Just Another Angel (15 page)

The light showed the lift coming down.

‘And Mr Scamp?'

‘Oh, he's away a lot. Haven't seen him for months.'

‘Okay, thanks.'

I turned away and took a step back into the twilight. The lift stopped in the lobby and the doors opened. I didn't know the man who stepped out and looked straight at the door, which the old buffer porter had managed to close. I think they spoke to each other, but I didn't get a good look until I was sitting in Armstrong with the engine running.

I could see them clearly in the light of the foyer, but they couldn't see me cloaked in the anonymity of Armstrong – and what more anonymous than a black London cab?

No, I'd definitely not seen the man coming out of the lift before. But he was a big man, and for some reason I had an unhealthy picture of him being more than able to do something unspeakable to Tonka toys.

Sunday night was usually jam session night at the Mimosa Club for assorted trad jazzmen who weren't in regular bands or who couldn't get a gig in one of the big suburban pubs. It was still early, so I didn't expect many customers, but I did expect more than one – me.

There was a Django Reinhardt tape playing – I know, because I recorded it and sold it to Stubbly – and Ken the barman was sitting on a bar stool reading the
News of the World.

‘Business booming, I see,' I said.

Ken didn't look up until he'd finished the story he was reading, and only then when his lips had finally stopped moving.

‘It's gonna be a wasted evening. I told him it would be. I suppose you want a drink?' He moved his bum and made his way round the bar.

‘Half a lager.'

‘Him again,' snorted Ken.

‘Eh?'

‘Arthur Lager, regular customer.'

‘And an old one.'

‘The old ones are the best.'

‘That's what we toy boys always say.'

Ken curled a lip in a half-snarl and slopped the beer over to me. From the foam on it, I guessed it was the first out of the keg that evening.

‘Be a pound.'

‘No staff discount?'

‘No staff. Not tonight; the session's cancelled.'

‘Cancelled? What about all those young talents who are drawn here every Sunday? Where will they go?'

‘There's always the night shelter at Tottenham Court Road. I suppose I'd better put up the notice.'

Ken reached down under the bar and produced a homemade sign. It was a sheet of white paper stuck on to cardboard on which was typed: ‘LIVE MUSIC CANCELLED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE PENDING LICENCE RENEWAL APPLICATION – W. STUBBLY (PROP.)'

‘So no gig on Tuesday?'

‘Was there one booked? I never notice these days.'

‘Another new band, so I'd heard. Style leaders in electronic reggae called Warmharbour Coldharbour, with a lead singer called Effra.' Ken looked totally underwhelmed.

‘After Effra Road, Brixton.'

Ken lost interest completely. For the moment, he contented himself with pinning the notice to the inner door of the club and taking great delight in reading it to two young black guys who had arrived carrying saxophone cases. They decided not to stay, which pleased Ken no end.

‘Stubbly could be missing out badly,' I said. ‘One of those guys could have been the next Courtney Pine.'

‘Who's he?'

‘Just about the best British sax player since Tubby Hayes.'

I knew what was coming.

‘Who? I thought your mate Rabbit was the bee's knees. By the way, did he get off with that drummer Richard last week?'

Ken picks up street talk like Sunday newspaper diarists pick up gossip, late and usually third-hand. ‘Richard,' for the female of the species, derives from Richard the Third rhyming with ‘bird,' but was now well past its sell-by date. The current term was ‘Shaz,' meaning any female over 18 who went to Spain on holiday with boyfriend ‘Chaz.' It came from green windscreen visors with ‘Sharon & Charles' printed on, the ‘Charles' always on the driver's side. And yes, it is sexist.

‘No, I don't think he ever did score with that one. You reckon we should ring the day on the calendar?'

Ken snorted. It could have been a laugh, it could have been asthma.

‘How about you? Did the bouncing handbag find you?'

‘Eh?' Ken is one of the few people who can stun me into being ungrammatical. And incoherent.

‘The two dykes who were in here that same night. One of ‘em came back to see Stubbly and asked after you.'

‘Which one?'

‘The one that didn't look like Dumbo.'

‘So she saw Stubbly, did she?' And got my address.

‘Yeah, and she's been in a few times since. Didn't think you were into dykes, though.'

‘She's no dyke, Kenny, and don't bother to ask how I know. And what do you mean – she's been in since?'

‘Oh, just to chat with Stubbly. She was in last night, late on. I was just leaving. So she's straight, is she?'

I finished my beer.

‘Just take my word for it, Kenny, and don't lose sleep over it. Would that be around tennish?' It was worth a try.

‘Naw, much later. Oneish. Most everybody had gone. Everybody had gone, come to think of it, ‘cos Stubbly shut the disco off at midnight.'

‘Was she alone?'

‘No, she came in with Nevil, the new bouncer. Sorry, doorman.'

‘A big feller?'

‘Brick shithouse proportions, squire. You don't want to dabble with the blonde Richard while she walks in Nevil's shade.' He cracked his face into what would be a sneer if it was more human.

‘Or maybe you should mind your own business.' I started to leave. ‘Oh, Kenny.'

‘Yeah, what?'

‘Why do you call them bouncing handbags?'

‘Cos they looked like a couple of lesbians.'

‘Yeah, I got that far. Why are their handbags supposed to bounce, though?'

‘Because of the big rubber dildos they carry with them.'

Oh yes, of course. How logical. And I had to ask, didn't I.

 

 

 

 

 

For a couple of days, I got on with life's rich pageant without thinking any more of Jo or her bloody credit cards. Why didn't I just post them to her? I've asked myself since a hundred times.

