The Mordida Man

10

At six o’clock the next morning, Dunjee found himself in an after-hours club of sorts, a Greek place, tossing cheap white plates at the feet of the female singer. The singer was also Greek and a little past her prime, but she had a loud, true voice and a glorious smile and Dunjee found that he didn’t at all mind the small mustache she seemed to be cultivating.

Dunjee was at the club with his two new best friends, another Greek and a Hungarian, both gamblers. The club was one of those outlaw places that open up around four in the morning after the gambling halls have closed. It was owned by a Mr. Tikopoulous who seemed to be very fond of his singer.

Dunjee had been cultivating his two new best friends for nearly ten hours. He had earned their oft-professed friendship, undeviating trust, and total loyalty by losing nearly two thousand pounds to them at a seven-card-stud table in the Embankment Sporting Club, which was located nowhere near the Embankment, but rather just off the Edgware Road.

Dunjee had lost his money skillfully, not quite methodically, even winning a hand now and again merely to make things look right, but losing nevertheless. The Greek and the Hungarian had taken nearly all of it. They had also gathered him to their collective bosom, clucked regretfully over his losses, and after a glimpse or two at the contents of his still fat wallet, suggested that his luck might change at an after-hours gambling den they just happened to know, which stayed open until shortly after dawn.

The illegal after-hours joint had been a small smutty place in Paddington run by a man who called himself Major Blake and hinted that he was a cashiered Guards officer with a strange and tragic past. The game at Major Blake’s was five-card draw played with a stripped deck, and Dunjee had managed to lose another five hundred pounds at that, too, thus further cementing his already indisoluble bonds of friendship with the Greek and Hungarian, who now seemed determined never to let him out of their sight.

It was just after dawn when the game at Major Blake’s had finally broken up, but the Greek and Hungarian’s early morning rounds were still far from completion. They had insisted that Dunjee be their guest at Mr. Tikopoulous’s place, where they could eat good Greek food, drink a little morning whisky, and throw cheap white plates at the feet of the singer.

It was the Hungarian who first noticed the young woman who was to lead Dunjee farther down the circuitous path to what he was looking for. She came in with another, slightly older woman just as Mr. Tikopoulous was delivering a fresh stack of plates to Dunjee’s table.

“Well, look who’s here,” the Hungarian said. Mr. Tikopoulous turned, beamed in recognition, and hurried over to the two women, ushering them to a choice table near the small dance floor now littered with smashed crockery.

“Who’s that?” Dunjee said as he took a plate from the new stack and tossed it toward the singer, where it shattered nicely at her feet. The singer smiled at him.

The Hungarian pursed his lips carefully, which was something he almost always did before delivering himself of one of his more weighty proclamations. Dunjee had discovered that the Hungarian never just said something. He instead issued declarations, edicts, and decrees. The Hungarian’s name was Lou Zentai and he was called Hungarian Lou to distinguish him from Soldier Lou, another regular at the Embankment Sporting Club. Soldier Lou was an Englishman who had once done two hitches in the Foreign Legion, but didn’t like to talk about it. Hungarian Lou, on the other hand, claimed to have been a freedom fighter in 1956 and bored everyone with tales of how brave he had been against the Soviet tanks.

“That,” Hungarian Lou said, staring at the woman who had just come in, “is probably the most marvelous fuck in London.”

He then looked at the Greek and let one eyebrow rise slightly. In response, the Greek’s left eyelid dropped a fraction of an inch. They had agreed on something, although Dunjee couldn’t quite decide what.

Dunjee turned his head to look at the woman more carefully. She had just enough weight on her small bones to escape being called lean, but it was a near miss. He watched her take off her jacket. Underneath, she wore a green silk blouse, its top three or four buttons carelessly left undone. Even from where Dunjee sat, the two small sharp breasts could be seen clearly through the thin silk. What he could see of her legs was slim and tanned. On her feet were green leather sandals. Her toenails were painted a bloody red.

The woman turned her head, caught Dunjee in his appraisal, and grinned. He would never see her smile. It was always that quick feral grin that revealed shiny, very white, curiously small teeth that looked extremely sharp. In repose, her full lips formed themselves into a child’s pout. A spoiled child. She had a pretty chin and a very long neck and a nose that looked stuck up, but her best feature was her eyes. They were enormous, very brown, very moist, and quite wild. Had it not been for her pouty mouth, she would have looked perpetually startled. Instead, she just looked trapped. Dunjee thought he could guess by what.

“Looks expensive,” he said as he turned back, took another plate from the stack, and tossed it at the singer’s feet, who rewarded him with yet another glorious smile.

“Not for you,” the Greek said and smirked a little. The Greek’s name was Anthony Perdikis. His profession was gambling. He also was part owner of a restaurant on the edge of Soho that he said he never went near. At forty-two, the Greek was sleek, black-eyed, bald, and just edging toward portliness.

