Romeo's Tune (1990) (4 page)

4

T
he huge man was as light as a butterfly on his big feet and he’d almost reached the old lady and me before it clicked that he was about to try and do me an injury. Try, Christ, the nearer he got, the bigger he got. It was like being charged by a rhino. He was going to do me an injury, period, and probably keep going and demolish the fucking gate, wall and all. The old lady saved my skin and probably my bones too. She stepped into his path and held up her hand. I felt like asking if she was a policeman. The giant slowed down and stopped. He wasn’t the slightest out of breath. The look he gave me over her head could have slaughtered a horse.

‘Who’s he?’ he demanded.

‘Algy,’ she said, as if addressing her favourite teddy bear. ‘I’d like you to meet Nicholas, Nicholas, Algy.’

‘Who is he Missis Mac?’ asked Algy wearily.

‘It’s all right dear,’ she said. ‘He’s a friend, he told me so. He was waiting outside the gate and he looked so cold I asked him in for a cup of tea.’

The big man sighed. ‘Missis Mac, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. No visitors without my say-so.’ He looked at me again. ‘So, out you, before I knock you out.’ Usually in books and shit this is the moment when the rugged hero crinkles his firm brow and makes his move so that he can take the heavy who is facing him down out of the game. Not this kiddy, he’d fucking murder me. I don’t mind a fight, but only when the odds are on my side. For the second time the old lady saved the day.

‘I was perfectly safe, Algy,’ she said. ‘You worry too much. He wasn’t going to hurt me, I had this.’ She stuck her hand into the basket again, and stone me if she didn’t pull out a pistol. A sodding Beretta, I swear. She handled it as if she knew what she was doing, too. She held it like it was just another tool, another trowel or fork in her gardener’s trug.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ I whispered. She slid the gun into the pocket of her duffel coat and walked up to the house, leaving Algy and me to have a nice chat. Mano a mano, buddy to buddy, heart to heart, you get the picture.

Close up he was nearly seven feet tall, built like the proverbial brick shithouse and dressed in a blue work-shirt and the biggest pair of Levis in the world. This guy made ‘The Refrigerator’ look like an ice bucket.

‘So who the fuck are you?’ he asked.

‘My name’s Nick Sharman,’ I replied politely.

‘A friend you say?’

‘Well not exactly a friend,’ I explained. I was on extremely thin ice. ‘More of a business acquaintance of a mutual business acquaintance.’

‘Say what?’

I explained again slowly.

‘Who?’ he asked.

‘Ted Dallas.’

‘Who the fuck’s he?’

‘Dallas Autos, remember? A Bentley Turbo.’ I held up my hand. ‘I’m going to get a piece of paper out of my inside pocket. Don’t get any ideas,’ I said. If the mum, who must have been seventy if she was a day, packed iron, what the fuck did this big sucker have up his jumper? I fumbled around with sweaty fingers and found the invoice from J.R.’s garage, and after unfolding it, passed it over to Algy.

‘Oh that prat, I remember,’ he said. ‘Are you the fucking bailiff?’

‘Enquiry agent,’ I said.

He didn’t like that much. ‘Enquiry agent, you snooping bastard, I’m going to kick your skinny arse right out of here, you son of a bitch.’ And remember, I was taking all this. ‘I mean, fancy conning the old girl,’ he went on. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ He seemed genuinely upset.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I hate this kind of work.’

‘Why do it then?’

‘Favour for a favour.’ I shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

He wasn’t impressed. ‘Well you can just take a hike. You’ll get nothing here, you cheap shit liar.’

Now it was my turn to get aggrieved. ‘I didn’t lie, not exactly,’ I explained. ‘I said I wanted to see Mark McBain and that I wasn’t an enemy, and I’m not. I’ve just come to collect some cash that’s owed. No big deal. If you don’t have it I’ll go and no hard feelings.’

‘Don’t have it,’ said Algy. ‘Jesus Christ, I’m sure we have it.’

‘Then pay it,’ I said. ‘The debt’s well overdue and the geezer you owe is hurting.’

‘Fuck him,’ said Algy.

‘Typical,’ I said under my breath.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Can I leave a letter for McBain?’

‘You try, and you’ll eat it.’

His attitude was beginning to grate on me. ‘Listen you big bastard,’ I said, ‘you might impress the missis with all this crap, but I’m getting bored with it.’

