‘Open your mouth,’ I said to Diva Jr. He shook his head and kept his lips tightly closed. I cocked the pistol. The click from the mechanism rang loudly in the silent office. ‘I hope this spring holds,’ I said conversationally. ‘Now open your mouth.’ Reluctantly Diva Jr did so. I pushed the barrel of the .44 between his teeth. ‘Now kneel down,’ I said. Diva Jr did as he was ordered, slowly, keeping his head up. As he knelt I noticed a dark stain spreading across the silver material of his trousers. ‘Rubber pants are good for incontinence,’ I mentioned to the old man.
‘I’ll have you killed for this,’ said Diva Sr.
‘No,’ I said. ‘What you’ll do is open your books for McBain’s accountants. They’ll take it from there.’
‘Or else?’ asked the old man.
‘I’ll pay your son another visit, privately.’ I grinned as disarming a grin as I could muster.
‘Be sure I don’t pay you a private visit first,’ he said.
‘Like you did to Jack Kitchen?’ I asked and felt the temperature in the room plummet.
The old man half rose from his chair. ‘Who?’ He spat.
‘You heard,’ I said. ‘I don’t frighten that easy. Now,’ I said to the heavies, ‘face the wall and assume a position. You know the drill.’
They looked pleadingly at their boss, who moved his forefinger in a circular motion. They turned in tandem and placed their hands against the wall, spreading their legs. I carefully removed the end of the Magnum’s barrel from Junior’s mouth, then crouched down and pulled his jacket open. I looked under both arms and ran my hand around his back. He was clean. I straightened up.
‘You, Old Man,’ I said. ‘Hands flat on the desk and keep them there.’
I walked silently over the thick carpet and after kicking their feet further apart to keep them off balance, frisked the two men. They were both armed with automatic pistols. I returned the Magnum to its holster and ejected the shells from the automatics one by one.
‘This will never do,’ I remarked.
I dumped the two guns in the waste-paper bin and left the room. ‘You’ll be hearing from my principal,’ I said to the room generally as I closed the door behind me. ‘Don’t follow me.’ I walked through the lobby and back into reception, drawing the Magnum as I did so. Terry was sitting in the receptionist’s chair behind the desk, holding a pad of gauze against his injured cheek. Ingrid was having hysterics on the couch. The uniformed man from the ground floor was hopping from foot to foot. Terry made as if to rise when I entered the room. I showed him the Magnum. He showed me a set of dingy teeth in a snarl.
‘I’ll see you again,’ he said.
‘Any time Terry,’ I replied. ‘And next time bring a friend. Get me the lift,’ I ordered. The uniform pressed the button and the lift doors opened straight away.
‘Bye now,’ I said and stepped into the car, pressed the button marked ‘G’, and plummetted down. The massive foyer was empty. The staff had obeyed their master’s voice and not called the Old Bill. I walked quickly out of the building and back on to the Euston Road. I vaulted the safety rail and dived across Hampstead Road and lost myself in the metropolis. After checking that I wasn’t being followed I darted into the first decent-looking pub I saw and sat, shaking, over a large brandy for the next ten minutes.
21
I
advised McBain by post to send in the money men again. It was impossible to telephone and I couldn’t be bothered to go through all the hassle of making a personal visit and take the chance of his mother using me for target practice. I sent the letter recorded delivery and promptly forgot about the whole deal. Like I said I wasn’t broke and I had other fish to fry, if you could call a beautiful American woman a fried fish.
A week or so went by before I thought about Mogul or McBain or anything to do with the music business again. Saturday night had rolled around and Jo and I were sitting in the saloon bar of the Tulse Hill Tavern having a light refreshment before deciding how to spend the evening when I saw a huge shadow fill the doorway. I clocked engineer’s boots, tight denims and a beat-up leather pilot’s jacket and I knew without looking any further that it was Algy.
‘Grizzly Adam’s in,’ said Jo.
‘You’d better believe it,’ I replied.
