Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice (9 page)

He gave me a worried look, ‘Are yah up to it? I mean, have yah the stomach for it now?’

‘Yeah, but the point is, do I want to. What worries me is Noble has minty breath.’

‘So bloody wot?’

‘A man who chews mints is an observer. They miss nothing and their agenda is not what’s on display.’

‘’Ary, you’re reading too much into it. He’s probably covering up the smell of booze.’

I stopped into the 7-Eleven and stocked up on essentials – toothpaste, coffee, milk, soap – siege supplies.

I’d decided to crash in the warehouse for a few days, let the dust settle. Prison teaches you to move in small spaces, to need almost nothing. Before settling on the army cot, I rang Letterman.

‘Yo – talk to me.’

‘David, it’s Cooper.’

‘What’s happenin’ bro’?’

‘My home’s been burned.’

‘And you wanna know is it Cassie, am I right.’

‘There are other candidates, would she risk that.’

‘Oh yeah …’

‘How do I go about finding her?’

‘She’ll find you when she’s ready for the next stage.’

‘Fuck.’

‘That too.’

‘OK, I’ll keep in touch.’

‘Adios amigo.’

Next morning I woke with an aching back and couldn’t figure where I was, said, ‘Jeez, where am I.’

The warehouse looked like shit and I complemented it. Course I’d no razor and the electric kettle went on the blink. Took a cold shower and froze my balls off. Invigorating, they say, which is not the term that sprang instantly to mind. And, I’d need clothes, not to mention a whole new life.

Sat and wrote out the hooker manifesto, had to word it just right. Then rang the number Jim had given me. She was home and arranged a meet for three in the afternoon. Next up was the bank, to withdraw a shit-pile of money. The cashier looked worried but then, that’s what they’re paid for. She said, ‘Excuse me a moment.’

‘Why?’

‘I need verification.’

‘Take my word for it, it’s my money.’

She gave one of them banking smiles, all teeth and malice.

‘It’s a rather large amount.’

‘No one said that when I lodged it.’

‘I’ll just be a sec.’

And off she went.

I looked round, professional interest. Maybe I’d return and do this one for spite, take a hop outa the cashier. Back she came with an older guy. He didn’t have a sign that read,

‘I mean business, very serious business

and I just know you’re not it.’

But he had the look, said, ‘If you’ll step over here a minute Mr Cooper.’

I did … and waited. He began, ‘Might I suggest with such a large amount that we consider other alternatives.’

‘No.’

He faltered; then rallied, ‘Of course Mr Cooper, any advice I can offer.’

‘Give me the money.’

He did. I don’t think my attitude had been covered in customer relations.

From there I went to the markets and bought three pairs of jeans, six shirts, three formal slacks, underwear, three pairs of shoes, and two hold-all jackets. Even at market prices, it burned a hole. Back to change and in the new gear I felt, if not renewed, at least ready. Said aloud, ‘Let’s burn a cop,’ and picked up the phone. Got the number of Scotland Yard, dialled, asked for the serious crime division. Put on hold, then a gruff voice: ‘Can I help?’

‘I dunno, you might want to hear that a detective named Noble, outa Carter Street, was helping an accountant named Arnold L. White. Mr White has been behind the series of bank raids up and down the country.’

Silence. What did I expect … glee? When a cop is ratted out, they like it as much as duty in Brixton, then, ‘And your name is …’

‘Concerned Citizen.’

Snort!

Which sound seemed appropriate to hang up on. I didn’t expect they’d rush out and nick Noble but, with the hooker’s call later, I wanted to muddy the water. Give the bad fuck something to suck mints about.

My hands were wet from tension. I should have known that a call like that wasn’t going to be simple. When they own you for two years, the automatic responses never fully fade. Like walking into a snake pit having previously been bitten and saying – ‘it won’t hurt so bad.’ Dream on sucker.

Almost immediately the phone rang and I jumped – ‘bloody hell,’ they’re on to me already?! Picked it up, said tentatively, ‘Yeah.’

‘David.’

‘Cassie.’

‘You recognised me lover, that’s promising.’

‘How’d you find me?’

‘In the book.’

‘Oh.’

‘You met my brother.’

‘Jeez, what is this – you have private investigators on me?’

‘You’ve a high profile honey. So, has he been shooting you a line, telling you I’m whacko and stuff.’

‘He’s concerned – where are you?’

