Take the A-Train (15 page)

‘Sure. He sends his regards. Says it sounds like you’ve been having a wild time.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Says he doesn’t know about Bim. Says he doesn’t know who’d want you dead if it
wasn’t
him. Says he’s never heard of Jack Dark. Says watch your arse.’

‘Constantly. How is he?’

‘Pissed off. Wants to see you. Get you a visiting order soon.’

‘I can’t wait. An afternoon in Brixton sounds just my style.’

‘He says you’ve been there before.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything your uncle says. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll catch you later.’

We exchanged goodbyes.

I got to the Gray’s Inn Road by nine, found the restaurant and parked my car in a side road just opposite. I walked by and peered through the picture window whilst I pretended to study the menu. The place was empty. Two waiters were leaning on the bar inside looking hopeful; one was picking his nose. I hoped I got served by the other.

I went around the side of the block and found a narrow alley that cut through to a small courtyard shadowed by air conditioner vents and smoke extractors and almost full of giant garbage cans on rubber-tyred wheels. It was dark, wet, cold and dismal round there, and water dropped from the eaves of the building and puddled in dank pools on the greasy concrete. The back door to the restaurant was open. I saw two chefs playing pontoon, using a cutting board as a card table.

I went back to the car and moved it a few spaces so that I could watch the front door of the restaurant and the entrance to the alley. I slipped a Steve Earle cassette into the player with the volume low and settled down to wait. I felt that so far that night I would be marked ten out of ten in a private eye exam, only losing points for not having the barmaid waiting for me all warm and willing in bed when I got home. Still, no one’s perfect.

As the hands of the clock on the dash crept past nine-thirty a few couples and one party of four young women went into the Mogul Empire. I assumed that Jack Dark wouldn’t be alone, and unless he and his cronies dressed in drag it was a no show so far. At nine-forty a big BMW saloon with lights on full beam slid to a halt at the kerb right outside the restaurant. Two guys got out of the front and checked the street. The driver was big, with thick legs in trousers that were so tight they creased like sausage skins around the crotch and knees, but the front seat passenger made the driver look small and when I caught a glimpse of his face I could tell he was a far from happy man. I slid down in my seat and cut the volume on the stereo. When they were both satisfied that the coast was clear, the front passenger walked around the car and opened the rear door on the kerb side and a small man in a long overcoat climbed out and walked across the pavement, closely followed by the huge man who kept his right hand close to the front of his jacket which was open despite the weather.

The driver of the BMW then re-entered the car and drove off. A few minutes later he returned and went into the restaurant after the other two. I swapped Steve Earle for Solomon Burke and waited until ten. At one minute to, I switched off the ignition, climbed out of the car, locked it up and walked across the street. I pushed through the door into the warm spicy smell of the restaurant and the sound of muted sitar music. The three men were not at any of the tables. I stopped and frowned and the waiter who hadn’t been picking his nose came over at the double. He was dressed like a snooker player, with a crisp white napkin draped over his arm.

‘Sir?’ he said. ‘You want a table for one?’

I shook my head. ‘Mister Dark,’ I said. ‘He’s expecting me.’

‘Yes, sir, this way.’ And he led me through a door at the back of the restaurant into another room, smaller and with no music playing. At the end of the room was a banquette table with a red leather bench seat in the shape of a squared off ‘U’ which would have comfortably seated eight people. The small man who had been in the back of the BMW was sitting on the far side of the table facing the door, and the huge man was sitting on his left where that side of the bench jutted out into the room, taking up enough room for two. The table was covered with dishes of food and the pair had half-empty plates and beer glasses in front of them. The driver was sitting on an upright chair just inside the door. His thick legs blocked the entrance.

‘Excuse me,’ I said.

‘Sharman?’ asked the driver. He wasn’t my mystery caller. His voice was lighter and the accent came from up north somewhere.

‘’S’right,’ I said.

‘You don’t look like much,’ he said. Liverpool, I might have guessed. I’ve never been keen on people from Liverpool.

‘Cheers,’ I said back, and the driver moved his legs. I walked to the table where the two men sat. They both stopped eating and looked at me. ‘Mister Dark?’ I said with a query in my voice, and the smaller of the two men nodded. The other man stopped me with a raised hand, slid out of his seat and stood. Christ, but he was big close up.