Algy made eye contact and headed in our direction. All eyes in the bar followed his huge form as he sashayed across the floor.
‘He’s coming this way,’ whispered Jo in my ear.
‘I hope you’ve got a TV licence,’ I said, ‘otherwise things could get ugly.’
‘You mean uglier than him?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Beauty’s only skin deep,’ I reminded her as he arrived at the table where we were sitting. We both looked up as Algy loomed over us. Now I knew how it felt to come face to face with Bigfoot. He looked down from his massive height and his bearded face split into a crooked-toothed smile.
‘Nick,’ he said in a voice just a tone below a muted roar, ‘I asked around and someone said you might be in here.’
‘I’m getting too predictable,’ I said. ‘How are you, you little devil?’
‘In fine shape. I thought I’d take you up on that invite for a drink.’
‘You look well,’ I said. ‘It’s good to see you, life’s been a little dull for a while.’ Jo dug me in the ribs, and I smiled an apology.
‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Algy. ‘Someone told me that you’d been stirring some shit in Euston, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ The latter to Jo who was looking amazed.
‘You seem to have a lively network of “Someone’s”,’ I observed. ‘And this is Josephine, a good friend of mine.’
Algy took one of her hands in his giant fist and gently shook it. ‘Very nice to meet you, Josephine,’ he said politely.
‘Likewise,’ said Jo.
‘American?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Had some great times in America,’ said Algy, his eyes misting over with the memory. ‘Let me buy you both a drink.’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ I said.
Algy grinned again, asked us both what we’d have and sloped off to the bar. I opted for a Jack Daniels and Jo stuck to vodka and ginger ale.
‘Who the hell is that?’ asked Jo. ‘And I thought you were drinking gin and tonic’
‘Business,’ I replied, ‘and gin and tonic brings the beast in him out. I thought I’d have something macho.’
‘You guys,’ she said.
I hadn’t told her about my little contretemps with the Divas as I didn’t want her to get uptight at the thought of me running around armed and dangerous.
‘You mean a guy that size came to you for help?’ she asked.
‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some time.’
‘I can’t wait,’ she said.
Algy returned carrying three glasses and sat down. He stuck his paw into his jacket and pulled out a fat envelope.
‘I think congratulations are in order,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Did I win on “Spot the Ball”?’
‘The Divas rolled over and let the accountants in.’
‘Are you serious?’ I asked.
‘Never more so.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Well, it’s true, McBain’s accountants got in touch and Old Man Diva agreed to supply full accounts for the period in question for their perusal.’
‘It’s too easy,’ I said.
Jo was jumping up and down with curiosity and I promised to fill her in when we had the time, which quietened her down.
‘It’s down to you, Nick, the whole thing and McBain sent you this.’ He slid the envelope across the table. I didn’t touch it.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Open it,’ said Algy. ‘I don’t know what’s in it.’
I unsealed the envelope and pulled out a stack of fivers an inch thick wrapped in a sheet of notepaper. I unfolded the paper and on it, handwritten, was the following:
Dear Nick,
Well done. The deal stands and this is nothing to do with it, but a gentleman always honours his gambling debts.
Best wishes,
McBain
I didn’t bother to count the cash. I knew that it would be twelve hundred and sixty five quid. There was a fifty pence piece in the bottom of the envelope and I pocketed the lot with a smile.
Jo’s eyes were the size of hubcaps. ‘Is this strictly legal?’ she asked.
‘And above board,’ I said. ‘I guess the Milky Bars are on me tonight.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ said Algy. ‘I haven’t had a good night out for months.’
I looked at Jo and she shrugged. I clapped Algy on a shoulder that felt like concrete and welcomed him aboard.
We had a few more drinks in the pub and I suggested an Indian might go down well.
‘Love it,’ said Algy.
‘Sounds good to me,’ seconded Jo and we trooped over to our local Tandoori to get a table.
