The Hackman Blues

1

BRADY’S BAD FUCKED

I wrote it on the bedroom wall, in yellow day-glo marker. Nice colour, blended well with the years of nicotine. So, okay. As the Yanks say, I ’fess up, or — closer to home — I put my hand up, guv. I haven’t taken my medication for the past week. If I couldn’t go a few days without the lithium, I was in deep shit. Thus the wall message. I’d gotten the job ten days earlier and it entailed a whack of pub crawling. Booze and medication is the worst of songs. Sing that!

A job of pure simplicity. Find a white girl in Brixton. Piece of cake. What I should have done is doubled my medication and lit a candle to Saint Jude — maybe a lotta candles.

Jack Dunphy is in the building game. To hear some of them tell it, he is the game. Leastways he used to be, all over southeast London. What’s known as a ‘plastic paddy’. Third or fourth generation down the pike and as English as toast. But could shovel the brogue as the occasion demanded. A flash git too. Liked to show he’d the dosh. Word was, he’d married a game-show hostess and hit the top of some minor B list. A name among the ‘could-’ave-beens’.

Hard bastard. Odd stories surfaced of punters getting done with baseball bats and the blow-torch. Anyway, not a fella to fuck with. I knew him for years on a vague basis. The, ‘How you doing?’ dance. Bags of brief enthusiasm and no follow-up. If you never met again, how much would you be hurting? Like that.

So, I was a little surprised when he offered to buy me a drink. The local bookie got married and there was a knees-up in the backroom of the Greyhound. My sometimes pub next to the Oval tube station. I was standing at the bar while a karaoke merchant mutilated ‘That Loving Feeling’.

‘Paul, whatcha drinking?’

Yeah, he gave it the best south-east London twist. To put me at ease?

‘I’m all right.’

‘Go on then, ’ave somefin’. Yo’ barkeep, couple of double scotches before Tuesday.’

I gave him the full look. He was the spit of Henry Cooper, but Our Henry with a bad drop. Dressed in a good suit, handmade shoes, and washed to a sheen. No electric razors or Bic disposables for this guy. It was the barber’s chair and an open razor job, then the face hand-massaged to a rosy hue. He’d tip good too, ask about yer missus and frame yer balls if you crossed him. A villain with communication skills.

The drinks came and he nodded, picked one up, indicated I should do likewise. I did but put it down, untasted, and he said:

‘Cheers Paul. Best of British, eh?’

‘It’s not Paul.’

‘What?’

‘My name — it’s not Paul.’

That threw him. He was a man who prided himself on information. But he rallied.

‘Shit I’m sorry, could have sworn...’

I had some scotch, it tasted okay, like hope.

He put out his hand.

‘Let’s start over, I’m Jack Dunphy.’

The thought flashed, Who gives a flying fuck? but I let it slide. I was taking my pills. I was mellow and I shook his hand. The grip was solid, let you know he was a man of integrity. You get one of those ‘tight with sincerity’ shakes, watch your wallet. I didn’t have any more of the scotch.

‘It’s Tony... but most people call me Brady.’

He reached for the lighter touch:

‘But what do your friends call you... eh...? Call you Tone?’

‘No.’

A silence for a bit, not a problem for me, then:

‘Look Tony, I’ll be upfront here...’

Watch that wallet.

‘I’ve been told you’re dependable and... that you could help me.’

I reached for the lighter touch too, said:

‘It depends.’

Took a moment, then he laughed... badly. A laugh a long way from his eyes.

‘Oh I get it, yes — very droll. The thing is Tone... Tony, I need to find a woman.’

I ran the gamut of replies:

(1) What, you think I’m a pimp?

(2) The game-show run out of juice? or,

(3) Join a lonely hearts club.

Wittily enough, I opted for, ‘What?’

‘My daughter, she’s gone missing.’

‘Did you contact the Old Bill?’

He gave me a look reeking in ‘Do us a bloody favour’, and said, ‘It’s not a police thing. Those fucks couldn’t find peace.’

I wasn’t sure what to think, said, ‘I’m not sure what to think.’

‘She’s twenty, she’s my only child. I think she’s in Brixton. She was up at Cambridge reading English and just dropped out. I need someone discreet to find her. Rosie, the missus, is going frantic.’

‘I’ll need a photo, some personal details.’

He took a large manila envelope from his jacket, laid it on the bar, said:

‘It’s there... and cash... you need more, you call me... anytime.’

The package looked thick, fat with readies, I guessed. No cheques with this outfit.

He nodded at my drink, asked, ‘You don’t like whisky?’

‘Oh I like whisky, I just don’t like that one... barkeep, give us a couple of Jack Daniels Old Number 7.’

