Maxim Jakubowski - London Noir

‘You can’t make me go back,’ she said.

Resnick asked if she wanted tea or coffee and she opted for a milk shake instead. The female police officer waiting patiently outside would escort her home on the last train.

‘You know you’re wasting your fucking time, don’t you?’ she called at Resnick across the pavement. ‘I’ll only run off again. I’ll be back down here inside a fucking week!’

The officer raised an eyebrow towards Resnick, who nodded, and the last he saw was the two of them crossing against the traffic, Brenda keeping one clear step ahead.

The maitre’d. at Ronnie Scott’s had trouble seating Resnick because he was stubbornly on his own; finally he slipped him in to one of the raised tables at the side, next to a woman who was drinking copious amounts of mineral water and doing her knitting. Spike Robinson was on the stand, stooped and somewhat fragile-looking, Ed Silver’s contemporary, more or less. A little bit of Stan Getz, a lot of Lester Young, Robinson had been one of Resnick’s favourite tenor players for quite a while. There was an album of Gershwin tunes that found its way onto his record player an awful lot.

Now Resnick ate spaghetti and measured out his beer and listened as Robinson took the tune of ‘I Should Care’ between his teeth and worried at it like a terrier with a favourite ball. At the end of the number, he stepped back to the microphone. ‘I’d like to dedicate this final tune of the set to the memory of Ed Silver, a very fine jazz musician who this week passed away. Charlie Parker’s “Now’s the Time”.’

And when it was over and the musicians had departed backstage and Ronnie Scott himself was standing there encouraging the applause – ‘Spike Robinson, ladies and gentlemen, Spike Robinson.’ – Resnick blew his nose and raised his glass and continued to sit there with the tears drying on his face. Seven minutes past eleven, near as made no difference.

At the top of the dark stairs leading up from Balham High Road Charlie paused with only one foot on the landing. He bent and rubbed his elevated knee. The bandage beneath the jeans felt sticky and the leg ached. The deep cut beneath the bandage must have begun to bleed yet again.

The cut had scabbed tight while Charlie slept through the morning and into the afternoon. But he was so tired he had slept without moving, so when he got up the knee felt like it had a plaster cap. Charlie managed to keep the leg straight by limping as he walked, but it had probably opened when he ran to catch the waiting train. You don’t miss a waiting train on the Northern Line if you can help it. You run by instinct, without thinking about knees cut in the night on broken glass.

As Charlie massaged his knee the door on the landing opened. Immediately he straightened. The man who came out was a stranger, a large frowning man. Maybe he was only tall because Charlie was looking up, but he was wide too, and jowly, and his waistcoated belly pushed out between the wings of a dark suit jacket and the flaps of a heavy overcoat. The man wore a tie pulled tight to the neck. He wore a fedora. And while his eyes took Charlie in, his mouth was speaking back into the room. ‘I need a body, Lennie.’

‘I said I fix it, didn’t I?’ Leonard Slaughter answered from within the room.

‘It’s essential. It’s not optional.’

‘All right!” Slaughter said.

Then the fat man said, ‘There’s a dosser out here. You want me to do something about him?’

Slaughter appeared in the doorway. He said, ‘Na. That’s just Charlie.’

The fat man looked down again. ‘You’re expecting him?’

‘Yeah, why not.’

‘The people you do business with!’ the fat man said. He strode down the stairs, pushing Charlie flat against the wall as he passed.

When the street door closed behind the fat man Slaughter said, ‘Fuckin’ arse-wipe.’

Charlie looked down the stairwell at the closed door.

‘You coming in or what?’ Slaughter said. He withdrew into the room. Limping, Charlie followed.

Inside, the first thing Charlie saw was Lorna sitting in an easy chair with her legs crossed. Charlie didn’t know where to look, didn’t know whether what she was wearing was a dressing gown or a puzzling dress. Lorna’s thigh showed all the way up to a button.

Slaughter said, ‘Did you get that, Lorn? He wants a body. Did you get the message? Did you take in that it’s important? Did that come through clear enough?’

