Tough, Tough Toys for Tough, Tough Boys (20 page)

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, t'chew!’ Tembe sucked his cheek disdainfully. ‘You taken a decco at your fuckin’ profile recently. It ain't just
low,
big brother – it's in the fuckin’ gutter.’

Danny had had to admit that his terminally stringy vest, caked dungarees, and flip-flop footwear that wasn't flip-flops was hardly the acme of respectability. He shut up and applied himself to the business of acquiring more blow-torch burns on his hands. And now, replaying the conversation in his echoing inner ear as he slopped through the oppressive, grooved runnel of Lothbury EC2, it occurred to Danny that the Fates were undoubtedly responsible for this bizarre vice versa, and that even these intimations of doom and destruction – which were nothing if not routine – were, on this particular day, awfully germane portents.

Poor Danny – as he crouched in a service entrance of the Bank of England, servicing his own entrance – he couldn't possibly have known which, precise, words had been portents (they were, as it happens, ‘Maltese’ and ‘low profile'). And although the Fates were temporarily routed in the direction of Aldgate – stashing their AKs, pocketing their false Korans, gathering their ghostly robes about them as they went – at the precise moment, some five minutes later, when Danny flotched into the lobby of Barclays De Zoete Wedd, his head uncluttered by magical thinking, his nemesis was touching down at Heathrow.

Skank, who for the purposes, of this business trip had sensibly adopted the work name ‘Joseph Andrews’, had certain inflexible views about air travel: it was against the law of God, and it terrified him. ‘You tek de bird,’ he would lecture his fear-hobbled audience, ‘de bird have feathers, it have light bones. Pick a bird up – feel it weight in your hand. Feel how
sui-ta-ble
it is for flyin’ – because God made it that way. But you tek de plane. De plane is made of metal, it shaped like a bullet. It may go up high in the sky, but one day it falls back to eart’.’

Skank dealt with his fear of flying by coshing himself insensible for the duration with a Rohypnol; but as the wheels bumped and then glued themselves to tarmac, he was wide awake, and clutching the hands of the two small children who were sitting either side of him so tightly that they did his screaming for him.

The children came courtesy of one of Skank's employees, as did their mother, who was, purely recreationally, the wife of the real Joseph Andrews, a Pentecostalist minister who had absolutely no idea that she was in so deep with crack, that she was in still deeper with the Yardies; and that it followed they'd pay her to take a little holiday to her sister's in London. After Dorelia had gone, Joseph had no idea where his passport was either.

Joseph Andrews, a.k.a. Skank, entered the immigration hall with his two pseudo kids still tightly clasped. His ‘wife’ walked demurely a few paces behind him carrying the hand luggage. When he reached the counter he put the two green Jamaican passports directly into the officer's hand. The officer scanned the face in the photograph – same celluloid dog collar, same v-neck pullover, same serviceable black jacket – then scanned the face in front of him once more. Skank bore an expression of bleak sanctimoniousness, utterly befitting a man who believed in the full weight of the Lord's Providence.

‘Is this the address you'll be staying at during your stay, Reverend Andrews?’ asked the officer.

“Thass right, my sister-in-law's in Stockwell.’

‘And the purpose of your visit, Reverend?’

‘Y'know, catching up with the family, friends –’

‘But you won't be doing any work?’

Skank fixed the officer with an inquisitorial eye. ‘I don't consider the Lord's work to be work as such, but since you ax’ I will be preaching at the Stockwell Temple –’

‘Of course, of course, that's quite all right, Reverend.’ And with a cursory glance at the children and their mother, and then at their passport photographs, he waved the party on. The next entrant in line came to the desk and proffered his passport.

A young man had been circling the arrivals’ pick-up zone for some time in a Mercedes saloon, when Skank and the Andrews emerged from the terminal. He pulled up to the kerb and they got in. As the car sped down the exit ramp Skank yanked off the stiff dog collar, and in one fluid motion removed the Glock which was stashed in the glove compartment. He checked the magazine and put the automatic in his jacket pocket, then turning to the driver said, ‘So, what de word, Blutie?’

‘The word is good, Skank,’ the young man replied, flashing a gold ‘n gap grin.

‘Then
drive
blud claat.’

Skank dropped the Andrews in Stockwell and went on, heading for the East End. As the big merc. splashed through the low-rise high density of South London, the big dread carefully removed what remained of his hairy finery from beneath a wig and a flesh-coloured bathing cap. Turning to Blutie, Skank said, ‘De blud claat gone done make me shed me locks, y'know. It's not enough for him to steal – he have to mek a man shed ‘im locks. And for why? Jus’ to pay some fucker – jus’ to pay him!’

