Mr. Love and Justice (4 page)

‘They come out best of all,’ the star sleuth said.

‘With the new laws?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Like this,’ said the star sleuth, peering at the cats and contraceptives floating on the Grand Union canal. ‘You’re a ponce – right! Your girl is on the streets – yes? Well, if she is she’s certainly had several convictions. But if she’s a call-girl – particularly if she’s started out as one without going on the streets at all – there’s quite likely nothing known against her: no convictions, anyway. Very well. Try proving to a magistrate – let alone a jury – that the male companion of an innocent, unconvicted woman is living off her immoral earnings!’

‘So what can you do about them?’

‘We’re working out techniques to meet the situation. The best is, opinion seems to be, to raid her premises with a warrant for suspected brothel-keeping and sweep him into the net, somehow, in the process. Then, once you’ve got him, a little chat will probably produce results. That
is, if you can
find
him: because the craftier among the ponces are naturally very elusive. And if their woman’s loyal to them it’s going to be tricky in the extreme.’ The star sleuth took out a halfpenny and dropped it in the canal. ‘But not impossible,’ he added.

Frankie had paid his last visit to the Labour because he’d told the clerks there, without venom but with extreme precision and contempt, that he wasn’t going through the comedy of ‘signing on’ any more just like a schoolboy, and that it was
their
job to get him a ship and if they couldn’t, well then, fuck them. They’d said – also without malice but with all the equal contempt of the employed official for the jobless – that that was up to him, here was his week’s money and if he didn’t want any more then of course he needn’t bother to sign on. With these few pounds Frankie went down among the seamen’s homes of Stepney to try to arrange to stow away: not on a long trip, he was not so daft as that, but just to another port where the proportion of mariners to landsmen might be more favourable to his hopes and mental comfort.

On his way down by Leman Street, on the other side of the road, approaching him, he saw the girl: and walked straight ahead, ignoring her; but as they passed his eyes pulled his head round … and he saw it wasn’t she but just another: and as soon as he knew it wasn’t, wished it had been.

Like children (and most men), Frankie was attracted by what, for reasons of pride more than real inclination, he had rejected. The episode near the courts had left him speculating – naturally – on what, if he
had
been her ponce, the life would have been like: and as with so many of us, what we have speculated on at length becomes with time the thing we mean to do. A few weeks’ reflection, too, had taught him that essentially the girl, by her oblique and crafty offer, hadn’t really meant him any harm: her manoeuvre had in its way been flattering; and also – for Frankie was unusually free from self-delusion – had been one that, things being as they were, might as well be rationally considered.

The chief – in fact, the only real – reason against it all was that Frankie thought ponces were bums, and seamen princes. But suppose you were a prince without a throne? That it was criminal didn’t worry him particularly, since Frankie’s code of honour (which most certainly existed) at times coincided with, but at times departed completely from those enshrined by any established sets of laws. For example: he wouldn’t hesitate a second to wound a man – or even, if it came to that, to kill him – if it was to help a friend – a rare and real one. And as for the sexual aspect, this didn’t
worry him at all: because for Frankie, sex
was
love; and sexual attachment the only profound relationship with a woman that he considered possible. The money, of course, would be – well, obviously – useful. Like many seamen, Frankie wasn’t greedy about money and only felt the urgent need of it for explosive blow-outs when ashore in port. On board – with food and a berth and working clothes – he felt no need of it at all and even forgot at times, completely, how much back pay the company might owe him. But to be
destitute
: and on land! That was a real horror, a most shameful and miserable misfortune.

So – all things considered – hadn’t he been a fool to turn her down so finally and abruptly? Quite clearly, poncing would be dangerous … you’d need to find out a lot more about the tackle and ropes of
that
. As obviously, a great deal would depend on how far you could trust the woman; and – more to the point – dominate her. Because in Frankie’s sharp and hard experience a woman, like a ship, was reliable only if you had her under strict and complete control.

Nevertheless: the sea, certainly, came first – and far away so – if it would have him back. No woman and no fortune would hold him from that great and utterly dependable she. So, filled with the determination of a wise and right decision, he spent an energetic day among the nautical layabouts of Wapping. But though he drank a very great deal – and they – no one, apparently, could fix anything or even make a practical suggestion. And as night fell he grew not just dejected and intoxicated, but –
worst of all for a man whose mind and spirit waxed and waned in power with the strength of his animal energy – he grew spiteful, tired and angry. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘anything rather than the Labour’ – and he set off on foot to her address.

