‘Left your wallet in your other trenchcoat again?’
I smiled bravely. ‘What can I say?’
‘You can say, Fange, my best buddy, please accept my watch as a small down-payment on my not inconsiderable bar-bill.’
‘Sure thing.’ I reached for my watch and I swear I almost had him going this time. ‘Well, swipe me double.’ I displayed the naked wrist. ‘My landlord got there first,’ I explained in a voice of deep regret.
‘So what’s the deal, Laz?’ It’s three drinks on and Fangio, who is now wearing my fedora, is also taking a lively interest in my necktie. ‘You on a case?’
‘It’s the Big One,’ says I, munching upon a hot pastrami on toast. ‘The crime of the century. The Religious Artefacts Heist.’
‘Religious artefacts, eh?’ Fangio makes a knowing face, which I know and he knows I know, means he knows nothing. ‘What are they, exactly?’
‘Holy objects,’ I expand, because it costs me nothing. ‘Holy objects. Statues, pictures, icons, things of that nature. And all of the Big E himself. Elvis’
Fangio hums; he’s never learned how to whistle. ‘Are you buying or selling?’ he asks. ‘Because if you’re selling, I’d prefer the necktie.’
‘I’m tracing is all. Strictly off the record. They wanted the best and I’m the best.’
‘You certainly are, Laz. What I always say is that although you don’t come cheap, you are thorough and always get the job done.’
‘Thanks.’
‘With you one can expect a lot of gratuitous sex and violence, a trail of corpses and a final roof-top showdown.’
‘True.’
‘No loose ends, no spin-offs and all strictly in the “first person”.’
‘You noticed that?’
‘I certainly did. So when will you be wanting to book the bar?’
‘Come again?’
The fat boy winked me his old-fashioned wink. ‘For the exchange.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Come off it, Laz. You only work the four sets, the office, here, the alley and the roof-top. Now, if you’ll take my advice, the best place to make the exchange, the girl for the artworks, or whatever, would be here. No-one will want to hump those heavy statues up to your office, the alleyway’s too risky and the roof-top is strictly final showdowns. My bar is the obvious choice.’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’ I guessed so.
‘So, when do you want to book the bar?’ The fat boy takes out his appointments diary. ‘Shall I pencil you in now? What’s this book called by the way? Do I get a big part? Should I have my agent give your agent a call?’
‘One thing at a time.’ I put my hands up. Everyone always wants to get a piece of the action. ‘Here,’ says I, ‘there’s a guy down the end of the bar wants serving.’ I gesture towards the lawnmower rep from Beta Reticuli who is rattling his wattles on the counter and miming death by thirst. Fangio, being the professional he is, goes off to do the business. I loosen my necktie. I need another drink. Of course, if I book the bar I might get several on the house. Or I might get a request for a down-payment on the booking. It’s a tricky business. But then ain’t everything?
I take time out to think. But not too much. I need a lead on this thing and I need it now. Or possibly I needed it yesterday although I didn’t know it at the time. But then perhaps yesterday was where I was going to find all the answers. Answers to questions I hadn’t even asked. Or was likely to. Thinking’s a tricky business. But then ain’t everything? I knew I had to make a phone call and I had to make a meet. I hail the fat boy who is now clubbing the lawnmower rep around the heads and saying things such as ‘this isn’t that kind of a bar you . . .’
‘Phone,’ says I.
‘Necktie,’ says he.
I dial out the number. It has twenty-seven digits. We’ve got a lot of telephones now but I’ve got a good memory. Paid a small fortune for it. Something in the distance goes BRRR BRRR and this is followed by a voice which goes, ‘Who’s making this noise?’
‘Is Vic there?’ I ask, like sand in a salad dressing.
‘Who’s that?’
‘The name’s Woodbine,’ I reply. ‘Lazlo Woodbine. Some call me Laz.’
‘Vic.’ I hear the voice call. ‘There’s a Lazlo Woodbean on the line for you.’
‘Woodbine’ But to no avail.
At length a voice from the past says, ‘Laz, is that you?’
I concur that indeed it is and make some pretty specific enquiries. ‘You still got that thingamejig that you keep in the bucket?’
