London Boulevard (8 page)

He stood up, business concluded. At the door, I asked,

“Ever hear of Mick Ballou?”

“Who?”

“A character in a novel.”

“I don’t do fiction.”

And they were gone.

TUESDAY, I
was healing gradually. Went to work. I saw neither Jordan nor Lillian. The tradesman’s entrance was open and my meals left on the table. I did a good day’s work. It was eerie not seeing anybody.

Come lunchtime, I took a stroll down to Notting Hill Gate. I just wanted to see people. Went into the Devonshire and had a half of bitter with a plowman’s lunch. Took a window seat, watching the world. A hippie sat opposite me, wearing a T-shirt that said

JOHN LIVES
YOKO SUCKS

He was the Portobello Road variety. Long stringy hair, bad teeth. His brain fried in the sixties, he hadn’t touched solid ground since. He had a very battered copy of
Beowulf.

Gave me the peace sign. Leastways, I took it as such. A pint of Guinness in front of him. He said,

“You’re a laborer.”

“Shows, huh?”

“The hands, man; good, honest toil.”

I figured he’d be a good judge. I nodded. He said,

“Working-class hero, man.”

“You think so?”

“Man, John said it all . . . got a smoke?”

Gave him a roll-up, he said,

“Cool.”

Time for me to split. I said,

“Stay loose.”

“Yo bro, wanna buy a watch?”

“Naw.”

“It’s a Rolex, man, the real business.”

“I’m not into status.”

“Me neither, man, but ya gotta try, right?”

I had a lot of replies to that, but what I said was,

“Just . . .
imagine
.”

Made his day.

I FINISHED
work at four, still not a soul about. I figured:

(a) They trusted me.

(b) They were testing me.

Either way, I stole nothing.

Truth to tell, I sat in the Silver Ghost a bit. Dreamed some crazy dreams. The car smelt of

polished upholstery

oak

old leather

wealth.

As I was walking down the driveway, I turned fast to look at the house. Saw a curtain move in the bedroom window.

That made me smile.

At the Gate I went into Oxfam and found a dark suit. It nearly fit. The volunteer at the register said,

“Oh, that was a lovely find.”

“Not really, I was looking for it.”

What was lucky was an old Penguin copy of Laurie Lee’s
As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning.

A guy was selling the
Big Issue
outside Burger King. I got that and said,

“A
Big Issue
vendor is being buried this evening.”

“Yeah . . . where?”

“Peckham.”

“No can do, mate, too bloody dangerous.”

“I think he’d appreciate the effort.”

“He’s dead, his days of appreciation are over.”

I’D BEEN
home about twenty minutes, had

a shower

a beer

a painkiller.

Not hurting.

Put on the Oxfam suit. The sleeves were short, the legs too long, but otherwise it fit me like a glove. I got a crisp white Boss shirt from the wardrobe. It fit like a prayer.

Doorbell went.

Briony. She was stunning in a black suit. I said,

“You’re stunning.”

“I know.”

Came in and examined me critically, said,

“You look like an undertaker.”

“Thanks, Bri.”

She rummaged in her bag, produced a fresh rose, asked,

“Will it do?”

“Perfect.”

“Can I have a drink?”

“Sure, whatcha want?”

“Anything lethal, I’ve only done two ’ludes.”

“Black Bush?”

“Lovely.”

She clinked her glass against my beer, said,

“To Michael.”

“Who?”

“Your friend.”

“Joe.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me, I’m positive.”

“OK, to Joe.”

We drank. I called a cab, and he came in jig time. A Rasta; the smell of weed in the car was powerful. When I said, “Peck-ham,”

he said, “Righteous.”

The graveyard is at the back of the bus station. Across the road is the bingo hall. I thought Joe would be pleased to hear the call of

FULL HOUSE

The undertaker was waiting. The grave ready, two men standing beside it. No vicar. A man arrived a few minutes later.

