The Bullet Trick (17 page)

'Why?'

'No reason. Nosiness. I wanted to say thanks.'

'I’ll tell him thanks for you.'

'Thanks for that.' We both laughed and I said, 'No, I mean it, thanks. I would’ve been walking the streets last night if it hadn’t been for you.'

'It was no problem.'

'Well, I owe you one.'

She put her elbows on the table and propped her sharp little chin against her fists. 'Wanna pay me back?'

I remembered for the first time that she’d been waiting for me for a reason. My voice was cautious.

'If I can.'

'Will you see if there’s any jobs going for dancers at your place?'

'Sure.'

The waiter brought out two sticky pastries and Sylvie dropped the subject, telling me instead about her Berlin, shops and cafés not listed in the guidebook, streets to search out and a couple to avoid. She talked quickly, taking distracted puffs at her cigarette between bites, laughing often and making me laugh in response. She spoke with her mouth full, somehow still managing to look good. The waiter came out to check whether we wanted anything else and Sylvie ordered a second round of coffees. The two of us lingered on at the pavement table though it should have been too cold to sit outside. We smoked more cigarettes and discussed the passers-by, people with places to go, each of us pretending to be shocked by the slanders the other concocted about perfect strangers.

Eventually the thoughts of that night’s show, which had been tugging at my mind since I woke that morning, became too uncomfortable to ignore. I stubbed out the last of my cigarette and pushed my empty coffee cup to one side.

'I’d best get going.'

'People to do, things to see?'

'A show to fix.'

She smiled.

'It wasn’t so bad.'

'Wasn’t so good either.'

'You’ll fix it. You just need to work out an angle.'

'I guess so.'

We swapped mobile numbers and I promised again to ring her if anything came up. It crossed my mind that I might phone her anyway, but then thoughts of Uncle Dix intruded. Uncle Dix, where did people get off with these weird names? Styling himself like some Weimar pimp. I bet even now he was cursing the late night and getting ready for some second-rate lecturing job. No, I probably wouldn’t phone. I gave her a last wave then strode onto the street and hailed a taxi to take me to my hotel.

It was early in the afternoon when I stepped out and started to walk towards the theatre.

I’d been in the shower when the phone had rung. I’d assumed it was a wrong number, then when the ringing persisted thought it might be someone from Schall und Rauch. I’d answered half-draped in a towel, wondering why it was I seemed to be naked whenever the phone rang, though I was sure I was clothed most of my waking hours. I picked up the receiver, saying, 'Ja?' Assuming whoever it was would appreciate the effort.

'William? That you?' My agent evidently thought he should shout even louder when talking to someone abroad. 'What’s with the Ja? You gone native? You’ll be singing ‘Tomorrow Belongs to Me’ and sieg-heiling next.'

I started to rub myself dry.

'Times have changed Rich. They don’t go in for that anymore.'

'Once a Nazi always a Nazi. Anyway, where have you been?' He didn’t give me a chance to reply. 'Don’t you ever check your bloody messages?'

For the first time I noticed the red light flashing on the hotel-room phone. 'You could have rung my mobile.'

'I tried that. Dead, wasn’t it?'

'So where’s the fire?'

'Have you seen an English newspaper today?'

'No.'

'Well get yourself a Daily Telegraph then phone me back.'

'A Telegraph, you been checking your stocks and shares, Richard?'

'Just do it. I’ll speak to you in five.'

The line went dead. I looked at the receiver, shook my head then phoned down to the front desk and asked them to send out for a copy of the paper. I’d finished my interrupted shower and was just retying the towel around my waist when the knock came at the door. I tipped the porter, locked the door behind him, sat down on the bed and turned the pages.

It was the photograph that I saw first, a picture of a younger stern-faced Bill that might have been a police mug shot, or might just have been a poor passport photo. There was a picture of the club too. An outside shot that looked vaguely dated, though I wasn’t sure why. There was also, chillingly, a small photograph of Sam onstage from what must have been a long while ago. He looked younger, hopeful, his head thrown back in a laugh. I’d seen him laugh like that often.

I turned to the text though the headline had already given me the substance of the news, CLUB SHOOTING SLAYS TWO. The building’s new owners had gone on a tour of inspection and found Bill and Sam in the office, each lying in a pool of his own blood. The verdict so far was murder and suicide, the finger pointing towards Sam. My balls climbed up towards my belly. I laid the paper down on the bed, poured myself an unnecessarily chilled Famous Grouse from the minibar, downed it, then read on.

The article was big on photographs and low on facts, though it mentioned a jail sentence Bill had served for extortion and referred to his father, calling him a businessman in a way that would leave no one in any doubt of which side of the law he favoured. The whole family was pictured, the biggest space reserved for his mother, Gloria. Montgomery had promised to tell Bill the truth about his mother. Bill had said she was gone. If I’d thought anything of it, I’d assumed death or divorce. The newspaper revealed that she’d gone missing some time in the seventies, her fate never discovered, though after all this time the obvious conclusion was that she was dead.