‘It's the way here, Skank. The Chinaman said he'd happily farm the contract for you – but you gotta come in person to hand over the dosh – shows good faith an’ that.’

‘T'chew! I call it rank stu-pid-ity, boy. If de chink knew we was settlin’ a hundred thousand-dollar score mebbe he'd want more for hisself.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ said Blutie – who liked the sound of the word.

‘As is, wa’ he charge for us to rub out dis piece of shit?’

‘Two hundred quid.’

‘Two hundred pounds! Sheeit! Life is cheaper than fuckin’ Trenchtown in this place.’

‘You ain't tellin’ no word of a lie, Skank, but see here.’ Blutie shifted in his seat and spread his hands wide on the steering wheel. ‘You've got to ‘preciate that the Chinaman isn't taking out a contract on London for us, it's more like he's selling on the debt. The enforcer we're going to meet
wants
the contract. He thinks he can extract a fair wadge out of Danny – thass London's moniker now – before he does the how's your father –’

‘But he gua-ran-tee to kill ‘im, right? He gua-ran-tee to shoot the little fucker, yeah?’

‘He's solid – the Chinaman says so.’

It was unfortunate for Skank that he didn't know as much about the Chinaman as he did about revenge. Skank's revenge on Danny wasn't a dish eaten cold – it was well nigh frozen. It had been five years since the three keys had gone missing in Philly, and all that time Skank had bided, waited. He picked up bits of information here and there and husbanded them; he put irons in the fire and tended them. Eventually the poisonous tree bore fruit, the Chinaman, a long-time associate of Skank's, told him that a black crack-head from Harlesden, who smoked regularly in his house, had told him in turn, about a crew on his manor who were outing much better than average product.

The Chinaman found this interesting enough in itself – it was always wise to keep abreast of the competition. But more interesting still was the thumbnail c.v. the crack-head supplied of the two brothers who ran the operation. Apparently, the older brother, who went by the name of Danny, had been in the army. But more than that, he had gone into the army after a trip to Jamaica. A trip to Jamaica in the late eighties.

It was the only down time in the twenty-four when the big merc. bearing the big dread pulled up in front of the old house on Milligan Street, in back of the Limehouse Causeway. ‘Wa’ de fuck's
that
?‘ enquired Skank, seeing the Canary Wharf Tower for the first time in his life as he got out of the car.

‘Offices,’ Blutie replied. ‘I'll park the motor.’

Skank was ushered into the mouldering gaff by a child, who might have been the Chinaman's granddaughter, or even his great-granddaughter. They picked their way through the warren of interconnected rooms and found the old man in what could have been a kitchen, had it not been for the presence of a large steel desk and two filing cabinets, in addition to sink, fridge and vomit swirl-patterned lino tiles. ‘Please!’ he exclaimed, getting up from behind the desk. ‘Please to be welcome to my office, Mistah Skank!’

‘Please,’ Skank countered, ‘jus’ Skank is suff-ic-ient. So iss all offices roun’ hereabout now?’

‘Oh yes, oh yes, plenty change, big new dewelopment. Plenty offices. Plenty office workers. Plenty office workers who need help –’

‘So, busyness is good then?’

‘Busyness is excellent! This is an enterpwise zone –’

‘Issatso.’ Skank couldn't help feeling that the Chinaman's efficiency and zeal was undercut by his working apparel, a dirty terry-towelling bathrobe, but he hadn't come to talk about that. ‘I've got de two hundred – have you got my man?’

‘No problem, no problem –’ He broke off and called into the next room, ‘Mistah Gerald, would you come through, the Jamaican gentleman has arrived.’

Certainly the Chinaman liked to think that Gerald was a run-of-the-mill enforcer. But the Chinaman's mind was not unlike his place of business, a bewildering agglomeration of different spaces housing deeply incompatible contents. And as in each of the rooms of the Chinaman's bizarre den – one set aside for opium smoking, the next for crack, a third for ecstatic gibbering – each of the compartments of his mind featured a different belief system, an incompatible truth, another story.

