London Boulevard (13 page)

A guy clocked me, went by on a first sweep, then back, said,

“Gimme a cigarette.”

You’ve got to give it hard and stay on it. Any shit or apology like “I don’t smoke” and they’d carve your tongue out.

I said, “Fuck off.”

He did.

’Course, if they’re cranked, it’s a different ball game. There’s no rules with a doper. Hurt them fast and keep going. I was deep regretting not driving but all the same, the adrenaline keeps it sharp.

At Camberwell Green, I let out a sigh of relief and went into the restaurant. Briony was already there, working on a glass of wine. She was doing her gothic trip. Dressed in black, white makeup, I said,

“What’s this, the banshee look?”

“Do you like it?”

“Awesome.”

The owner was an old friend and gave me a high five. Not an easy gesture for an Italian reared in Peckham. I said,

“Good to see you, Alfons.”

“And you, my friend. Shall I order for you both?”

“Great.”

Briony poured me some wine, we did the “cheers” bit, drank, and I asked, “So?”

“I had to leave my doctor.”

“I heard.”

“He gave me his pin number.”

“That’s why you left?”

She laughed. Thank Christ. The evening wouldn’t be total gloom. She said,

“I bought a pup.”

I thought she said “pub” and went,

“Jeez, how much money had he?”

“A King Charles Cavalier.”

“Oh, a pup.”

She looked like a little girl—well, a gothic little girl—said,

“He’s a King Charles Cavalier.”

“Nice.”

“They’re very docile, like they’re on heavy tranquilizers.”

“Lucky dog.”

Alfons brought the food.

Like this.

The starters: Fritti Misti Vegetable. A selection of zucchini, eggplant, broccoli. Done in a crispy batter.

Crostino al Prosciutto with thinly sliced ham, covered in melting Parmesan cheese.

It was good to watch Bri eat. She did it with delicacy and concentration. She said,

“I called the dog Bartley-Jack.”

“Why?”

She looked like she didn’t know, said,

“I dunno.”

For the main course, Bri had Cotoletta alla Milanese. A beef dish fried with spice in a breadcrumb batter. Melt-in-the-mouth stuff.

I had gnocchi. Small flour dumplings, flavored with porcini.

That’s a wild Italian mushroom.

I described all of the above to Bri. She was impressed, said,

“How’d you know all this stuff? You hardly speak English most days.”

“My first two weeks in prison, before I learnt anything, all I had to read was an Italian menu. It was pinned on the wall of my cell. I must have read it a thousand times. Then someone swiped it.”

“Why?”

“It’s jail, it’s what they do. Doesn’t matter what it is.”

We had espresso to finish, the burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth, bitter, real thing. I said,

“Bri, I need you to listen seriously to me.”

“Sure.”

“Is there some place you can go for a while?”

“Why?”

“I have some business to take care of, and I have to not worry about you.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I have a pup now, I can’t just go.”

“Jeez, bring the bloody pup with you.”

“Not unless you tell me why.”

I lit a roll-up, exhaled with a sigh, said,

“There’s some people putting pressure on me. They might try to hurt you.”

“Hah . . . fuck ’em.”

“C’mon, Bri, I’ll give you the cash.”

“I have tons of money.”

“Please, Bri, as a favor to me.”

“I might. Why don’t you want to know about the doctor?”

“I do really. What happened?”

“He’s veggie. A vegan.”

“So? Aren’t you sometimes that too?”

“I don’t like to be told. Anyway, I like villains best, like you.”

I gave up. Ordered the bill and paid that. I asked,

“Bri, can I call you a cab?”

“No, I have a bus pass.”

“Since when?”

“Like yesterday.”

“Take care, hon.”

She gave me that smile, promising nothing.

I’d just started back down New Road when a car beeped me.

The window goes down, it’s Jeff.

“Mitch, I been looking for you, mate.”

“Yeah?”

“Hop in, I’ll give you a lift.”

“Just to the Oval, I’m parked there.”

I get in, and he accelerates. The skels outside just a blur in the speed. He says,

“I need a favor, mate.”

“I’ll try.”

