London Boulevard (2 page)

“Just what kind of a hurry was the guy in to leave all this?”

“A big hurry.”

“Won’t the loan shark want some of it?”

Norton smiled, said,

“I’ve already had the choice bits.”

It took me a minute. Blame the beer. I said,

“You’re the moneylender?” Big smile. He was proud, been waiting, said,

“Part of a firm—and we’d like you on board.”

“I don’t think so, Billy.”

He was expansive.

“Hey, I didn’t mean right away. Take some time, chill out.”

Chill out.

I let it go, said,

“I dunno how to thank you, Billy. It’s incredible.”

“No worries. We’re mates . . . right?”

“Right.”

“OK, I gotta go. The party’s in the Greyhound at eight. Don’t be late.”

“I’ll be there. Thanks again.”

B
RIONY’S A BASKET C
ase. A true, out-and-out nutter. I’ve known some seriously disturbed women. Shit, I’ve dated them, but up against Bri they were models of sanity. Bri’s husband died five years ago. Not a huge tragedy, as the guy was an asshole. The tragedy is that she doesn’t believe he’s gone. She keeps seeing him on the street and, worse, chats to him on the phone. Like the genuine crazies, she has moments of lucidity. Times when she appears

rational

coherent

functional

. . . then wallop. She’ll blindside you with an act of breathtaking insanity.

Add to this, she has a beguiling charm, sucks you in. She looks like Judy Davis, and especially how Judy Davis appeared with Liam Neeson in the Woody Allen movie. Her hobby is shoplifting. I dunno why she’s never been caught, as she does it with a recklessness beyond belief. Bri is my sister. I rang her. She answered on the first ring, asked,

“Frank?”

I sighed. Frank was her husband. I said,

“It’s Mitchell.”

“Mitch . . . oh Mitch . . . you’re out.”

“Just today.”

“Oh, I’m so happy. I’ve so much to tell you. Can I make you dinner? Are you hungry? Did they starve you?”

I wanted to laugh or cry.

“No . . . no, I’m fine . . . listen, maybe we could meet tomorrow.”

Silence.

“Bri . . . are you still there?”

“You don’t want to see me on your first night? Do you hate me?”

Against all my better judgment, I told her about the party. She instantly brightened, said,

“I’ll bring Frank.”

I wanted to shout, “Yah crazy bitch, get a grip!” I said, “OK.”

“Oh Mitch, I’m so excited. I’ll bring you a present.”

Oh God.

“Whatever.”

“Mitch . . . can I ask you something?”

“Ahm . . . sure.”

“Did they gang rape you? Did they?”

“Bri, I gotta go, I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, baby.”

I put the phone down. Wow, I felt drained.

I HAD
a sort through the wardrobe. When you’ve worn denim and a striped shirt for three years, it was like Aladdin’s Cave.

First off I got a stack of Tommy Hilfiger out. Put that in a trash bag. All that baggy shit, maybe Oxfam could off-load it. There was a Gucci leather jacket, nicely beat up. I’d be having that. Lots of Hennes white T-shirts: the type Brando immortalized in
On the Waterfront.
The guys in prison would kill for muscular American T-shirts.

No jeans.

No problem.

Gap khaki pants, a half dozen. A blazer from French Connection and sweatshirts from Benetton.

I dunno if that guy had taste, but he sure had money. Well, loan-shark money.

There was a Barbour jacket and a raincoat from London Fog. No shit, but I’d be a con for all seasons. Odd thing was, not a shoe in sight. But was I complaining? Was I fuck. I had a pair of shoes.

Took a hot shower and used three towels to dry off. They’d been swiped from the Holiday Inn so were soft and friendly. What I most wanted was another beer, but I knew I’d better cool it. The evening ahead would be liquid and perhaps lethal. I needed to at least arrive soberish. Took a quick scan of the books, one whole wall devoted to crime writers. Spotted

Elmore Leonard

James Sallis

Charles Willeford

John Harvey

Jim Thompson

Andrew Vachss.

