London Boulevard (14 page)

and

you.

“Open a bottle of wine and soak. Then I’ll order a huge pizza and eat you while it’s hot. Then while you sleep I’ll watch over you.”

My phone went

I had to squeeze through the crowd to find a quiet spot. A guy muttered,

“Fuckin’ yuppie.”

Me?

Holding the phone close, I said,

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Mitchell, it’s Jordan.”

“Yeah?”

“Miss Palmer has attempted suicide.”

Oh shit.

“Is she bad?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What can I do?”

“I believe you should come.”

“Aw, shit.”

“As you wish.”

And he hung up. I said,

fuck

fuck

fuck.

A man said, “He reads better after the break.”

I fought my way back, said to Aisling,

“I gotta go.”

“Aw, no.”

“Listen, I’ll drop you off.”

“No, you better get moving.”

“Will you be OK?”

“Perhaps I’ll have a word with James Ellroy.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

She gave me a sad smile, said,

“We’ll see.”

As I left, the sound track was doing U2 with “Sweetest Thing.”

Now if that isn’t sticking it to you, I dunno what is.

“Jeez,” I thought, “where did that come from?”

Maneuvering through the Islington traffic I felt bone weary. Took me near two hours to get back to Holland Park.

Into the kitchen and Jordan was there, I asked,

“How is she?”

“The doctor’s given her a sedative, but she’s awake.”

“Should I go up?”

“Please do.”

He had nothing further to add, so I went. Up those stairs like a condemned man. Her bedroom was lit by one bedside lamp. In bed, her arms were lying outside the quilt. I could see the ban dages on her wrists. No fuckin’ chance she’d cover them.

I said, “Lillian.”

“Mitch . . . Mitch, that you, darling?”

“Yes.”

She made a grand effort to sit up but then sagged back, whispered,

“I’m sorry, Mitch, I didn’t want to be any trouble to you.”

I wanted to wallop her, said,

“It’s OK, you rest now, everything’s fine.”

“Is she pretty, Mitch, is she young?”

“What?”

“The girl you’re seeing.”

“There’s nobody . . . I was on a boys’ night out.”

“Promise me, Mitch, promise you’ll never leave me.”

My mind was shouting—“How the hell did we get to here?” I said,

“I promise.”

“Hold my hand, darling.”

I did. She gave a deep sigh, said,

“I feel so safe now.”

I felt exactly like I did when the judge said,

“Three years.”

T
HE WAY TO
dress for a robbery is comfortable. It’s not the occasion to break in a new pair of shoes. Or to have a pair of briefs mangling your balls.

I arrived at Jeff’s place early. Two of the old crew were already there. Bert and Mike, as reliable as concrete. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the aroma of coffee.

The atmosphere was cranked. These guys were pros, but each time the stakes were rising.

A sofa was littered with weapons. Jeff said,

“We’ve got a new guy.”

I didn’t like that, said,

“I don’t like that.”

Jeff put up his hands, said,

“Me neither, but he’s got a rep as a wheelman. We don’t got a choice.”

Jeff’s system was simple. Three cars. One for the robbery, then two changes. These motors had been positioned over the weekend. An expert driver was vital. Jeff asked,

“Want some breakfast, Mitch?”

A huge fry-up was simmering alongside a mountain of toast.

There are two schools of thought on a meal before a caper:

(1) Pig out for the energy level.

(2) Nothing . . . to hike the adrenaline.

I was with the second, said,

“Coffee’d be good.”

I moved over to the couch, selected a 9 mm, put it in the waistband of my jeans. Took, too, a pump shotgun.

You rack that fucker, you get everybody’s attention. Put on a worn combat jacket, packed the pockets with shells. Tasted my coffee, double loaded, it hit like a fist.

KNOCK ON
the door, Jeff opened it carefully. Turned to us, said,

“It’s the new guy.”

A punk came in. Something very familiar about him. He was dressed like Liam Gallagher before he discovered what a gold credit card implied. He had a long gash down the side of his face. I remembered.

At the party, he’d been out back with Briony, and she’d torn his face before putting the gun in his mouth. He said,

“I know you.”

I nodded. He smirked, asked,

“How’s that crazy bitch sister of yours?”

Jeff intervened, said,

“Whoa, let’s all settle down.”

I said to Jeff,

“You’ll vouch for him?”

“Guaranteed.”

I didn’t like it, but it was too late to back out. We got organized and headed off. A van was the first leg.

I sat up front with Jeff, the boyos in the back. The punk was mouthing large, but Bert and Mike just ignored him.

Jeff said,

“The target is Newcastle-under-Lyme. The motors are parked at Keele University.”

“What’s the word?”

“The bank is holding heavy. Maybe twelve thou.”

“Nice.”

“Let’s hope so.”

I settled back in my seat, let my mind free-fall.

O
NE NIGHT
, having serviced the actress, I’d begun to tell her of the range of my reading. I dunno what prompted me to do so, but I was in full flight, listing the different fields I’d read.

When I was done, she said,

“The books of a self-taught man, a working man. We all know how they are,

distressing

egotistic

insistent

raw

striking and ultimately

nauseating.”

“You snooty bitch.”

She laughed, said,

“Alas, don’t blame me, it was Virginia Woolf’s analysis of James Joyce. Are you familiar with Virginia?”

“Take a wild guess.”

THE VAN
lurched, and Jeff said,

“We’re at Keele.”

We loaded the gear into the waiting car, got into coveralls.

Bert would remain with the second car and Mike with the third.

It was vital each car be

manned

safe

primed.

The punk got behind the wheel. Jeff beside him and me in back.

As the punk ran through the gears, he said,

“This is a piece of shit.”

