‘The little monkey.’
‘Who, Judith or Louis?’
‘I am truly sorry, Nick. He had no right to say that.’
‘At least you still discuss me.’ I said.
‘Very rarely,’ she said. Still the same old Laura, never giving anything away.
‘When’s it due?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘Your baby. What did you think I meant, the next gas bill?’
‘The end of August, beginning of September,’ she said.
‘Well, congratulations.’
‘It might be better if I thought you really meant it.’
‘I do mean it,’ I said. ‘At least I know that Louis isn’t a virgin any more.’
It was a cheap shot but I didn’t care.
‘You never change, Nick, do you?’ said Laura. ‘Why don’t you just go?’
‘Why don’t I? Come out to the car will you, I bought Judith some records.’
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘She is my daughter too.’
‘Nobody’s denying that.’
I bent down and kissed Judith’s sleeping head. ‘Say goodbye to her for me,’ I said. ‘Tell her I’ll see her soon.’
Laura nodded and followed me out to the car where I gave her the bag with Judith’s stuff in it.
‘Has she eaten?’ asked Laura.
‘Burger, chips, apple pie, milkshakes, a horrible pink drink, two cups of chocolate, a coffee éclair, a cream slice and one of those monster biscuits with candied peel in them.’
‘You spoil her, she’ll be sick.’
I was going to make a crack, but I didn’t. ‘She’s fine,’ I said instead.
We looked at each other by the light of the street lamp and for one long drawn-out second I thought that if I took her in my arms everything would be just as it used to be. I think she knew because she drew back and held the plastic bag in front of her like a shield.
‘She loves you Nick,’ was all she said, and she spun on her heel and half-walked, half-ran back to the house and slammed the door.
I got into the car and drove south again thinking about my wife – sorry, ex-wife – and what a fool I’d been to ever let her go.
That evening I told Jo the news. She listened in silence and I wondered if I’d done the right thing or screwed up again. When I was done she held me tight and said nothing, so I was really none the wiser.
Over the next few days I redoubled my efforts to get into Mogul and see the Divas. I telephoned the offices twenty-five times exactly. At first I tried for an appointment with Diva Senior, then Junior, but I got the brush-off as soon as I mentioned Mark McBain or The Boys. Then I tried the accounts department and even publicity. I had the telephone slammed down on me several times. I’d previously tried writing but got no reply. I couldn’t even get in to see the tea-lady. But the more they stonewalled me, the more convinced I became that McBain had a case. Eventually I decided to pay Mogul Towers a visit.
20
I
entered the tower block that housed the offices of Mogul Inc. at precisely eleven o’clock on a brittle, cold, late February morning. I was wearing a baggy blue suit, white shirt and understated dark knit tie with black tasselled loafers. My hair-style was short, sharp and to the point and my button-down collar had a perfect roll. I was ready to catch a groove and make my way in the music biz. Cool was my name and game.
The traffic was heavy on the Euston Road and I could see the reflections of trucks and buses in the mirrored windows of the building as I pushed through the double doors into the foyer. A wave of hot, perfumed air enveloped me. The entrance hall must have been two hundred yards long. It was carpeted in pale green, and the only furniture was a huge desk behind which sat a uniformed attendant, a long, uncomfortable-looking dark green sofa and a massive cheese plant sitting in a stone tub. On the left-hand side of the foyer, mounted on a wall was a matt black directory board easily twenty foot square. A list of companies based in the building was picked out in silver letters.
In the centre of the hall was a circular staircase that vanished up towards the first floor. It was finished in chrome with dimpled black rubber treads. A car could have been driven up the steps, they were so wide. Two lift doors were set snugly in the wall directly behind the desk. I stopped to read the company register under the watchful eye of the security man. Mogul Inc. was situated on the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth floors.
I scanned the names of the other businesses. They were mostly film and record companies, with some advertising and publishing firms sprinkled about for seasoning. A lot of the names were familiar.
The commissionaire got slowly to his feet and walked towards me. I was very conscious of the weight of the Magnum under my left arm, and glad of the bagginess of my jacket that hid it.
‘Can I help you sir?’ the commissionaire asked politely. The politeness didn’t hide the underlying aggression of his appearance. He was six-foot-three or -four inches tall and, as far as I could make out, six-foot-three or -four inches wide.
‘Good morning,’ I said pleasantly. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Mister Taylor of Savage Partners.’
‘I’ll call up for you,’ said the uniformed man. ‘What name shall I say?’
‘Collins,’ I said, ‘Tom Collins. ‘ It was the first name that came into my head. He looked at me suspiciously, but picked up the phone nevertheless. ‘Take a seat,’ he said.
‘It’s all right,’ I replied. ‘I’m a little late already.’
I went and stood by his desk as he began to flick through a telephone directory. Savage Partners was one of the names on the board but it would be a hell of a coincidence if there was a Mister Taylor working there. I wandered closer to the lift doors and saw that the right-hand lift was standing on the ground floor. Suddenly a door that I hadn’t noticed before, set flush into the back wall next to the lifts burst open and a tiny black girl carrying a pile of papers in both arms shot through. She made straight for the lifts.
