London Boulevard (4 page)

Like that.

Despite the expensive frames they looked old. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and I figured I’d let a little light in.

Pulled them back to reveal bay windows. An overgrown garden stretched all the way back. Without thinking, I began to roll a cig. Lit up. I was staring out the window when a shout nearly put me through it.

“PUT OUT THAT CIGARETTE!”

I turned round to face whoever. A woman brushed past me, screaming,

“How dare you open those drapes? The light will ruin the posters!”

As she covered the windows I got a look. She was dressed in a long black gown. Blond hair down her back. Then she turned.

Not at all like Bacall. More like John Cassavettes’s wife, who I’d seen in
Gloria.

I’m bad at ages but I reckoned she was an expensive sixty.

Money and care had helped keep the face intact. She had startling blue eyes and used them to scrutinize me, then,

“I presume you’re here for an interview. Well? Speak up. What have you to say?”

Her voice was deep, almost coarse. The timbre that cigarettes and whiskey add. ’Course, arrogance helps too. I said,

“I need an ashtray.”

She indicated a large crystal dish. I stubbed out the cig.

It’s hard to credit, but the butt threw the room off. In that dish, the lone stub seemed like an affront. I wanted to put it in my pocket. She said,

“You expect to make a good impression by dressing like a runner?”

I said, “You don’t have to be nice to me. I want the job.”

She stepped forward, and I thought she was going to hit me, then she laughed. A deep down and dirty one. The best kind.

Then she said,

“Sarah mentioned you’d been in jail. What are you, a thief?”

With more edge than I intended, I said,

“I’m not a thief.”

“Oh dear, have I hit a nerve? Have I violated some convict code of ethics?”

This was delivered in a dramatic voice. As if she was onstage.

I’d learn that she was never off it. I said,

“I was in a fight, it got out of hand.”

Closing the topic, she said,

“There’ll be no fighting here.”

From out of left field, I felt a flash of desire. I couldn’t believe it. My body was responding to her. She gave a knowing smile, and I didn’t want to analyze that. No way. She said,

“We’ll give you a week’s trial. Jordan will set your duties.”

She went to the door, stopped, said,

“If you absolutely must steal an item, take that disgusting ashtray.”

And she was gone.

I FOLLOWED
Jordan outside to the garage. More like an airplane hangar. The first thing I noticed was a car, up on blocks. I gave a low whistle, asked,

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes, it is.”

I tried to place his accent, ventured,

“Are you German?”

“Hungarian.”

He swept his arm round the garage, said,

“Everything you could possibly need is here.”

Tools.

Coveralls.

Ladders.

Paint.

I thought that was good, said,

“Good.”

He indicated a chart on the wall, said,

“This is your timetable.”

“What?”

“Madam likes everything compartmentalized.”

It took him awhile to get that last word, but I stayed on and got his drift, said,

“Piecemeal.”

He pointed to the chart, said,

“Please examine it.”

I did.

Monday—Painting

Tuesday—Gutters

Wednesday—Roof

Thursday—Windows

Friday—Patio

I pretended to be interested, as if it made any sense. I said,

“And Saturday, party down.”

He ignored that, said,

“You will arrive promptly at seven thirty. You’ll partake of a light breakfast. Work will commence at eight sharp. At eleven you will have a tea break, twenty minutes. At one, you’ll have lunch for one hour. You will cease work at four sharp.”

I wanted to snap off a Hitler salute, shout,

“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.”

Instead I asked,

“Does she work now?”

“Madam is resting.”

“Jeez, from those posters, she’s been resting for thirty years.”

“She is awaiting the right vehicle.”

I nodded at the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, said,

“That should do the job.”

Any reply he might have made was lost as a van drove up. On the side was

LEE
BUILDING AND MAINTENANCE

An overweight man climbed out. Took him awhile due to the weight he was carrying. He was wearing coveralls and a baseball cap. A dirty baseball cap with lee barely decipherable.

He ambled over, nodded to Jordan, looked at me, asked, “Who’s the douchebag?”

Jordan said, “Mr. Lee, you are no longer employed here. I thought I made that clear.”

