Black Out (36 page)

‘You asshole,’ she said, but the ferocity was draining from her voice. A throaty sadness crept in in its place. ‘You asshole, you total fucking asshole.’

‘I have to go,’ he said once more, and turned for the door.

Tosca shot across the room and slammed the door shut with the whole force of her body and squared off to him, shoeless and five foot nothing, shoulders back against the door, eyes level with his chin, staring him and daring him.

‘Troy, you leave now and you can never come back. You hear me – never!’

‘I can’t stay. Wayne is at the Savoy.’

‘Yes you can – he ain’t going nowhere.’

‘What?’

‘Six a.m. appointment with Zelly. Sunday morning. And he’s tied up all day Monday.’

‘All day?’

‘D-Day.’

‘What?’

‘Monday is D-Day. And don’t ask me to say it again. I’m not committing treason three times even for you. Jimmy won’t run. Jimmy can’t run. He’ll keep the Sunday meet with Zelly. It’s probably the most important of his life. It’s what he does with his Saturdays that’s got me worried.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Take a seat, Troy. We got things to talk about.’

She fought the same old battle with the fridge door and pulled out a pizza pie the size of a cartwheel.

‘It’s all there is. PX is running kinda low. I guess you ain’t tasted it hot yet?’

Troy shook his head. She put a match to the oven and slid the pizza in on its tinfoil tray.

‘Don’t let me forget.’

She took a second glass from the draining-board, looked disapprovingly at its greasy smears and shoved it and the bottle across the table at him.

‘I’ll be glad to get out of this place. It’s beginning to feel like a hole.’

Troy looked around.

‘You could try cleaning up,’ he ventured.

‘Don’t push your luck, Troy. I forgive nothing. This is purely business.’

‘Business? Yours or mine?’

‘I don’t know. I just know Jimmy is up to something. Something pretty big.’

‘D-Day could be rather large I should think.’

‘Something … something that’s him. Something very Jimmy. He was on a high today. It was running in his blood. He’s on some kind of a mission. He was acting like he always acts when he has something special coming down. He has a kind of rooster swagger to him, and he and Zelly go off into huddles and Zelly gets that dumb-ass worried look as though he thinks Jimmy’s gonna drop the both of them right in it. And it’s Saturday whatever it is. “I’ll take care of it Saturday,” he told Zelly. And Zelly says “Sure sure” and just keeps right on sweating.’

She stared into the bottom of her glass again, not looking at him, her voice trailing away almost to nothing. ‘Oh God, Troy – I’m scared.’

Troy slipped off his coat and shoes, padded softly round the table, and dropped to his knees. He lifted her chin with one hand. Against expectation her eyes were dry – the look was one of intense concern and, for the time being at least, her emotions seemed to be under control. He had no idea of what she was capable.

‘He’s gonna kill somebody. I just know it.’

‘Do you know who?’

‘Jesus Christ, Troy, if I knew I’d’ve told you five minutes ago! Of course I don’t know!’

‘Do you know where?’

‘Nope – all I know is tomorrow night.’

Troy thought for a moment. He felt the need to reassure her, but had no idea what word or gesture might prove acceptable.

‘I’ll handle it. Don’t worry,’ he said, and placed a hand on her stockinged knee.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake – you’ve spent the last two months telling me the guy’s a killer. You told me he likes it. This is a guy who kills for pleasure!’

‘He does,’ he said very matter-of-factly.

‘Then what the fuck are you going to do???’

‘Arrest him. That’s my job.’

She sighed in exasperation and he kissed her lightly on her left ear and slid his hand up her skirt and along her thigh.

‘Will you stop that!’

She shook her head vigorously, as though he were a small species of insect tangled in her hair.

‘Does doing your goddamn job mean going up against a maniac?’

‘Won’t be the first time.’

He cautiously approached her knickers, thinking all the time that this was no time for caution.

‘What in hell are you tryin’ ter do?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

And he took her ear-lobe between his teeth. She squirmed and stomped the floor with her stockinged feet.

‘Goddamit, Troy! When you first walked in here you didn’t know knicker elastic from liquorice! Now you think you can mend any damn thing if only you can get me into bed. Dammit, I don’t know you at all, do I?’

Troy said nothing and began a perilous course of trying to tug her knickers kneeward.