I’d shut the adventure at Bill’s Soho club in a neat trunk in the corner of my mind. I visualised the trunk. It was an old seaman’s chest. The wood dry and peeling with age, banded with thin strips of black steel. There was a strong padlock clamped tight in its metal hasp. I unlocked it, opened the lid and started to examine my situation.

I thought of Montgomery standing outside the door and Sam thrusting the envelope into my hand. I thought of the envelope lying unopened somewhere in my mother’s bungalow in Cumbernauld. I was sure Sam was innocent, a victim. He wouldn’t be the first person to pay the ultimate price for falling for a bad boy. Maybe they were both victims. If Sam hadn’t insisted on a peaceful approach perhaps Bill would have been more on his guard. But then maybe the business with Montgomery had been settled amicably after all. Bill was a gangster. Who knew how many enemies he’d made? There might have been a queue lining up to settle old scores before he and Sam sailed into the sun.

If Montgomery had had anything to do with the shootings I didn’t want him to have an inkling that I’d been on the scene when he’d shown up. That meant not alerting any of his chums in the police. If he hadn’t had anything to do with the killings then I was of no practical use to any investigation. Whatever way I looked at it, I was best sitting quiet and letting people who were used to this kind of thing get on with it.

The phone buzzed back into life.

'You found it yet?'

'Yes.'

'Whadda you think?'

'I don’t know. Tragic.'

'Yeah, yeah, young lives cut short and all that, but that wasn’t what I meant. What do you know?'

My voice was defensive.

'Nothing.'

'Don’t be so touchy. I know you wouldn’t get mixed up in anything heavy, William. Silliness with drink and women, yes, the odd dabble with drugs possibly, but heavy stuff, no.' The line went quiet while my agent took a long drag on his cigarette then exhaled and resumed his monologue. 'So you feel no sudden urge to go and present yourself to the police?'

'No.'

'Good,' cos it would fuck up your Berlin gig that’s for sure.'

'Yeah.' I made an effort to keep my voice casual. 'That’s what I was thinking.'

Hundreds of miles away in Crouch End Richard grunted into the phone.

'You know what bum boys are like, William, unstable.'

'You seem to know a lot about it.'

'Well I would do working in this trade wouldn’t I?' He sighed. 'I’ve got nothing against poofs, William, but they’re a race apart.'

Disgust at Rich, myself, the whole sorry business suddenly filled me. I snapped, 'You knew Sam, don’t you feel anything for him?'

Rich’s voice was sharp.

'I’ll do my mourning on my own time, William.' His tone softened. 'Look, I’m not saying it isn’t sad and I’m not saying he deserved it, but Sam always was reckless. You remember the way he walked out of that summer tour.'

'It’s hardly the same thing.'

'Maybe not, but he wasn’t what you’d call steady. I mean what was he doing hanging around with the likes of Bill in the first place? Get yourself mixed up with that sort and you take what you get.'

'I suppose so.'

'Anyway don’t be surprised if you’re called back to Blighty to answer a few questions.'

I drew the towel closer round me.

'How d’you make that out?'

'All those bloody coppers on a police balls-out? Only a matter of time before one of them drops you in it.'

'I’d not thought of that.'

'No, well that’s why you’re schlepping around Krautland while I sit in a nice warm office with Mrs Pierce putting the kettle on.' He took another asthmatic pull at his cigarette. 'Speaking of Krautland, how’s the gig going?'

'Bloody awful.'

'Pull your finger out and sort it then. I’ve told you before, you need a bit of glamour. Fix yourself up with a nice Fräulein to saw in two and you’ll be laughing.'

'It’s just teething problems, you didn’t tell me the erotic nature of the club.'

Richard laughed.

'Didn’t I?'

'No you bloody didn’t.'

'Oh well, keep your hand on your ha’penny and you’ll be fine.'

'I’ll do my best.'

'That’s the boy.' I heard the quick tap of computer keys and knew the phone call was coming to an end. My agent’s voice took on a self-consciously compassionate tone. 'I’ll get Mrs P to find out when Sam’s funeral is and send along a nice wreath.'

'Thanks, Rich.'

'Don’t worry, son, it’s coming out your wages. Now you put all this from your mind and concentrate on making magic magical. OK?'

'OK.'

'Good boy.'

He hung up with his usual abruptness. I sat on the bed for a while, staring blankly at the wall, then tied the towel around my waist, went to the wardrobe, took my mobile phone from my jacket pocket and turned it on. The screen glowed lazily awake. Richard’s unanswered calls were logged like accusations. But slid in beside his familiar phone number was a number not featured on my address book, a British number I didn’t recognise. The mobile suddenly sprang back into life. I dropped it on the bed and stepped backwards, giving a small groan and looking at the tiny machine with all the horror I’d show a crawling, disembodied hand. My instincts were against it but on the third ring I reached out, pressed the call accept button and raised the phone to my ear.