Tony Black - Paying For It

The blonde with the china-blue eyeshadow flashed up, the one who only a few years ago could have been seen trotting down the street in a pair of her mother’s five-sizes-too-big heels.

‘Mr Zalinskas faces charges of living on immoral earnings in the city, the charges relate to a period between January and March of this year, where it is alleged he headed up a vice ring of some hundred-plus sex workers.’

‘Sex workers? Jesus, even the brassers have gone PC,’ I said to the screen. ‘Can we have the meat of the issue please, Polly?’ I shook my head, there was work for me as a trainer out there.

Back in the studio the newsreader managed to shoehorn in the more significant charge of tax evasion. How the case came about remained a mystery. Already they had shifted to a story about a rehomed sheepdog that only answered to its master in Gaelic.

Said: ‘ Pog mo thon.’

Flicked off. Sat back down.

I reached out the bath to my jeans, pulled them over the floor. I’d a paperback in my back pocket, A Nietzsche Reader. Basically, pocket Nietzsche for simpletons, but it did fit in my pocket.

Read: ‘He who breathes in the air of my writing must know it is the air of the heights he is bracing. A man must be built for it. Otherwise, it will kill him.’

I read on, said, ‘So, join the queue.’

Launched a raid on Hod’s kitchen. Found fun-sized Crunchies in the fridge. Fancied a coffee to chase. A tin of illy espresso called from the shelves. Picked it up, but it didn’t look or smell like instant. I read the tin. ‘Caffe macinato.’

‘So, what’s that? Do I need a machine?’

Read on: ‘Only the finest Arabica beans… selected with care and passion… an experience that will involve all your senses.’

‘I only want coffee, for Chrissake! Has he no Mellow Birds?’

Saw Jules in Pulp Fiction saying, ‘This is serious gourmet shit.’ Didn’t rate my chances of getting the espresso machine working. Opted for a bottle of Stella. Tasted fine. Reassuringly expensive, like the ads say.

On my third, I crashed on the sofa listening to the Dirtbombs doing ‘Got to Give it Up’. Had just discovered them, they were outta Detroit as they say Stateside. Their album covered some amazing tracks; the attitude had me hooked. A real edge that wailed, ‘Don’t fuck with us.’

Was punching the air and moshing to ‘Underdog’ when my phone went.

‘Hello.’

‘Well, hello yourself.’

‘Amy?’

‘Who else? How’s it hanging, Gus?’

I made my apologies for not calling. Seemed to work. Said, ‘So what have you been up to?’

‘Well, that’s the thing. What you told me about Billy, I thought I could be of some help and-’

‘Whoa there! Help?’ I’d told her about Billy to warn her off. To dig myself out of any commitment and to excuse myself from future dates. ‘What do you mean, help?’

‘Gus, I know what I’m doing.’

I felt myself coming over all paternal, don’t know why, it’s definitely not a role I’m suited to. ‘What exactly have you been doing, Amy?’

‘When you told me about the-’

‘ Killing?’

‘And the girls and all that stuff.’

‘Back up. You heard the killing bit didn’t you?’

‘Eh, yes. Hello? Am I like retarded or something?’

‘I’m trying to stress these are not people to mess with, they’ve killed someone already. Look, just tell me where this is leading. What have you been doing?’

Her tone changed. ‘Where are you?’

‘Amy?’

‘I think I should come and see you. I know you’re not at the Wall, I’ve checked, so-’

‘I’m in Porty.’ I gave her the address.

‘Right, I’ll be round soon. Gus, I know you’re worried about me, and that’s cute, but I really am a big girl. I’ve got some information for you — it will help the case, I’m sure of it.’

She hung up.

Cute? Christ, what had I done to her?

I tanned another Stella. Hit the Luckies good style. Had the place reeking like a lum. I opened up the french doors and walked out on to the balcony. As I looked over the sea, the sky turned blacker than a dog’s guts all the way to the horizon.

I wondered what Amy had been doing. I couldn’t quite get my head around her actions. I mean, was I a catch? No chance. I had Debs to confirm that, she wouldn’t even talk to me now. I’d read somewhere that Bill Gates communicated with his wife mainly via email, even when they were in the same house. After my last talk with Debs, I’d settle for that.

The front door opened and in walked Hod. ‘Hello, honey, I’m home!’ he roared. Not quite what I was hoping for, but, hey, glad to have company.

‘Hodster — how goes it?’

We did the usual gut-barging welcome, slaps on back to follow.

‘Any more where that came from?’ said Hod, nodding at my beer. ‘My mouth’s as dry as a nun’s muff.’

‘Sit down, I’ll get you one.’

‘Gee, honey, you sure know how to please a man,’ said Hod, trying to plant a slap on my arse.

‘Piss off,’ I said, mincing off for comic effect.

Got a beer for myself too. ‘You hungry?’

‘Hungry? I could eat a horse between two pishy mattresses.’

‘Whatcha fancy?’

‘Ruby Murray?’

‘Agreed. My shout. In or out?’

‘How about a wee sit doon? I can be ready in five.’

‘Cool.’ I remembered Amy was on her way. ‘Och shit, no.’

‘What is it?’

‘Got to wait for a friend. You don’t mind do you?’

‘Bit of stuff?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Gus Dury, you old dog. She got a pal?’

I shook my head. ‘It’s a tricky situation, Hod.’

‘You’ve not got her up the pipe have you?’

Shook again. ‘No. Christ, no. It’s just…’ I didn’t want to get into the whole story with Hod, at least not right away. If I stopped under his roof I knew it would come out eventually, but now wasn’t the moment.

Hod gave me a get out. ‘Tricky, like you said.’

I nodded. ‘We’ll call in a Ruby then.’

‘Suits me. Number’s over by the phone. Set meal for two for me.’

‘You greedy bastard!’

Hod stood up, tapped his gut. ‘Cheeky prick, I’m a fine figure of a man.’

‘Aye, a nice round figure.’

‘Plenty to go around. And you’ll be seeing me in action tonight.’

‘What?’

‘Got a night out planned for us. Take that dour look off your face, mate.’

‘Oh yeah? Come on then, spill.’

‘Later — you’ll see.’

Hod went to have a shower. I called the curry house. As I waited I read the paper Hod brought in. Had to laugh at Hugh Hefner’s response to Kelly Osbourne’s desire to become a Playboy centrefold — ‘We can’t airbrush that much, honey!’

The Dirtbombs CD reached ‘Your Love Belongs Under a Rock’. I heard Hod joining in from the bathroom. Thought, ‘I’m gonna enjoy living here.’ Had been years since I’d been deep in bachelordom. The constant patter was just what I needed to distract me right now.

As the track finished I heard the buzzer go.

‘That was quick.’

I jumped up to open the door. ‘They better not have microwaved the naan bread!’

Pushed the button, said, ‘Hello.’

‘Hi, Gus, it’s me.’

‘Amy — you better come up.’

As I stood in the hall, waiting for Amy, a door opened. A barnet of curls that would put Leo Sayer to shame popped out. Tried to do the neighbourly thing, said, ‘Hello, there.’

Head yanked in and door shut tightly. The woman with the box? Started to feel the beers hit, had a wee snigger to myself.

I quaffed away as the elevator doors opened at the other end of the hall. They don’t play music in there but as Amy appeared I thought Ravel’s Bolero came on. You know the one? Think, Bo Derek, golden bikini, getting out the water and running to Dudley Moore — yeah, that one.