Jo and I ordered a reasonably-sized meal each but Algy went through the card until the table was loaded like a truck and I thought the waiter might have to use a fork lift to get the food up from the kitchen. Algy stripped off his jacket to display a Grateful Dead T-shirt and got stuck in.
‘Healthy little appetite you got there, boy,’ said Jo.
‘Don’t call him boy,’ I said and we cracked up.
We kept the waiters busy with orders for lager and poppadoms and chutney and I’m sure they were making a book on whether or not we’d finish the platters of food that kept appearing. By the time Algy creaked his chair back against the wall every dish had been emptied and wiped clean with nan bread.
‘A little more?’ I asked him.
‘Not a thing.’
‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’
‘Quite, but maybe an Irish coffee?’
The coffees arrived and got drunk in a second. Algy had cream all over his moustache and we called for another round. Jo and I had a Marlboro each and I treated Algy to a double Corona.
As we drank our second coffee, Jo and Algy started talking about America. He’d been all over in his days as an equipment roadie and they were soon chatting like old friends. It appeared he’d stayed in her home town and they’d even drunk in the same bars.
‘Old home week,’ I observed drily.
‘Just because you’ve never been,’ said Jo, ‘don’t get a hissy fit.’
I showed her my teeth and we all giggled drunkenly and ordered more Irish coffees.
‘You know, Jo,’ said Algy, ‘you remind me of a girl I took to Vegas once to play the tables. Her name was Jo and you do favour her. She was good luck for me. Little Jo from Kokomo I used to call her. She sure was pretty.’
‘Kokomo is in Indiana, and I come from New Jersey,’ said Jo.
‘What the hell,’ said Algy. ‘She came from Wyoming.’
For some reason that cracked us up too and we had to have more coffees, just for badness. It was Little Jo from then on.
‘Where are we going next?’ asked Algy after we’d plumbed the depths of coffee and fancied something a little less sweet.
‘You do like to make a night of it, don’t you?’ said Jo.
‘It has been known, Little Jo. It has been known.’
So we went back to the boozer. Algy wanted to play pool and what Algy wanted Algy got. Jo shrugged acceptance and I didn’t mind.
Of course the state we were in, we were bound to get into a row, and we did. In spades.
We rolled into the public bar and Algy called for large Remys. There were a few faces about that I knew and I nodded hello to one or two and spoke to a couple more. But being Saturday night there were a lot of strangers and as it was around ten a few bevvies had been sunk and to be fair I’d sunk my share of them. Algy put his name down for a game and we rescued a table in the corner from some punters who were cabbing off to pastures new just as we got our drinks.
There were a bunch of the Chaps in another corner who seemed to have monopolized the pool table and didn’t seem too pleased at the arrival of a new, unknown player. Casuals I guess you’d call them, all designer jeans and polo shirts or pastel jumpers with crocodiles or tigers or some other silly little animal crawling across the chest.
At last Algy got a game. He slaughtered a kid in a powder blue shirt and left him with six balls up. The kid’s mate, who fancied he was Fred Perry, racked up the balls and Algy broke and sank all seven of his balls and the black straight off. The big man was some pool player.
The Chaps in the corner were discussing the state of play and decided to send in their best player. He was a skinny guy with a thin brush cut, a pink polo and a particularly nasty borstal tattoo on his forearm.
He racked up and Algy broke off again. He opted for spots after sinking the number two ball off the break. He sunk the one ball, then in quick succession the three and five. Algy went for the seven ball, messed it up and let the skinny kid in.
He put his striped twelve in the middle pocket, then the nine and fourteen followed. That was when the trouble started. Algy’s seven ball was an inch or so away from the side cushion where he’d left it and the white had rolled up to the baulk when the fourteen went down. Skinny’s ten ball was over the far pocket blocking the seven so he obviously wanted that one to stay put, but he had the thirteen dead at the end next to the ten. With the seven and the white where they were he couldn’t cannon so he went for a double on the thirteen and he almost pulled it off. He slammed the white ball down the table but it shivered Algy’s seven before hitting the thirteen and smashing it back to end in the top pocket by his shoulder.