‘I’m real close baby, but you get the hell away from him. You hear what I’m saying?’

‘Or wot … you’ll burn my house down …’

The line went dead.

The hooker, Sharon, lived at Waterloo. Those small houses near the bridge, like a real Coronation Street. Rang the bell and she answered immediately. In her mid-forties, she was a brunette with trowelled on make-up. Carrying weight that looked like it was going to increase and wearing a lurex tracksuit, she said, ‘Jim’s mate, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You seem disappointed, was I supposed to brassen up. I thought this was other biz, not a shag call.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure darlin’.’

And she sounded like a hooker then. A husky voice that was only part fake. Led me into a living room, it looked cosy like a home and she noticed my approval, said, ‘You were expectin’ a bordello.’

‘I expect very little.’

‘Can I get you something – tea, a drink.’

‘No … just a phone call. I have it written down, you just read it, I pay you and I’m gone.’

‘You up to a little action?’

‘Not today.’

‘You’re one of those men, don’t pay for it … right?’

‘Sharon, let’s quit the analysis. You shut the fuck up, read the script and we’re done, can you do that.’

‘Let’s do it.’

I handed her the sheet of paper, she read it but skipped comment. I gave her the number. Here’s what she read: ‘Metropolitan Police … yeah, can you put me on to the robbery division.’

She gave me a sick smile as she was put on hold, then, ‘I have information regarding the country-wide bank jobs.’

Hold again. She clicked her fingers, indicated a pack of Major and matches. I loved those clickin’ fingers but got her one and handed it to her. The phone was now nestling between her chin and shoulder, so beloved of broads in movies and busy folks everywhere, she hissed, ‘The matches …’

Yeah.

I lit the cigarette and she drew dust from the very carpet. Her face contorted and was followed by a horrendous cough. One of those lungs to the roof of the mouth jobs. She spoke again. ‘Let’s say I was involved with one of the guys OK … yeah … fucked me over … get the picture. Hey, if you want to hear this or not … the proof? Well, if you go to the flat of Arnold White, accountant, you’ll find maps, diagrams, plans for all the jobs. The address?… wot, you want me to do all the bloody work, try detectin’ it. White, you want me to spell it … No … not Leonard … A … R … N … O … L … D … yeah, I’ll tell you how it works. These are the three big banks,

Barclays

Nat West

Lloyds

Yeah, in each of those, there is a clerk who supervises the transfer of large sums to provincial branches. Their names?… Detect them. They inform Mr White as to when and where. Yer cop Noble, he provides the data on local policing. Who and what to avoid. Course it’s simple … why cha fink it works.

‘ – Yeah, up yours too.’

And she banged the phone down. I said. ‘That went rather well, don’t you think.’

Her face was enraged and she moved to a cupboard, took out a whopper-size bottle of vodka, one glass. Poured a shoot amount, knocked it back clean. I remembered the gun dealer, his Yeltsin brand. If it hit the spot, she didn’t show it, said, ‘I’ve been a lot of things in my sorry time but never a grass. I don’t like the taste of it and I don’t think I like you a whole lot better – know wot I mean.’

I counted out her money, all crisp new bills, asked, ‘Do you like my new gear, only got it today.’

‘Wot?’

‘While you’re “finking”, lemme ask you this. When Jimmy told you about the job, did he say you’d have to like me, maybe we’d share sob stories, fight a little but eventually love would blossom? And we’d fade away to the Kinks playing in the background. Did he mention shit like that?’

‘Wotcha on about, course he didn’t!’

I stood, liked the way the new jacket hung — stylish but not blatant, said, ‘So, shut yer bloody mouth. I also suggest you forget this whole incident. You’re going to have to trust me on this but, you wouldn’t want me to come back.’

I expected further cheek but instead, ‘You’re an only child, aren’t you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I can always tell, you have that air of front and black-guardism.’

I liked that word, said, ‘To tell you the truth Sharon, I asked my old Mum if I’d been adopted. She said she’d tried but no one would have me.’

She took the money, counted it and I thought … when the Doc told me that yarn everyone cracked up but perhaps my timing was off. As I left she was lifting the vodka.

As I turned towards Waterloo Bridge, Jimmy came out of a doorway. He was grinning, not a pretty sight. I said, ‘This better be coincidence.’

‘Don’t be like that, I only wanted to make sure everything went smoothly. Iron out any problems, that’s all – cross my heart, straight up.’

