To tell the truth, I enjoyed meeting all those strippers and hookers and pimps and hustlers—who all seemed to be his mates—especially after I’d just spent the previous five days filing bills of lading. I felt like I was a very well-connected desperado … Well, not exactly … just a sort of desperado by proxy, really, wasn’t I? Magsy moved with the big fish like Ted and Danny, and, more and more often, the time came when we were out for a drink and he’d say, “Sorry, Dex, I got to push off. There’s a party at Ted’s flat.”
I used to go home to Sheri then.
“He’s leaving you behind, love,” Sheri would say. “He don’t give a damn about you, does he?”
“No, he’s just busy with all that business,” I’d respond. “Ted probably don’t want him bringing his mates around there, does he? Got to keep a low profile and that.”
But it hurt, I tell you that.
I still met Magsy every now and then for a drink. I still liked it when he’d spin all those yarns about all the gangster stuff.
So this one Friday night we were on the cognac in Steiner’s and Magsy said, “Hey, Dex, remember that flat on Gloucester Road?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Me and Penny are moving in next week.”
“Get away,” I said.
“Ted got tipped off, didn’t he? The Old Bill are looking for a major bust, so him and Angela got to leave the country in a hurry. He asked me and Penelope to house-sit for him.”
“Ace,” I said.
The weird thing was … Magsy never—ever—invited me round to the flat in Cornwall Gardens … not once.
“Why d’you keep meeting up with that bastard?” Sheri said. Meaning Magsy.
“Well, a mate’s a mate, innit?” I said. “He’ll come round …”
But I didn’t see him for about three months after he moved into Cornwall Gardens. Then I met him on Old Compton Street one weekend.
“What happened to you?” I said.
Magsy’s face was swollen on both sides. And the skin was all swirls of green and yellow and purple.
“Let’s have a drink,” he said.
He had his jaw wired shut so he spoke through clenched teeth. We went into Steiner’s.
“Ted sent me this blotter acid from the States,” Magsy sort of hissed and gurgled. I think he was all coked up so he kept on talking. “Mr. Natural tabs. Pure acid. One drawing of Mr. Natural perforated into four parts. Ted fronted it all, didn’t he? Told me to sell it on for a pound a go and he’d collect when he came home. A few months later, Ted did come home—very sudden. And when he came home, he came to collect. Fair enough, I thought. But he went berserk. Claimed I was giving him only a quarter of the money I was supposed to. I said that he told me to sell the Mr. Naturals for a quid apiece. Ted said I should have sold them for a quid per perforated square.”
I wondered if Magsy was bullshitting me. How much was this a genuine misunderstanding with Ted and how much of the money might have gone up his nose?
“So he did you over?” I said. I found that hard to believe. Ted didn’t look that hard.
“Not just Ted. His family and all …”
“Ah,” I said.
“They’re all old-time villains—just like Danny. So I had to leave the flat, didn’t I? Under some duress … with the aid of all of Ted’s brothers and father and uncles and Danny, who, when they were finished with the duress, like, threw me down the stairs, didn’t they?”
He hissed a bit as he laughed. I was glad he could laugh about it.
“How’s Penny?” I asked.
“They didn’t touch her. She’s with some mates of hers out near Epping.”
“Where you staying?” I asked.
“Sleeping on the floor of the shop.”
“Come back to my flat.”
I thought, well, those bastards have done him over, maybe he’ll drop all the gangster crap and get back to normal. He shook his head.
“Nah, gotta stay in Soho,” he said.
We arranged to meet the following Sunday at Steiner’s, and in those few days the swelling on his face had gone down a bit, though the bruises had started to take on some very spectacular greens and blues. I got us in a couple of pints of Stella Artois.
“I gotta meet someone here,” he said.
Ah shit, I thought.
This curly-haired bloke with a squashed nose and a lot of gold chains came through the door. He went down to the gents and Magsy followed him. Then they came back out and Curly left.
“Got to pay off the debts to Ted,” Magsy said. “Had to borrow some money.”
Ah no, I thought.