And that was only the first sweep. Phew! I might never go out. Just bury myself in crime.

I put on a T-shirt, khaki pants and the leather jacket. Checked it out in the mirror. No doubt I could pass for a Phil Collins roadie. Thought—“If I’d money, I’d be downright dangerous.”

W
ALKING DOWN CLAPHAM COMMON
, a woman smiled at me. I knew it was the jacket. There’s a transport café in Old Town that used to be the business. It was still there. The type of place if it’s not on the table, it’s not on the menu.

For an ex-con there can be few greater pleasures than to eat alone. Grabbing a booth I luxuriated in just having it to myself. Knew exactly what I’d order.

The carbohydrate nightmare, neon-lit in medical overload. Like this:

Two Sausages

Mess of Bacon

Fried Tomatoes

Eggs

Black Pudding

Toast

Pot of Stewed Tea

Oh yeah.

In the booth next to me was an old codger. Eyeing me. He
had the face and manner of a “character.” His name would be Alfred.

’Course, everyone would love him. Alfred would have his own corner in the pub and his own pewter tankard.

He’d be a holy terror to a new barman.

My food arrived, and he said,

“That food, son . . . you know where it comes from?”

Without lifting my head, I said,

“I’ve a feeling you’re going to enlighten me.”

That startled him, but not enough to stop him. He said,

“Big fellah like you, you should have a feed of potatoes.”

I raised my head, looked at him, said,

“Old fellah like you, you should mind your own business.”

Shut him down.

I tried not to wolf the food. Now that I was out, I was going to have to readapt. When I finished, I went and paid. On my way out, I stopped by Alfred, said,

“Nice chatting with you.”

Walked down to Streatham and into the bank. I wasn’t sure how much money I had, as they don’t send statements to prison.

What they should do is send bankers there.

I filled out a withdrawal slip and got in line. It was slow, but I knew how to kill time.

The cashier was friendly in that vacant money way. I handed her the slip; she ran it by the computer, said,

“Oh.”

I said nothing. She said,

“This is a dormant account.”

“Not anymore.”

She gave me the look. The leather jacket wasn’t cutting any ice. She said,

“I’ll have to check.”

“You do that.”

A man behind me sighed, asked,

“Is this going to take long?”

Gave him a bank smile, answered,

“I’ve absolutely no idea.”

The cashier returned with a suit. He was Mr. Efficiency, said,

“Mr. Mitchell, if you could step over to my desk.”

I could. I sat and looked at his desk. A sign proclaimed

WE REALLY CARE

He did bank stuff for a bit, then,

“Mr. Mitchell, your account has been dormant for three years.”

“Is that against the law?”

Ruffled him.

Recovered,

“Oh no . . . it’s ahm . . . let’s see . . . with interest you have twelve hundred pounds.”

I waited. He asked,

“I take it you wish to reactivate the account?”

“No.”

“Mr. Mitchell, might I suggest a prudent reserve? We have some very attractive offers for the small saver.”

“Give me my money.”

“Ahm . . . of course . . . you wish to terminate your account?”

“Leave a pound in it . . . ’cos you guys care so much.”

I got my cash but no warm handshake or cheerful good-bye.

You have to ask yourself how much it is they
really
care.

PARTY TIME
. I’d had a nap and woke with a start. My heart was pounding and sweat cascading down my back. Not because I thought I was still in prison but because I knew I was out. The guys in the joint had cautioned me,

“Nothing’s scarier than being out there.”

Which I guess is why so many go back.

Aloud I vowed—“The fuck I’m going back.”

DID A
hundred sits, a hundred presses, and felt the panic ebb.

The kitchen was stocked with provisions.

No porridge, thank Christ. Had some OJ and bad burnt toast. There was a microwave, and I zapped some coffee. It tasted like shit, which was exactly what I was accustomed to. Did the shower stuff and skipped shaving. Let that three-day beard kick in.

