if their intent wasn’t obviously serious.
‘Who’s the boyfriend?’ Ringo demanded. I imagine he meant me.
‘Get fucked,’ said Lisa. Maybe not the best thing to say when guns were in the room.
‘Put those glasses down and keep your hands in sight,’ ordered Ringo. He had some weird northern accent, half Liverpool, half fuck knows where.
We did as we were told.
‘Where is it?’ he asked, but not in a friendly way.
‘What?’ Lisa again.
‘My money or my drugs.’
‘Non comprende.’
Christ I thought, don’t keep bugging the guy.
‘Walrus,’ said Ringo. ‘Shoot the goon in the knee.’ I guessed he meant Arnold, who really hadn’t done anything but get supper.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Sorry. I don’t understand what’s going on here.’
‘None of your fucking business,’ said Ringo.
‘Looks like it is from where I’m standing, looking down the wrong end of a gun.’
‘Your boy, missus,’ back at Lisa, blanking me. ‘He took a lot of money from me on a promise. Not enough to change my life, but enough to piss me off. The money must be here. It wasn’t at that dirty squat.’
‘Ringo, or whatever you call yourself,’ said Lisa. ‘My son takes after his father. He’s a liar and a cheat, but he’s still my son. If there is any money here I don’t know where it is. He’s roamed this place since he was a boy. He knows every hidey-hole where he could stash money. More than me. He used to hide away when he was bunking school and I could never find him. But, I know he owed some very nasty bastards in Bristol, and my friend Nick here was told that’s where he was a couple of nights ago, before he ended up in hospital.’
‘That was unfortunate. A mistake.’ It didn’t sound like it.
Suddenly Arnold piped up. ‘Can I put these down please, they’re getting heavy.’
‘Do it, you stupid old fool,’ said Ringo, and Arnold gently put the food down. Then with an agility I’d never noticed, he suddenly turned into Harry the horse and caught the Walrus’s pistol arm and dislocated it with a crack and caught his gun as he dropped it.
‘Fuck,’ said Ringo, and his gun pointed to the floor, as I knocked my jacket off the chair and pulled my .45 from its holster and pointed it at him. ‘Keep it down,’ I said, and he obeyed.
‘Now, gently on the floor with it.’
He obeyed again, and the whole deal had changed to the good guys’ advantage.
‘What happened there?’ I said.
‘I didn’t tell you,’ said Lisa. ‘Arnold was a close combat instructor in the marines.’
‘Respect,’ I said, and Arnold nodded.
The Walrus was lying on the floor making a keening noise, and Arnold kicked him in the ribs. ‘Shut up,’ he said, ‘or I’ll really hurt you. That boy was as close as family to me.’ Walrus did as he was told.
‘Now what?’ said Lisa.
‘Now I make a call, and we wait for some nice policemen,’ I said.
‘No,’ she said, and walked over to Ringo, kicked his gun away, then pulled back her skirt and produced a little double barrelled belly gun. She pulled back both hammers with a sound as loud as a factory closing down, in the warm, triple glazed silence of her penthouse.
‘No, Lisa,’ I said gently.
‘Yes, Lisa,’ she said back. Then to Ringo, ‘Tyler’s a crook and a conman. But he’s my son and you shot him. You’re a mug. There never were any drugs. I have my fingers in all sorts of mysterious businesses, but the most dope I’m involved in is the occasional spliff. He took your money and paid back the brethren in Bristol, and I’m glad.’
‘Don’t shoot him, Lisa,’ I said. ‘This can all be worked out. I have a mate on the force.’
She shook her head, then pulled back her skirt again with her left hand, and pulled out the flick knife she’d told me about. She clicked it open and the steel in the blade twinkled in the light. She pushed the point against Ringo’s neck, where a vein bulged and a thin trickle of blood ran down his collar. Then she moved back and let the hammers of her pistol down, ‘OK, Nick,’ she said. ‘We’ll do it your way.’
I think everyone in the room but her let their breath out at that.
We got Ringo and the Walrus on one of Lisa’s sofas, Walrus still complaining about his arm, but only under his breath, when Arnold gave him the evil eye. Lisa’s and my weapons were stashed away in one of those hidey-holes she’d mentioned and I kept hold of the bad guys’ guns and called Robber whilst I chewed on a warm vegetarian pancake roll.
