The Hard Cold Shoulder - L A Sykes

by Near To The Knuckle

  I let him go and willed myself to calm down. “Are you going to hear me out or what?”

  He scampered back behind the bar, screwed up his face, spat in the rag and rubbed the rim of a wine glass. “I’ve nothing to say any more. Why don’t you listen for a change. I’m sober as a judge and deaf as a post. I don’t hear, I don’t want to hear and it’s working out for me just fine, Mr Pitkin.”

  I held up my hands, showing my palms.

  “Look, I’m sorry, Roland. If it’s worth anything, I’m truly sorry for anything I did to you that wasn’t fair.

  I’ll leave you alone from now on, I swear down, I just need you to tell me whatever you can about The Joey. I guarantee you’ll never see me again.” I pulled out a wad of notes and laid them on the bar.

  His gaze lingered on the money. “Are you being serious? About leaving me alone, like?”

  I nodded. “Just tell me what you can, take the money and see my back for the last time, Roland.”

  He rubbed his forehead with the rag and closed his eyes. “If you don’t know, you don’t know and that’s fine.”

  He looked around and leaned in, his fingers shuffling the twenties. “Well I don’t know much, but I do know he’s got a major temper on him and he’s a big fucker with tattoo-”

  I banged my balled fist on the bar, shaking the glasses and he flinched, jumping back a few feet.

  “Don’t you fucking bullshit me,” I shouted.

  He bumped into a chubby bloke with dyed blonde hair coming out of the club’s back office in a pink silk shirt with a beaming smile. He looked at the cowering Fenk, to me, then back at Fenk, who was straightening up and said, “What’s up fellas? Got a problem, Roland?”

  He forced a smile. “No, no sir.”

  “Well aren’t you going to introduce me to the hunk? Is he single?”

  Roland shrugged, getting a kick out of the look on my face. Pink shirt turned to me, “Are you single, doll?”

  “Sorry, I’m otherwise engaged.”

  “You a friend of my dear boy Roland, then?”

  Roland started to sweat.

  “Kind of. I’m his drugs counsellor, aren’t I Roly? Shit, we’ve been through tough times me and him. All that stealing and whatnot. He’s doing very well though. Very well indeed, especially with the temptation of a bursting till under his fingertips. For a compulsive thief and liar-”

  Roland gave a nervous smile to Blondie, who’s fake tan wore thinner by the second. He jumped in, “Oh no, no, he’s making it out way worse than it was, boss. I’ve not seen him in ages, he’s not here to check up on me. He’s asking about our old mate Joey, ain’t that right, Mr Pitkin?” He looked at me pleadingly.

  I ignored him and raised an eyebrow to Blondie. “You can never be too careful though, eh? Addictions can be lifelong struggle-”

  “Never mind that talk, we were on about our Joey, just bantering about old times boss. You get on with what you’re doing. Don’t let us slack-jawing keep you, boss.”

  Blondie shrugged his shoulders and took a small vial from his pocket. “We’ve all got naughtiness in our closets. Roland’s past doesn’t bother me, especially since he knows if he fucks me over, I’ll fuck him…over. For good.” He uncapped the lid and tapped coke onto his thumbnail.

  Roland salivated as Blondie offered me his outstretched digit.

  “No thanks, wouldn’t be wise in my line of work.”

  Roland twisted the rag in his hands and said, “Hang on, he’s come here asking about Joey.

  How is it we’ve got onto the subjects of my past and my potential murder? Fuck me for good? Fuck me for good? You want to lay off the sniff, boss,” turning to look at me for support.

  Blondie snorted and laughed. “Joey, eh? Tie mi kangaroo down, sport, tie mi kangaroo down, fuck a wallaby,” he sang through an affected Australian accent and giggled to himself.

  Roland looked back at me and raised an eyebrow.

  I clenched my fists and grabbed the collar of the crooner. Yanked him up on his tiptoes, face to face over the bar. “I’ve been polite, I’ve tried to reason. My patience is wearing very fucking thin.

  What do you know about The Joey?”

  He cackled and whispered, “I like your aftershave.”

  “I’m not wearing any.”