‘That’s just too bad,’ he said. ‘Now do as you’re told and get the hell out. I’ll see you to the gate.’

For the third time Mrs McBain did the business for me. I was beginning to think I should offer her a job as my trusty assistant. Trouble was I might end up as hers.

‘Tea’s ready,’ she called from the doorway. ‘Come on Nicholas and drink it while it’s hot. Do you want a cup Algy?’

He looked to the heavens. ‘You jammy bastard,’ he said to me. ‘Go and get your tea, and then on your way.’ Then he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Yes please Missis Mac, a cup of tea would be lovely.’

Lovely, I thought; the woman has everyone eating out of her hand.

Algy and I walked together towards the house. Little and Large, and I ain’t that little. We climbed the steps to the front door and followed Mrs McBain through an ornate hall that was polished until it shone, down some stairs and through a door into a cosy little living-room.

‘This is my flat,’ said Mrs McBain proudly. ‘The kitchen is through there, bedroom to the right with a built-in bathroom. Mark has looked after me.’

‘It’s very elegant,’ I said.

Elegant, Christ she was getting to me too.

‘Do sit down,’ she invited. Algy and I perched on tiny, upright chairs with sharp little wooden arms. I felt like I was being squeezed into an electric toaster. I expected to pop up, all brown and crispy round the edges at any moment.

Mrs McBain poured dark tea into tiny china cups, then added milk, and at Algy’s and my request, sugar. I leant forward and picked up the cup and saucer and took a sip. The tea was hot, strong and delicious. I sat back and tried to relax on the hard chair. A telephone on a nest of tables rang once. Mrs McBain picked up the handset and said, ‘Hello.’ She listened for a moment. ‘It’s for you Algy,’ she said.

Algy got up, dwarfing the room and took the receiver from her. ‘Yes,’ he said, and listened for thirty seconds or so without speaking. Then ‘OK Boss,’ and he put down the phone. ‘He wants to see you,’ he said to me.

‘How does he know I’m here?’ I asked.

‘He knows everything that goes on in this house. He’s not stupid,’ said Algy.

I drank the rest of my tea, refused a second cup and took my leave of Mrs McBain. She was a sweet woman and I told her so. Algy was hopping from foot to foot with impatience.

‘Come on,’ he said, when I’d finished. ‘We’d better not keep him waiting.’

‘Don’t upset Mark,’ Mrs McBain said as we left. ‘He’s a very sensitive boy.’

I assured her that I wouldn’t.

‘No,’ said Algy as he closed the door behind us. ‘Don’t upset him. Because if you do, you upset me, and I’m not so bloody sensitive.’

I said nothing.

Algy took me back through the hall, then we headed through a maze of passages that finally led us to the back of the house. We went through a heavy oak door that complained bitterly as Algy shoved it open, into a paved courtyard and ducked through the thin rain into a whitewashed outbuilding that I imagined had once been stables.

The outer door to the building was wooden and opened at a touch. Inside there was a small, empty lobby lit only by a dim red bulb set high in the ceiling. Facing us was a grey metal door. Set into the wall beside the door was a fancy computerized, digitalized lock. Algy tapped in some numbers, pressed a button and the metal door swung open. I caught sight of some steps leading downwards, also lit by a dim red bulb before Algy slid through the doorway.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered, and headed downstairs. Before I could protest the door swung to behind him and I was left alone. The lobby was freezing and I was getting pissed off so I tried to get back into the courtyard. No chance. Somehow Algy had tripped a lock in the outer door and I was imprisoned in the lobby. I didn’t even bother trying the metal door or the combination lock. I leant my shoulder against the wall and tried to relax. I glanced up once at the red bulb and waved. Ten to one there was a video camera blimping me. About five minutes passed and my bad foot was losing circulation when the metal door opened again and Algy loomed back to join me.

‘Have you ever heard of false arrest?’ I asked.

‘Have you ever heard of a fat lip?’ asked Algy back.

‘I believe I have,’ I replied, and that was the end of that conversation.

‘He’ll see you now,’ said Algy. ‘But take it easy, he doesn’t like unexpected visitors much.’

‘You don’t say,’ I said.

Algy stepped to one side and I squeezed past him, through the metal door and down the stairs. There were only half a dozen or so, then a short corridor and yet another metal door standing ajar. Algy was right behind me and gestured for me to go ahead. I could smell something strange in the air, something familiar and I hesitated.