Magsy was practically bouncing all of a sudden—his fingers drumming on the bar, the shift of his shoulders. And he was probably low on coke, which gave him a sort of added drive. Magsy necked his lager in three large swallows.
“Sorry, Dex,” he said to me. “Gotta score. Adios, amigo.”
So off went Magsy to buy a load of coke and I went home to Sheri.
And, truth to tell, that was the last I saw of Magsy. Not that I didn’t think about him. The police must have been watching him for ages and they decided to pay a visit to his Dean Street porno shop very early the next morning. They found about an ounce of coke and a weight of grass. Magsy got four years in Brixton. I never went near him in there.
Twenty-six years later and I bump into him at Ristorante Il Pollo in the heart of Soho and we were going to meet in Steiner’s, the last place we’d seen each other before he went down. I took a breath and pushed through the door into the saloon bar. There was Magsy, standing at the bar with Richie Stiles, an old mate of his, who was as tall as ever but plump now, with a receding hairline and fuller cheeks. He
was
in an Armani suit though.
“Dexie!” Magsy said. “Good to see you, son.”
He and Richie were already three sheets to the wind on the shots of tequila and Corona beers that were lined up on the bar. I couldn’t resist it. Blame it on old time’s sake, or maybe because I was a bit nervous, but I had a lick of salt, a shot of tequila, bit on the lemon, and then soothed the burn in my throat with a cool slug of the Corona.
“Richie!” I said. “Corporate bigwig now, son.”
“Still a party,” Richie said. “But government-licensed now, innit? Make more money being legit these days. No police raids or nothing.”
“So what are
you
doing with yourself?” Magsy said.
If I said I was a writer, it would have had this stink of me being a bit of a braggart—which I am, really.
“I’m a writer.”
“A writer?” Magsy said. “You make money at that?”
“I got to hustle to make a living,” I said. “But it’s okay. Better than any other job I’ve had … and I’ve had a lot since working in the shipping trade: laboring on building sites, bookkeeping, library assistant, then I decided to get a real life.”
I could see that I’d stung him a bit with that. I hadn’t meant to. What was he doing? Bookies’ clerk? On the dole? I knew he wasn’t dealing.
“God, how long has it been since I seen you?” Magsy said.
I was sure he knew well enough.
“Twenty-six years,” I said.
I was buzzed but not drunk.
“Yeah … right … since just before the trial,” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah, right.”
What he meant was:
You didn’t come to see me in prison,
you gutless shit.
And I didn’t, it was true, because when Magsy was sent down—call it total paranoia if you like—I was thoroughly convinced that if I
had
gone to see Magsy, I would be on a police list of known consorters with convicted drug traffickers and that within a very short time I would receive a similar dawn visit from the police just as Magsy had. And if the police needed to make up their arrest rate and decided that a consorter with known traffickers was worth fitting up, then I would be on the inside with him—with a criminal record and fighting off anal rapists. I just couldn’t face even the remotest possibility of it.
Now he wanted me to feel guilty for it, which he had definitely succeeded in doing, and that made me really mad
What he was doing, you see—what he was really doing—was trying to return me to that position I’d been in back then: him as Jack the Lad and me as the shipping-firm employee dogsbody. Knock me back to square one. He’d always thought of me as a bit of a wimp for not having the balls to do what he’d done: ducking and diving right into the thick of the coke dealing and the porn business. But he’d had his life and I’d had mine, and I wasn’t sorry at all with the way mine had gone. I wasn’t any shipping clerk anymore, was I? And what was he? What was he? Tell me that.
And then it dawned on me … a slow creeping-up kind of dawn. I’d never forgiven him for treating me the way he did when he was all coked up with the Soho dope dealers and porn traders, had I? He’d been in the middle of the trade, and I was just a nobody, and our being mates hadn’t counted for a thing in his eyes back then. And all that shame and rage I felt over being dissed by Magsy, of being dissed by someone I thought was a mate, and, yes … all right … the guilt of my not visiting him in prison … it was that which had driven me to use the story of Magsy’s rise and fall in Soho for the script of
Rough House.
I hoped he’d like what he’d see when his life story would be all up there on the big screen in glorious Technicolor. If we got the money it would be me who put him there. Magsy on the big screen.