‘The bucket with the lid?’
‘The very same.’
‘I still got it. You want it for a while?’
‘I’ll have it back before you know.’
‘You always do.’
‘We got a deal, then?’
‘Same price?’
‘Twenty-five big ones. That OK?’
‘Sure. Where do we meet?’
‘You know Fangio’s Bar?’
‘Sure. You buying?’
‘The alleyway outside?’
‘Sure. You ain’t then.’
‘Five minutes?’
‘Better make it six. I gotta book up to get a hernia.’
‘Dodging the draft again?’
‘What did you do in the war, Laz?’
‘We had a war? No-one told me.’ I replace the receiver. ‘Thanks.’ I tell Fange as I part with my necktie.
‘You suit the open neck, Laz.’
‘I got six minutes to kill,’ says I. ‘Why don’t you give me a complete history of your sex life?’
‘Sure,’ says Fange. ‘But what are you going to do with the other five minutes?’ A true professional, I kid you not.
Police Chief Sam Maggott was having a ‘rough one’. He came from a long line of sweaty fat two-dimensional cops who are always having a ‘rough one’ and always push back their caps, mop their brows with over-sized red gingham hankies and say things like ‘someone’s gonna have to tell the commissioner we’ve got a psycho on the loose’. I don’t know why they say it. It’s probably a tradition or an old charter or something. I think the hankies are some kind of running gag, although I’ve never found them particularly amusing.
Sam’s office was of great interest, containing, as it did, many vital clues to exactly what was going on. But sadly not yet.
Sergeant Murphy peeped in at Sam’s door. ‘Any leads, chief?’ he asked in that unconvincing Pseudo-Irish brogue you only find in books like this.
Sam shook his jowls. ‘Someone’s gonna have to tell the commissioner we’ve got a cycle on the loose,’ he said.
‘Shouldn’t that be a psycho, sure and begorrah?’
‘I said a psychic, didn’t I?’
‘Sure you did, chief.’ Murphy closed the door behind him. The chief was having a rough one. Rex wasn’t having a particularly smooth one himself. He was sitting in a paddy wagon between two very large policemen.
It was a very large paddy wagon, although it looked quite small from the outside, and it was very crowded with the patrons from the Tomorrowman Tavern, none of whom seemed inclined to indulge in any merry converse. Most nursed bruises and all had been arrested upon offences not unconnected with the Riot Act.
Rex had tried the ‘You’ve got the wrong man’ angle, but it hadn’t got him anywhere. He rubbed his head. ‘Just listen please, I got hijacked in this Volvo and the Volvo got stolen and . . .’
‘Do you want me to read you your rights or simply go on beating Shiva’s sheep out of you?’ Officer Cecil asked. ‘It’s all the same to me.’
‘Please let me explain . . .’
‘I don’t want you to explain. Take this.’
‘Stop hitting me.’ Rex came up for air. ‘I’m innocent. Please stop.’
Officer Cecil wiped Rex’s blood from his nightstick and applied himself to his official police notebook. ‘You are Rex Mundi?’
‘Yes, but. . .’
‘Did you attempt to gi
ve this nancy boy the Vulcan Death Grip?’
‘Chap off the telly.’ The battered Garth fingered his neck.
‘He hit me with an ice bucket.’ Rex protested. Officer Cecil bopped Rex on the head. ‘Ouch,’ said Rex.
‘This your billfold?’
‘No, but. . .’
‘Did you punch out the news vendor?’
‘Yes, but. . .’
‘Did you proposition this hooker in a public drinking house?’
Rex turned towards Laura, who silently crossed her legs and looked away in disgust. ‘I may have . . .’
‘You want I should bop you again?’
‘No. All right, yes, I did.’
‘You wearing white shoes in a blue suede shoe zone?
‘I what?’
“This guy’s going down,’ Cecil told his brother. ‘White shoes. We’re talking “The Chair” here.’
‘Hold on,’ cried Rex. ‘What is all this?’
‘Best soften him up a bit more, Cec,’ Sandy advised Cecil. “The chief’s having a rough one today.’
Cecil waggled his nightstick. ‘These your genital organs?’