I told him as much of the story as he needed to know and he promised reinforcements and an ambulance ASAP. When I told him about guns, he warned me they’d come in hard and they did. We all ended up face down on the foot until Jack sashayed in and allowed Arnold, Lisa and me back on our feet.
It all ended up with Ringo and the Walrus carted off to Brixton nick and Jack and a couple of uniforms slurping down beef and noodles, and chicken satay with peanut and chilli sauce whilst we made our statements.
And that’s pretty much all she wrote.
Ringo and the Walrus got fifteen years each. Tyler recovered, left hospital, got a job in the city, where I understand he’s made a small fortune. Lisa still has her fingers in several mysterious business pies that are none of my business. We still keep in touch and every so often she treats me to a meal at Mr Chows, and an evening at the club with no name. Arnold still drives the Cadillac and takes care of her. Robber gets nearer retirement with every month, but still gives me the occasional heads-up in exchange for cash. Nancy’s dad paid for teeth implants, and she went to college to study home economics. And as for me, I still do a bit of detecting when I can find someone to pay the piper.
ON A RAGGA TIP
Two blokes walk into a bar.
It’s after three on a gloomy, wet weekday afternoon. Apart from them, there are three people in situ. A young guy behind the jump, gay as a parakeet, a customer sitting at the bar chewing on what looks and smells like chilli chicken wings, washed down by a bottle of Becks, and me at a table with the remains of a club sandwich, an empty coffee cup, a bottle of Rolling Rock and my new Nokia. I’ve got a Telegraph folded at the crossword and a Staedtler fine black pen in my hand. I’d been doing a half hearted investigation on the husband of a half hearted payer, and when it started to rain I’d ducked into the bar for lunch, as I’d caught a bus up to Waterloo as anyone would with parking like it was there during the week. I’d stayed for a beer or two because I didn’t have a coat, and it was a five minute hoof to the bus stop. Just enough time to get a soaking and sit for the journey home smelling like a wet dog. I’d been in worse places, the beer was cold, and apart from the fact Sade was on the stereo it was good to be warm and dry indoors. Sade! I ask you. How eighties was that?
The two blokes felt wrong. Cop instinct, and once a cop, always a cop. They were dressed alike. Long leather coats, Gestapo style. With matching gloves. Hoods underneath, both up, and Docs. Shiny black. One pair with yellow laces, one pair, red. Although they had their backs to me I just had a feeling they were a salt and pepper team. Don’t ask me why, but I was proved to be right. Th
e barman smiled and asked their pleasure. Their pleasure was the contents of the till, and to underline the request they both pulled out sawn-off shotguns with the stocks cut down to pistol grips. The barman cried a little cry and the bloke at the bar unwisely decided to be a hero. He stood and was about to speak when red laces gave him a good clout with the barrels of his gun right on his eyebrow. Boy, that smarts.
Yellow laces demanded the cash from the till again, and of course the boy was so scared he couldn’t open the damned thing, and he started to cry. I knew how he felt. Yellow laces had to go behind the bar and open it himself. I’d been in the gaff for a couple of hours and it had been a slow day from what I could see. The burgers and fries hadn’t exactly been flying out of the kitchen, so the till wouldn’t have been brim full of dough. Red laces glances over to me and the bottom of his face was covered by one of those scarves Arabs wear, red and white, with white tassels, but there was enough of his face exposed to let me see he was black. When yellow laces had emptied the till he gave me a squint too, same sort of scarf, this time a white boat. He came out from behind the counter and headed my way. The Nokia went in his side pocket. ‘Wallet,’ he demanded. I gave it up. There was maybe twenty quid inside. And a photo. Screw the money, but I asked. ‘Can I have the photo back please?’ Polite as can be.
He snorted and put the wallet in his pocket too, when he noticed my watch. ‘Watch,’ he said.
Not the Rolex. Not the value, but it had been a gift from the woman in the photo. Someone who loved me, then poof, was gone.
‘No,’ I said, but he stuck the shotgun into my face and I did the wise thing and gave it up too.
Meanwhile, the customer who’d got a smack decides to get back into the action and red laces shoots him in the chest. No reason really. Just because he could. The customer, half dazed anyway from the blow to his head was no danger. Fuck, that gun was loud. Loud enough to bring someone out from the kitchen, if there was anyone there, but later it transpired both the cook and the washer-up had gone outside for a smoke in the rain.