A Cool Breeze on the Underground (18 page)

“This punk thing. It says the world is shit. Get pissed, get stoned, get your rocks off. All there is.”

These are a few of my favorite things.

“We just got back from a ’oliday in France,” Colin said. “Got pissed, got stoned, got our rocks off in a different place.”

You did?
You did?
It didn’t take long for it to sink in. You working-class heroes were on some beach in France while I was sweating my balls off on the Main Drag looking for you!

“Colin, you aspire to the middle class.”

“I aspire to a ’eap of filthy lucre.”

“Yeah?”

“Not ‘arf.”

“Maybe I know where you could get it.”

There followed what could be called a significant silence.

“Where’s ‘at?”

Neal set the chair back on the floor, put his cup on the railing, and stood up. He stretched and yawned. “We’ll talk.”

He patted Colin on the head and walked out.

Always leave ’em wanting more, he thought.

20

The next morning, Neal was in a doctor’s office, wincing bravely, fighting back the pain.

“Did that hurt?” Dr. Ferguson asked him. He bent Neal’s leg back again.

“A little,” Neal answered, lifting his head up from the examining table.

“You have a nasty strain here, I believe. You can get dressed.”

Neal slowly brought himself into a sitting position and struggled back into his shirt. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”

Ferguson didn’t look up from his prescription pad. “Any friend of Simon’s, as the saying goes …”

Ferguson tended toward chubby, and seemed quite content with it. He had an owlish face and a full head of brown hair. He lived in the same St. John’s Wood house that held his office. Not that he needed to. He had considerable private income in addition to his practice. He confessed a public passion for cricket, a private passion for his wife, and a secret passion for first-edition books, hence the Simon Keyes connection. Neal had found his number in Simon’s address book.

“I feel really silly, falling down the stairs,” Neal said.

“Yes, well, those stairs of Simon’s …” Ferguson answered. He handed Neal the scrip. “This will help you sleep. Also ease what we physicians like to call discomfort.”

“I just can’t find a comfortable position.”

“‘As the actress said to the bishop.’ Yes, back injuries are inconvenient that way. Next time, you really should consider hurting your ankle. Simon tells me you’re interested in books.”

Neal tossed in another small wince as he lowered himself from the table. “You talked with him?”

“I was motoring up north and popped in at the cottage unannounced. He was quite gracious about it. He tells me you’re a Smollett scholar.”

“Hardly a scholar.”

“And you’re here looking at his collection.”

Thank you, Simon, Neal thought.

“It’s incredible.”

“Does he still have the
Pickle?”

Neal gave him his best Mona Lisa, inscrutable smile.

“I see that he does,” Ferguson said. “Right. Try to stay off your feet. Lie flat, no sitting. If it’s still giving you trouble in a week, come back and we’ll have another look.”

“Thanks again.”

“Don’t thank me. Just filch his Pickle and bring it over in the dark of night.”

Ferguson chuckled at his joke.

Neal chuckled. Then he winced. Then he chuckled again.

There was still a good hour or so before the shops would open, so Neal treated himself to a long walk through Regent’s Park. He went down Park Road through Hanover Gate and found a footpath that took him across the lake past the boat house. By the time he reached the south gate of the zoo, his shirt was soaked but he felt good sweating the weekend’s poisons out of his system.

He stopped in at a grocer’s on Regent’s Park Road and bought ten bottles of Coca-Cola, ten bottles of Pepsi, twenty Aero chocolate bars, three packages of sugar-coated tea biscuits, a pound of white sugar, two jars of honey, a dozen eggs, bread, butter, and jam.

He found a linen shop and bought two sets of sheets, three bath towels, and a dozen hand towels. At a small athletic shop, he bought four pairs of gym socks. An expensive little stationer’s shop provided him with an expensive little attache case with combination locks. His last stop was at the chemist, where he exchanged Ferguson’s prescription for a large plastic vial of sleeping pills.

Simon’s flat was brutally hot and stuffy, so the first thing Neal did was open the windows. Then he laid his groceries out in the kitchen and put the soda in the refrigerator. He tore the sheets up into thin strips and left them in the bedroom, then taped the towels to the sharp corners of the dresser and bedside table. He tied knots into each of the gym socks. Then he removed the bright white bulbs from the ceiling light and the bedside lamp and replaced them with low-wattage frosted bulbs. He took half of the sleeping pills and left them in the bathroom cabinet and put the rest back in his pocket.