‘Arse-wipe,’ Lorna said.

From where he had stopped just inside the door Charlie said, ‘Hello, Miss Lorna.’

‘Put your tongue back in your mouth,’ Slaughter said. ‘You look disgusting. And close the bloody door. You want the whole world to know our business?’

Charlie closed the door and then, without being bidden further, he walked to the coffee table Slaughter was now seated behind.

Slaughter said, ‘I hope you got something decent today. You been bringing me nothing but crap for weeks.’

Charlie emptied the pockets of his anorak. On the table he spread out five credit cards, two gold bracelets, several silver earrings, a cheque-book and seventy pounds in notes.

Slaughter said, ‘That it?’

Charlie nodded.

‘What, just the one place?’

Charlie shook his head. ‘Two.’

Slaughter picked up the bracelets and examined them. He wrinkled his nose. ‘These ain’t going to do much for Beverley, are they?’

‘Ain’t they gold?’

‘Nine carat, tops.’

‘Oh.’

Slaughter picked out two tenners from the pile of money and held them out to Charlie. But before Charlie could take them Slaughter pulled them back. ‘You wouldn’t hold out on me, would you, Charlie?’

‘No sir,’ Charlie said. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘I must be getting soft,’ Slaughter said. ‘Cos I bloody believe you.’ He turned to Lorna. ‘I bloody believe him. What do you reckon? Has my brain leaked out or what?’

‘He knows what would happen,’ Lorna said.

‘I suppose he does,’ Slaughter said. He faced Charlie again. ‘You know what would happen, don’t you, Charlie?’

‘Yes sir.’

Slaughter laughed. ‘I wouldn’t harm a hair on your scruffy little head, would I? Even I catch you holding a grand in fifties I wouldn’t touch you, would I, Charlie boy?’

‘No sir. I don’t never hold out on you, Mr Slaughter.’

‘I don’t suppose you do.’ Slaughter picked up the jewellery again. ‘But you better go out again tonight. Cos we’re only just managing to hang onto Beverley as it is. And you keep turning up stuff like this and it’s all over for her. Won’t be nothing I can do.’

‘I’ll go again tonight,’ Charlie said.

Slaughter held the twenty pounds out again and Charlie took them but he didn’t fold the notes and pack them away. He looked at the two tenners in his hand.

Slaughter said, ‘Oh don’t you start going septic on me, because I ain’t in the mood for it. You get twenty because that’s what I can afford and because the jewellery ain’t no good.’

Charlie said nothing.

Angrily Slaughter said, ‘You know that fat geezer? The one made wallpaper out of you on the stairs, do you know who he is?’

‘No sir.’

‘You want to guess? You want to guess who he is, what he does?’

Slaughter was insisting. Charlie said, ‘Does he buy the jewellery?’

Slaughter laughed without humour. Lorna smiled. Slaughter said, ‘He’s only bloody CID.’

Charlie turned to look at the closed door. He turned back to Slaughter. He said, ‘A copper? Him?’

‘Him,’ Slaughter said. ‘And he’s not the only one. Course, you never see it, because I protect you from all that, don’t I? You get it? I got expenses, Charlie. I got problems. I gotta look after everything. You think your bit is the hard part, but what you do is pissing down a steep hill, Charlie. Big piddle or little, it all goes the right way. Everything’s simple for you, as long as you’re careful. You pick your house. You’re in and out. As long you don’t get greedy, you’re bloody laughing compared to me. I not only fence your stuff, I protect you. I do! And that’s not easy this day and age. And on top of all that I take care of your goddamn Beverley. I take care of her. You couldn’t do that for yourself, could you? No, you couldn’t. So I look after her and I look after you, Charlie. I look after mine. I’m known for it. Ain’t I, Lorn? And you want to go elsewhere, you go. You do it. You want go, go. I don’t know what would happen to poor little Beverley, who’s being cured in a style of luxury you and I would only dream of, but that’s up to you. And it would be only one of the problems you’d have to take on if you don’t like things the way they bloody fucking are. If you’re not happy.’