“Dr. Patel,” I said, “good of you to come,” and introduced him to Bri. She held his hand longer than expedient. The undertaker asked,

“Any last words?”

I shook my head. He signaled to the men, and they lowered the coffin. I threw the
Big Issue
in, and Bri dropped the rose. Suddenly, at the gates, a man in full kilt and Scottish regalia appeared—with bagpipes—and began to play “The Lonesome Boatman.”

I dunno from beauty, but the piper was beautiful. Bri said,

“A last-minute surprise.”

“How did you find him?”

“Outside Selfridges, he does a regular gig.”

“Thanks, Bri.”

She gave me an enigmatic smile, said,

“Thanks for the doctor.”

Uh-oh.

I PALMED
some money to the diggers. One of them said, “Did you know Rod Stewart used to be a gravedigger?”

How do you reply to that? I asked,

“Do you sing?”

“Not a word, mate.”

They had a full and familiar laugh. Then I paid the piper, so to speak.

Dr. Patel was deep in conversation with Bri. I said,

“As is usual with a funeral, there’s refreshments after. Might I treat you?”

“Yes.”

From both.

To get the fuck outta Peckham, we went to the Charlie Chaplin at the Elephant. The best that can be said is . . . it’s big.

Bri and the doc took a table, and I went to order.

The barman was a dance short on his card, gushed,

“I love the suit.”

“It’s been in the family for years.”

His eyes lit up, thinking, “A player.” He said,

“Don’t let it go.”

“Never happen.”

My wit exhausted, I ordered

toasted sandwiches

hot toddies

beer chasers

potato chips

nuts.

When he finally brought it all to the table, he exclaimed,

“
Voilà!
”

We dug in. No bullshit from the doc. He downed the hot one, chased it with the beer, bit deep into the toasted. Bri went to feed the jukebox, and we were blasted with,

“Hey, if you happen to see the most beautiful girl . . .”

Even I can sing that. I said,

“Doc, you were great to come.”

“Please call me Sanji.”

“I’ll try.”

He laughed, then asked,

“Is it terrible to say I’m enjoying myself?”

“It’s essential you enjoy yourself.”

Bri returned, said,

“That is a happening jukebox.” Then she turned to Sanji, asked,

“Were you born in India?”

“Yes. I’m from Goa. Apart from the raves and the hippies, we have the mummified remains of St. Francis Xavier.”

Bri and I must have looked blank. He asked,

“You’re not Catholics?”

“Not even decent atheists.”

He chomped on some peanuts, said,

“His body has been preserved, it’s regarded as a miracle.”

Having no reply, I made none. He continued,

“Someone stole his toe.”

“What?”

“Truly. Someone in the world is a devout believer with the toe of St. Francis.”

I couldn’t resist, blame the hot toddy, said,

“Isn’t that very Catholic, toeing the line?”

He smiled, but I don’t think he was amused. Bri excused herself for the ladies’. Sanji gave me an appraising look, asked,

“Might I see . . . your sister?”

Shit.

“I’d advise against it.”

“Nevertheless . . .”

“You will anyway. Sanji, you’re a good bloke, I like you a lot, but she’s not for you.”

“Will you let me try?”

“Can I stop you?”

“No.”

Bri came back, and Sanji said he’d order another, asked,

“Same of everything?”

“Why not.”

Bri leant over to me, said,

“I love him.”

“Jesus.”

“No . . . really, Mitch, he’s like my soul twin.”

Out of anger, trying to get her attention, I said,

“What about Frank?”

And got a look of withering scorn. She said,

“Frank’s dead, Mitch. The sooner you face up to it, the better for all of us.”

Sanji returned, and I felt this was my exit line. I shook his hand and said,

“No doubt I’ll be seeing you.”

He gave me a concerned look, half medical, half Indian, said,

“I will treat her like a gentleman.”

“That’s what you think.”

As I got to the door, the barman said,

“Yo, party pooper, you can’t be leaving already.”