Lee waved his hand in dismissal, said,

“Lighten up, Jord. The old bat in there doesn’t know who’s here. I’m not about to let a good thing go.”

Jordan sighed, said,

“You have already been replaced, Mr. Lee. I must ask that you leave.”

Lee laughed, said,

“You run along, Jord . . . git us a cup o’ tea, two sugars. I’ll sort out this punk.”

Then he moved toward me. Jordan moved faster and delivered two lightning jabs to Lee’s stomach. I’d barely time to register it wasn’t his fist—open palmed. Lee sank to his eyes, groaning, whined,

“Whatcha do that for?”

Jordan stood over him and, with both hands, slammed Lee’s ears.

I said,

“That’s gotta hurt.”

Then Jordan helped Lee to the van, bundled him in. After a few minutes, the engine turned, and he drove slowly away. Jordan turned back to me, asked,

“Is Monday suitable to begin?”

“You bet.”

I lit a roll-up as I walked down the drive. Got to the gate and looked back. The house seemed dead. I began to head for Notting Hill. Halfway down was Lee’s van. He was leaning against it, massaging his stomach. As I drew alongside he said,

“I want a word with you, pal.”

“OK.”

“I didn’t get your name.”

“No.”

He squared up. I noticed his ears were scarlet. He said,

“You don’t want to fuck with me, pal.”

“Why not?”

“What are you, a smart-ass?”

“A smart-ass with a job—sorry—with
your
job.”

He couldn’t decide which way to go, settled for verbal, said,

“If you know what’s good for you, pal, you’ll stay away.”

I made a playful feint to his stomach but didn’t actually touch him, said,

“You’re gonna have to cut down on them burgers, Lee.” I walked away. I could hear him muttering the length of Lad-broke Grove. All in all, I kinda liked old Lee. In the rock, they’d have turned him out in a week.

W
HEN I GOT BACK
to Clapham I could feel the effect Lillian Palmer had on me. I figured it was time I got laid. Went into a phone booth and scanned the cards on display. Every sexual need was catered for. I decided on the following:

TANYA
RECENTLY ARRIVED FROM SOUTH AMERICA
TWENTY YEARS OLD
BEAUTIFUL, BUSTY, READY TO MEET ALL YOUR DESIRES

Yeah.

I rang and set a time. Yup, she could see me now. The address was in Streatham. As I headed there, I swear I felt nervous.

After three years, you wonder how it’s gonna be. Found the building and rang the top bell. Got buzzed in, walked up two flights of stairs. Knocked on the door. A guy in his thirties came out. I said,

“Jeez, I hope you’re not Tanya.”

“Fifty quid in advance.”

I paid, and he asked,

“Need anything else—weed, uppers, downers?”

I shook my head. He stepped aside, and I went in. A woman was sitting down, dressed in a slip, stockings and a garter belt. She wasn’t in her twenties, or busty or beautiful.

She said,

“Would you like a drink?”

Not South American either. I said,

“Sure.”

“Scotch?”

“Lovely.”

I watched her as she got the drink. A nice bod—I could feel desire returning. Not wild excitement but getting there.

I took the drink, said,

“Cheers.” She stood in front of me, said,

“No kinky stuff, no kissing, no bondage.”

What could I say? I said,

“No kidding.”

I followed her into the bedroom. The radio was playing the Eagles’ “Desperado.” If “My Way” is the anthem of chauvinists, then “Desperado” is the rationalization of convicts. She handed me a condom as she lay back on the bed.

It was quick.

She indicated the bathroom, said,

“You can clean up in there.”

I did.

When I came out she said,

“For another twenty, we could go again.”

I said, “I think I’ve had as much fun as I can handle.”

As I left, she said,

“Call again.”

B
ACK IN CLAPHAM
, I went to the Rose and Crown, took a stool at the bar, ordered a pint of bitter. Working on that I rolled a cigarette. A man in his sixties came in and took the stool beside me. I hoped to fuck he wasn’t going to be friendly. I fixed my face in the “don’t put chat on me” mode. He ordered a large navy rum, said,

“None of that Kiskadee rubbish.”

I tuned out. Wanted to engage in some postcoital melancholy.