The bar-guy was well pissed at having to locate this, did a production outa finding the bottle. I couldn’t have given a toss. Finally, the drinks appeared.

Jack said, ‘Expensive tastes, I see.’

I tapped the envelope with one finger, said, ‘Reckon I can afford it. Cheers.’

We drank. He knocked it back. A moment, then his eyes watered and he gripped the bar, croaked: ‘Jay-sus!’

‘Tennessee drinking whisky, burns like a bastard, you got to sip it... see?’ I sipped and gave a tight smile. He wasn’t pleased.

‘You could have said.’

‘C’mon Jack, are you a man to be told what to do?’

‘Bear that in mind, you and me will get along.’

A woman had replaced the karaoke and was doing a passable rendition of ‘If It’s The Last Thing I Do.’ Sounded like Tammy Wynette via Peckham. Close to home.

Jack asked, ‘You’re thinking I look like someone, right? People are always noticing the resemblance... go on... have a shot.’

Could I say Henry...? I figured not. Said, ‘Erm... It’s on the tip of my tongue...’

He was like a child with a secret, could wait no longer.

‘I’ll give you a hint... Bite The Bullet.’

Yeah... a horse’s ass, but lied: ‘Erm... missed that one.’

‘Gene Hackman!’

‘What?’

‘When I give that tight little smile, when I’m fucked about... see...?’

Oh God, he gave me a demonstration. It was horrible, truly fucking horrible. I had to blame the Jack Daniels... had to...

He asked, ‘Want me to do it again?’

‘No... it’s uncanny... quite unbelievable, you’ve a real talent there.’

Just then I caught the eye of a young guy across the bar. Long blonde hair, T-shirt, the requisite 501s... he smiled.

I said, ‘Gotta go... I’ll be in touch.’

He put out his hand, gave me another of those manly grips. Gripped me solidly for a time. He said: ‘I think I’ll have some more of that Tennessee... do you think?’

‘You do that... oh... and Gene...’

He loved it.

‘Yeah?’

‘Sip it... okay... nice and slow.’

When I got the young guy back to my place, that’s exactly how I took him.

2

Next morning I opened my eyes to see the guy preening in front of the wardrobe mirror. Dressed only in white Y-fronts, he was rivetted by his image. A lot to be held by. His body was lean and muscular, of the gym-smoothed variety. Sun-beds featured too, as he’d a light tan all over. My own body looked a wreck.

Catching my eye, he winked and asked, ‘See something you like?’

‘One of us does.’

This got the blank look and, ‘What?’

I got outa bed and yeah, wouldn’t you know, my joints creaked loudly.

The guy moved his hands along his chest, asked, ‘Would you like a little wake-me-up?’

‘I’d like two things.’

He gave me a practiced sensual look, ran his tongue across his top teeth. Rough beginning to a day, rough trade indeed. He near whispered, ‘Anything... any amount.’

‘Coffee and your ass outa here.’

He got dressed as I made the coffee. I’d run outa whitener so it was black and bitter — like Brixton, according to the Metropolitan Police.

I prised a tenner out of my wallet and the guy said, ‘I need a hug.’

‘Here’s cab fare — hug the driver.’

As he left, he paused for an exit line:

‘You’re not as tough as you think.’

‘You got that right.’

‘Call me?’

‘First opportunity.’

‘Goodbye then.’

‘Good something...’ and as the door closed, I added, ‘riddance’, but not with much intent.

You ever hear of Grace Maria Kennedy? Not one of your better known poets. She belongs to the Ann Sexton school of mania. I had her collected poems and, I dunno, they give me such comfort. Or, to grab the current idiom — identification. Fuck it, I just like them. I took down the volume, lip mouthed some lines from ‘Levels’:

The key words always leapt — elation — mania. The words of my existence. I saw a tele-movie called Nest Of Spies and, as everything disintegrates, Powers Booth shouts at his wife: ‘Keep taking the crazy pills and shut the fuck up.’

As the coffee lined my gut, I thought, I’m the wrong call of fifty, gay, and manic depressive, and said aloud in Gene Hackman voice, ‘Jeez, my goddam cup overfloweth.’

I turned on the radio, turned it on loud. Juice Newton belting out ‘Angel of The Morning’ and wow, what a name. You’re bopping down the street and the brothers go: ‘Yo’, Juice!’ Yeah.

I was getting manic. Always happens when I drink, it’s like it neutralises the medication. So I brewed some more caffeine and got that lithium down.

Up/down the jangled dance... who wins?