“I’m all partied out.”

He put his hand on his hip, rolled his eyes, said, “Mmmm . . . tough guy.”

Outside, I hailed a cab and resolved next week I’d buy a car.

When I got back to the flat, I wanted to just crash down and out.

Flicked on the TV. Wouldn’t you know, just starting was
Point Blank
.

As Lee Marvin appeared in a suit not unlike my own, I said,

“Now, that’s a tough guy.”

W
EDNESDAY WAS RAINED
out. I went to work anyway. Jordan was in the kitchen, gave me a critical look, said,

“Your injuries are healing.”

“Think so?”

“They appear so.”

Zen or what.

Some drains were blocked, and he asked if I could do anything.

I said, “Sure.”

What a bastard. Took me all day to unclog them. Near four, I was spread out, working on an eave chute, dirty water dribbling in my face, when she appeared. Dressed in a red jersey-knit outfit, it was stuck to her curves. She said,

“Now, that’s what I like to see, a man on his back.”

I finished the bloody job and got to my feet. She came up to about my shoulder. Again with the knowing smirk. I dunno, was it Joe’s funeral, my beating, chemistry, or plain lunacy?

But I grabbed her, pulled her against me and kissed her. First she struggled, but then she blended into me. I got my tongue in
her mouth and my hands on her ass, was gone. The rain came bucketing down, and she pulled away, said,

“I hope you can finish what you started.”

And she was gone.

I stood in the rain, me and a hard-on, and remembered Wednesday night . . . Mr. Gant’s surprise. Back in the garage, I was peeling off the drenched coveralls when Jordan appeared. He said,

“We’ve gone ahead with the room over the garage. It’s all prepared.”

“Shit, I dunno.”

“There is a shower there, a fresh tracksuit . . . please avail.”

I did.

It was a studio-type place:

bed

shower

kitchenette.

And man, bundles of fresh, luxurious towels. As a convict you get a towel per week.

I scalded myself in the shower and, coming out, I noticed a small fridge under the TV packed with beer. I opened a Grolsch and chugged deep.

The bed was freshly made up, and I was sorely tempted. But I had Gant’s surprise to come.

The tracksuit was new, black, large size with the logo

COMPLIMENTS OF CLARIDGE’S

Way to go.

On my way out I met Jordan, who said,

“Miss Palmer has expressed a certain . . .
liking
for your . . . work.”

“I aim to please.”

Blame the Grolsch. He gave a sad smile, said,

“Do aim wisely.”

THE NORTHERN
Line was up to its usual shenanigans, and I didn’t get home till seven. Gant’s car was parked outside. The door opened, and Norton said,

“We’re late, get in.”

The muscle was driving so it was me and Billy in the back. He asked,

“Where the fuck were you?”

“Hey . . . Billy . . . lighten up. I was at work.”

He looked at the tracksuit, said,

“You’re with Claridge’s?”

“Only in an advisory position.”

He was very agitated, a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He was lighting one cig from another. I asked,

“What’s the surprise?”

He muttered, then said grimly,

“You’ll fuckin’ see.”

We drove to New Cross and stopped outside an old warehouse.

I asked, “Didn’t this used to be the meat rack?”

Norton gave me the look. We got out and went inside. Norton said,

“We’re in the basement.”

“I didn’t know it went below ground.”

“There’s a lot you fuckin’ dunno, mate.”

Down he went.

It smelt of rot, piss and desolation. I knew the odor. Below were Gant and two other men. They were standing round a man tied to a chair. A black man. A band of silver tape was round his mouth. Blood leaked from it, so I knew they’d broken his teeth. The southeast London signature.

The black man was wearing a Nike sweatshirt, shot through with sweat. He had Gap khakis that were deep stained from where he’d wet himself. Gant was dressed in a Barbour coat, tan cords. The Browning automatic held loosely at his side was almost incidental. He said,