“Monday we go north.”

“Yeah?”

“Two of the crew are down. Gerry’s gone and broken his leg, Jack’s missus is in the hospital.”

“Can’t you postpone?”

“Last two excursions had to be shelved. It’s tough being a villain and a family man.”

“And you’re asking me what, Jeff?”

“To fill out the crew.”

Thing with mates is, you don’t make them sweat it.

Yes or no.

I said,

“Yes.”

“Oh, cheers, mate. Monday morning at my place . . . eight thirty.”

As I got outta the car, he said,

“Be good to have you along, Mitch.”

“It’s no big thing.”

That’s what I thought.

AS I
walked up the Holland Park drive, I noticed the lights were off. Thank Christ, I thought. Having to hop on the actress was about as appealing as a prison breakfast.

I was about to go to my room when I noticed a light in the kitchen. Thought—“why not?”

Jordan was sitting at the kitchen table in his shirtsleeves, a stone bottle before him. I said,

“Yo.”

He looked up, said, “Join me.”

“ ’Kay.”

I’d never seen him without a jacket. I could see his arms were brown, heavily muscled. He motioned for me to get a glass.

I did. He tilted the bottle, poured me a full one, said, “It’s jenever, Dutch gin.”

We clinked glasses, muttered something that sounded like “skol” and drank them off in one toss. By Jesus, did that kick. A moment of grace, then wallop, your stomach was blitzkrieged. My eyes watered. I gasped,

“Phew.”

He nodded, said, “Again?”

“Of course.”

After I recovered from the double whammy, I began to roll a cig. He said,

“May I have one?”

“Whoa . . . what about the rules?”

“Fuck them.”

I handed him one, lit it, said,

“Now you’re talking.”

He drew deep, not his first time. Here was a guy reared on smoke. I asked,

“How’s Madam?”

“Expecting her call to the theater.”

“Jeez! I mean, that ain’t going to go down. What then?”

He looked pained. Drunk too, but mainly pained. Said,

“I’ll think of something, I always do.”

I was feeling the booze, enough to ask,

“What’s the deal, why do you stay?”

He seemed amazed, said,

“It’s my life.”

Didn’t elaborate, so I tried more.

“Didn’t you used to be her husband?”

My knowing didn’t faze him, said,

“I still am.”

Then he spread his hands on the table, focused on me.

“Before her I was nothing. She is the beat of my heart.”

I figured we were two guys well pissed, so go for it. I asked,

“But . . . doesn’t she, you know . . . like, see other guys?”

He spat on the floor, made a sound that went,

“Ph . . . tt . . . h.”

Then,

“They are nothing—playthings she discards like rubbish. I am constant.”

There was a trace of spittle on his lips, and his eyes were fevered. I considered he might not be playing with a full deck. I eased down, said,

“You sure take care of her.”

He waved his hands in dismissal. I downed more gin, asked,

“Ever hear a duet from Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood called ‘In Another’s Eyes?’ ”

“No.”

“Don’t listen to music much, eh?”

“There is only Wagner.”

I don’t think there’s a sane reply to this. Leastways, I didn’t have it.

Then he did the oddest thing. Stood up, bowed, said,

“I enjoyed our talk, but now I must secure the house.”

I got up, not sure should I shake his hand or not. I said,

“Thanks for the drink.”

I’d just got to the door when he said,

“Mr. Mitchell, if you are ever in trouble, I will be available.”

“Oh.”

“I am a valuable ally.”

As I headed for bed, I didn’t doubt that for a minute.

I tried to watch TV for a bit; I was having double vision.

I must have been very drunk, as I thought
Ally McBeal
wasn’t bad.

FRIDAY. I
figured if I was bank-robbing on Monday, then I better get some R&R.

I phoned Aisling, she said,

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“Why?”

“It’s a guy thing. When they say ‘I’ll call,’ you don’t hold your breath.”

“OK . . . so, can I take you out?”

“Oh yes, I have a plan.”

“Nothing better than a plan.”

“Can you pick me up at the Angel station at eight?”

“Islington?”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s north.”

“So?”

“No . . . I can do north.”