‘I mean. I never even knew you played the piano.’

‘You never asked.’

‘What was I supposed to do, go through the instruments of the orchestra – hey honey, how are you on woodwind? – you set for a bash on the snare drum? For fuck’s sake, Troy, will you stop that!’

He ignored her. The room began to fill with the smell of melting cheese. A smell so pre-war, so old of old England it was almost seductive in itself, and this turned gently, mingled with the scent of basil and its hint of the exotic, that continental touch, all garlic and black stockings, the forbidden.

‘Pizza’s almost done,’ she said.

Troy said nothing. She lifted her buttocks from the chair and the elastic recoiled on to his hand like a rebounding yo-yo and the silk knickers bunched into his grip as he pulled them towards him.

‘You want it before or after?’ she said.

She read her ten pages of
Huck Finn
as he scrambled eggs and made toast. It was her third time through the book in the time she had known him, she pointed out. They faced each other across morning coffee, sitting on the floor, less than half-dressed.

‘Where have you got to?’

‘Duke of Bridgewater just got himself tarred and feathered again. There’s a lot to be said for knowing when you’re in danger.’

She took up the cup in both hands and drank deeply.

‘Ah mm ya ya nmmm!’

‘Are you working today?’ he asked.

‘With Armageddon two days away would I not be working? Of course I’m working! Leave got cancelled for almost everybody. Those assholes cluttering up Piccadilly last night were probably under orders to go out and get drunk and make it look like London is still full of Yankees. Haven’t you noticed how empty London’s been the last week? Everybody’s down on the South Coast. I bet you can’t get a cream tea in Dorset for love or dollars.’

‘So it is Normandy?’

‘Did you ever doubt it?’

‘Not really.’

‘Utah, Omaha, Juno, Gold, Sword.’

‘Eh?’

‘The beaches. That’s what we call ‘em. I chose Juno. I figured the war needed a woman’s touch. Ike said he wasn’t having his boys land on a beach called Fanny, which was to be my first choice, so I went for a goddess instead. My piece of history, not bad, eh?’

She held out her cup for more coffee. He filled it.

‘I need you to promise me something,’ she said.

‘OK.’

‘You won’t go up against Jimmy alone – like you were going to do last night? You go round to the Savoy with a whole bunch of coppers and you pull him in. Promise?’

Troy thought for a moment. He had half-expected her to ask this. ‘I can’t do that.’

She slapped the cup down, splashing hot coffee across his naked leg.

‘Jesus, Troy!’

‘I can’t do that because I have no grounds on which to arrest him.’

‘Baloney – you spent the last two months trying to arrest the bastard!’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent the last two months trying to get enough evidence to arrest him. Trying to break his alibi. He’s still alibied. That statement of Ike’s still stands. Why do you think I’ve received no co-operation from anyone? Because if I succeed I’m calling the Supreme Allied Commander a liar.’

‘We all make mistakes. Really, when you get to know him Ike’s OK. I mean not grouchy or anything and not too bright. I mean OK for a general – you wouldn’t want him to be President or anything like that. I guess someone told him it was all in the national interest, as you guys say – and I guess that someone was Jimmy.’

‘Whatever Jimmy has in mind tonight, I need to catch him
in flagrante delicto.’

‘Eh?’

‘I need to catch him at it. I need the evidence.’

She was aghast. Her mouth opened and no words came out. She drew breath sharply and made indeterminate noises that led to ‘Troy, Troy, Troy, do not go up against Jimmy!’

‘I’ve no choice.’

‘Please – Troy, you don’t know – you can’t imagine – just pull him – a moving violation, anything – just get him off the streets by nightfall. Don’t try and take him on.’

Troy looked back at her in silence.

‘Then at least get yourself a gun. I know it’s not what you bobbies do, but get yourself a gun. You can do that, can’t you? I mean that’s not asking the earth, is it?’

They dressed. With every other word she called him stupid. Troy gave up trying to explain, and then she looked at her watch and swore.

‘Baby, I gotta run. No time. Come see me tonight. Come show me you’re still in one piece.’

She stood at her dressing-table, fully dressed, all neat in olive green, fiddling at one ear. She looked down into her jewellery box, slammed something down and said, ‘Why does this always happen?’