‘Lift your arms,’ he said. He was my telephone chum all right, hoarse and Cockney. I did as I was told and he searched me. His jacket was still unbuttoned and there was a bulge under his left armpit. Mind you, this cat bulged all over, but this particular bulge was not of flesh and blood. The smaller, older man chewed and stared at me as I was being frisked. The huge man found my cigarettes, lighter, car keys and the bag of money, all of which he carefully placed on an empty table next to theirs. When he was finished, he said, ‘He’s clean.’

‘In mind and body,’ I said. The huge man snarled and said nothing.

‘You’re punctual,’ said the smaller man. ‘I like that. Sit down.’ He pointed at the seat directly to his left.

I remained standing. ‘I’m not sure that I’m staying yet,’ I said. ‘I just came to give you your money back.’

‘I don’t want it back,’ said the small man. ‘Like you were told on the phone, it’s a gesture of good faith.’

‘People I don’t know are rarely that good to me, or that faithful,’ I said. Christ, people I do know aren’t.

‘I just want to talk,’ he said. ‘No big deal. After all, it’s a long way to come for nothing.’ He paused. ‘What have you got to lose?’

I shrugged.

‘Sit down then,’ he said, and after twenty seconds or so I concurred. The huge man stood aside. I tossed my stick in ahead of me and slid down the slippery seat. He sat down on my left, effectively blocking my way out. It was all done in a friendly and casual way but it immediately put me at a disadvantage, or so they thought.

‘Something to eat?’ asked the small man.

‘No thanks.’

‘Go on, the food’s fucking brilliant here. Try this.’ He picked up a clean fork and handed it to me, indicating a dish that was keeping hot on one of those funny little heaters with the nightlights inside that they always put on the tables at Indian restaurants, and you always touch because you can’t believe it will be hot enough to keep food bubbling, and you always burn your hand. I accepted the fork and took a little of the meat and sauce and tasted it. It was like sticking my mouth on to the damn heater. Tears filled my eyes.

‘Jesus!’ I said.

The little man grinned and showed a mouthful of gold. ‘Special mutton vindaloo,’ he said. ‘They make it for me every Saturday night. I do love a hot curry. I spent time out in India in the sixties.’ He put his hand over the table, palm down, and wiggled it about like people like him do when they’re trying to show you how smart they are. ‘A bit of dodgy import and export.’ He winked. ‘Know what I mean?’

I did but said nothing. I was too busy dabbing at my eyes with a napkin.

‘I got the taste out there,’ he went on, and grinned again like he was the cleverest little fucker in town.

I drank some iced water and felt better.

‘You look like you could use a beer,’ the small man said.

‘Kingfisher, cold.’

‘Jim, get him what he wants,’ the small man said and the driver got up obediently and vanished through the door into the main restaurant.

The driver came back with two bottles of freezing beer and a glass.

‘Jim,’ the small man introduced the driver as he put the bottles and glass on the table. ‘And next to you is Ronnie. He’s my boy, looks after me.’

I didn’t think I was supposed to shake hands, so I just looked at the men who imperceptibly nodded. Jim went back to his place by the door.

‘What can I do for you?’ I asked.

‘Have something to eat,’ said Jack Dark. I could see we were going to go at his speed and I gave in.

‘Not that,’ I said, indicating the dish in front of him.

‘Have what you like,’ he said. ‘Jim, get the waiter.’

He jumped up again and stuck his head out into the main restaurant and said something I couldn’t hear. A moment later the waiter who had greeted me scooted in and stood to attention beside our table. ‘Feed this man,’ said Jack Dark.

‘Sir?’ said the waiter.

‘I’ll have tandoori king prawn,’ I said. ‘Aloo gobi, Niramish, cauliflower bhajee and some pilau rice, and a sweet nan with raitha.’

Jack Dark wrinkled his nose. ‘Baby food,’ he said to me, then to the waiter, ‘bring me and Ronnie another round of vindaloo with boiled rice and lime pickle and some more chillis in vinegar, and see what Jim wants, and get us four more beers.’

The waiter nodded and finished writing down the order. On his way out he stopped by Jim who shook his head and said something about Paki muck. The waiter shrugged and left and shut the door behind him.

‘Jim likes steak and chips,’ said Jack Dark by way of explanation.