I put the poems aside. Let it rest on Larry Kramer’s ‘Faggots.’ Seemed appropriate, if not important. Few years back, I came across a piece of graffiti, it read: ‘My mother made me a homosexual.’ Underneath, in brackets, was written, ‘If I send her the wool, will she make me one too?’ Time to open the envelope. And the Oscar goes to...

The wad of money came out first. Neatly banded in large denominations. I figured the building game wasn’t in crisis, after all. Then a six-by-four full face photograph. My first instinct was — Jeez, what a dog! Allowing this was a studio portrait, with all the help of lights and a professional photographer, God only knew how ugly she really was. Straight, dark hair, bad eyes. They had that lidded look of the very drunk or of a lazy reptile. A snub nose and a thin mouth. She looked about eighteen. On the back were the details

Name: Rosaleen/Roz — Born: 3rd January, 1975 — Eyes: Brown — Hair: brunette — Height: 5-feet, 2-inches — Weight: 100 lbs — Friends: Alison Kee (phone number and address) — Distinguishing Marks: Tattoo of small bird on left inside wrist.

Reminded me of a memorial card and I hoped it wasn’t ominous. It saddened me that such a young girl had only one friend. I tried to shrug it off, saying, ‘What’s it to me, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if she was little Miss Popularity.’ I’d only to find her, not sort her.

Had a shower and towelled off in front of the wardrobe mirror. I skipped the preening but had a sneak analysis. If I stood up real straight I managed five-feet-eleven. My torso had a beat-up effect which was the result of being beat up... often. I did rigorous stomach exercises daily but it hadn’t kept a growing pot belly at bay. Shit, I’m fifty-two — who gets a washboard effect after fifty? Maybe I’d get that gut suction job like Kenny Rogers. Yeah... and maybe get lucky too. Dream on.

I was carrying weight all right and not just in my attitude. But some of it still came in as muscle. My hair was fucked, gone and missed. Not that I was bald but getting there way too fast. A broken nose and a mediocre mouth. But hey... I got good eyes. Wide, blue and understanding. Leastways the guy last night said and that was before I gave him cab fare. Some guys, their faces look lived-in, gives a hint of character and experience. Mine...? Naw, it was squatted in for more years than the landlord cares to admit. Did you ever see A Perfect World? Clint Eastwood, Kevin Costner and directed by ol’ Clint. Kevin Costner says to a kid, ‘We got a lot in common. We both love RC cola, both got pappas not worth a damn, and we’re handsome devils.’ I said this to Roz’s photo and smiled a little. It was truer than I knew.

Maybe the job could be done by phone, she could be holed up with her one friend. So I rang her. It was picked up fast.

‘Hello... is that Alison?’

‘Y-es.’

‘Oh good. Hi Alison... I’m trying to locate Roz.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Was it something I said?’ I asked the empty receiver.

3

Elias Rasheed Mohammed. That was his name during the Muslim phase. I called him Reed. We met in Wormwood Scrubs.

Before the lithium worked its magic, I was on and off a sundry of medication. Few worked. I got two years for GBH and had been sent to the Scrubs. Back in the glory days of two-man cells. The screw sniggered as he pushed me in.

‘You get to bunk down with the Holy Man, Brady.’

‘Holy?’

‘Yeah — like Holy Terror.’

And he gave a guffaw. Not an easy thing but pig ignorance helps. One bunk was neatly made, all squared away with a book resting on the pillow. I picked it up — The Koran — and slung it. Madness was dancing in hot white waves across my brain. Cookin’ mania.

I lay on that bunk. A while later a black man showed. Near six-foot-two, he appeared to glow, due to the sheen of his skin and shaved head. Built for endurance.

He said, very quietly, ‘Get yer ass off my bed, whitey.’

Two seconds to leap from the bed and smash into him. Then I rammed his skull against the bars and ended with a power-driver to his chin. Out cold. I stood over him and fought not to stomp his face. Moving back against the door, I braced there, my leg ready to level his head. When he came to, he shook his head to clear the vision, propped up on one elbow, looked at me, said. ‘There’s more where that came from.’

It hung there for a few moments, then we started to laugh. We’re been friends since. Way to guess, else I’d have killed him.

He fought my corner for the time it took to build my rep’. Not that it took long — my mania was in full roar. Cons are especially wary of a madman. In a world of random, casual violence, unpredictability is fearsome.

Those years, Reed helped me channel the ferocity and to utilise it. He was a car thief, doing five years.

‘Yo’ baby... I drool for a set of wheels.’

For a few months I listened to his black power rap then one day snapped.

‘Reed, give it a bloody rest! You probably grew up in Maidstone. I was born and reared in Brixton.’

“Don’t dis me, mon.’

‘Dis you! For fuck’s sake will you listen to him. Sidney Poitier has more street cred.’

