Authors: Ken Bruen
Figuring I’d get in the swing of things. The waiter came, and Gant ordered two martinis. Gant was in his early forties; the winter eyes briefly met mine. It was enough. He had arrogance and contempt finely mixed. Plus, he was an ugly bastard. Prison has its share of them . . . they’re the wardens.
Drinks came and we sipped. Gant said,
“I’d like you to organize the collections in
Brixton
Clapham
Streatham
and Kennington.”
“I dunno, Mr. Gant.”
“Call me Rob, eh?”
“OK. Rob.”
“You won’t have to do door to door anymore. You supervise the teams, make sure they don’t skim too much. We all like a little off the top, but no one likes a greedy bugger. Your Mr. Norton, now, he’s got way too ambitious.”
“Rob, he’s my mate.”
The waiter brought the menus. Rob said,
“I recommend the lemon sole.”
“I think I’ll have steak.”
“Oh.”
We ordered that, and Rob asked for two bottles of wine I couldn’t pronounce. The waiter repeated them flawlessly so I’d get the point. The food came, and we piled on veg and potatoes. Rob attacked his with relish, said,
“Really, you should have had the fish.”
“In jail, you see a lot of fish.”
The waiter was pouring the wine as I said it. Let him get the point. Rob asked,
“Hear about the shooting in Kennington today?”
“No. Missed the news.”
“Young soccer player shot.”
“If you watched Sky Sports, you’d believe they’re not shooting half enough of them.”
“Get down that way, do you?”
“Kennington? . . . No . . . not my manor really.”
He’d finished his grub and was eyeing mine, said,
“You don’t eat like a convict.”
“Excuse me?”
“Protectively.”
“Not since I read
Miami Blues
.”
He ordered dessert: apple tart with two dollops of ice cream.
I passed. Finally we got to the coffee, and he lit a cigar, said,
“Feel free to smoke.”
I wanted the waiter to see me do a roll-up. Made his miserable evening. Rob said,
“Some habits not covered in that book, eh?”
I didn’t feel it needed an answer. He said,
“You’ll recall I said information was power.”
“Yes.”
“In return, I’d like something from you . . . interested?”
“Sure.”
He stubbed out the cigar, said,
“You did three years for aggravated battery.”
“Yeah.”
“You were in a blackout.”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“What?”
“Your friend Norton did the beating.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Were your hands marked?”
“No . . . but.”
“Norton’s were shredded. The barman followed you out, saw the whole thing. You were too out of it to stand up. Norton legged it, and the cops found you—more coffee?”
“Jesus . . . I . . . no.”
“A brandy for the shock.”
The waiter brought one of those big bubble glasses. You could wash a shirt in it. He left a bottle of Armagnac on the table.
Rob poured generously.
My mind was spinning. I gulped down the brandy. It burned like pain, gave a solid kick to my heart.
Rob said,
“You’ll need time to . . .
digest
the information.”
“Why are you telling me?”
Rob considered this, then,
“I could say it’s because I like you, but I don’t think you’d buy that. Norton has become a major problem. Now he’s your problem.”
“What if I do nothing?”
He spread his hands on the tablecloth, said,
“Then I’d truly be surprised.”
I lit another cig and tried to digest all of this. I asked,
“You said you wanted something from me?”
“Yes. Do you feel my revelation was valuable?”
“That’s one word for it. So, whatcha want?”
“A Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce.”
I laughed out loud.
“You’re kidding. I use the bus, mate.”
“But you have access to one.”
The penny dropped. I said,
“Norton, the fuck, he told you.”
Rob smiled. I asked,
“Why don’t you steal it yourself? Shit, you know where it is.”
He shook an index finger. I fuckin’ loved that. He said,
“You’re missing the whole point, Mitch. I want you to steal it for me.”
“Why on earth?”
“Let’s call it a gesture of good faith.”
Rob excused himself to go to the gents’. The waiter was over like a shot, sneered,
“Shall I bring the bill, sir?
“Yeah, and be fucking quick about it.”
Rob came back and insisted the meal was on him. I didn’t argue.
As we were leaving, he touched my arm, said,
“There’s no hurry . . . but shall we say delivery in one month?”