I couldn’t have cared less if Jim liked to chew on the maroon flock wallpaper that hung in the restaurant, with ketchup. ‘Do you always get a private room?’ I asked.

‘Sure, they do well out of me here,’ said Jack Dark.

‘In used notes,’ I said, and he showed me his gold teeth again. ‘You wanted to talk,’ I said. ‘So let’s talk.’

‘Right,’ said Jack Dark. He drank some beer, sat back and belched. ‘Ronnie here tells me you don’t know me.’

I nodded in agreement, but didn’t say I wasn’t sure I wanted to, although I wasn’t.

‘You know what I do, though,’ he said confidently.

‘Do I?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘Sure you do. If you live in London, you know what I do.’

‘Give me a clue.’

‘Walk down any main street and you’ll see my handiwork.’

‘You train dogs to shit on the pavement,’ I said.

He looked angry for a second, then he laughed. ‘Train dogs to shit on the pavement,’ he said. ‘I like that. Did you hear that, Jim? Ronnie? Train dogs to shit on the pavement. I’ll have to remember that.’

Ronnie didn’t look any too amused but I gave him a big grin anyway. ‘So that’s not it?’

‘No,’ said Jack Dark.

I was patient. The smell of food was making me hungry, the beer was strong, and I reckoned I was good for an hour before I got bored and left. ‘So tell me.’

He said the name of a well-known high street jeweller. One that seemed to have a branch in every area and every shopping precinct in the south. Cheap and nasty. ‘Shit in boxes,’ as an old mate of mine who ran a market stall would say.

‘That’s me,’ he said proudly.

‘I’m not surprised,’ I said.

‘Meaning?’

I shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘But what’s it got to do with me?’

‘I’m losing stock. I need someone to check on the losses and your name came up.’

‘Where from?’

‘Just around and about, you know.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘Is that right?’

‘That’s dead right. Are you interested?’

‘A store detective?’

‘Sort of, but I’m convinced it’s the staff that’s getting away with ninety per cent of the gear, maybe more.’

‘A spy then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I don’t really think that that’s my style. You need more than one operative for a job like that. A big company would suit you better. You’d need to plant people in the shops where the losses were greatest. Anyone who was nicking would suss me out in a minute. Your losses might stop in that outlet, but as soon as I left they’d start again. I imagine most of the people who work for you are young.’

He nodded.

‘That’s what I mean, your people would never trust me. You’d need young kids to go in, no one would suspect them. And you could move them around from branch to branch to make it look better. But it still might take months to get a result. Take my advice, have your cash back and use it better elsewhere.’

‘You’re turning down five grand?’

‘Yeah, I don’t want to rip you off.’

‘You wouldn’t. Look, do me a favour. Come in as my security officer. You don’t have to do the donkey work yourself. If you need kids, hire kids. I don’t care what it costs.’

‘You’ve got security,’ I said. ‘Plenty of it. And if you’re chucking five grand around, you can get plenty more. I still say a big firm would do you better.’

‘Perhaps there are things that you can do that a big firm can’t or won’t.’ He made as if to say something more, but I interrupted.

‘Wait just a minute,’ I said, ‘before we go any further. I don’t carry a gun anymore, and I’m not popular with the law. So if you think you’ve got a likely lad who’ll do a serious naughty for that sort of dough, you’d better think again.’

‘I know that,’ he said. ‘I need exactly what I said I needed, a security consultant, kosher. I want you to find out what’s going on and tell me, and I’ll take care of the rest.’

‘What rest?’

‘You don’t need to know about that.’

‘On the contrary, Mr Dark, I need to know exactly that. I don’t kill people and I don’t finger people to be killed. Especially for a few gold-plated chains. I’ve got a very delicate conscience these days and I like to sleep nights.’

That
was
a joke.

‘You’re not like I thought you’d be,’ he said.

‘Who is?’ I asked, and laughed, and so did he. The atmosphere eased and somewhere in the back of the building a bell rang. A couple of minutes later the waiter came in wheeling a trolley stacked high with food. We were silent whilst he cleared the empty dishes from our table and filled it up again, explaining what was in each dish as he put it out. He gave us clean, hot plates, fresh cutlery and more beers, and then split. We all loaded our plates and started to eat.