He leant over to ins small collection of books. Selected one and ran his hand reverently along the cover. Then solemnly offered it. Like some priest of blackness. I snatched it. Elridge Cleaver — “Soul On Ice’.

“What’s this shite?’

He sighed. A thing he got to do often, said, “Man, we gots to get you cool.’

I slung it.

‘Bollocks! My soul’s been on fire since I was five-years-old.’

Come the first Christmas he gave me another book, said, ‘Complements of the season, the white one.’

I gave him the usual — grief. This time the book he gave me was James Baldwin — ‘Go tell it on the Mountain’ — and he said quickly, ‘Yo‘, don’t throw it — you and that dude got something in common.’

“What, he’s unhinged — sorta has black depression?’

*No, he be homosexual.’

I was on my feet ready to bounce him.

‘You have a problem with that, Reed?’

‘No, sir. You’s the one has the attitude.’

‘Have I bothered you... do you feel threatened?’

He gave a rich laugh, ‘Threatened... by you... shit bro’? All the time but not sexually. Wha’s the matter with you boy, yo’ all don’t want my black ass.’

‘Yeah, cos you’re an ugly bastard.’

Easter he gave me the jail journal of Jean Genet. After I finished, I said, ‘That guy’s a bloody pervert.’

‘Whatcha expect mon? He’s white.’

A batch of skinheads were banged on to our tier. At night you could hear them chanting Millwall anthems and mispronouncing obscenities. I’d pass their cells and see them tattooing swastikas on to bald skulls, the bloodier the better.

I had one of them in the mail-room. A sweet-cheeked lad of barely eighteen. After he’d blown me, he asked, ‘Wotcha mates with a nigger for?’

What teeth he had, I knocked out.

They began to shout British Movement slogans and bait the non-white inmates. National socialism nor any other political conviction had nothing to do with it. They liked the hatred, thrived on intimidation.

One afternoon they tried to castrate Reed in the showers. The knives just weren’t sharp enough. Even in that, they literally couldn’t cut it. But they hurt him sufficiently that he was given early release.

I was allowed to see him in the hospital. What a bloody mess. His face was a ruin, both arms were broken, and he was to lose one eye.

He said, ‘You should see the other guy.’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s nothing, just a scratch.’

‘Makes you better looking.’

‘Roll us a smoke, Brady.’

I glanced round at the mega no smoking signs and he gave the habitual sigh.

‘What they gonna do mon — jail my black ass?’

I put the roll-up between his lips and he took a deep drag. Then a fit of coughing, said, ‘They’ve got a point, these suckers are bad for you.’

I didn’t answer. Then he said, ‘Let it go, bro’ — you hear me?’

Reed had just finished John de Vecchio’s book on Vietnam — ‘The Thirteenth Valley.’ Read it mainly because the guy ended up in prison. In ‘Nam, they had a catch-phrase to deal with the horror. Reed said it now:

‘It don’t mean nothing, drive on.’

‘Like fuck.’

‘Don’t dis me, bro’. I be serious now. Yo’ all go after them trainee nazis, yo’ gonna get your sorry ass killed.’

‘We’ll see.’

He extended his fingers and said, ‘Touch me, bro’.’

‘Get outa here.’

‘Please man...’

I did and he tightened that fragile hold, asked, ‘Promise me Brady — gimme yo’ word, mon. Y’all stay away from those muthas.’

‘I promise.

‘O-kay... when yo’ get released, I be waiting, yo’ hear... in a new set of wheels... take yo’ to de moon.’

‘I’ve been there.’

‘Not with me yo’ ain’t. Yo’ keep that bond... yeah?’

‘Sure.’

Dream on.

The prison shrink had said to me: ‘Manic depression isn’t a complete blanket term. What works for one person may not help another. Numerous other factors have to be clued in. You have a marked pathological aspect to your condition.’

As I was serving time for GBH, how clued in was he? He’d given me some medication — that definitely helped. When a boxer prepares for a bout, he does road work, sparring, weights. Like that. Me, I stopped the medication.

The three who’d done Reed, I called Larry, Mo, and Curly Joe. For obvious reasons. Larry was the one I’d had sex with and he worked in the mail-room (no pun intended). I gave him a nod and he followed me out to the toilets.

I said, ‘Lemme have you.’

His fear gave way to surprise, asked, ‘Yer not bovvered cos of the nig-nog?’

‘Naw... fuck him.’

And I laughed. He gave a less hearty one, said, ‘It’ll cost you... carton this time...’

‘No sweat — you’re worth it.’

‘Cos I’m not bent like, know what I mean?’

‘Course I do, you’re a straight arrow.’