Then I realized he was talking to me. I said,

“What?”

“Would you believe I was in the middle of an angiogram two months ago?”

“You what?”

“Should have been routine, but an artery the cardio didn’t know about got jammed. Just when he’s Roto-Rootering another one and—”

I said, “Shut up. I don’t wanna hear about it.”

He looked wiped, asked,

“Like a drink?”

“I’d like you to bore the ass off someone else.”

“Just trying to be friendly.”

“I don’t do friendly.”

Finished my drink and got outta there. When I got outside, a man was standing directly across the road, staring at me. In his thirties, blond hair, a decrepit suit. He looked like he was going to say something, then turned and walked away.

If the traffic hadn’t been so heavy I might have gone after him. I thought—“They’re coming outta the woodwork today.”

THE PHONE
was ringing as I got home. Picked it up.

“Mitch?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Billy Norton, where’ve you been—I’ve been ringing you all morning.”

“At a job interview.”

“What? You’ve already got a job.”

“Moneylending? That’s not a job, it’s a virus.”

He took a deep breath, said,

“We go tomorrow, like you agreed.”

“Yeah.”

“Mitch, it’s easy, no problem—all you have to do is be my backup.”

“Easy? First I heard that taking money was easy.”

He was seriously irritated, tried to rein it, said,

“I’ll bring some Red Bull.”

“Some what?”

“It’s an energy drink. You wash down some amphetamines with it, you’re seriously cranked.”

“Seriously deranged too.”

“I’ll pick you up at noon, OK?”

“I can hardly wait.”

LATER ON
, I phoned for a pizza and was waiting for delivery. I was reading Charles Willeford’s
Sideswipe
and lamenting there’d be no more of this brilliant series. In prison I’d read one, two books a day. I intended to maintain the habit.

The doorbell went. Opened it. Not the pizza. A well-built man, steel-gray hair, in a dark suit. He asked,

“Mr. Mitchell?”

“Yeah.”

He produced a warrant card, said,

“I’m Detective Sergeant Kenny—might I have a word?”

“OK.”

He followed me in, examining the room as he did, said, “Nice place.”

I nodded. He sat down, said,

“We get a daily bulletin on ex-prisoners returning to our manor.”

If he expected an answer I didn’t have one.

He took out a packet of cigs, didn’t offer, lit up, continued,

“I recognized your name, but hey, no address.”

“I’m not on parole, I’m a free man.”

“ ’Course you are. I gave your friend Norton a buzz, and he
was most helpful. So I thought I’d drop by, see how you’re settling in.”

The doorbell again. This time it was the pizza. Took it and brought the box in, put it on the table. Kenny said,

“Pizza, great. May I?”

“Sure.”

He opened the box, went,

“Mmm, and thank Christ, no anchovies . . . how about a nice pot o’tea?”

I went and got it going. He shouted in, his mouth full,

“This
is
good. Best to eat it while it’s hot.”

When I got back with the tea, he’d gotten through half, said,

“God, I needed that, missed lunch.”

He sat back, belched. I asked,

“Was there a particular reason for this visit?”

He poured tea, said,

“I had a look at your file. You did three years for aggravated battery.”

“Yeah.”

“I was wondering what your plans were now.”

“I’ve got a job.”

“By jove! That was quick. Legal, is it?”

“Of course.”

He stood up, brushed crumbs off his jacket, said, “Your friend Norton is sailing close to the wind. You’d be wise to avoid him.”

I’d had enough of the bonhomie, asked,

“Is that a threat, Sergeant?”

He smiled, said,

“Whoa, watch that temper, boyo. Wouldn’t want to have you in trouble again.”

I climbed back, said,

“I’m touched by your concern.”

“You will be. Call it intuition.”

I went back inside, bundled up the pizza and dumped it in the garbage. He’d put the butt of the cigarette in the dregs of the tea. I said aloud,

“Fucking pig.”

NEXT MORNING
I was trying to decide what to wear for extortion.

Do you dress up or dress down? Figured I’d play it simple. Jeans and sweatshirt.

Bang on noon, Norton arrived. I got in the van and said,