What’s the worst that could happen?

I’d look like George Michael’s father.

Slapped on a Calvin Klein deodorant. It said on the label, no alcohol. Gee, no point in having a slug, then.

Sat for a moment and rolled a smoke. Had the craft down. Could do it with one hand. Now, if I could strike a match off my teeth I’d be a total success.

Took a cruise through the music collection. Oddly, for such a state-of-the-art place, the guy hadn’t joined the CD revolution. It was your actual albums or cassettes. OK by me.

Put on Trisha Yearwood. A track called “Love Wouldn’t Lie to Me.”

Listened twice.

I’m from southeast London. We don’t use words like “beauty” unless it’s cars or soccer. Even then, you better know your company real good.

This song was beautiful. It stirred in me such feeling of

yearning

loss

regret.

Shit, next I’d be missing women I’d never met. Maybe it’s a “being in your midforties” thing.

I shook myself, time to rock ’n’ roll. Put on the Gap khaki pants—very tight in the waist, but hey, if I didn’t breathe, I’d be fine. A white T-shirt and the blazer.

Looking sharp.

Like a magnet for every trainee mugger.

The album was still running, and Trisha was doing a magic duet with Garth Brooks.

Had to turn it off.

No two ways, music will fuck your head nine ways to Sunday.

W
HAT YOU REGARD AS A SMALL
, isolated incident sets off a chain of events you could never have anticipated. You believe you’re making choices and all you’re doing is slotting in the pieces of a foreordained conclusion.

Deep, huh!

I took the subway to the Oval. The Northern Line was at its usual irritating best. Two bedraggled buskers were massacring “The Streets of London.” I gave them a contribution in the hope they might stop.

They didn’t.

As soon as they finished, they began it anew. Coming out at the Oval, Joe was there with the
Big Issue.
I said,

“Wanna go to a party, Joe?”

“This
is
my party, Mitch.” Argue that.

Across the road an Aston Martin pulled in at St. Mark’s Cathedral. A young woman got out. From the trees at the church, two predators materialized. These are not the homeless, they’re what Andrew Vachss calls “skels”: bottom feeders. They began
to hassle her. I debated getting involved. I didn’t want to spoil the blazer. Joe said,

“Go on, Mitch.”

I crossed the road. They’d the urban ambush going.

One in front doing the verbals, the other behind about to strike.

I shouted,

“Yo, guys.”

All three turned. These preds were early twenties, white and nasty.

The first said,

“Whatcha want, jerk-off?”

The other,

“Yeah, fuck off, asshole.”

Close up I saw one pred was a woman. I said,

“Leave the lady be.”

The first pred read the blazer, read me wrong, moved up, said,

“Whatcha gonna do about it, cunt?”

I said,

“This.”

And jammed my index finger in his right eye. It’s a common maneuver in the yard. When it’s serious you pop the eyeball.

This wasn’t. It hurts like a bastard, though. I moved to the second pred, said,

“I’m going to break your nose.”

She ran.

The woman, the would-be victim, just stared at me. I said,

“Not a smart place to park.”

I recrossed the road and could hear music from the Greyhound.

Prayed it wasn’t “The Streets of London.”

The pub was packed. A banner over the bar proclaimed,

WELCOME HOME MITCH

Norton, in an Armani suit, greeted me warmly, said,

“Here’s a Revolver.”

“What?”

“It’s a cocktail.”

“What’s in it?”

“What else but Black Bush, two jiggers of Cointreau and ginger ale?”

“Thanks, Billy, but I’ll have a pint o’ bitter.”

Various Grade B villains approached and shook my hand. The A List were seated and expected me to approach them.

I did.

The party was what Dominick Dunne calls “a rat fuck.” Too many people. Promises of sundry jobs were made and lotsa “call me” expressions. I spotted Tommy Logan, an up-and-coming drug lord, asked,