‘Allow me,’ I said, and walked over and pressed the lift call button. The doors to the right-hand lift opened immediately. I kept the button pressed down as she entered.
‘Thanks,’ she said, flashing a toothy smile. The uniformed man twisted in his seat, phone in hand. The black girl pushed a floor button and just as the doors closed I stepped in beside her.
‘Which floor?’ she asked as the express lift rocketed upwards.
‘Twenty,’ I said without thinking. Bad mistake, Nick.
‘Blimey!’ the girl exclaimed. ‘You’re honoured aren’t you?’
I smiled a reply. She got out at the fifteenth floor, and the lift hurled me even further upwards.
The floor indicator inside the lift blinked on to twenty and the car slammed to a stomach-wrenching halt. The doors hummed open and I stepped into the presidential suite of Mogul Inc.
If I’d thought the entrance hall downstairs was imposing, then this was the real thing. The reception room I found myself in was perfectly circular in shape. The curves to my right and left were made of tinted glass, through which was visible the panorama of London Town. The lift shaft itself stood proud of the walls like a huge chrome time machine.
On the far side of the room were giant mahogany doors that led, I presumed, to the executive offices. The carpet I stood upon was black and showed not a trace of lint. The pile was so deep it could have hidden a small dog. Facing me was a massive ebony desk, behind which, perched on a black leather executive chair, sat the most stunning blonde I had ever seen. Her hair was like white silk and fell in a perfect sweep to her shoulders. The desk was empty but for a cordless telephone, pure white in colour which matched her hair to perfection. When I arrived on the floor she wasn’t filing her nails or reading a magazine. She wasn’t doing anything but waiting to greet visitors to Mogul Inc., both welcome and unwelcome. She didn’t look in the least surprised to see me.
‘Good morning,’ she said. I had to admit that the staff were very polite.
‘Hello.’ I said.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked. At least no alarm bells were ringing yet.
‘I’d like to see Mister Diva,’ I said.
‘Junior or senior?’
‘Senior.’
She reached for the telephone with a perfectly manicured hand, tipped with crimson.
‘You are?’ she enquired.
‘My name is Sharman, Nick Sharman.’
‘What time is your appointment?’
‘I don’t have one,’ I said.
Her hand hesitated and she looked puzzled. ‘No appointment,’ she said. ‘How did you get past the eighteenth floor?’
‘I came from the ground.’
‘That damned man,’ she snapped, suddenly not so pleasant. Her left hand disappeared under the desk. The mahogany doors at the far end of the room opened immediately and a man who appeared to be the commissionaire’s twin entered the reception area. This brick wall, however, was wearing a superbly tailored double-breasted suit in charcoal flannel. The blonde spun her leather chair round. It was so expensive it didn’t even creak.
‘This gentleman is just leaving, Terry,’ she said to the brick wall. ‘It appears he doesn’t understand the protocol of our establishment. Can you find out who let him up here and administer a slap on the wrist.’
I felt sorry for the slappee. He’d probably end up with a nasty sprain.
‘She’s nice,’ I remarked to the big man as he approached me across the carpet. ‘Solid ice on the outside, but inside, a real pussy-cat.’
She sent me a look like a slap in the face.
I walked over to meet Terry. He raised his arm to stop me.
‘Out,’ he said firmly, majestically even. ‘I just want to see Mister Diva for a few minutes,’ I said.
‘Out,’ Terry repeated.
He gripped me by the shoulder. He was so tall he didn’t even have to reach up to do so.
‘Mind the gaberdine,’ I said. ‘Your hands look a little sweaty.’
Terry scowled. ‘Out,’ he said for the third time.
I stepped back and raised my arms from my body as if in surrender. He was big but not very good. His meaty hand pushed me back another short step and his eyes moved to the blonde as if for approval.
I kicked him hard between the legs. It was unforgivable of me, but instinctive. He hadn’t really treated me badly at all. I just didn’t like being pushed around. The shoes I was wearing were heavy with thick welts around the soles. I felt a jolt run up my leg as my foot connected with his groin. He doubled up in agony, clutching at his balls. He went down on one knee with a thud that shook the room, then rolled to the floor. What I did next was equally unforgivable and probably unnecessary, except that I suspected that the odds were heavily weighed against me in the building. I kicked Terry again, this time full in the face. My shoe connected with his cheekbone and a flap of skin two or three inches long peeled back. Blood filled the wound and began to run down his face and collect around his shirt collar.
‘I hope he’s not your boy-friend,’ I said pleasantly to the blonde. ‘He won’t be much use in that department for a day or so.’
She sat stunned behind her desk. I picked up the telephone and threw it hard against the lift doors. It exploded into useless shards of plastic and microchips that scattered across the floor. I nodded and smiled at her then walked over to the doors by which Terry had entered. They led into a large windowless lobby. The only furniture was a deep leather armchair which Terry must have sat in all day to guard his bosses.