Outside, his car was waiting. He said,
“I’d offer you a lift, but like you said, you’re a bus person.”
“Rob, I don’t think I’ll be taking up your job offer.”
“Well, then, the rent on your apartment is five hundred a week.”
“C’mon, Rob.”
“Oh, and the other thing, now that we’re outside—it’s Mr. Gant to you.”
With that, he got in the car and was off.
I was going to walk down by Drury Lane but decided I’d had enough theater for one night.
I
MOVED OUT
of Clapham next day. Packed the essentials:
Gun.
Money.
Dope.
I took the Gucci jacket—well, you’d be mad not to. Some sweatshirts and jeans. Left the blazer and dark suit. I didn’t plan on any more funerals. A half-dozen crime novels. Was able to fit all that in one bag. Traveling light. Then I just eased on away.
As I walked up the drive in Holland Park, I hoped they’d be home. Went round the tradesman’s, entrance. Jordan was at the kitchen table, reading the business section of the
Sunday Times
. If he was surprised to see me, he hid it well, asked,
“You’re doing some overtime?”
“Actually, I’ve come to live with you.”
He folded the paper neatly, said,
“Madam was right.”
“Yeah?”
“She said you’d move in within a week.”
He stood up, said,
“Have some coffee, I’ll prepare your room.”
I sat down, thinking—“Shit, that was easy.”
I was rolling a cig when I remembered the no-smoking rule. Lit up anyway. I lived here. When Jordan returned, he looked at the smoke but let it go. He said,
“I believe all you need is there: shower, hot plate, fridge. There isn’t a phone so I’ve lent you a cell till we get a line in.”
I asked, “What’s the ground rules?”
“Pardon?”
“C’mon, pal, the do’s and don’ts.”
He smiled—this guy liked plans—said,
“Very simple. You stay out of the main house unless summoned.”
“
Summoned
. I look forward to that.”
The summons came quicker than either of us expected. A bell rang, and he said,
“Excuse me.”
Ten minutes later he was back, said,
“Madam welcomes you to the Elms and wishes to know if you’d be prepared to drive as part of your duties.”
“Sure, do I get to wear a uniform?”
“We don’t do uniforms.”
I hauled my bag to the garage and went to unpack. The room smelt of air freshener. The cell phone was on the table. A Rolls-Royce in the garage, a cell phone in my hand—welcome to the pleasure dome.
Rang Jeff first, said,
“Jeff, it’s Mitch.”
“Hi, Mitch, it was good to see you on Saturday. Change your mind about the job?”
“No, mate, thanks. What do you know about a villain named Gant?”
“Whoa . . . bad news, a header to boot, your total fuckin’ whacko.”
“Oh.”
“Your mate Billy Norton runs with ’im.”
My mate!
“It’s a long shot, Jeff, but would you know where he lives?”
“Yeah, I did a piece of work with him, but never again. Trust me, you don’t wanna go there, mate.”
“All the same, Jeff?”
“Sure, hang on a mo’ . . .”
Then, “Nineteen Regal Gardens, Dulwich. He owns the house and most of the street.”
“Thanks, Jeff.”
“Give ’im a wide berth, mate.”
“I’ll try.”
Next up I rang Bri, gave her my new address and the cell number. She didn’t say anything. I had to ask,
“Bri . . . you there?”
“It’s that old girl’s address, isn’t it?”
“Not like you think, it’s work.”
“At her age, I’m sure it’s very hard work.”
And she hung up on me.
Jeez, if Bri wasn’t careful, she’d develop a sense of humor.
I was cooking on this cell phone. Rang Norton. Sounded like I woke him. I asked,
“Billy, did I wake you?”
“No . . . I . . . was . . . ahm . . . jerking off. That you, Mitch?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re fucked, man.”
“Excuse me?”
“Gant has a hard-on for you. Oh . . . and you’re fired.”
“Gee, Billy, you sound broke up about it.”
Deep sigh.
“What’s with you, man? I get you the sweetest deal, and you shit all over it.”
“You’re my mate, Billy . . . right?”
“Yeah.”
“So lemme tell you, Gant ain’t so hot on you either.”
“You see . . . you see, Mitch, there you go again, your head’s all fucked up.”