He was nervous again, asked, ‘D’ya want me to take me dick out?’

‘Naw, I’ll take it out...’

And I shot my left hand round his throat, levitated him a few inches, then jammed him against the tiles, reached for the knife, said, ‘Two items to note, Larry. Firstly, this blade is sharpened. Second, sopranos don’t do good in the British Movement.’

Mo was working in the kitchens, stirring a huge pot.

I said, ‘What’s cookin?’

‘Wotcher doing in ’ere — not supposed to be ’ere — is it cos of the wog?’

I looked towards the pot, asked, ‘What’s that then?’

‘Stew.’

‘Lots of veggies?’

‘You what?’

I grabbed him by the two ears, up-ended him and dunked him right in it, said, ‘And here’s the turnip.’

Curly Joe I did the worst thing of all to. I let him think about it. A week later, he jumped off D-wing.

What happened after is what happens ninety-percent of the time in prison.

Nothing.

But I’d got my rep’.

4

On my release, Reed was waiting. In a white stretch-limo. Was I glad? Jeez I was mortified. He even had a chauffeur’s uniform. Right down to the peak cap.

Said, ‘Your car m’lud.’

‘Pimp-mobile, more like.’

‘Cost an eye and a leg.’

I didn’t want to stare, to look directly and he said, ‘You can look — see it’s not so bad.’

‘I can pop the sucker out, let yo’ all have a close up.’

I felt ill. He said, ‘Let’s haul ass before those muthas change their mind. Get in the back.’

I did. There was enough room for a small Third World family and a fully-stocked bar. Reed put the car in gear and we slid smoothly away. Jackson Browne was on the speakers.

Reed said, ‘I gots to have dis baby back in an hour, so enjoy.’

I didn’t say anything and he continued, ‘See how it works... A dude gets released, he has priorities — get laid, get wasted, like that. But yo’ all is a different drummer.’

‘Cos I’m gay?’

‘Cos you a crazy fuck. See the envelope on the seat?’

‘Yeah, so what?’

‘It’s mullah bro’, cash money. We be working dudes now but I gots to axe yo’ a question, okay?’

‘What, you’ll want a reference?’

‘Lighten up Brady, yo’ all a free bird now. I gots to know... did you mess with dem skins?’

‘Didn’t I give you my word — didn’t I do that?’

‘Yeah... right.’

My phone rang, pulling me back to the present.

‘Yeah.’

‘Brady... it’s Jack.’

‘Lo Jack.’

‘Any progress?’

‘Since I saw you last night?’

‘Oh right — I’m anxious is all. You can’t imagine what that little girl means to me.’

‘I’ll find her.’

‘Course you will. The only important thing is blood, family... all the rest are strangers.’

‘You what?’

‘Gene said that in Wyatt Earp...’

‘Did he now?’

‘It’s the absolute truth.’

‘Well, if Gene said so...’

‘I’m going to give you something.’

‘Not a good thrashing, I hope?’

‘A baseball cap... he always wears one.’

‘Jeez, what can I say — we’ll be two Genes.’

‘Two what?’

Too bloody much, but I said, ‘I’ll call as soon as I get something, okay Jack?’

‘You do that.’

And he rang off.

Was it me, or did that sound like an order? Said aloud: ‘Never no mind, probably a Hackman thing...’ Yeah, that was it. You could tire of Gene though. No doubt about it, he could definitely get on your fucking nerves.

Reed and I had a partnership. Nothing on paper. No contract, no set deal, but fixed as fate. He had little cards printed:

The cards he’d stolen but I think he paid for the printing. When he told me the scheme, or scam, I laughed out loud, said, ‘Bollocks.’

We were never out of work. Go figure. Okay, sometimes we gave it a nudge and stole the item first.

A Labour parliamentary candidate went public on the loss of her beloved Yorkshire terrier. I found it and got a write-up in the South London Press:

Even had my photo. Made me look like Ken Livingstone on speed. From his London Council era... Yeah, that bad.

If you watch videos, you know about FACT. You may not want to but you can’t escape the fuckers. Slammed in at the beginning of every video — you can’t avoid them, like muggers in Stockwell. The Federation to stop video piracy. We did a bit of work for them. A nice little earner and reliable. To cover both ends of the market, we made the pirates... then shopped ’em. A version of Tory innovation. Reed said it was our tribute to the Thatcher years — and cars. Oh yeah, heavens-to-betsy, it’s where the gold is. Steal ’em and find ’em... fast. No repo could match our record for instant recovery. Recently, the mountain bikes had become a market mover. Those suckers trade for serious earners. You get a set-up like that, money leaking in from all angles, it’s sweet as a nut. But... you’re also gonna get attention. Blood in the water and the sharks come cruising.