Life with Lisabeth in the flat, which I had expected to be anything but a rich pageant, turned out to be not half bad. This was mainly due to the fact that when she was in residence, I contrived to be out. Still, she kept the place tidier than it had been for months, and she didn't mistreat Springsteen, or if she did, he didn't complain about it. And usually he is one of the biggest moaners around when I have guests.

Monday and Tuesday I had some regular work lined up, moving fire-damaged gin from a couple of pubs in Canning Town all the way across town to a warehouse in Hounslow.

Dod had got me the job and we were using his van, so everything was okay by me. If it had been anyone else, then, yes, even I would have said, ‘How can you have fire-damaged gin?' But as it was Dod, I took my 50 quid and free ploughman's lunches (not that Canning Town's seen a ploughman since Shakespeare packed ‘em in over at the Globe in Southwark) and we humped boxes and sat in traffic jams and set the world to rights. Well, if not the world, we at least sorted out Tottenham's back four.

Tuesday evening and there was rumour of a gig in a pub in Islington, with the added plus that – so the rumour went – good old loony left Islington Council were subsidising it. In other words, any immigrant, disabled, single-parent, unemployed, lesbian trombonist could get a grant for turning up. No, that's not fair. I'm sure the Council do a lot of good work, and it shouldn't fall to me to propagate the views of the monopolistic, right-wing press. There. Everybody happy now?

The pub seemed to be the only building left standing (a good motto for the local council?) on that side of Copenhagen Street. It had been bought by a Northern brewery who couldn't believe that they could get over a pound a pint for their best bitter despite what they'd heard about Londoners. Still, they were making an effort, putting on cheap food and jazz bands, and so far the locals from the high rise flats across the road seemed to be accepting them. Well, at least the pub still had all its windows.

The band was a right dog's breakfast, with no bass player, an over-enthusiastic banjoist and a jealous pianist who thought he was being diddled out of his fair share of solos. Needless to say, the band was run on cooperative lines, with no-one in particular leading. By the time I got a look-in, two other trumpeters had pitched for a spot on the makeshift stage, so four of us did a loud, but enthusiastic version of ‘Tiger Rag', which pleased the punters. Thank God they weren't jazz fans.

I'd seen Bunny arrive, take one look around the pub and decide against it. He stuffed his sax case under a table and ordered a pint at the bar, moving ever so casually towards two women sitting by themselves on high stools. They'd gone to the loo together by the time I joined Bunny. Maybe he was losing his touch.

‘Not your scene?' I asked.

‘I'm a Keep Music Live man; you know that. This is dead zone material.'

‘I have to agree. Still, the ale's not bad, and I thought there might be a chance of a blow.'

‘So did I,' said Bunny, looking towards the Ladies and wondering if there could be another exit he couldn't see. ‘What's going down at the Mimosa?'

‘Not a lot, as far as I know. Why?'

‘Old Stubbly seems determined to put himself out of business. No music and the bar's only open for the minimum time he can get away with. Even the afternoon dipsomaniacs are deserting him now Kenny's gone.'

Behind me, the band, now augmented by two extra trombonists, broke into ‘Beale Street Blues', and a tall, anorexic blonde who thought she knew the words volunteered to sing. It could have been that, I suppose, that made the hairs on the back of my neck feel like they were giving off static.

‘Ken the barman? But I saw him Sunday evening.'

Bunny buried his face in his beer and I only just caught what he said over the noise from the band.

‘Well, it must have been after that he had his accident.'

‘Accident?' Why did I have to ask?

‘Walking into his car door like that; really strange. Broke his nose, split his lip and blacked his eye. Couldn't go to work looking like that, could he?'

‘Ken hasn't got a car.'

‘I know. That's the really strange thing about it. But I wouldn't go there asking after him if I were you.'

I definitely wasn't going to ask this one. The anorexic blonde was on her fifth chorus. I never knew there were so many E-flats in it.

‘Rod Stewart could have a voice like that if he smoked more,' I said, for the sake of something to say.

Bunny had finished his beer and the two ladies were still in the Ladies, or had escaped without him seeing how. Either way, he was getting itchy feet.

‘Okay, Bunny, do tell me why I shouldn't ask after Ken.'

‘Because somebody was asking Kenny about you when he had his accident.'

‘Asking what about me?'

‘Who you is, where you're at.'

‘Cut the street crap. Who and why?'

‘Well, the why's not known. Or at least Kenny had no idea why anyone should think he was an oppo of yours, and he could tell them virtually zilch. He doesn't know your gaff or anything, does he?'

‘So who was asking?'

‘Stubbly's new doorman, it seems. A big guy called Nevil. Wears suits a lot, doesn't use words when he talks.'

Bunny grinned impishly. I hate him sometimes.

‘So this Nevil asks Ken about me and then Ken runs into a car door, eh? Is that it?'

‘More or less; but I've a feeling Nevil was holding the car door at the time.'

I refused to let this worry me. And, anyway, I only cruised up and down outside the house twice just to make sure there was no-one lying in wait.

 

Wednesday was an Even Rudergrams day for me, and that was usually good for a laugh.

Even Rudergrams was a new small company set up with the help of various Government enterprise grants (God Bless Our Lady of Downing Street), which specialised in an over-the-top kissogram service. All in the worst possible taste. Rudergrams went where even regular kissogram companies failed to boldly go. They had hit on the idea of advertising (discreetly) in things like the
Financial Times
and the
Economist.
This brought them a very high class of customer who didn't mind paying over the odds for something that little bit naughtier.