She turned to Troy. Kissed him on the lips, pulled back, smiled, kissed him again and said, ‘Bring ’em back alive!’ and dashed out.

Troy looked around for the phone, and after a few minutes’ search, found it under the bed with a small mountain of discarded stockings and American magazines and blew the dust off it. He called Wildeve. Wildeve exploded softly in a mixture of anxiety and anger.

‘Freddie, where the hell are you?’

‘I’m at home. Now listen…’

‘How long have you been there?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘I waited outside your house all fucking night!’

Only Ruby, it seemed, had prevented Jack from meeting Tosca.

‘I only got in an hour ago.’

‘For Christ’s sake will you stop lying to me! I was there until twenty minutes ago. Where are you?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Are you at Tite Street?’

‘No.’

‘You’re an ass, Freddie.’

‘Quite possibly. But this ass has found Wayne.’

The line was silent for a moment. Troy could almost hear Wildeve think.

‘I don’t have to ask how, do I?’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘But if you try to tell me this justifies…’

‘Jack, I’m not trying to justify anything. I’ve been an ass – you’re absolutely right! But right now Major Wayne is sleeping off a heavy night at the Savoy!’

‘I’ll put Thomson and Gutteridge on to it.’

‘Front and back?’

‘Of course. When can I expect you?’

‘A couple of hours. I need a shave and a change.’

‘What if Wayne makes a move?’

‘He won’t. There’s something special coming down.’

‘Coming down? What the hell does that …? Oh never mind. How do you know? Has she … ?’

‘I don’t need anyone to tell me, Jack. It’s his
modus operandi.
He works by night.’

‘Are you saying he’s come back just to do another?’

‘He’s come back to … ’ Troy searched for the words and could find only Tosca’s. ‘He’s on a mission.’

‘Mission? Mission? What kind of bloody jargon is that? Freddie, how do you know?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Will you stop saying that!’

‘Jack, just meet me in the shooting range at half past two.’

Troy hung up. A mess of dusty stockings lay at his feet. The only other clear surface was the top of the dressing-table. He yanked on the cable and put the phone down next to her jewellery box. It was open. There in the lid was a single pearl ear-ring on a silver screw mounting.

Ex-Regimental Sergeant Major Peacock bore a passing resemblance to the late Lord Kitchener – passing in that a walrus moustache tends to make anyone look like the late Lord Kitchener. He clutched both lapels of his brown, stained warehouse coat and rubbed his thumbs gently up and down whilst looking appraisingly at Wildeve.

‘I don’t believe I’ve met yer boy,’ he said.

‘Detective Constable Wildeve,’ said Troy. ‘My number two.’

‘Bit young aren’t yer, lad?’

‘I’m—’ Wildeve began in a tone of schoolboy resentment, but Troy nudged him sharply into silence.

‘Mr Peacock.’

‘Mr Troy.’

‘A gun if you please.’

Peacock switched his gaze to Troy. Troy had no personal feelings
about Peacock one way or the other, but the silent tutting infuriated him as symptomatic of a generation. The assumed air of gravity and the fraudulent pretence of judgement in situations that required only answer or action struck him as the manner in which old men concealed their hollowness. Old men – Peacock could hardly be more than fifty, but a dozen years as an RSM had left him indelibly marked with the importance of his own banality. He was, thought Troy, of the same mould as the old head gardener or the butler in his father’s household. Any question, however trivial, put by the boy Troy would be met with concealment, the implication that there were things known to men that were best not known by boys. Adolescence, adulthood even, had not initiated Troy into the mystery. His father, questioned, had ascribed it not to age but to the temperament of the English. Whatever the outcome of this prolonged and unnecessary pause, if, now or at any time in the next ten minutes, Peacock mentioned that he was off to see a man about a dog Troy felt sure he would hit him.

Peacock tugged at one end of the great moustache.

‘ ’Ow long ‘as it bin, Mr Troy?’

‘Bin?’

‘Since you put in any time on the range?’

‘I’m not entering a clay-pigeon shoot. I simply feel the situation requires that I be armed. We have reason to—’

‘O’ course. O’ course. Matter of self-defence. You wouldn’t be ‘ere if there wasn’t a bad ‘un out there somewhere with a shooter. Goes without sayin’. What I am sayin’ is can you ‘andle it?’