Back in the sitting room, he removed the four volumes of Smollett’s
Peregrine Pickle
and placed them in the new attaché case. He memorized the combination and locked it up.

By the time he was finished, it was noon, and already steamy hot out on the street. He bought a
Times
and grabbed an outdoor table under an umbrella at a sidewalk cafe. He had an espresso and a truly goopy Italian pastry as he scanned the paper. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for: the London Philharmonic at Albert Hall. Thursday night. Proceeds to go to the World Wildlife Fund. Prince Philip to make opening remarks. Public welcome. And a large SOLD OUT notice bannered across the ad. Buy early next time, public.

He downed another espresso and grabbed a taxi back to the hotel

An already harried concierge looked up from his list of problems. The house was jam-packed with tourists. “Yes, sir?”

“Yes. Would you have any tickets available for the Philharmonic on Thursday evening? July second?”

“Let me check, sir.” He looked into a thick book. “No, sir. Terribly sorry. All booked.”

“I’ve already booked. Name is Carey.”

The concierge sighed through his smile. “That is different, sir. Let me find you.” He went back to the book. “Sorry again, Mr. Carey. I don’t seem to find you here.”

Neal could hear impatient shuffling starting behind him. “Maybe it’s under another name. I’m with a party.”

He let the silence hang.

The concierge gave in first. “Which party might that be, sir?”

“The Henderson party.”

Back to the book.

“At this hotel, sir?”

“Wouldn’t use any other.”

“Thank you, sir.” The concierge looked over Neal’s shoulder at the next guest and gave a quick smile indicating his tolerance. Then he perused the book again. “No. Sorry, sir.”

“Oh dear. Maybe she’s using her married name.”

The concierge could not resist a two-beat comic pause before he intoned, “And if we knew what that name was, sir, we might be able to find it.”

“Zacharias.
Z
as in zebra,
a
as in appropriate,
c
as in choreography,
h
as in—”

“I think I can take it from there, sir.”

No luck.

“Sorry once again, Mr. Carey. Are you quite certain—”

“Well, maybe Susan didn’t make the arrangements, maybe Nell did. Could you look under Taglianetti?”

“Mr. Carey, we are just a bit busy at the moment. Would it be terribly rude of me to ask if you would be so kind as to look yourself and then inform me of your progress?”

“No, not at all.”

“Here you are, then.”

He handed Neal the book. Neal scanned it, looking for the names of married women who were going to the affair alone. He found five, their room numbers inked in beside them. He ran a chant several times through his head: Harris, 518; Goldman, 712; Ulrich, 823; Myers, 665; Renaldi, 422. Then he hurried to his room and wrote them down.

Now for the tedious part, he thought.

Ulrich 823 turned out to be German, so that was no good. Neal hung up as soon as he heard the “
Ja
?” on the phone. He tried Harris 518. “May I speak to Joe Harris, please?”

The voice was an old woman’s. “I’m sorry, dear, you have the wrong party. Ask at the desk.”

Okeydoke. Let’s give Goldman 712 a spin.

“Hello, may I speak to Mr. Goldman, please?”

“Speaking.” A man’s voice. American. East Coast. Sounds about the right age.

“Mr. Goldman, this is Mr. Panto of Consolidated Limited ringing to confirm our appointment tomorrow morning.”

“I think you have the wrong number.”

“I’m terribly sorry. Is this Mr. Alan Goldman of Schreff and Sons?”

“No, this is Dave Goldman of just plain Goldman. I’m an attorney.”

“I am sorry.”

“That’s okay. Have a good one.” Dave Goldman hung up.

So, Neal thought, I know a few things about Goldman 712. He’s a lawyer, here with his wife, and she isn’t dragging him to any damn philharmonic Thursday night, he doesn’t
give
a shit who’s going to make opening remarks. Maybe I’ve found my couple. Better take a look at them to make sure.