  “I know.” He flicked his tongue towards my ear so I pushed my knuckle into his temple. He winced and spurted out, “Ouch, take it easy, big boy, I’m delicate.” I pressed harder, “A Joey? I don’t know any Joey. It’s a baby kangaroo is all I can think of. What else can it be? That hurts, you bastard.”

  Roland pawed at my arm. “Get off him, Pitkin, for fuck’s sake. We don’t know, I think that’s obvious at this point, don’t you? Unless you want us to make something up? Let go, man. Just fuck off and get out.”

  A wave of vertigo swept over me and I only just registered Fenk’s words. I felt disoriented and the room spun.

  Lack of sleep.

  Lack of food.

  Lack of everything and anything. No peace.

  A crowd of people bustled into the bar, cramping the space. Trickles of sweat broke down my back.

  I let go and watched pink shirt rub his temple, forcing blood to flow back into the indent and begin to bruise purple. I dizzied, laughter and shouting flicked my nerves.

  Roland stared at me and said, “You need a fucking holiday or summot man, before you go too far. Here, one for the road.” He took a glass and turned to a whiskey optic.

  I focused on the liquid running into it, breathing hard to steady myself. I longed for the burn and the numbness, however temporary. I reached towards the drink. My hand shook. Craving rattled through my body. I picked it up and my reflection twisted in its surface, warping my face; melting into flickering light reflections from the glitterball, forming pairs of eyes streaming tears. I dropped the glass on the bar. Slid it back to Fenk.

  The bar filled. Nudges and jostles and shouts of orders breathed down my neck and I needed air. I pushed the notes across and shouted, “Keep the money. But don’t give that fucker any, he’ll spend it on drugs and rent boys,” I said, pointing to Fenk.

  Blondie gave him a puzzled look, licking his lips. I left him squirming in his scuffed shoes.

  “Rent boys? He’s talking shit. Drugs, yes. Rent boys, no.”

  ***

  I forced my way through the mob of leather and linen, the reek of sweat and perfume and booze funnelled nausea into my gut. I stumbled into the street between the human cattle and felt a hand dig into my shoulder and fingers pressing into the gun at the base of my spine. A voice whispered in my ear, “Keep walking and do not turn around. If you try and bolt, I’ll pull that piece out and do you with it.”

  I let him push me down King Street, sapped of strength, disengaged. My legs buckled and I fell to my knees in the road. Some young lads pointed, laughing and shouting “lightweight cunt!” A pair of couples walked around me, crossing over the road.

  The man dragged me to my feet and down a side alley next to an Irish-themed bar.

  He walked me around the back of an overflowing steel bin and pushed my face into the wall, the cool sting of the concrete jolting me.

  Wrapped his hand around my neck and dug his fingers into my ribs.

  I could feel the breath on my face as he leaned in and said, “I gather you’ve take an interest in The Joey? It’s about time too. You and your fucking police friends are a way off the ball, pal, aren’t you? It’s not rocket science. The Joey? Call yourself a detective? Now, how would he get the nickname of the Joey? Think about it.”

  “A friend of Tommy’s are you, or just a concerned citizen?” I spat.

  He thumped my head into the wall. He let out a giggle and said, “That sick bastard is no friend of mine no more. Nor is The Joey. They’re crossing the line big time. You need to stop it. Now get your brain in gear and think. You haven’t got long. Thought you’d have worked it out for yourself by now.”

  “I can’t fucking think. I
don’t know, my head’s battered. Stop talking bollocks and get to the point.”

  “Coppers, eh? Always need us to do your jobs for you. That fat cunt in the bar was right and you didn’t even pick it up. Fucking useless, I hope you’re handier with that piece. The Joey is the son of a very prominent businessman of this town. Said businessman wants to keep his hands clean and still control the titillation and sex market. So he opens up a members only club and installs his lad in charge.

  His lad is not reet in’t head, he’s a perv. A straight jump’s not enough and he’s pushing it way too far.

  The businessman can’t risk doing his own son though, can’t afford to have his legit stuff linked to his sick fucking offspring. He’s disgusted after finding out what’s going down tonight and he wants it stopping. Clean. I can’t do anything, nobody from our side will go against The Joey on this, there’s too much money in it for them. Major money. And we’ve been led to believe our members list has a couple of your lot on it, making it hands off, lawwise.

