Len Deighton - XPD

‘Still got your army Colt, I see,’ Stein said. ‘You give that heater to Parke Bemet for auction, and you’d get a record price for it.’

Delaney laughed, put an arm round Stein’s shoulder and guided him upstairs. ‘You should have phoned, Chuck. Or are you here to sell me protection?’ The two men laughed together.

Jerry Delaney’s place was a topless-bottomless club which contravened the regulations of most cities in Los Angeles county, as well as violating specific rules of the Alcoholic Beverage Control Department which licenses the bars. But this was Lennox, an unincorporated area on the way to Los Angeles International airport, where anything goes. At Jerry Delaney’s Gnu Club you could lay a bet or a broad; snort, smoke or mainline the stuff that Jerry brought in from Mexico and places beyond.

Jerry Delaney’s share of the Kaiseroda money had all been put into this two-storey building marked by a smart yellow awning and a bedraggled palm tree. A huge oak desk dominated his large upstairs office, and around it were placed deep leather armchairs of the sort associated with exclusive men’s clubs. On the desk there were three telephones in different colours, a large gold-plated pen set and a pair of baby shoes encased in a large block of transparent plastic. Soft music came from some hidden loudspeaker. Jerry Delaney pressed a switch and the music stopped. ‘Want to dunk that knuckle in some rubbing alcohol?’ He went to a large mirrored drinks cabinet and got two glasses.

‘Wine for me, Jerry, please.’

Jerry Delaney poured a glass of white California wine for each of them. The evening was still young, and a nightclub owner needed a clear head in this part of town. ‘It’s good to see you, Chuck. I got what you asked for.’ He put his hand against the side of the bottle to test the temperature and then, deciding it was not cold enough, tossed a couple of ice cubes into each glass.

He turned to find Stein staring at the framed photographs. They covered the wall behind his desk to the point of almost obliterating the red plush wallpaper. There were dozens of photos there, most of them of the type favoured by restaurateurs and club owners. Harsh flashlight froze Delaney and some of his more famous clients into awkward poses: leaning precariously across dining tables, holding the inevitable glass of champagne aloft and staring at the camera with a fixed and desperate smile.

But Stein was not studying any of the pictures taken in the Gnu Club. He was looking at a shiny signals corps glossy 8 x 10 inch photo of a mud-spattered M-3; a half-track vehicle mounting a 75-mm artillery piece. Ranged in front of it was a group of men in woollen shirts and gaitered trousers that so suited the rainy Tunisian winter. Behind the ‘tank destroyer’ there were some houses and a cluster of palms bent to conform to the prevailing winds. Stein, already a chubby youth, was seated on the roof of the cab, Delaney was in the driver’s seat. Sitting up on the roof of the cab, both arms spread as if to embrace the world, was Stein’s handsome young brother Aram. He looked very young, like a child dressed in grown-up’s clothing.

‘Here’s to Aram,’ said Jerry Delaney before drinking his wine.

Stein raised his glass but did not speak. He could not take his eyes off the photo. Nowhere in his own house was there a picture of his brother; the pain was still too much to bear. But now, confronted with his brother’s face, he couldn’t turn away.

‘You still miss him, Charlie?’

Stein nodded and gulped his drink so that it almost made him cough. ‘I should never have let him drive that damned jeep,’ said Stein.

‘Jesus, Charlie. You’re not still blaming yourself for that, are you? That’s over thirty years ago, and it wasn’t your fault, buddy.’

‘I should never have let him drive that jeep. He was only a kid… You or I would have seen those mines.’

‘We hadn’t seen them, coming up the track,’ said Delaney. ‘We must have passed damn close to them too.’ Delaney touched Stein’s shoulder briefly. ‘Stop fretting, Charlie. Aram loved being with you. Do you think he would have wanted to miss going to war with you… he would have hated staying at home.’

Stein nodded and turned away. The subject was closed. They both drank wine and studied each other with that impartiality all men use to observe the battle between their friends and old age. ‘So the bank got taken for one hundred million bucks,’ said Jerry Delaney.

‘We got taken,’ Stein corrected him. ‘It’s our bank.’

‘I’ve done all right,’ said Jerry.

‘The colonel’s upset about it.’

‘He’ll get over it,’ said Delaney. ‘He’s going to keep the bank going, is he?’

‘He’s going to try. But… ’ Stein raised his hand.

‘I’ve got to like having a piece of a Swiss bank,’ said Delaney. ‘It gives me a touch of class.’

‘It’s not all over yet,’ said Stein. ‘It’s getting rough out there.’

‘It’s not exactly Disneyland inside here,’ said Delaney. ‘Last night I had six wise guys put one of my topless waitresses into the ice-cream display. I had to call the cops, and in my kind of business it’s not a good idea to start asking help from cops. Six respectable looking dudes from the microchip convention! What in hell is it all coming to, Chuck?’

Stein shook his head. Delaney did not understand what he was telling him. ‘Really rough,’ said Stein. ‘I’m trying to set up a deal where we patch up our losses with whatever we can raise from the odds and ends that we have left over.’

‘The documents and carpets and stuff?’

‘But I’m tangling with some tough guys, Jerry. I took that souvenir Mauser over to the club in Roscoe. They’ve got a rifle range where I can try it out.’

Jerry Delaney shook his head. Old fellows such as Stein should leave guns alone; especially old war souvenir guns. But he did not say that; instead he tried to encourage his friend. ‘I’d say you can still handle yourself, Chuck, judging by what I just saw you do to my security guard downstairs.’

‘I’m not worried about myself,’ said Stein. ‘But my kid Billy doesn’t know enough to come in out of the rain… ’

‘These kids,’ said Delaney, ‘they wouldn’t know a sweat shop from a sweet shop.’ He sighed. He propped himself on the edge of his desk. ‘You see my son Joey just now? What’s he going to do when I fall off my perch? Can you imagine him running this place? He couldn’t handle a girl scout who lost her earrings. What’s he going to do if he gets the mob trying to move in here, like they tried back in the sixties?’

‘What did you do, Jerry?’

‘You know what I did, Chuck. I took a few of my best guys and hit back.’

‘What’s that mean?’

Delaney looked round anxiously and then leant forward before answering in a lowered voice. ‘I got a guy in from New York -an explosives buff. He went up to Vegas and wired a couple of ignitions for me. One of those hoods went out through the roof of his limo. They still leant on me. Then I had a hit man come in from New Jersey. He was recommended by a guy I do business with. He blew away a big man here in town, and after that they got the idea that I wasn’t going to do business with them.’

Stein nodded sadly. He could see no parallel for him here. ‘Well, this one is not going to quiet down, Jerry. I feel like I’ve stuck my finger into a hornets’ nest. I don’t see any way out of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I might have to scram, Jerry. Real fast. That’s why I had to ask you for those papers.’

Stein left it like that and drank a little more of his wine. His friend went to the safe in the corner, swung the door open and brought out a bulging manilla envelope. He gave it to Stein and watched as the contents were laid out on the desk side by side. A Brazilian passport (complete with photo of Stein) in the name of Stefan Wrzoseki.