Nice-looking couple, he thought, which they better be after keeping me waiting an hour and a half in the hallway. Mid-forties, stylish, the wife an uptight brunette who puts in some time at the spa. He’s well built. Black hair just beginning to show a little silver. What used to be called a snappy dresser. Amazingly white teeth, Full range of plastic: AmEx, Diners Club. Good tipper.

He didn’t follow them out of the restaurant, but finished his own meal—an excuse for a hamburger that would have made the boys at Nick’s weep—and read the
International Herald Tribune,
The Yankees were in first place.

The phone woke him from a pleasant nap. It was only five o’clock and he hadn’t planned to head out until seven or so.

“You haven’t called in for three days,” Ed said.

“No news.”

“Then call and say ‘no news,’” Levine answered.
“No progress at
all?”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Do better. You have four weeks.”

“Jesus Christ, Ed. You and I both know this is a fool’s errand.”

“Then you’re just the man for the job. Call in.”

Neal got out of bed and stepped into the shower. The cold water woke him up. Four weeks, he thought. A lot can happen in four weeks, Ed.

Ed levine set the phone down.

“Nothing, huh?” asked Rich Lombardi.

“Not yet.”

Lombardi set the case notes back on Levine’s desk. “Might have been too much to ask for, anyway.”

“It was always a long shot.”

Lombardi left the Friends office and went to the nearest phone booth. He had a lot of calls to make. The convention was just around the corner, the Senator was on the short list, and there was so much to make sure of. Title this story
The Man Behind the Man.

21

Allie was stoned out of her gourd.

When Neal made it over to the Earl’s Court flat around eight o’clock, he found her pacing the floor, muttering a semicoherent diatribe against television game shows, particularly British ones where the contestants didn’t win any money worth mentioning.

“No Frigidaires, either. No dinette sets, no living room combinations, washer-dryers. No Toyotas. No trips to Honolulu!”

“C’mon in,” Vanessa said to Neal. “Colin’s not here, though.”

Neal knew that already. He had already placed Colin back in Leicester Square. “Where is he?”

“Taking care of business.”

Spotting Neal, Allie switched gears and launched into an assault on American men, particularly the ones from New York who think they know everything about screwing, but don’t.

“They’re pigs. Pigs! New York boys just want to get into your pants, and then they don’t know what to do there. I hate that!”

Vanessa disappeared into the bathroom.

“And ice cream,” Allie muttered. “You can’t get any decent ice cream in this lousy country. They give you some shit called ice cream, but it isn’t. Neal, did you bring any real ice cream with you?”

“No. Sorry.”

She stepped over to him and looked him in the eyes. “You’re no good, Neal. You know that? No damn good at all.”

She said it with such utter sincerity and then gave him a smile so dazzling that he couldn’t quite believe she was strung out. He couldn’t help liking her. It was almost as if she was aware of herself, making fun of the American bitch for everyone’s entertainment.

“And the weather,” she continued, “it’s too fucking hot. We sang that in school glee club once. ‘It’s too fucking hot, it’s too fucking hot

“Ίt’s too
darn
hot.’”

“Yeah, it’s too darn fucking hot. It’s supposed to be foggy and rainy. In all the movies, it’s foggy and rainy. You ever see Sherlock Holmes with a
tan?
But I haven’t seen any fog or any rain since I got here and that’s weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks and
what
is Nessa doing to her hair?”

“Shaving half of it off,” Vanessa answered.

Neal looked into the bathroom. Sure as shit, she was shaving half of it off—the left half.

Fascinated, Allie floated into the bathroom. “Why?”

“Bored.”

“May I watch?”

“Sure, love, but you can’t help. You’d slice me to ribbons.”

Allie lay down on the tile floor and played with Vanessa’s falling locks. Neal stood in the doorway.

“Alice,” he asked, “do you have any dates tonight?”

“Do I have any
dates
tonight? Yes, Troy Donahue is coming over and we’re going to the malt shop. No. Frankie Avalon and I are going to a beach party. He broke up with that bitch with the boobs. Because he loves me. No … Wally Cleaver and I are going to the drive-in and I’m going to teach him how to make a girl happy, except I think he really loves Lumpy Rutherford.