Even Skank felt a chill run down the back of his neck when Gerald walked into the room. He was a small man with hardly any shoulders; his face wasn't so much warped as entirely twisted to one side, as if the wind had changed at the precise moment Gerald had been hit with a hard right cross. He had on a blue nylon anorak of the kind children wore in the sixties; set on his head was an obvious toupee. Set beneath the toupee, and shining forth despite the violent moue was a visage of absolutely uncompromising vapidity and bloodlessness; a face like the belly of a toad. This was not a man with ordinary feelings – or perhaps any feelings at all. Accompanying Gerald was a boy of about fifteen, the same height as his master – for clearly, that's who Gerald was – pipe-cleaner thin, ginger-haired, freckled, and wearing an identical blue anorak. They both had flesh-coloured rubber gloves on.

Skank cleared his throat, ‘Errm . . . Gerald.’

‘Yes.’ The voice was blank as well.

‘Dis man ‘ere say you can deal with my prob-lem.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know where de fellow lives?’

‘Not necessawy,’ the Chinaman interjected. ‘The man who told me about him – he'll bring him here tonight. He's had a little twouble with the police – it wasn't hard to persuade him.’

‘Good. Den what?’ Skank had folded his arms and was regarding Gerald critically. The blank man unzipped his anorak without speaking and flipped it open. A shotgun, cut down so that there were only three inches of the barrel and half the stock left was dangling from a hook inside it. Skank said nothing. Gerald zipped the anorak up again.

Blutie came into the room and handed Skank an envelope, which the big dread handed to the Chinaman. The Chinaman handed it to Gerald. Skank shook hands with the Chinaman, nodded to Gerald and he and Blutie left the room. Skank didn't take a full breath until they were back in the street.

2.

Bruno and Danny sat on the stairs of the old house in Milligan Street husbanding the last crumbs of Bruno's crack. It was around midnight. Bruno had sworn to Danny that he'd be generous with the shit – even though he was buying. But inevitably, now that they were down to the penultimate hit they were beginning to squabble. ‘Sheeit!’ Bruno exclaimed. ‘Thass loads more than my last – take a bit of it off, man!’

‘No way!’ Danny replied. ‘You said I could have a big one to finish on – then there's that for you.’ He pointed at the crumb of white stuff that remained lying on a piece of plastic on the dusty stair. ‘Iss no help that we've only got this poxy fuckin’ bottle.’ Danny gestured with the pipe they were using, which had been crudely fashioned out of a miniature Volvic mineral-water bottle.

‘You should've brought your fuckin’ stem, man,’ Bruno retorted.

’You
should've brought
your
fuckin’ stem ‘n all.’ And to put an end to the pathetic quarrel, Danny sparked his lighter, applied it to the heap of fag ash and crack set in the tin-foil bowl, and commenced drawing on the biro stem.

At that moment a large party of people – perhaps six in all, entered the hallway at the foot of the stairs. The Chinaman met them himself, ushering in their leader – a large, heavy-set man wearing an expensive ‘crombie – with much bowing and scraping. The four other men who shuffled in behind were clad in various degrees of fashionable suiting, and together with them was a quite beautiful young woman in a very short skirt. Danny wasn't paying any attention, but Bruno pegged them as West End media types, out for a night's drug slumming.

The party, led by the Chinaman, commenced tramping up the stairs past the crack smokers. They all ostentatiously averted their eyes from the spectacle of Danny, drawing for all he was worth on his final pipe of the day, except for the last man to pass, a fat type with oval glasses smoking a cigar, who squinted down at the pipe in Danny's hand and sneered, ‘I prefer Evian myself.’

Danny stopped drawing on the pipe, and together with a plume of crack smoke spat at the man, ‘Whassit t'you, cunt!’ but Bruno laid a hand on his arm and muttered, ‘Safe, Danny.’ And he let it lie.

Not for long though. After ten minutes had elapsed and together with them the last vestiges of Danny's hit of crack, he began to appreciate the full awfulness of his position. He was hideously strung out. He'd done three rocks more than he should have during his morning's sodden tramp around the financial institutions. He managed to deliver twenty rocks to the bitches at the Learmont and the ones in Sixth Avenue, but it hadn't been quite enough to mollify Mr Tembe, who had cut his evening hit of brown to a mere smear. So Danny now had the rumbling beginnings of heroin withdrawal to contend with, as well as the hideous trough of a crack come-down. He hated sitting on this filthy staircase, waiting to summon the energy to stagger down, stagger to the tube, clank all the way back to Harlesden, face the derision of his squeaky-clean little brother: ‘Thass whappen when you smoke the shit, man, give it a rest . . .’ And all the way the Fates walking with him, whispering and cachinnating, ordering him to tread there, breathe here, spit there, unless he wanted to be eviscerated by destiny. But what Danny hated most of all, right here and now, was the dissing the fat white cunt had given him.