‘Yes, but-’
There’s some garbage cans and a wino from central casting who sings to them. There’s a fire escape with one of those retractable bottom sections. There’s some flashing coloured lights which give the effect of nearby mainstreet and some noises off like cars going by. It’s wet underfoot and night sky overhead. Brick walls to either side. I come down a couple of steps from a door with either NO ENTRY or EXIT painted on it. It doesn’t make a lot of difference. It’s an alleyway. It’s very like the one Arnie materializes in in Terminator. But then an alleyway is an alleyway, and I ain’t gonna give this one too many airs and graces. After all, I never described Fangio’s at all.
I turn up my trenchcoat collar. The open neck doesn’t suit me. Nor does the chill wind which is ruffling my kiss-curl. I’m strictly a hat man. Known for it. Admired for it. Loved for it, I guess. I was hat man of the year back in ‘fifty-two.
I merge enigmatically into the shadows and listen to the sound of a lonely saxophone being dubbed on afterwards.
‘Laz?’ calls a voice from the past. ‘You there?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s Vic here.’
I step from the shadows like a penny-whistle player in a cellar full of handbags.
‘Ever the master of disguise and description,’ says Vic, which I appreciate like you do when someone has stepped on the truth rather than in it. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do. ‘You got the thingamejig?’
‘I got it.’ Vic pats at his pocket. His pocket is in a safari suit of a type one rarely sees nowadays. But then that’s Vic. He’s an original. I could spend hours telling you what this guy’s done and what he’s got in his wardrobe. But I figure, who gives a damn? Not me, for one. I just hope he doesn’t notice I’m bare-headed.
‘I notice you’re bare-headed,’ says Vic.
‘So you say.’
‘I gotcha.’
“The thingamejig.’ I never studied verbal gastronomy so I don’t know how to mince words. Vic pats his pocket again in a way I find mildly irritating.
‘I’m gonna want something big up front for this, Laz,’ he says.
‘Happy to oblige.’ I knee Vic in the groin. Vic goes ‘erg’ the way one would and crumples on the ground the way one does. He’s out of the army now, but I’m not looking for a big thank you. What I’m looking for is in his patted pocket. I stoop down and root it out.
It’s a green and leafy spheroid about twice the size of something only half as big. A miniature golf ball, say. I hold it up to the light to assure myself that it’s the real Sylvester McCoy, which it undoubtably is.
‘Barry,’ says I, for such is its name. ‘Barry, you and I got business.’
‘No sweat, chief,’ the Time Sprout replies. ‘Which one of your ears you want I should squeeze in?’
5
6. And in passing, Elvis did smite Levi also.
The Suburban Book of the Dead
Rex sat in the police cell clutching his privy parts and bitterly regarding his white shoes. He knew well enough what was coming next. It always came around this time in the plot. He would be dragged from the cell. Manhandled along a corridor. Flung into a room with a bright desk lamp and a gore-bespattered floor. Whacked in the ear and interrogated about matters he knew nothing of. Then, when things were really reaching a crisis point, he would come up with some ingenious scheme and make good his escape.
As it was all so inevitable, Rex wondered if perhaps he might simply scrub around the painful bit and make his escape now.
A key turned in the lock and Rex rose to meet his fate.
‘Okay, Rex,’ Officer Cecil grinned into the cell. ‘You’re on.’
The journey up the corridor wasn’t too bad. Cecil truncheoned him about a bit and Sandy kicked him in the ankle a couple of times. But it was no great shakes. He was booted through a doorway, which hurt a little, but not too much, and there was a carpet to break his fall this time. The door slammed shut upon the usual manic chuckles.
‘Take a seat,’ said the voice of Sam Maggott.
Rex looked up at the fat man. ‘Have we met?’ he asked.
Sam shook his head. ‘But I know you, boy. Not often we get a big cheese like you in here.’
‘Big cheese,’ Rex made a wary face. ‘Ah, yes.’
‘Yes indeed. Here, let me help you up.’ Sam did so. And while he was so doing Rex took in his surroundings. They could have been far worse.