“Do I have any dates tonight? You think you’re Colin’s administrative assistant now? Vice pimp, that’s pretty good. No, I don’t have any dates tonight.”

“It’s okay with me.”

“Oh, goody. Neal, go get us some real ice cream, okay? Some real, real ice cream. Chocolate ice cream. Yummy.”

“I have to talk to Colin.”

“You
have to talk with Colin?”

“How does this look?” Vanessa asked them. The left side of her head was bald. The right half was a cascade of magenta locks.

“Hike it,” Neal said. “A lot.”

He turned to leave.

Allie followed him. “I just remembered another song we sang in good old glee club. Wanna hear it?”

You could take her right now, Neal thought. Whisk her off on some excuse and be gone before Vanessa ever thought to ring the phone box…. He hurried down the stairs, and could still hear her singing.

“ ‘A precious gem is what you are. You’re Daddy’s bright and shining star …’ ”

He caught the district line train at Earl’s Court, changed to the Piccadilly Line at South Kensington, and rode it to Leicester Square. The long wooden escalator carried him to the street level. He found Colin in the square, standing under the statue of the Earl of Leicester, The inscription on the base read: THERE IS NO DARKNESS BUT IGNORANCE.

“Hello, rugger,” Colin said. Crisp sat on the ground beside him in his faithful-dog pose.

“How’s business?”

“Buggers are tying up the phone,” Colin answered, pointing to a queue outside the phone box.

“Shout you a pint?”

Colin looked around for a second, then said, “Why not? Crisp, mind the shop, there’s a good lad.”

They walked to a small pub on Floral Street. Neal found a table by the window and brought two pints over.

“I looked for you over at your place earlier,” he said.

“Office hours.”

“Alice is wrecked.”

Colin shrugged. “‘At’s ’er business, isn’t it?”

“Could affect your business. High rollers don’t like junkies.”

Colin stared out the window. “Well, rugger, ’er business or my business, it’s none of your business.”

Neal glanced out the window. “Might be.”

“Ow’s ‘at?”

“I need a girl.”

Colin laughed. “Not Alice. I’ll set you up with someone else.”

“I need a girl for a job.”

Colin took a long draw on his pint before he said, “My da was on the dole is ‘ole fookin’ life. He was always tellin’ me, ‘Son, ge’ a union job. Ge’ a union job an’ you can fook off your ‘ole life.’ That was my da’s great ambition.

“Is this a union job, Neal?”

“No.”

“We’re interested.”

“It’s a one-shot deal, Colin. Lots of money but very tricky. No mistakes. My ass is on the line.”

“How much money?”

“Enough you won’t have to send Alice out on any more dates.”

Either a trace of shame passed across Colin’s face or he was even a better actor than Neal thought.

“I love ’er, Neal.”

“Right.”

“What’s the job?”

Neal shook his head. “Ill tell you tomorrow. The Serpentine. One o’clock.”

Because you can’t make it too simple, Neal thought. And you have to get him into a pattern of following instructions. Turn the relationship around. Otherwise, the whole thing will screw up.

“Why all the bother?” Colin asked.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, rugger.”

The tail had picked Neal up in the square and followed him to the pub. He waited across the street and then stayed with him back to the hotel. He stayed a long way back and was real careful. The kid was supposed to be a pro.

Levine answered the phone.

“I’m calling in,” Neal said.

“Good boy.”

“Take your fucking tail off me.”

“What?”

“Next time, send someone knows what he’s doing.”

“Hey, Neal—”

“Take him off.” Neal hung up.

Levine looked at Graham and Lombardi. “That Neal is some piece of work. Little shit thinks I put a tail on him. Asshole.”

Graham’s rubber hand ground into his real one. He had trained Neal better than to see tails that weren’t there.

“Back off.”

“The kid’s on to something, I can smell it.”

The phone connection from London was bad, so he had to repeat himself. “He made you. Back off.”

“He didn’t make me.” “Who’s paying you? Off!” “You got it.”

The guy hung up the phone. He was pissed off. The kid was a pro. A real cute one.

Two scotches and a hot bath didn’t settle Neal down much. That fucking Levine, he thought. That fucking Levine is going to blow this whole thing. If I as much as smell that guy again …