A Cool Breeze on the Underground (17 page)

Neal listened to his heartbeat and felt himself breathing hard, and he made some decisions then and there about Colin, Allie, Kitteredge, and himself.

Allie washed up in the women’s loo. She slipped off her T-shirt and splashed water on herself, roiled on deodorant, and sprayed a touch of perfume between her breasts. She pulled a dark blue silk blouse out of her bag and put it on over her jeans, then went to work with the tiny makeup kit. She expertly penciled around her eyes, used just a trace of mascara, then a light blush; bloodred lipstick topped off the look, casual, expensive, a little dangerous.

“Killer,” said Colin. He shouted out the door. “Neal, come in, lad, and have a spot of tea!”

Neal took a look at Allie and knew he’d seen this movie before. “What are you decked out for?”

“Not what.
Who?

“Oh.”

Colin spooned out a generous dose of coke and held it up to Allie. She sighed. “Something more, babe?”

“Later.”

“It’s always later.” She snorted the coke anyway, doing two spoons with practiced ease.

Colin took a hit and offered a spoon to Neal. He took it in, and tasted that funny metallic taste deep down in his throat. It wasn’t very good coke.

Colin handed Allie a slip of paper. “You want me to send Crisp along?”

Allie shook her head. “It’s an easy one. I’ve done it before. See you back at the flat.”

She pecked him on the lips, waved a goodbye, and headed out the door. Neal didn’t say anything; thought he’d let Colin bring it up if he wanted.

“It’s just fucking, right?” Colin asked.

“Sure.”

“I need a pint.”

“I’m buying.”

The band was on a break. You could hear yourself talk. And think.

“You liked it?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not so much bullshit. Most rock’s become bullshit, you know. Like they forgot what it’s about.”

“It’s physical.”

“It’s about living right now, and forget that other crap. There’s no future anyway, so forget about it. Me, I wouldn’t half mind if the IRA blew the whole city up, start with Fuckingham Palace.”

“You want to kill the rich. I just want to take their money.” Truer words, Neal, old pal, truer words.

“You take their money, you have to take their shit.”

“Not if you do it right.”

Colin looked at him differently. “Maybe we’ll talk.”

“Maybe.”

They left The Club at about 2:00 A.M. Neal had a major buzz on from the speed, the coke, and God only knows how many pints. His head rang from the combined effects of drugs, alcohol, noise, and the nagging anxiety of not knowing where Allie was. Maybe I should have split and followed her. Maybe she wants out and is just looking for her chance. Maybe I could have grabbed her at whatever hotel she’s at and said, “Here I am to save the day” and gone straight to Heathrow and caught the next flight out. Maybe. But more likely, I’d have blown the whole thing.

So he hung with Colin, Crisp, and Vanessa.

“Come crash at my flat,” Colin said.

“No thanks. I’ll catch a cab back to the hotel.”

“Not at this time of night down here. Come on, you can crash on the floor, go home in the morning.”

“Streets aren’t safe this time of the night,” Crisp said. “Lots of punks wandering around.” He grinned like an old horse headed for the stable.

“Yeah, okay.”

They walked along the monotonous streets lined with blocks of flats, sweetshops, and news brokers. All the places were shut down for the night and few cars prowled the street. It was pretty dull. Until they came across the Pakis.

There were five of them and they were pissed. Pissed as in drunk. Pissed as in angry. Five larger than average Pakistani immigrants in loud pastel shirts, white jeans, and black loafers. They looked like a band at a cheap wedding. They blocked the sidewalk.

“Hello, Colin,” said their leader. He impressed Neal as a muscular type.

“Your name wouldn’t be Ali, would it?” Colin inquired pleasantly. “In fact, would all your names be Ali?”

Ali’s name was, in fact, Ali. And he wasn’t amused. “Where’s your gang, Colin?”

“Fucking your mother, I should think.”

For good measure, Crisp chimed in, “Why don’t you stinking wogs go back to Pakistaniland where you belong?”

Ali smiled and said, “Colin thinks he’s a big man now because he has some protection down on the Main Drag. But, Colin, this is not the Main Drag and you don’t have any protection here.”