  Now, you can stop it and get the girl out of there. Do you know where there is yet?”

  I thought back to pink shirt, what he sang, and my mind sharpened. I knew the place by name and gossip in the station. I was too busy working to ever listen to the stories about the boys sneaking off behind their wives backs for a cheap thrill.

  “How did you know I was looking for a girl?”

  “Tommy told me. That little bastard. He came to me first, but I told him my hands are tied and to get someone else. And here you are. He said you might need some help because you’re a fuck up.

  This is all I can do for you. And believe me it’s for the girl, not Tommy. Certainly not Tommy, the cunt.”

  “How long have you been following me?”

  “Just long enough to make sure you didn’t cut yourself shaving,” he giggled again. “So I take it you’re waking up?”

  “Yes. I know where I’m going.”

  “Good. Don’t turn around. Count to ten, then shift it. Make sure the safety is off.”

  I counted to two and spun round but the owner of the voice had already disappeared into the warren of backstreets at the top of the alley. I heard a faint beep followed by tires screeching into the night.

  ***

  I forced myself to run to the taxi rank, wishing I’d asked the voice how Tommy knew I took calls at the train station. I also wished I’d asked Tommy, but I knew now I’d have just been spoon-fed more bullshit. A forearm displaying smudged tattoos tapped along to a radio song. A thin face nodded at me through the open window. “Jump in, fella. You look a bit wishy washy. I’m giving you fair warning, old son; you be sick and you’re paying the cleaning bill. And that’s before I throw you out on your arse.” I climbed into the back of the cab, feeling like I’d boarded a boat on rocky waves. “Open the fucking windows.” “It is open.” “All of them. Now.” “Take it easy. Job’s a good un. So where we off then mate?” “Kangaroo Klub.” “Who’s a naughty boy, then?” The driver smirked and winked at me in the rear view mirror. I reached under my coat and moved the pistol to rest on my thigh, gripped tightly. I returned the wink. “You don’t know the fucking half of it. I’m just picking up a friend. Now shut up and drive.” “You’re the boss.” I caught my breath and looked at my reflection in the window. It was skewed by drizzle rivulets and faded in the darkness that enveloped us as we left the bright lights of the town centre.

  Seven

  The Kangaroo Klub was a gentleman’s club with a rumoured reputation of discretion and a range of services that made Amsterdam look amateur. It had never featured on the vice squad’s radar and they’d left it alone despite the odd complaint for reasons unknown to myself at the time. I was murder squad and never had any dealings there. Not as a detective, a beat bobby or for pleasure. The voice said it was owned by a bigshot money man and it was all I needed to know to make sense it wasn’t touched.

  I said to the cabbie, “It’s my first time there tonight. Is it any good?”

  He laughed wide mouthed under a bushy moustache and I saw the silver fillings on his back teeth in the mirror. “Couldn’t tell you myself, mate. I’m happily married. Well, married any rate. My wife would sniff another woman’s perfume a mile off, so it’s a strict no-no for me. I’ve heard so though, and I’ve never drove anybody home from there without a smile on his face. Wonder why they called it the Kangaroo Klub? It’s because you can jump anything with a pouch, old son.” He chuckled again as we ripped through a country lane parallel to the motorway. He veered off down a dirt track and I couldn’t miss the establishment.

  It was a converted, detached red brick with three floors and a white stone laden driveway. The garden housed a circular grey concrete fountain with a cherub in the centre cascading water as though pissing through a shining pipe. Tall conifer trees stood either side of the grand mahogany front door, swaying in the growing wind. A yellow neon tube outlining a kangaroo flickered, kicking out one leg after the other can-can style. I told the driver to circle and park round the back.

  “Leave the meter running. I won’t be too long.”

  “You sure? You can always just give control a bell when you’ve had your jollies and someone will come and fetch you. It’ll save you a fortune.”

  “I’m picking up a friend, I’ve told you. I won’t be too long.” He looked anxious and I didn’t want him getting feet cold enough to hit the accelerator so I pulled out a couple of hundred.