‘Foul shot,’ said Algy and went to take his two-shot advantage.
‘No way,’ said Skinny.
‘Yes it was,’ said Algy mildly. ‘You touched my red ball.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
One of the chaps butted in. It was Fred Perry. ‘The shot was good,’ he said.
‘Foul,’ said Algy. ‘What about it Nick?’
‘Looked like it to me,’ I said.
‘What’s it to you?’ asked Skinny.
‘What’s it to him?’ I asked, nodding at Fred Perry.
‘You talking to me?’ asked Fred.
‘No, about you,’ I replied truthfully.
‘Don’t get lippy,’ said Fred.
‘Or you,’ said Algy.
‘Shut it, you big cunt,’ said Fred, and that was it really.
I cracked up, I couldn’t help it.
‘Who are you laughing at?’ asked Skinny.
‘You, you prat,’ I replied.
‘Take the breaks and lose the game.’
‘Or else?’
‘Or else,’ said Algy, ‘you’ll go home wearing a cue.’
Game, set and match. Some people won’t be told. Skinny swung his cue at Algy’s head that suddenly wasn’t where it should have been. The big man was quick, I’ll give him that, and the cue whistled harmlessly through the air and Algy picked it out of Skinny’s fist like it was a toothpick. Algy dropped it on the table and hurled the skinny guy off the ground and held him up against the wall with as much effort as you or I would lift a baby.
‘Not nice,’ he said easily.
The three or four chaps sitting decided to get into the act and stood up.
‘Sit down lads,’ I said conversationally.
‘Bollocks,’ said the one in powder blue and made for Algy’s back.
‘Beat it Jo,’ I said, jumped up and caught powder blue by his shoulder, spun him round and pushed him back towards his mates.
Then all hell broke loose. Someone lobbed a glass at Algy which missed and went straight through the window of the bar into the street. One of the barmen vaulted over the bar and came at me. I put up my hands to show I wanted no trouble and he tried to chin me. I stepped back and put up a defensive left. The barman countered with a left of his own to my ribs, so I punched back and connected a right-hander to his jaw. It was a good clean shot that knocked him down. Then the chaps came at me mob-handed. I threw a few but one of them grabbed me round the neck and dragged me across the pool table. I put my hand down for balance and felt a pool ball. I clenched it in my fist and lashed out. I heard the hard plastic connect with someone’s face and there was a lot of hooting and the grip on my throat eased slightly.
Lying as I was across the table with my head on the cushion, my view of the bar was upside-down and I saw Algy lay a good wallop into Skinny’s belly and drop him down, or up if you see what I mean, to lie on the carpet rolled up in a ball clutching at his stomach.
Algy waded through the crowd towards me picking up bodies and tossing them aside like bags of waste-paper. He grabbed whoever was holding me down and lifted him over his head and lobbed him at the chaps who were still standing. I’ll never forget the sight. People were going down like skittles, and staying down.
‘Where’s Jo?’ I choked.
‘Behind the bar.’
‘Let’s go then.’
Algy took off, roundhousing through the mob and I followed in his wake. We reached the bar and dived through the gap. Jo was leaning on the polished top casually viewing the mayhem like a veteran, which perhaps she was. I grabbed her round the waist and we dived through the doorway into the saloon bar, pushed through the crowd and out into the car park.
‘Wheels,’ I said.
‘Right there!’ shouted Algy.
I might have guessed. Parked like the QE2 next to a bunch of tramp steamers was a Bentley in the midst of the Cortinas and Avengers.
Algy hit the door, yanked it open and all three of us dived into the front. He keyed the ignition, smacked the column change into ‘Drive’ and took off in a spray of cinders. He aimed at the exit and hit the South Circular doing forty and accelerating. We narrowly missed a Sierra estate and surged through the one-way system.
I massaged my throat and asked Jo how she was.
‘Recovering,’ she said bitingly.
‘Anyone for a drink?’ asked Algy and even she smiled.