“You see, Neal,” Colin said, “you’ve gone and stumbled on what the BBC calls racial tension here. We don’t like the Pakis. We don’t like them taking our jobs, our flats, our shops, and our parks. We don’t like them crowding up our city with endless brats and their ugly wives. We don’t like their dingy color, their smelly food, their greasy hair, their bad breath, or their ugly, stupid faces. The only thing they’re good for is providing poor blokes like us with a bit of a hobby. Our version of bird shooting—Paki bashing.”

“Yes, Neal,” Ali said in a voice that let him know he was in for it, “but one of the great features of Paki bashing is that the white fellows need to be twice our number.”

He pulled a very nasty-looking leather sap from his jeans pocket.

Neal Carey hated fighting. He hated fighting for several reasons. One, he thought it was stupid. Two, it was scary and people got hurt. Three, he was bad at it and was usually one of the people who got hurt.

“Another time, then,” said Neal, and he began to move around Ali. This might have worked, except that Colin had a question to ask.

“Tell me, is it your father, or mother, or both that take it up the arse in the loo at King’s Cross?”

The sap flicked out and would have done considerable damage to Colin’s brains, except he wasn’t there. He had ducked beneath it and opened a deep cut from Ali’s hip to knee with a single swipe of his blade. Ali dropped to his knees and let out a scream, which Colin quickly silenced with the toe of his shoe delivered soccer-style to the mouth.

In the meantime, Crisp reacted somewhat negatively to a vicious kick in the balls by straightening up with the beer bottle in his hand and smashing it on his assailant’s chin. Undaunted, the young Pakistani punched Crisp in the side of the head and broke two knuckles, so he was a bit distracted when Vanessa laced him across the throat with a chain.

Neal was feeling considerable gratitude that his opponent seemed to be bearing no weapon and was prepared to duke it out in honorable, manly fashion. Neal assumed
the position:
right hand held in by his chest, ready to strike; left hand held high to block opponent’s right. Block and then counterpunch. Except this guy was left-handed and launched a straight one that caught Neal flush on the nose. And hurt. And hurt even more when he did it again.

Neal wanted to fall down, which had always worked in the gym, but he figured that hitting the deck here would just invite a boot on the neck or a nice kick in the face, so he stayed on his feet and waited for the kid to push his luck with a third shot, which he did. Blessing his attacker’s lack of imagination, Neal stepped to his own left and dodged the punch and drove a hard left hook into the kid’s stomach. Son of a bitch if it didn’t work. The kid doubled over and Neal took advantage of this to fall on top of him, knock him over, and lie on him.

Colin was beating the uncouth piss out of the last Pakistani when Vanessa spotted the police car turning the corner.

“Peelers!” she yelled.

Colin broke off his engagement and grabbed Neal by the back of the collar.

“Run like a bastard!”

Neal wasn’t sure exactly how a bastard ran, but he assumed Colin was following his own advice, so he followed him. They ran several blocks before ducking into the proverbial alley, where he leaned against the wall, gasped for air, threw up, and started bleeding again.

Colin’s flat was a surprise.

It shouldn’t have been, Neal thought. Dope dealers and pimps always make money, even young corners like Colin. The flat was by no means luxurious, but it was in a not-so-bad part of shabby Earl’s Court. It was a second-floor walk-up, but spacious and surprisingly well kept. The sitting room was large and French windows led to a small balcony. The kitchen was not small, but certainly under-used. A coffeepot and a tea kettle sat on a stove, along with jars of Nescafé and sugar.

Colin’s bedroom was large and dark. A blackout shade hung even at night. Neal expected the water bed and the Che Guevara poster. He expected the five locks that secured the main door. He didn’t expect the expensive television in the sitting room, nor the pricey stereo equipment, nor, especially, the brick-and-board bookcases lined with paperback volumes of poetry: Coleridge, Blake, and Byron, Colin was doing all right for himself.

Colin disappeared into the bedroom and came out with a bowl of hash. “Here. This will help cool you out.”

He went into the kitchen and came out with ice wrapped in a paper towel. He handed it to Neal.

Neal placed the cold cloth on his face. It felt great. His nose had started to throb. He felt around it again and decided it really wasn’t broken.

He loved undercover work.

Colin lit the pipe, took a long drag, and handed it to Neal. Neal shook his head. More than enough is more than enough. “It’s mild, Neal. Bopper dope.”