‘Get a move on,’ said Algy, and I walked down the corridor and pushed the second door fully open. The smell was cordite, heavy and gagging in the air.

‘What the fuck is this?’ I asked.

‘Toytown,’ said Algy. ‘Go inside and see.’

‘No way,’ I said.

‘No choice,’ said Algy and propelled me through the door and closed it behind me. I was in a shooting range, recently used, and I wasn’t alone. Down at the target end was a lone figure. The room was even more dimly lit than the corridor and shadowy with it. Before my eyes could become accustomed to the gloom I heard the unmistakable double click of a firearm’s action being engaged and I hit the ground quick and hard and rolled towards the deepest of the shadows. A gout of flame seemed to spring from the midsection of the figure at the other end of the range, followed closely by the crack of a gunshot. Something heavy hit the wall beside me and whined off with the scream of a ricochet. The bastard was firing at me and using real ammunition. I clung to the wall, half deafened by the report but still able to hear him laughing like a drain. The figure walked towards me, pulling off a pair of ear protectors as he came. I lay where I was until I could identify the Colt Commander he held in his right hand. If I could get hold of the gun, McBain, or whoever the bastard was who was using me as a target, was going to wear it to bed that night and have serious trouble shitting for a week or two. I think he sensed my mood.

‘Algy,’ he called, ‘come back in. I think our visitor is slightly miffed with me.’

Miffed, I’d give the slimebag miffed, but he was still armed and too far away for me to get to him without him being able to use the weapon again.

There must have been an intercom system from the range into the corridor although I’d seen no trace of it because the door opened again and Algy stuck his head through the gap and gave a big heehaw of laughter as he saw me lying on the floor with my Crombie covered in dust and my dignity just about as pristine.

‘How close, Boss?’ he asked through his laughter.

‘Miles away,’ said the gunman. ‘Hardly on the same continent.’

‘Don’t look like he thought so,’ said Algy. ‘Do you think he shat himself?’

They both sniffed the air and the gunman shook his head. ‘Don’t think so,’ he said.

‘You must be out of practice,’ said Algy and burst into fresh waves of laughter. Of course I was loving all this, but I just stayed put on the cold floor amongst all the filth and bided my time. Algy hit a light switch by the door and the firing range was illuminated by a bank of fluorescent lights in the ceiling. I squinted up through the brightness and clocked McBain properly for the first time.

He was shorter than Algy, but that didn’t make him small. As I got to know Algy better I soon realised that everyone looked small compared with him. McBain was about six foot I guessed, but he wore the highest-heeled cowboy boots I’d ever seen. Maybe being with Algy every day demanded that you had to use any means possible to at least stand as high as his shoulder. The boots were black, made of hand-tooled leather with scarlet inserts. Very snazzy. With the boots McBain wore black stovepipe leather trousers and a baggy black shirt with silver buttons that he’d left untucked so that the tails hung down to the tops of his thighs. I’d have put his age at forty, but with that well-preserved look that lots of money brings. His hair was black with just a few tips of grey, and it was long, three or four inches past his shirt collar at the back, but shorter at the sides so that I could see his ears. Sort of new-age hippy. He had a strong face, but his eyes were just a little vague, like he was somewhere else or sometime else and I thought I could guess why. That look and firearms didn’t go well together. I knew, I’d seen that look on my own face enough times.

‘So you’re the debt collector,’ said McBain.

‘Amongst other things,’ I replied

‘No hard feelings I hope.’

‘Not at all.’

He transferred the Colt to his left hand and hung the ear protectors over his wrist. Then he walked up to me and proferred his right hand to give me a pull up. Bad idea. He’d had the protection of Algy for too long and lost any street smarts he might once have had. I took his right wrist in my left hand and his right hand in mine, and let him pull me up. Over his shoulder I saw and heard Algy begin to protest but it was too late. I let McBain take my weight, got my good foot under me, let go of his hand with my right hand, pulled him off balance with my left and took the Colt out of his left hand with my right like taking sweeties off a baby. I reversed the gun in my fist, all the time keeping McBain’s body close to mine and stuck the barrel of the automatic up into his throat.

‘Big man: on the floor, face down, arms extended. Now,’ I ordered. Algy gave me a disgusted look but complied. ‘You, McBain, back against the wall, arms raised. Now,’ I ordered again. McBain did as he was told but protested.