You get:   (1) Scavengers

      (2) Predators, and

      (3) Policemen.

Things were just falling into place when my doorbell rang one morning. Two suits, one burly and one creepy. Numero Uno began, ‘Good morning, sir — I’m Chief Inspector Nolan.’

‘And how are the sisters?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘If I might continue? My colleague here, though shy, is Sergeant James and you, sir are...’

He consulted his notebook, stepped back to check the house number, the usual bullshit, then exclaimed, ‘... Mr T Brady. Am I correct?’

What, like politically correct?’

‘Ah, a comedian. How jolly. Me and my sergeant likes a good laugh.’

Then the tone changed. ‘Might we step in, sir?’

I moved aside. Nolan went ahead but James hung back, keeping me in the middle. Like in the cadets manual. It was a hot read in prison, the cons loved it. We trooped into the living room. Nolan put out his hand... then the other, said:

‘If I’m right the kitchen is that way. Might Sergeant James do us a brew and one for you, of course. Thing is, we skimped on breakfast, keen to make yer acquaintance and all that.’

I said nothing.

James headed for the kitchen.

Nolan flopped into an armchair, took a look ’round.

‘Fairly spartan, eh? Is that the minimal effect like them Japs are so keen on, or are you just a cheap bastard?’

Was there an answer to this, short of a kick to the side of the head? James returned with a tray and tea stuff, said:

‘Nowt to eat Guv, except for marietta biscuits.’

‘What, no bacon sarnies...? Well, pour the tea, we can’t very well expect our Mr Brady to attend to us hand and foot.’

James continued to stand, snatching at the tea with a puckered mouth, as if it would bite. Nolan made smacking noises, loud and vexing, said:

‘You’re in the video game, Mr Brady.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh I do like a good film.’ He pronounced it ‘fill-um’.

‘Me and the missus, we like nothing better than to put the feet up, have a curry, then a box of Dairy Milk for afters. Though I suppose you’d have a sturdy young lad with yours.’

James threw me a look and Nolan bit down on a marietta, continued ‘Oh sorry Sarge... didn’t you know...? Our Mr Brady is an arse bandit — a bum-boy... yeah, a pillow-biter in the flesh, so to speak. A bit of marg’ would go a treat on these.’

He smiled and showed surprisingly fine, even, white teeth. Didn’t add any warmth to the smile. Over the next few minutes he ate six biscuits, crunching down hard on each piece. I counted... what else had I to do? Then he patted his belly, said:

‘Oops! I’ve been a bit of a greedy guts I have. Right — now Mr Brady, no doubt you’ve heard of the Police Benevolent Fund?’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘Watch yer tone, laddie!’.

‘How about if I write you a cheque... Inspector?’

He stood up, brushing crumbs off his pants and tut-tutted. To hear a grown man make such a sound is awesome. And to think, he was calling me names!

‘Oh let’s not bother with formalities. Cash will be fine... coin of the realm, eh? First Friday of the month... like catholics.’

I had managed to keep shtoom, let him goad me, but I figured one shot was merited, said:

‘Like bribes, more like.’

James gut-thumped me with his elbow and I went down on my knees. Vomit washed in my mouth. Nolan squatted down, eye balled me, said:

‘You’re an ’ard ’un Brady, eh...? But this isn’t the Scrubs. I’m the guv’nor here. If I whistle, you ask, What tune? Am I getting through to you, asshole?’

I nodded. There are times when it’s best to be macho, to shovel the shit right back. This wasn’t one of them.

I could smell the biscuits off his breath and see the particles stuck in the fine teeth. He stood, said:

‘That’s it then. Don’t get up son, we’ll see ourselves out. And tell that jungle-bunny mate of yours not to nick motors on my manor. Makes me look bad. Well, got to fly... toodle-pip.’

There’s nowt as queer as folk.

My old man used to run that by us. Fucking wisdom of the ages, by gum. From a man who rated Yorkshire pud as a culinary achievement.

5

Reed had asked once, This depression man — how it be?’

‘Be fucking rough is how.’

Mania is the ultimate rush. Energy and euphoria hit fever pitch. A racing mind moves in a whirlwind pace and you become the original motor-mouth — gunning out verbals at hectic mode. Physically, little sleep is required and a supernatural energy takes over. The next stage is delusion and you can feel all powerful — all intelligent — all wonderful. Like a Thatcher.