Neal accepted the pipe and drew the hash into his lungs. He held it for a long moment, then exhaled. It beat the shit out of Oval tine.

Carnal sounds came from the small bedroom. “Violence turns Vanessa on,” Colin explained. “Is it worth it?” “For Crisp, it is.” “What’s his real name?”

Colin shrugged and took another drag. He offered the pipe to Neal. Neal declined. More than enough is enough. “I’m going to get some kip. I’ll get you a blanket.” Daddy Colin.

Neal had just dropped off when Allie came in. He heard her long sigh, and heard her put the kettle on the boil. She stood impatiently until it whistled. He listened as she stirred in milk and sugar and then tiptoed to the bedroom door. He heard it open and shut again, and was surprised to hear her tiptoe back into the sitting room. She finished her tea while looking out the window. Then he heard her shuck off her shoes and her jeans and felt her lie down beside him.

“Push over and give me some of the blanket.”

“If Colin comes out here—”

“I just want to sleep.”

“Does he know that?”

Another sigh from Allie. “He’s not alone.”

“He came home alone.”

“So?”

“Oh.”

“Bright guy.”

Neal gave it a shot. “You like living like this?”

“Yes. Now you want to shut up and let me get some sleep?”

Dear Dad, having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. By the way, tonight I’m sleeping with Allie Chase.

He woke up hurting. His nose felt like someone had driven a fist into it, and the rest of his body ached with righteous indignation. He was hangover thirsty and went into the bathroom to get some water.

Allie was sitting on the stool, her knees tucked up under her chin. She bent over with poignant grace, the needle poised over the small vein between her toes. She was concentrating hard, and noticed Neal only after she gently squeezed the plunger. She looked up at him as the heroin hit her. A small pop, but there it was.

“Well,” Neal said, “they do say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“Don’t tell Colin.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“That’s right.”

“He doesn’t know you shoot up?”

“What happened to none of your business?”

“That shit’s bad for you.”

“But so good to me.”

She got up, carefully put the gear back into her bag, and walked past him into the sitting room, where she lay back down on the floor and stared at the ceiling.

He followed her in and lay down beside her. “How long have you been using a wake-up?”

“My, aren’t we hip? A couple of weeks. I don’t know.”

“Expensive habit.”

“I pay for it.”

“I bet you do.” “I’m not an addict.” “I didn’t say you were an addict.”

She rolled over on her side, away from him. “He knows I shoot up. He doesn’t know how much.” She drifted off.

Neal propped his feet up on the balcony railing and gently leaned his chair back. The last of the afternoon sun felt good on his face. He had showered and shaved, borrowed a clean T-shirt from Colin, and was now sipping a cup of bitter Nescafé, on his way to feeling at least remotely human. Allie was safely tucked in and sound asleep. Crisp and Vanessa had gone out in search of food, and Neal and Colin had settled onto the balcony.

Colin was dressed for leisure. He was shirtless and wore denim jeans and biker boots. Reflective sunglasses shielded his eyes from the harsh glare of day.

“Sunday’s a hassle, so I leave it alone,” he was saying. “Too many citizens on the street and the coppers don’t want to see you there. Sunday night’s all right, though.”

“I should get going,” Neal said, yawning.

“What for?”

“The job.”

Colin stretched like a cat. “Talk about the fox in the friggin’ ’en coop.”

“I don’t screw around with it.”

“Pity.”

“Do you rip off
your
customers?”

“Never.”

They sat quietly for a while. Neal thought about what he was up to, then tried not to think about it. Made him feel like shit.

“So are you a heavy dealer, Colin?”

“Not ’eavy enough. Bit of hash, bit of coke …”

“Heroin?”

“No. Wouldn’t harf mind, but the nicker, lad, the nicker …” He rubbed his thumb over his fingertips, the universal sign language for cash. “Takes a ’eap of the filthy lucre to get into smack in any serious way.”

“And the ladies?”

“Wha’ is this? The BBC?”

“Just making conversation.”

“I have a few lady friends who’d rather get paid for it. I take a finder’s fee.”

Yeah, I get a finder’s fee, too, Neal thought. So to speak.

Colin set his head back to catch the rays better. “I was a little bugger during the ’ole ’ippie thing. Love and peace an’ all ‘at shit. The bloody Beatles and their wog guru. Fucking sitars …”

“You got that right.”