Now
who was the hot shot? What was he doing—in Bridgwater of all places—while I was on the roof of Soho House drinking expensive gassy water? Well, I thought. Well, the truth is … really, the truth is … it really didn’t matter what
he
was doing—or what
I
was doing—because we were both here in Steiner’s breathing the same air and drinking the same tequila, and sucking the same fucking lemons, and nothing was ever going to put the clock back to the time before he went to prison, before his trial, before the cops, before the loan shark, before the coke, before Ted, and before that fucking game of backgammon in Cornwall Gardens. And the truth is … the truth is … I was sorry. I really fucking was.
B
lame the Irish.
I always do.
The fuckers don’t care, they’re used to it, all that Catholic guilt they inherit, blame is like, habitual. Too, all that rain they get? Makes them amenable to bad shit. I’ve known my share of micks—you grow up in Brixton, they’re part of the landscape. Not necessarily a good part but they have their spot. Worked with a few when I was starting out, getting my act together. I didn’t know as much as I thought I knew, so sure, I had them in my early crew.
Give them one thing, they’re fearless, will go that extra reckless yard, laugh on the trip, and true, they’ve got your back, won’t let you get ambushed. But it’s after, at the pub, they get stuck in it, and hell, they get to talking, talking loose. Near got my collar felt cos of that. So I don’t use them anymore. One guy, named, of course, Paddy, said to me: “Not that long ago, the B’n’Bs … they had signs proclaiming,
No coloreds, no dogs, no Irish.”
He was smiling when he told me and that’s when you most got to worry, the fucks are smiling, you’re in for the high jump. Paddy got eight years over a botched post office gig, he’d torn off his mask halfway through the deal, as it itched. I’d driven to The Scrubs, see if he needed anything, and he shook his head, said, “Don’t visit anymore.”
I was a little miffed and he explained, “Nothing personal but you’re a Brit.”
Like that made any sense, he was in a
Brit nick.
Logic and the Irish never jell, but he must have clocked my confusion, added, “In here, I’m with my countrymen. They see a Brit visiting, I’m fucked.”
Let him stew.
Life was shaping up nice for me. Took some time but I’d put it together real slow. Doing some merchandise, a little meth, some heroin, and, of course, the coke. Didn’t handle any of the shit my own self, had it all through channels, lots of dumb bastards out there will take the weight. I arranged the supply, got it to the public, and stayed real anonymous, had me a share in a pub, karaoke four nights a week, the slots, and on Sunday, a tasty afternoon of lap dancing. The cops got their share and everyone was, if not happy, reasonably prosperous. None of us getting rich but it paid for a few extras. Bought into a car park and, no kidding, serious change in that.
Best of all, I’d a fine gaff on Electric Avenue, owned the lease, and from outside, looked like a squat, which keeps the burglars away. Inside, got me Heal’s furniture, clean and open-plan living room, lots of wicker furniture. I like it, real laid-back vibe. No woman, I like my freedom. Sure, on a Friday night I pick up some fox, bring her back, but she’s out of there by 3 in the morning. I don’t need no permanent company. Move some babe in and that’s the end of my hard-bought independence.
Under the floorboards is my stash: coke, fifteen large, and a Glock. The baseball bat I keep by my bed.
Then I met Kelly.
I’d been to The Fridge to see a very bad hip hop outfit who were supposed to be the next big thing. Jeez, they were atrocious, no one told them the whole gangsta scene was, like … dead. I went down to the pub after, needed to get the taste out of my mouth. I ordered a pint of bitter and heard, “To match your mood.”
A woman in her late twenties, dressed in late Goth style, lots of black makeup, clothes, attitude. I’ve nothing against them, they’re harmless, and if they think the Cure are still relevant, well, it takes all kinds … better than listening to Dido. Her face wasn’t pretty, not even close, but it had an energy, a vitality that made it noticeable. I gave her my best London look with lots of Brixton overshadow, the look that says,
Fuck off … now.
She felt an explanation was due, said, “Bitter, for the bitterness in your face.”