‘It’s good, I’m glad I met you here.’

‘You are.’

‘See … see that spot over there, that’s where I near killed the mugger, you heard about it right … wot I went to the nick for.’

He backed off, not noticeably but a gradual edging away, I went with him, continued, ‘I never told anyone this Jimmy, not a soul, but I want to tell you … fuckit, I need to tell someone …’

He was glancing round, avenues for escape. I slapped my open right hand on his shoulder, said, ‘Jim, I enjoyed it … but wait … hang a mo’ … I want to do it again so badly … Know wot I mean?’

B
oth barrels in the cashier’s face and the blast threw her from her till. I’d been holding the shotgun in her direction, Doc a few feet away was roarin’, ‘Everybody get the fuck down –
now
.’

And one of the great British traditions came to play – a bastard ‘had a go’. A fuck in a blazer, near seventy. I’d taken my eyes off him and he walloped me across my shoulders with his walking stick – my fingers had squeezed the trigger as I stumbled forward. Doc leapt for him, clubbed him with the gun’s stock. Now everyone was screaming. The girl was dead, had to be, so I thought I’d salvage something, shouted, ‘Who’s next … eh … who wants some more!’

And I cranked two shells in, let them see it.

Silence.

It had been going so well. The incendiaries Doc had planted at the cop shop, Tesco’s and the Masonic Lodge went off in sequence. More noise than damage and we’d been in the bank seconds later. Now it had turned to shit. Doc gave me a look and I roared, ‘Get the fuckin’ money.’

He did.

Filled two bin-liners, he’d been right in that department. Looked more than we’d ever pulled but we hadn’t looked at murder either. I mean … they’d believe it was an accident? … I didn’t mean it M’Lud … honest – that’s why I was carrying a 12-gauge, only for demonstration purposes. Yeah, a judge would understand. Good-night Irene. With good behaviour we’d be out in 2701.

As usual we’d two cars. Outside waiting was the ‘borrowed’ – a Vauxhall Tigre Coupe with automatic form. Our legit one was back at the Services Stop. A Volvo 850
GLT
T5, the four-door saloon. Chosen purely for its top speed of 149 mph and the acceleration didn’t hurt either – 0–622 mph in 74 seconds. I could vouch for that. Its beauty though – drop a couple of gears to bring the turbo on line, kick on the throttle and yer off. Meatloaf’s ‘Bat outa Hell’ on yer tapedeck … eat fucking dust. I wished it was outside the bank. Our system was for Doc to now take my shooter, and double-armed he’d stand as I rushed to the car with the cash. It had always worked before. Seemed to again.

I slung the bags in back and shit, heard sirens, put the Coupe in gear. Doc came edging out slow, his back to me. A woman stepped from a doorway between us. Cassie!

Dressed in black, short bomber jacket and mini skirt, she took the pose beloved of movie posters. Feet apart, both hands on the pistol, ready to kick ass. Before I could react, she fired four times, taking Doc in the legs. He went down like an elephant, the shotguns sprawling uselessly. She turned, looked right at me and smiled, began to tighten her finger on the trigger. I hit the ignition, into gear and drove off. Near collided with a school bus and then I was outa Treesmead, going like a demented thing. My pounding near deafened me to all else and I kept shouting – ‘get to the rest stop, get the Volvo … get, get, get …’ – as if ritual would deliver me.

You ever see that movie
Predator
with Arnie. A character says, ‘You lose it here, you’re in a world of hurt.’ I was living the line. Kris Kristofferson used to whine, ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose’ – as I gunned the Volvo I sang that. But some survival instinct forced a plan. In Sidcup I stopped, went into Boots and bought a pack of razors and the large rapid-tan. Next I got a large duffle bag. On form there. I pulled into a layby and with a reasonably steady hand, shaved my head then applied the tan all over it. By the time I hit London, I’d be orange, tanned or nicked. If you want to go to ground in London, Notting Hill Gate has a lot in its favour. The small Indian-run hotels are only interested in cash. Calling the police is not high on their priorities. There’s a huge cosmopolitan floating population and, it wasn’t my manor.

When I checked in, I looked like a brown Kojak. I didn’t recognize me. First off I collapsed on the bed and slept for nigh twelve hours straight. If I dreamt I don’t recall it and nor would I wish to. I’d given the manager a week’s money up front and thus ensured, if not welcome, at least acceptance.