“See you later.”

I
DID A
full day’s work:

repaired a door

cleaned the windows

whistled some tunes.

COME EVENING
, Jordan laid a wedge of cash on me. He said,

“Madam would like a word.”

“Sure, listen . . . I need Monday free.”

“Don’t make a habit of it.”

All the camaraderie of the night before seemed to have evaporated.

But I noticed his eyes were bloodshot. Teach him to guzzle gin.

Madam was waiting in the dining room. She was looking good. The battalion of

hairdressers

beauticians

physiotherapists

had done their work. Her skin and eyes glowed. She was
wearing a low-cut cream dress, her skin lightly tanned. Great logo.

I felt stirrings. The body is a bastard, it just does its own thing. Lillian gave the knowing smile, said,

“You must be all hot and sweaty after your toil.”

I gave a noncommittal shrug. She said,

“We’re going out this evening, I’ve booked a table at the Savoy.”

“Not me, babe.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve got other plans.”

“Well, cancel them. It’s time I was seen in public.”

“Have fun, but I won’t be with you.”

“How do you expect me to appear unaccompanied? I must have an escort.”

“Try the yellow pages.”

She just couldn’t believe I was refusing her, she shouted,

“I will not be denied.”

I gave her the hard look, said,

“Jeez, get real, lady,”

and walked out. I could hear her screaming,

“I didn’t dismiss you, come back here!”

Jordan, of course, appeared, and before he could speak, I said,

“She’s rehearsing, don’t disturb her.”

As I showered I thought—“She is one royal pain in the ass.”

Little did I know.

A
FTER I SHOWERED
, I cracked a brewski and got dressed. Kept it casual. Sweatshirt and jeans. My nose was still aching, but I could live with it. Gant was hovering on the outskirts of my mind. The mental threads one makes are tenuous and treacherous. I dredged up a line.

It’s not about hatred, it’s about absolute devastation.

The gems you learn from children’s literature. Ready to go, I picked up the cell phone and shoved it in my jeans. The car started on the first turn, and I’d got to the end of the drive when the phone went. I said,

“Yeah?”

It was Lillian, said,

“You are so much more than I had expected but so much less than I had hoped,”

and hung up.

It was ten after eight by the time I got to the Angel station. Islington is a bastard in a car. Aisling was waiting. She was
dressed in a duffel coat, faded blue jeans. Looked like a radiant student. I opened the door, she jumped in. Leant over and kissed me on the mouth. I said,

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“We’ll be sorry if I’m late.”

Let that slide and asked,

“Where to?”

She gave me a complicated set of directions, and I got lost twice. Finally, she shouted,

“Stop!”

I did.

We were parked outside a pub. She said,

“This is Filthy MacNasty’s.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, that’s the name.”

“Sounds like it should be in the Bronx.”

“I remembered you said you love crime writers. Here they have a crime writer read and they play tracks relevant to his work. Guess who’s on this evening?”

I had no idea, said,

“I’ve no idea.”

“James Ellroy.”

“No shit . . . that’s brilliant!”

Already the place was jammed, but we managed to grab two stools at the corner of the bar. Aisling’s face was shining, excitement writ huge. She said,

“I’m buying, what would you like?”

“Pint of Guinness.”

She ordered that and a Malibu. The drinks came, and we did the “cheers” bit. I asked,

“What’s a Malibu?”

“Rum with coconut.”

“Good God.”

“Try it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ah, go on.”

I did, went,

“Jesus, paint off a gate, tastes like cough syrup.”

She laughed, squeezed my thigh, said,

“I’m delighted to see you.”

I felt great. Jeez, when had I ever felt that? She was gorgeous, funny, smart, and liked me. I had money in my wallet and a promising hard-on. Hog heaven.

Then James Ellroy came on. Big guy and wired. He didn’t so much read as give a total performance.

Mesmerizing.

When he took a break, he was mobbed. Aisling said,

“Why don’t you have a word?”

“Maybe I’ll catch him later.”

She gave a wicked smile, said,

“Let me tell you about later. I’m going to lure you to my home, fill a bath with

scents

oil