I did the American bit, asked, “I know you?”
She laughed, said, “Not yet.”
I grabbed my pint, moved away. She was surrounded by other Goths but she was the center, the flame they danced around. I’d noticed her eyes had an odd green fleck, made you want to stare at them. I shook myself, muttered, “Cop on.”
On my second pint, I chanced a glance at her and she was looking right at me, winked. I was enraged, the fuck was that about? Had a JD for the road—I’m not a big drinker, that shit becomes a habit and I’ve plans, being a booze hound isn’t among them. Knocked it back and headed for the door, she caught up with me, asked, “Buy me a kebab?”
Now I could hear the Irish lilt, almost like she was singing the words. I stopped, asked, “What the hell is the matter with you?”
She was smiling, went, “I’m hungry and I don’t want to eat alone.”
I indicated the pub. “What about your fan club, won’t they eat with you?”
She almost sneered. It curled her lip and I’d a compulsion to kiss her, a roaring in my head,
What is happening to me?
“Adoration is so, like, tiresome, you fink?”
The little bit of London—
fink—
to what? To make me comfortable? “I wouldn’t know, it’s not a concept I’m familiar with.”
She laughed out loud, and her laugh made you want to join in. She said, “Oh don’t we talk posh, what’s a
concept
then? Is it like a condom?”
I’m still not sure why, but I decided to buy her the bloody kebab—to get rid of her, to see what more outrageous banter she’d produce? She suggested we eat them in the park and I asked, “Are you out of your mind? It’s a war zone.”
She blew that off with: “I’ll mind
you.
”
The way she said it, as if she meant it, as if … fuck, I dunno, as if she was looking for someone to mind. So I said my place was round the corner and she chirped, “Whoo … fast worker. My mammie warned me about men like you.”
I’d just taken a bite of the kebab, it was about what you’d expect, tasteless with a hint of acid. I had to ask. “What kind of man is that, a stranger?”
She flung her kebab into the air. “No, English.” Then she watched the kebab splatter on the road, sang, “Feed the birds.”
Bringing her back to my place, the first mistake—and if it were the only one, well, even now, I don’t know what was going on with me, like I was mesmerized.
She looked round at my flat, and yeah, I was pretty damn proud, it looked good.
“Who lives here, some control freak, an anal retentive?”
Man, I was pissed, tried: “You have some problem with tidiness, with a place being clean?”
Fuck, you get defensive, you’ve already lost.
She was delighted, moved to me, got her tongue way down my throat, and in jig time we were going at it like demented things. Passion is not something I’ve had huge experience with—sure, I mean, I get my share, but never like that.
Later, lying on the floor, me grabbing for air, she asked, “What do you want?”
She was smoking. I didn’t think it was the time to mention my place was smoke-free, so I let it slide, not easily, bit down. I leaned on one elbow, said, “I think I just had what I want.”
She flicked the butt in the direction of the sink; I had to deliberately avert my eyes, not thinking where it landed. She said, “Sex, sex is no big deal. I mean in life, the … what do they call it … the
bigger picture?”
I wanted to be comfortable, not go to jail, keep things focused. I said, “Nice set of wheels, have my eye on—”
She cut me off, went: “Bollocks, fecking cars, what is it with guys and motors? Is it like some phallic symbol?
Got me
a mean engine.
”
Her tone, dripping with bile. Before I could get my mouth going, she continued, “I want to be loaded, serious wedge, you know what I’m saying?”
I nearly let slip about my stash, held back and asked, “So, you get loaded, then what?”
She was pulling on her clothes, looked at me like I was dense. “Then it’s
fuck you, world.
”
She was heading for the door, I asked, “You’re leaving?”
That’s what I always wanted, get them out as soon as possible. Now, though …
Her hand was on her hip and she raised an eyebrow. “What, you think you’re up for another round? I think you shot your load, need a week to get you hot again, or am I wrong?”
That stung, I’d never had complaints before, should have told her to bang the door behind her, near whimpered, “Will I see you?”
Her smile, smirk in neon, said, “I’ll call you.”
And was gone.
She didn’t … call.