Depression is the exact opposite. Loss of energy, feelings of worthlessness, mental slowness, a shut down. It’s not a common ailment. What joins the two is that mania is followed by depression. The doctors like to talk about ‘episodes.’ ‘Attacks’ are no longer PC. So when you’re in the middle of one, you, ‘Phew, it’s only an episode, that’s all right then.’ Yeah! A shrink told me that about one in two hundred people are prone to manic depression. This was a comfort? Oh yeah, episodes are not frequent. Lithium helps me best.

When I’d explained all this to Reed he was quiet, then exclaimed, ‘Jeez, what a bummer.’

Quite.

My weapon of choice is a baseball bat. I kept one under the bed. For all things Hackman. Gene made a movie called Bat 69. Course, I didn’t give a toss for him then, else I might have inscribed 69 on the top. The sexual connotation would have been value sufficient. But more likely not. This was the real McCoy, a genuine Louisville slugger with wood as smooth as Tony Blair. If I could gauge the manic feelings building, I’d get Reed to hold the weapon, but you can’t always. No, not always.

Much as I appreciated the craftsmanship, I’d once made a guy eat it — and not with his mouth.

After Nolan had visited, I went to see Reed, told him the deal. He took it well, said:

‘Let’s off the fucker.’

When I told him the amount due on first Friday, he added, ‘Let’s off the fucker Friday.’

He could have done with some lithium himself.

I looked at the photo of Roz again, held it up close. As if inspection could bring information. Nada, nowt, zero. The thing they used to say: ‘Only the winner gets the dinner.’ If looks were the means, this girl was starved. As the Americans say, Who you gonna call?

Who else?

‘Reed.’

‘Talk to me, baby.’

‘We’ve got a job.’

‘Lay it out bro’.’

I did. Omitted nothing, not even the baseball caps. Reed said — I thought he said — ‘Blood-claat.’

‘What?’

And he said it again, louder. Yeah, I’d heard him right.

‘Reed, are you stoned?’

‘Don’t get righteous bro’.’

‘What the fuck is blood-clot?’

‘It’s a state of mind bro’.’

‘Like Texas?’

Those sighs from him again. Like his theme song. Put a soundtrack to a life, I’d get the Sex Pistols’ ‘Never Mind the Bollocks.’ I danced to ‘Anarchy in the UK.’ But all is profane, they’d regrouped. Alas, my life didn’t have the space for such re-runs. Reed’s track would be Vangelis, punctuated by sighs. Deep... yeah. Reed had tried to explain BEV. Black English Vernacular or, quite simply, black-speak, he’d said:

‘There be a whole new vocabulary of Niggaz — Buck — Whylin.’

I’d given an informed, ‘What?’

It meant black men talking. Lest he now go totally black on me, I cut to the chase, asked:

‘Are you free to begin tonight?’

‘I be free.

‘Okay, see you here ’round nine.’

‘Anything else?’

‘One thin’.’

‘Yeah.’

‘When I be getting me baseball cap?’

For the next three nights we trawled through the Brixton clubs. The modem version of hell might be Railton Road on a wet Wednesday night. Milton would be glad of his blindness.

Thronged through the hustlers, pimps, transsexuals, transvestites, muggers, junkies, dealers. The signs that read — ‘IF IT SWELLS? RIDE IT.’ What Travis saw from a windscreen in Taxi Driver, we saw up close and reeking. Mario el mano with the waste that comes behind. Reed’s colour may have got us in but my mania got us out.

He said, ‘We be doin this wrong bro’.’

‘Too easy-going... you want to crack skulls?’

‘No... eee, we’s got to put down some incentive.’

‘Pay the bastards, that it?’

Laid the money and the promise of more all over Coldharbour Lane. We found her on Friday.

Ballistic is a word of mouth joint. Never advertises and never needs to. You have to be connected to get to the door, and connected plus loaded to get in. Reed had the appearance of both.

Half way down Electric Avenue, it kept a dilapidated front. Inside was plush — red and white leather, huge dance floor and circular stairs to the bar. We headed up.

The clientele was predominantly black and I looked... well... white. Me ’n’ Roz. She was behind the bar, dressed in white leather micro and red see-through blouse. Truth to tell, in the subdued light in that place, she looked pretty okay. A huge guy in a tux caught Reed’s arm, asked:

‘Elias... that you?’

‘Sure be.’

‘Wha’ch you be thinking, yo’ bring a white boy here?’

I pushed forward, ‘Hey, nobody brings me anyplace.’

Reed shot me a look, moved the guy to the side... had some words. Then back to me and before he could start, I said:

‘Don’t do me no favours.’

‘Yo’ all lighten up bro’, yo’ want the girl or a lynchin’?’

‘You think I’m afraid of that fat fuck?’

‘I’m afraid you not, now shut yo’ trap... hear?’