“Billy, the guy’s bad news.”
“Mitch . . . you’re the bad news. He said you owe him something.”
“I owe him jack.”
“You better pay it, Mitch, he gets crazy over stuff like that.”
“One last thing, Billy. After I did that guy three years ago, how did your hands look?”
Long silence, then,
“You’re gone, man, I’m talking to a zero.”
And he hung up.
Now I knew it was true. The dirty bastard.
My first year in prison, there was a black queen on the tier above. He’d been turned out his first week and had gone into it wholesale. He was just eighteen and so the legal age for grown-up jail.
He worked at it, trading blow jobs for cosmetics, full anal for lingerie. Every night about eleven thirty he’d begin to sing “Fernando.” A slow, crystal-pure version. All blues, all loss.
“Can you hear the drums, Fernando . . .”
For the few minutes of the song, the whole shitty institution went deathly quiet. Not a sound. Just this lone achingly raw lyric.
One evening on chow line, he was ahead of me. I said,
“You have a wonderful voice.”
He turned, rouge on his cheeks, eyeliner courtesy of boot polish, said,
“Oh, thank you so much. Do you want a blow job?”
“Naw . . . I just wanted to say you’ve got real talent.”
I was already sorry I’d bothered. Any longer with him and I’d be prey again. I went to move off, he said,
“No . . . you can do me for free.”
Jesus.
I dunno why, but I gave it a final shot, said,
“Why do you do . . . that stuff?”
“It’s my only protection.”
Who was I to argue? I moved off, and the next time he greeted me, I said,
“The fuck you talking to?”
A few months later, he was strangled with a pair of panty hose.
I told myself ignoring him was my protection. Sometimes, I half believed it.
I stood up, threw the cell phone on the bed, said aloud, “Billyboy, you get to pay for Fernando.”
TIME WAS
when London was shut on a Sunday. Even the bookies are open now. I headed into Bayswater and joined the Arab world. If anyone was speaking English, I didn’t hear them.
To Whiteleys and found what I wanted on the third floor. In the window was a Silver Ghost, flanked by a Lamborghini and a Ferrari. The salesman approached. I said I’d like the Ghost, and he handed it to me. Perfect in every miniature detail. Not cheap either. While the guy was wrapping it, I spotted a DeLorean. The salesman spotted my interest, but I shook my head. I thought—“And they still can’t unload one.”
Got a small padded envelope and some stamps. Then I addressed the envelope:
ROB GANT
and his home.
I put one stamp on and wrote in glaring capitals:
INSUFFICIENT POSTAGE
Mailed it.
Took a walk in Hyde Park and spent an hour being zoomed by Rollerbladers. Next time I’d take the Glock. Slow down the speed.
I’d no idea what to plan for Norton, figured I’d let it unfold.
Knowing him, he’d make it happen. Gant too, he’d be coming. I could have left London, but where could I go?
Plus, I didn’t want to go.
Also, I’d a fix on Lillian Palmer, and I definitely wanted to see where that went. Where else would I get the shot at driving a Ghost?
I went into a café and ordered eggs and bacon. The staff was Thai and friendly to the verge of annoyance. The food was good but tasted slightly of peppers. Shit, what did I know? Maybe they were onto something.
I
HAD LILLIAN
that same night.
Over
under
sideways
on the floor
over a table
on the bed.
Like that.
When we were through, I said,
“I can’t understand how you’ve problems keeping staff.”
About eight that evening, I had been lying on my bed, reading one of the John Sandford “Prey” series.
My cell phone went.
It was her. She said,
“I need company.”
So I went. Strolled over to the house, all the lights were on. No sign of Jordan. I climbed the stairs. Her bedroom door was ajar, I knocked, heard,
“Enter.”
Did I ever.
She was standing by the windows, black silk nightgown.
I walked over, and she asked,
“What kept you?”
Let the frenzy begin. I had three years of prison to vent, and she had her own history.
When finally we were sated, she asked,
“Buck’s Fizz?”
“I can only pray you’re saying ‘buck’s.’ ”
She was. We got through two bottles of Moët, and I finally got to look round the room. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was Spartan. I’d expected hundreds of photos, but not even one. I said,