Two doors led off the lobby. They were both anonymously black in colour. I chose the right-hand door to enter, just for the hell of it. I threw it open and it banged against the inner wall. The door led into a tycoon’s office. The room was large, light and long with a huge picture window at the end which had a magnificent view of the West End. In front of the window was placed the inevitable desk. This one was the size of a snooker table. Behind it was a plush swivel armchair in which sat a man who resembled a frog. Grey-haired, distinguished, manicured, barbered, Savile Row suited. But a frog never the less. All round the walls were gold discs mounted on wooden plaques or framed behind glass, about thirty in all. There were doors in both side walls. One I guessed was a connecting door to the next office, the other I didn’t have a clue about.
The frog-man jumped, startled as the door hit the wall.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he exclaimed in surprise with a voice hard and cockney.
‘Mister Diva Senior, I presume,’ I said as I walked across the carpet towards him.
‘Yes – no.’ He seemed confused. ‘What are you doing here? Who let you in? Who the fuck are you? Where’s Terry? What’s that stupid bitch Ingrid playing at?’
‘So many questions, so little time,’ I replied nonchalantly. He ignored me and punched a button mounted on his desk-top. The whole team were obsessed with buttons it seemed to me.
‘Are you Mister Diva?’ I asked.
‘Yes I am, and you’re on private property.’
‘Mark McBain sent me,’ I said. ‘My name’s Sharman.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘Mark McBain,’ I repeated.
‘Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘I might have known it.’
The door on my left opened and three men burst in. One was a younger version of the frog-figure I was talking to. He was wearing a three-piece creation in silver silk with a matching grey shirt and tie. No one around there seemed to own a pair of Levis, and I always thought that rock and roll was a casual business. The other two were carbon copies of the two brick walls I’d already had dealings with. These two were dressed by the Kray twins school of gent’s natty suiting. Navy blue whistles, single-breasted, two-button with long slim lapels. White on white shirts with stiff collars and silk ties knotted tightly. They were the sort of outfits where your tailor fitted a razor pocket as an optional extra. It seemed to me that Mogul Inc. had thugs wall to wall.
I addressed myself to the taller of the heavies. ‘Did your mum have quads?’ I asked. I don’t think he got the point.
‘McBain sent this clown,’ Diva Sr bellowed. ‘Where’s Terry, what’s going on? No one, I repeat no one, is supposed to get in here without my say-so.’
I interrupted politely. ‘Terry is checking the family jewels, I think you’ll find. Out in your reception.’
The three who had entered Diva Sr’s office after me arranged themselves in a loose semi-circle around me, but not too close. Especially Diva Jr, who hung well back. I looked at each of them. Diva Sr was regaining his dignity. He sat back in his chair, safe now that reinforcements had arrived.
‘McBain,’ said the younger frog in my direction.
‘You must be the son,’ I remarked.
‘McBain,’ he repeated.
‘Doesn’t he have an off-switch?’ I enquired. I felt good holding centre-stage in the little drama. I felt better with the heft of the Magnum under my arm.
‘Mister Diva,’ I said to Diva Sr, ‘I’m working for Mark McBain, a former client of yours. He has told me that certain monies owing to him and other members of his group, “The Boys”, accrued whilst they were under contract to you, have not been paid. His solicitor and accountant are under the same impression. I merely wanted a short meeting with you. I have tried on various occasions to arrange such a meeting. Twenty-five to be precise. To no avail. I thought I’d present myself in person. When I was trying to explain this to your minder he decided to eject me. I objected. There was a slight disagreement. He’ll be back at work in a while.’
Diva Sr looked furious. ‘I don’t owe those bastards any money. They earned with me, and how did they repay me?’ He looked round the room. ‘They left me and started blackening my good name and reputation.’
‘It didn’t do them any good,’ I interrupted.
The telephone on Diva Sr’s desk rang. He picked up the receiver and listened for a moment.
‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t call the police. Leave this to me.’ He replaced the receiver on its cradle and looked back at me. ‘Do you know what they did?’ he asked. ‘They took my wife’s dog. She loved that dog, and while one of those toe-rags held it down, the others pissed all over it. That’s disgusting.’
I shrugged. ‘That’s got nothing to do with me,’ I said.
‘And once,’ he continued as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘after my family had given them the hospitality of our house, we found turds in the swimming pool.’
I almost smiled.
‘And besides,’ he went on, ‘where do you think this money is?’
‘In property, I expect,’ I replied, ‘like this building, and the solid blue chip shares in the States, and I heard you own a farm half the size of Berkshire.’
Diva Sr shrugged. He looked at the two heavies. ‘Hang him out of the window,’ he said.
‘No thanks,’ I said.
I’d already pegged Diva Jr as the rotten apple in the barrel and calmly walked round the back of the old man’s chair towards his son. As I went I pulled the Magnum from its shoulder-holster. I stuck the gun right in Junior’s face.
‘Open your mouth,’ I ordered. As I spoke I saw one of the hoods reach under his jacket.
‘Tell him, Old Man,’ I said. Diva Sr, who was staring at the nickel-plated gun in my hand gestured with one downward sweep of his palm and the minder pulled his arm back.