He pushed me into a chair and moved to the bar. I watched him talk animatedly to Roz. She looked over then nodded her hair. Reed came back, said:

‘She be here in a mo’ — now yo’ be cool... are yo’ cool?’

‘As ice.’

Something else was eating him.

I asked, ‘What’s eating you?’

‘De girl — de white chick, she belong to Leon.’

‘Who’s Leon?’

‘Uh... oh... here be Leon.’

A build-up like that you expect the point man for the grim reaper.

What he was was small and almost insignificant. Dressed in a blazer, white shirt, grey slacks, he wore pince-nez. His age was indeterminate. You’d believe sixty, but fifty was an option too. If I knew about ties, and I don’t, I’d figure it to be one of those regimental jobs.

Then you reached the eyes, cold as the Oval in December. The glasses enhanced the metallic effect and, whoever was home, was not to be fucked with. I decided to fuck with him anyway. Reed jumped to his feet, said:

‘Leon, this be mo’ partner... Brady.’ I stayed sitting.

Leon smiled, said, ‘Don’t get up Mr Brady.’

Yeah, he could do News At Ten, he had the accent. Put out his hand, I shook it. Like touching dead flesh and he knew I was thinking it, smiled more, said ‘I am Leon.’

‘You say that as if it’s meant to mean something — don’t mean shit to me.’ As I said, no medication.

But he could roll:

‘One likes to believe one has a small reputation.’

‘I saw Leon...’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Leon the Pig Farmer.’

Didn’t take too hot on that.

Reed raised his eyes to heaven.

Leon snapped off the pince-nez, rubbed the bridge of his nose, said in a tight voice, ‘You’re a foolish man Mr Brady... or crazy. But, as one has a certain fondness for...’ He waved a hand vaguely to indicate Reed ‘...For Elias Rasheed, one is going to overlook your impertinence.’ He waited for my response and I decided to forego it. The pince-nez was readjusted and he said:

‘As I thought! Rosaleen will be with you presently. To demonstrate my largesse, drinks are on me. What is your pleasure?’

‘Jack Daniels Old Number 7.’

‘Capital! The black choice it is. Liquid smoke n’est pas.’

‘Whatever.’

Then he walked away, to do power things, no doubt.

Reed slumped beside me, exhaled, ‘Yo’ a piece o’ work, yo’ know that?’

‘But I have a nice telephone manner.’

‘Sh... ee... hit! Yo’ be messin wit’ dee man.’

‘No, no that’s not correct. If I was messing, I’d have pissed on his shoes.’

Groan from Reed, then he sat up, leant close, said, ‘Yo’ mutha, yo’ ain’t on yo’ medicine.’

Before we could get into that, Roz arrived carrying a tray with a bottle and those chunky glasses.

Reed said, ‘Gimme dem drinks.’

I motioned for Roz to sit. She did, without any attempt to compensate for the micro skirt. It rode up to her crotch, showing heavy thighs.

I said: ‘Show me your arms.’

‘Are you a policemen? I’m not a junkie.’

I indicated her tattoo, said, ‘Just being thorough.’

‘Leon asked that I be courteous. How may I help?’

Cambridge had done its work on her accent but south-east London was going down shouting. The effect was what they call ‘doing posh.’ I was about to discover how her attitude was.

I said: ‘Daddy asked me to find you.’

No expression, only, ‘Now you have — congratulations!’

‘Any message for him?’

‘Yes, ask him to watch I Never Sang for my Father.’

‘Lemme guess... Gene Hackman?’

Reed was doing damage to the drink. Another one who didn’t know about sipping. One thing was clear, he didn’t like Roz and he didn’t seem to exist as far as she knew. Maybe that was it.

I asked Roz: ‘Leon... he treat you okay?’

A smile of pure maliciousness. ‘Oh yes, like a father.’

I had nothing more. The music seemed to have increased in volume, it was gangsta rap. Bounces off your skull like the worst kind of bad news.

She stood up and I asked:

‘That noise, Christ, how do you stand that shite?’

Superior expression now, all of Cambridge crashing through.

‘It’s ethnic, it’s... real.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘real fucking painful.’

And she was gone.

Reed said, ‘Jeez Louise? Where yo’ get DAT? Yo’ white boys are weird.’

‘It’s ethnic, what can I tell you?’

As we took our leave, Leon materialised, put his hand on my arm, said:

‘I don’t expect to see you again, Mr Brady... understand?’

‘What, is it a black thing... is that it?’

Outside, my head was humming. Volts of energy were cracking in my brain. I felt strong, randy and wired.

Reed said:

‘Yo’ all go home now... yo’ hear.’

I looked at the crowds milling on Electric Avenue, heat emanating from the very ground, said:

‘I am home.’