I went back to the pub, no sign of her. Okay, I went back a few times, asked the barman. I knew him a long time, we had, as they say, history, not all of it bad. He was surprised, said, “The Irish babe, yeah?”
I nodded miserably, hated to reveal a need, especially to a frigging barman, cos they talk to you, you can be sure they talk to others, and I didn’t want the word out that I was, like … bloody needy, or worse, vulnerable. That story goes out, you are dead, the predators coming out of the flaming woodwork. He stared at me. “Matt, you surprise me, hadn’t figured you for a wally.”
Bad, real fucking bad.
I should have slapped him on the side of the head, get the status established, but I wanted the information. I got some edge into my voice, snapped, “What’s that mean?”
He was doing bar stuff, taking his own sweet time, stashing glasses, polishing the counter, and I suppressed my impatience. Finally he straightened, touched his nose, said, “Word to the wise, mate, stay clear, she hangs with that black guy, Neville, you don’t want to mess with that dude.”
Neville, story was he offed some dealer, did major trade in crystal, and was serious bad news. I moved to leave, said: “I knew that.”
He didn’t scoff but it was in the neighborhood. “Yeah, right.”
Fuck fuck fuck.
The bitch, playing with me, I resolved to put her out of my head, get on with my business. Plus, I had to get a new carpet, the cigarette had burned a hole right where you’d notice.
A week later, I was in the pub where we had the karaoke nights, nice little earner, punters get a few on, they want to sing, did brisk sales those nights. I was at the back, discussing some plans with the manager, when I heard a voice go, “I’d like to sing ‘Howling at Midnight.’”
It was her, Kelly, with the Lucinda Williams song, one of my favorites, she no doubt saw the CD in my gaff. I looked quickly round, no sign of Neville, the pub hushed as she launched. Her voice was startling, pure, innocent, and yet, had a hint of danger that made you pay attention. When she finished, the applause was deafening. The manager, his mouth open, whispered, “Christ, she’s good.”
Then she hopped off the stage, headed in my direction, small smile in place. I resolved to stay cool but to my horror whined, “You never called.”
Even the manager gave me an odd look.
“What happened to
hello, how have you been?
” she asked.
I moved her away, touching her arm lightly, and just that small gesture had me panting. She said: “Yes, thank you, I would like a drink.”
I ordered two large vodkas, no ice, and tonics. She took the glass. “I’d have liked a Bushmills, but shit, I just can’t resist the alpha male.”
The touch of mockery, her eyes shining, that fleck of green dancing in there. I was dizzy, decided to get it out in the open, asked, “What do you want?”
She licked the rim of the glass, said, “I want you inside me, now.”
Never finished my drink, never got to mention the black guy either. We were in my place, me tearing off my shirt, her standing, the smile on her lips, I heard: “White dude is hung.”
She’d left the door ajar. Neville standing there, a car iron held loosely in his hand. I looked at her, she shrugged, moved to my left. Neville sauntered over, almost lazily took a swipe at my knee. I was on the floor.
“Cat goes down easy.”
Kelly came over, licked his ear. “Let’s get the stuff, get the fuck out of here.”
He wanted to play, I could see it in his eyes. He drawled, “How about it, Leroy, you want to give us that famous stash you got, or you wanna go tough, make me beat the fucking crap outta you? Either is, like, cool with me. Yo, babe, this mother got any, like, beverages?”
I said I’d get the stash, and he laughed.
“Well get to it, bro, shit ain’t come les you go get it.”
I crawled along the carpet, pulled it back, plied the floorboard loose, Kelly was shouting, “Nev, you want Heineken or Becks?”
I shot him in the balls, let him bleed out. Kelly had two bottles in her hands, let them slide to the floor, I said, “You’re fucking up my carpet again, what’s with you?”
I shot her in the gut, they say it’s the most agonizing, she certainly seemed to prove that. I bent down, whispered, “Loaded enough for you, or you want some more? I got plenty left.”
Getting my shirt tucked into my pants, I made sure it was neat, hate when it’s not straight, ruins the sit of the material. I looked round, complained: “Now I’m going to have to redo the whole room.”