Repeated ringing brought no answer: till he became aware from the movement of a curtain that there was someone up there. He withdrew ostentatiously; returned and waited a whole hour in a nearby doorway (fortifying himself from a hip flask) and then, when another lodger entered, ran up and got his foot inside the door. This man (in fact, the landlord) vigorously protested, but Frankie simply lifted him up and placed him on one side, walked up the stairs, banged on the door, heard angry shouts, heaved against it several times and broke inside. The girl was standing by the table holding a breadknife, and her companion, a short, dark man, remained sitting watchfully beside his loaded plate.

‘Get out!’ the girl cried.

‘Not me,’ said Frankie, ‘him.’

‘You’re drunk!’ she shouted.

‘Of course. Is he a customer? Tell him to go!’

‘He’s not. He’s what
you
were too bloody high-and-mighty to want to be.’

And now the man made a rush. Frankie was used to the Maltese, and didn’t underestimate them at all. They’re fast, fearless, and mean business, he knew. He raised a whole leg quickly and braced himself against the wall: the Malt ran into it and lost his knife.
Unfortunately for him his shoes were off his feet, and Frankie (recalling an episode in Williamstown, Victoria) had gone for both of them with all his eleven stone while keeping a fraction of a weather eye on the girl and, more particularly, her breadknife. But she didn’t use it or move, and the Maltese was in agony. Frankie kicked him again, ripped his slacks down by a swift tear at his belt (another Victorian expedient), then closed in, heaved him to the open door and literally ‘threw him down the stairs’.

The girl ran out and cried, ‘Give him his coat here or he’ll call the law!’

Frankie threw it down after him. ‘You want me call the law?’ the Bengali landlord echoed.

‘No, no – I’ll see you straight: a fiver!’ cried the girl.

The front door slammed on the Maltese. They went back in the room. ‘Well!’ said the girl. ‘You
are
a lively boy!’ He grabbed her and got to work ferociously.

An hour or so later they sorted themselves out and resumed the meal abandoned by the Malt. She was gazing at him with frank admiration and also (but perhaps he missed this) with a triumphant, proprietary glint. Downing his VP wine, he said to her, ‘Hand me that thing.’

‘My bag?’

‘You heard.’

She passed it over with a smile and he upended it. ‘Not much,’ he said.

‘Others have been at it.’

‘Not any more.’

‘No? Hi! You’re not going to be one of
those
, are you?’ she cried as she saw him stuffing all the notes into his slacks pocket.

‘One of what?’

‘One who takes
every
thing.’

‘Why – is this all you’ve got?’

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t kid me!’

‘Darling, why should I? You’ll soon find out.’

‘Nothing hidden?’

‘
Hidden
? Are you crazy? In this dump? My bag’s the only safe place – it never leaves me.’

He put it down. ‘Haven’t you got any savings?’ he asked her.

‘
Savings
? Darling! What you take me for!’

‘Well – we’re going to change all that; we’re going to save.’

‘Are we? Well, dear, I’m all for it – but it’s going to be up to you.’

‘Okay. I’ll see to it.’

‘Nice of you. Meantime, could I have a couple of quid for pin money? Only two …’

‘Of course.’

‘
Thank
you. You
are
good to me!’

He kissed her and upset some crockery. She disentangled. ‘And will you tell me,’ she said, ‘just
how
you’re going to save this money?’

‘
How
? Put it in the bank.’

‘Oh, yes? The GPO? The Midland?’

‘Well – why not?’

She looked at him. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I love you, but honest, you worry me, you’ve got a
lot
to learn.’

‘Well – teach me.’

‘Suppose you’re nicked – just on suspicion. And they find you’ve got a bank account. What then?’

‘I see.’

‘You do? Well, then. What next?’

‘We’ll put it in your name.’

‘Oh! So you trust me! Suppose I walk out on you?’

‘You won’t.’

‘Won’t I? Dear, in this business you just
never
can tell.’

She got up, picked up her chair and came round and sat beside him. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Let’s get a few things straight. I love you, Frankie, but there’ll be rows enough if I know you – and know me – and there’s some we can skip by right from the start avoiding misunderstandings.’

He lit a fag. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m new on board. Please clue me up.’

She was looking at him again. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘before we think of anything like saving, we
must
get you a new suit.’

‘Oh, that can wait.’

‘And shirts and shoes and spare slacks and things.’