  “Keep hold of this. Call it a deposit. You get me to where I need to go and whatever’s left you can call a tip.”

  He struggled to keep his eyeballs in his sockets as I got out. I slapped the bonnet on my way to the Klub and gave him the thumbs up, but he was too busy drooling over the money to look up. I let my overcoat sleeve do a good job of covering the pistol.

  Eight

  I passed under an ornate archway with thorned rose stems chiselled into the wood. A CCTV camera loomed above my head, fixed on the doorway. A stocky doorman wearing a black bomber jacket over a white shirt and black dickie bow gave me stone face appraisal underneath a mop of slicked curls. Thick scouse accent drawled, “Evening, sir.”

  I looked over his shoulder and clocked two shaven headed goons playing human gargoyles at the end of the slim hall.

  “Please show your membership card to our reception. Have a great evening.”

  I reached into my inside pocket and left my hand there, moving forward. He lingered for a second, then stepped aside. I wrenched a smile. I couldn’t tell if his passive hostility was exclusively for me or part of his general act.

  Down the hall, on my right, a bored looking geek in a yellow dickie bow recited, “Welcome to the Kangaroo Klub. Please allow me to sign you in. If you’d like to pass me your members’ card, sir, I’ll have you through in no time.”

  “I’m a guest.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry sir, guests must be on the guest list. Tonight, being a very special night, the guest list is blank”

  “What’s so special about tonight?”

  “If you were a member, you’d know.”

  I whipped out my warrant card and laid it flat on the yellow plastic booth lip, turning my body and leaning in to shield it from the bouncer. “I’m a guest of honour.”

  He laughed and said, “Well, why didn’t you say so in the beginning? You’re already a member. I take it this is your first time here. New to the area are you? Just ask Del or Billy to show you the ropes. Have a splendid evening, detective.”

  “Thank you.” I strode up the blue carpeted hallway to more black bomber jacketed backs and the shaven skulls of Del and Billy. They blocked the door, watching the stage and giggling to each other. I cleared my throat and they swirled round.

  “Evening boys.” I gave them my only smile and flashed the warrant card briefly. Panic kicked in. Two identical faces peered back at me. I considered the possibility I’d started to see double with the insomnia and sweat broke on my forehead, terrified I was enterin
g a waking dream state. I looked harder. Identical features and structure were differentiated by Del on the left having a thin scar running across his cheek. I made a show of reading their security badges sewn into a plastic holder on their sleeves.

  The bad shaver had the hottest temper and didn’t try to conceal the scowl. His brother whispered ‘inspector’ in his ear and his eyebrows raised, stretching the stitched skin on his face. He returned the smile and pushed open the yellow door.

  I nodded and stepped inside onto a balcony with a mahogany rail and a short staircase to my right. The muffled thuds of a generic dance beat boomed, ringing my ears. A scattering of suited gentlemen sat sipping drinks around teak tables laid out across the open floor. The only lighting came from a strip of blue spotlights that ran across the ceiling pointing in the same direction the men’s heads were facing; at the stage. Three silicone strippers pranced around poles to the music in nothing but heels. To the left of the stage, the bar lit up bright white and the group of coppers made the only racket among the patrons. They settled into four tables near the front of the stage. The suit with the skewed tie stood on his chair wolf whistling, but the girls wouldn’t make eye contact. Don Iverson sat at the back of the scrum, pulling on his ‘tache and necking his drink. I felt the gun and wished I had more than the thirteen bullets it held. My heart started thumping and I jumped at the tap on my shoulder and spun round.

  Del stepped back and smirked, “Sorry mate. Didn’t mean to startle you. Forgot, you can’t come in with your jacket. You need to pass it through the hatch to Danny. He’ll give you a ticket.”

  I tried to slow my breathing. I nodded. Said, “No problem. Can I just go for a piss first? I’m busting.”

  He looked to Billy, who shrugged. “No worries. I need one myself. I’ll come with you. Follow me.”

  My chest thumped harder as he led us down the stairs, then double backed into the gents’ underneath the balcony. The toilet door swung closed behind us, hushing the music. He whistled and stared at the ceiling as we stood at the trough, then asked, “You got a bid on, then?”