Jeff said,

“Shut your mouth and drive.”

He did.

Twenty minutes later, we rolled into Newcastle. My adrenaline was pumping. Jeff directed the punk to park about twenty yards from the back entrance.

We were out and moving, pulled on ski masks as we hit the entrance. Some firms, they take down a bank, they believe in verbal terror. Go in roaring, screaming obscenities.

Put the fear of God into the citizen; I can see the merits.

But Jeff has his own method. He believes a demonstration is worth a thousand words.

So he shot the first customer we encountered.

S
HOT HIM IN
the knees. The guy went down. Jeff loaded his gauge with pellets. Without causing major damage, they hurt like fuck

look the biz

and scare the bejaysus.

TWO MINUTES
, I had staff and customers herded. Jeff went through the bank like a virus, filled two black bags. Then we were outta there.

Running for the car, the great British tradition came into play. Yup, the “have a go” spirit. A guy grabbed me from behind, clamped his arms round me. The punk was gunning the engine. I let my body go slack, then with one move stamped my shoe down on the guy’s instep. He let out a roar you’d have heard in Brixton. Mainly, he let me go. I spun round, stuck the shooter in his face, shouted,

“Yah stupid bastard, yah want to get killed, is that it?”

Jeff pulled me off, gritted,

“Let’s go, c’mon.”

Already I could hear sirens. I backed off and ran to the car.

We tore outta there. Jeff said,

“Jeez, Mitch, I thought you were going to waste him.”

“So did I.”

The punk was laughing like a hysteric, said,

“You should ’ave, you should ’ave blown him away!”

If he wasn’t driving, I’d have given him a fist up the side of his head.

Got to Keele and switched cars. Then a more sedate pace to the third motor. Changed again, and in jig time we were on the highway, lost in a ton of traffic. Once we got to the van, I let out a long breath. Didn’t realize I’d been holding it.

In the back, Mike, Bert and the punk were whooping it up; Jeff was driving and reached under his seat. Pulled out a fifth of Cutty Sark, handed it to me. I drank deep, let it burn. He glanced at me, a grin building. I said,

“Piece of cake, eh?”

BACK AT
Jeff’s, we began to party. I was drinking Bud and nipping at the Cutty. The punk was doing major damage to a bottle of gin. Jeff and Bert were doing the count.

Mike asked,

“Another Bud, Mitch?”

“Sure.”

I was sitting on a kitchen chair, and Mike leant against the table, said,

“You’ve a hard-on for that kid.”

“He’s trouble.”

“Well, he did OK today.”

“See his arms, tracks?”

Mike gave a good look, said,

“Doesn’t seem like he’s using now, his arms aren’t swollen.”

“Preparation H.”

“What?”

“Takes down the swelling.”

Mike was truly surprised, said,

“Jeez, Mitch, how do you know that shit?”

“New Hope for the Dead.”

“What?”

“By Charles Willeford.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Lost Charles Willeford too, he’s dead, and more’s the Irish pity.”

Jeff raised his hand, said,

“Yo, people, we’ve got a tally.”

We waited. Then,

“Fifteen large.”

Loud yahooing. After Jeff took expenses, we got two-seven each. The punk said,

“Party on.”

After a time, the guys began to drift away. Jeff said,

“Got a sec, Mitch?”

“Sure.”

When they’d gone, he cracked a beer, said,

“Ever heard of a guy named Kerrkovian?”

“Naw.”

“Tall, thin fucker, likes to dress in black. Got eyes like marbles, nothing alive there. I think he’s one of those Eastern European gangsters.”

“Interesting as it is, Jeff, what’s it got to do with me?”

“He’s been asking about you.”

“Oh.”

“Watch your back.”

“Yeah. Thanks a lot, Jeff.”

“You musta pissed someone off big-time.”

“I seem to have a talent for it.”

I HEADED
for a florist. Ordered up a batch of roses, orchids, tulips. The florist said,

“A mix like that, it’s gonna cost.”

“Did you hear me bicker?”

“No, but . . .”

Put them in the trunk of the car and headed for Peckham.

Joe’s grave was well tended, and a current copy of the
Big Issue
, wrapped in cellophane, rested there. Made me sad.

A man was moving around the cemetery, tidying up. I went over to him, said,

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“Did you take care of that grave over there?”

“And what if I did?”

“I just wanted to say thanks.”

I peeled off a few notes, and he took them fast. Did wonders for his attitude, said,

“A headstone would make all the difference.”

“How would one arrange that?”

He took a flask out of his pocket, offered. I shook my head, and he took a swig, said,

“Keeps the chill off.”

“I believe you.”

Put the flask away, said,

“If you were to go to your regular stonemason, he’d charge you large. I could get it done for half that.”

I peeled off more notes, asked,

“Would you?”

“My pleasure. Want an inscription?”

I thought for a bit, said,

“ ‘He was the issue.’ ”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want a poem or anything? I’ve some hot verses in my shed.”

“He didn’t do poetry.”

“Right, I’ll get on it.”

He counted the money, said,

“There’s too much here.”

“No . . . keep the extra.”

As I headed off he asked,

“How come you trust me?”

“If you can’t trust a guy in a graveyard . . .”

He gave a low chuckle, said,

“The biggest rogues are under your feet.”

“Words to live by,” I said.

BACK AT
Holland Park I felt the adrenaline leak away, and I longed for a nap. Jordan came out to meet me, said,

“Madam’s been asking for you.”

“ ’Kay.”

“She’s not the only one.”

“Oh?”

“You had two visitors.”

“Together?”

“No, one was a policeman.”

“Kenny.”

“A bad-mannered individual.”