‘Come on – get on with it. Lay down the cards.’

‘Very well, then. And let’s have first things first. I
don’t
want a ponce who isn’t faithful.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘That’s what they all say! But please understand this, Frankie, very clearly. If you want to mess around with
any other girl, do please just tell me and we’ll wind it up. But don’t try to deceive me.’

‘That seems right enough to me. And what about you?’

‘Me?’

‘You and any other men.’

‘I hope you don’t mean the customers … because, darling, they just mean sweet fuck-all to me.’

‘But what if one ever did?’

‘I’d not see him again.’

‘You promise?’

‘I’m not the sort of girl who has to
promise
. If I say so, it is so.’

‘Me, too. All right, then. What else?’

‘I want to change my business completely. I want a big change in my whole life. I want to go on the phone.’

‘Like call-girl?’

‘Oh, Frankie! Your knowledge, boy!’

‘I’m a seaman, do remember. I’ve got stacks of foreign phone numbers in my diary.’

‘Throw it away, then.’

‘Okay. So call-girl: why?’

‘Because street business is getting too dangerous, because I’m reaching an age when I like to know
who
the client’s going to be, and because I’m tired of thirty bobs and call-girl money’s better.’

‘All right. Will that Asian of yours let you put in your private phone?’

‘You crazy, darling? We’re moving out! I want to go up west.’

‘I’ve no objection. Any particular area?’

‘I thought of Kilburn: it’s quiet and quite select.’

‘Not too select to get a place, I hope.’

‘Baby! This is a straight gaff I’ll be looking for – not a crooked one. In fact … I’ve had what I think’s quite a bright little idea: try and get a council flat.’

‘They wouldn’t get to know?’

‘Well, if they do – we move. And that brings me to another point. Most of the girls, I don’t mind telling you, prefer their boys
not
to have a job so as to make them more dependent. But me, darling, honest, for your own sake I’d rather you had one.’

‘I don’t mind. If I can get one … You know how I’ve tried …’

‘Up west, it’ll be different and I’ll help you. It’s protection for you – no need for you to account to anyone for your means of support; and it’d also mean that we could live together.’

‘Aren’t we going to do that anyway?’

‘Oh, of course! But if you
haven’t
got a job, it’s much safer for you if I live and work in two different places.’

‘I get it. All right – find me a job, then.’

She kissed him. He looked up and said, ‘Baby, apart from that, what do I have to
do
?’

‘Love me.’

‘Of course! But nothing else? Don’t you need protection or something?’

‘Me? Apart from the odd sex maniac I can handle anyone: and even them I can usually spot a mile off. No: all you have to do is be.’

‘Okay. But I must say, if you’ll not think me ignorant, I don’t quite see what
you
’ll get out of it: come to that, what any of you girls do out of having boys.’

She looked at him. ‘I’m just wondering,’ she said, ‘just how much I ought to tell you.’

‘It’s up to you! This truth thing was your idea anyway.’

‘Okey-doke. Well, here it is. Imagine you’re a gigolo – right? You hire yourself out to a dozen women a day. How would you feel?’

‘Exhausted.’

‘No, I mean about your sex life?’

‘Disgusted.’

‘There you are, then. And wouldn’t you feel the need for a real lover – far more than any ordinary woman does?’

Frankie reflected. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said.

‘Well – we do. A ponce, dear, in many cases, is simply an unmarried husband. He’s our little compensation for the kind of life we lead.’

‘All the girls feel that way?’

‘Not all – not even all those who
do
have ponces. With some of them it’s just to show them off: that they’ve hooked some splendid great big hunk of man.’

‘That’s just like
any
girl.’

‘A
lot
of things about whores are, dear, as you’ll discover.’

‘Well – what else?’

‘This is the one I shouldn’t tell you, but I will. A woman always likes to
own
a man.’

‘So you own me?’

‘Wait! All women like it. An old bag with a gigolo – doesn’t she? A rich wife with a poor husband – doesn’t she too? And even respectable women: don’t they like to boss their husbands somehow if they can? Get the hooks on them some way? Well, with us it’s a mania. And I won’t hide it from you, so there’ll be no tears, no reproaches. There’s nobody in the whole wide world who’s hooked by a woman like a ponce is by a whore.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll put it to you straight: because he’s a criminal and she’s not.’

‘And she could shop him?’

‘Any minute of the day.’

There was silence.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Well, I see that. But it seems to me
he
’s not without weapons in his jacket, too.’