The office had more than enough room for even amateur cat swinging. It was evenly lit, adequately furnished, pleasantly decorated, moderately well heated. Very adjectival. There was a desk, a chair, a watercooler, a ceiling fan, a filing cabinet, a previously-mentioned carpet, a window and a door, which was where Rex came in. Rex did notice two things of considerable interest.
The first was the 1947 Rock-Ola jukebox. It was clearly the 1426 model. Basically the same as the 1422, but with the metal grille which replaced the earlier wooden one and the now classic Mother of Plastic jewel effect. The side pilasters featured the new turning cylinders and the diamond-quilted gold fabric superseded the original Art Deco mural, which was, by then, looking somewhat dated.
The other was the large portrait of Elvis Presley that hung behind Maggott’s desk.
Sam’s plump paws manipulated Rex into the vertical plane. He dusted down Rex’s jacket. ‘Nice fabric, if a little tight under the armpits. You Okay?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Take a seat.’ Sam indicated a comfy-looking sofa. Rex dropped on to it. ‘Thanks.’
‘You want a drink or something?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Murphy.’ Sam spoke to the ceiling. ‘Get our guest a drink, will ya?’
‘Ten-four, chief,’ said a voice from above.
‘I don’t think I quite understand.’ Rex studied the ceiling and then he studied Sam. ‘Will you not be wanting to beat me up then?’
‘Beat you up?’ Sam made mirth. Rex knew he’d be reaching for the red gingham hankie, and he did. Sam mopped his brow. ‘Beat you up? Hell, no. How would that look for the department? Not good in the ratings, that’s how. Nah, I just want to sort things out is all.’
‘No electrodes?’
‘Nah.’
‘No nightsticks in the nether regions?’
‘Nah.’
‘No reading me my rights?’
‘Nah.’
I’ll be off then,’ said Rex, brightening not a little. ‘Very nice to have met you.’
Sam showed Rex his ‘piece’. It was a big chrome one with a long polished barrel.
‘Hmm,’ said Rex.
Knock knock, went the door.
‘Come,’ said Sam.
Murphy came. Drinks on a tray. And napkins.
Sam made the introductions all round. Murphy shook Rex warmly by the hand. ‘
I never miss your show. Tell me, those folks, do you really . . . ?’
‘Every time.’
‘Shiva’s sheep!’
‘Goodbye, Murphy.’
‘Goodbye, chief. Nice to meet you, Mr Mundi.’
Murphy took his leave whistling ‘Danny Boy’. Sam passed Rex a drink and waddled back to his chair. ‘You wanna tell me all about it?’
‘About the show?’
‘Nah. I don’t give that-’ Sam made an explicit gesture, ‘-about your show.’
‘Ah.’ Rex sipped his drink. Tomorrowman Brew. ‘Then there’s not much to tell. My car was stolen. I went into a bar to call a policeman. A mad news vendor arrived and two cops brutalized me. I shan’t press charges. Will you call me a cab?’
‘You’re a cab.’
‘I’ve never thought much of that gag. Am I being charged with anything or what?’
‘Do you want to make your phone call?’
Rex finished his drink. ‘Not yet.’
‘OK. Then we’ll keep this off the record. I don’t want to hold you, you know that. I give you grief, your station gives me grief. That’s showbiz, I guess. But listen to me. I don’t like who you are and I don’t like what you do. If it was up to me, then you and your station would be off the air. I can’t touch you, but I can make your life difficult. Know what I mean?’
Rex had a reasonably good idea. He let Sam continue.
‘I can harass your boyfriends, screw up your credit, bust you every time you take a tinkle. I don’t need your kind of trouble and you don’t need mine. Got me?’
‘Got you.’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘Bribe you?’
Sam shook his head.
‘Get out of your sight and never darken your doorway again?’ Sam shook it once more.
‘I’m sorry.’ Rex was. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Sam delved into a drawer and brought out a pair of blue suede shoes. He tossed them to Rex, who almost caught them.
‘Put them on.’ Sam gestured with supreme distaste towards Rex’s footwear. ‘Take off those Goddamn blasphemous brogues and dump them in the bin. I’ll say nothing this time, but you owe me a big one. Got it?’