Perdikis’s smirk now turned into a warm and friendly smile. Too warm, too friendly, Dunjee thought. He was still smiling when he said, “Dear friend Chubb. You’ve had a terrible run of luck. Bloody terrible. But your bad luck has been our good fortune. So, Lou and I insist you accept our little gift of gratitude.”

Perdikis turned and snapped his fingers for Mr. Tikopoulous, who hurried over. They spoke in Greek for almost a minute and it sounded to Dunjee the way Greek always sounded — as if some awful conspiracy were being hatched, possibly a revolution, at least a palace coup.

Mr. Tikopoulous, however, seemed delighted with whatever they were plotting, because he kept shooting sharp little glances at Dunjee and smiling and snickering a bit.

Eventually he went away but soon came back with a bottle of champagne and several glasses which he delivered with some ceremony to the table where the two women sat. They spoke briefly and Mr. Tikopoulous returned to Dunjee’s table, bowed almost formally, and said, “The young ladies thank you, sir, most kindly for the wine and wonder if you’d care to join them in a glass.”

“Our little gift of gratitude to you, friend Chubb,” Perdikis said, his smirk back in place. “A little all-day-long gift from Lou and me.”

Dunjee was about to turn it down with polite thanks when Hungarian Lou pursed his lips and delivered himself of yet another edict. “Keep away from her friends.”

Dunjee immediately grew interested. “Why?”

“They’re bad, that’s why. Thieves, pimps, villains — that lot. All damn godawful bad.”

“Well, she looks sort of interesting,” Dunjee said. “There’s just one thing wrong.”

“What?” Perdikis said.

“I always pay for my own ladies.”

The Greek managed to look hurt. “But she is our gift — Lou’s and mine. It’s all fixed.”

Dunjee smiled and rose. “In the States, Tony,” he said, making it all up, “it’s considered bad luck to let anyone else pay for your woman.”

Perdikis blinked at that, then nodded slowly. He was no longer offended. A gambler’s superstition was something he could appreciate. “We’ll see you tonight, of course.”

“You bet,” Dunjee said, picked up one of the last plates, and tossed it toward the singer, who gave him back another enormous smile.

When Dunjee reached the table, he looked down at the woman in the green silk blouse, but said nothing. He guessed her age accurately at twenty-five, and somehow he knew that within two years she would look ten years older than that.

She looked up at Dunjee with a careful stare, virtually an assessment. Then she made her lips and teeth form their foxy grin. “Too bad your taste in friends isn’t as good as your taste in champagne,” she said.

Dunjee sat down and poured himself a glass of the wine. “What’s wrong with my friends?”

The woman shrugged. “What isn’t?”

“Well, they won’t be coming to my party.”

“So it’s your party now, is it?”

“My party.”

“Just the two of us — or the three of us?”

Dunjee looked at the other woman. She was a pretty brunette, possibly foreign, with empty eyes and a soft, loose mouth.

“I think the three of us, don’t you?” he said.

“Oh, absolutely,” the woman in the green blouse said. “Three is much more fun than two. Much more. My name’s Sloan. Vicki Sloan, and this is my friend, Sunday Smith. I’m not joking. That’s really her name.”

Sunday Smith seemed to feel that it was time for her to say something, so she said, “I like Americans,” and ran her tongue slowly along her upper lip.

“What’re you calling yourself this morning?” Vicki Sloan said.

“Dunjee. Chubb Dunjee.”

She laughed. It was a loud laugh that started out soprano and wound up almost baritone. “You didn’t make that up.”

“Not at six in the morning.”

“Chubb Dunjee,” Sunday Smith said, as if it were her time to speak again. “That’s really a super name.”

The party got under way at almost half past six that morning in Dunjee’s room on the sixth floor of the Hilton. It developed into a mild orgy that ended shortly before nine. The two women turned out to be more practiced than inventive, and during the French exhibition set piece Dunjee caught Sunday Smith yawning a little when she should have been writhing with lust.

By nine it was time to break the bad news and by then Dunjee had carefully made sure he was fairly drunk. It was something he’d never been able to fake very well. Vicki Sloan took the news hard. Extremely hard.

“What do you mean you haven’t got it?” she said, almost screaming the last four words.

Dunjee looked up from the chair he had slumped into. He let his lips go loose and slack and grinned sloppily. “Temporary shortage of funds, love. That’s all. You’ll get your money. Only temporary.”

She bent down over him naked, her two hands resting on the arms of the chair. Her face was less than a foot from his. He could smell her breath. It wasn’t pleasant. Her eyes seemed furious, but when she spoke her voice was very low and quite controlled. “You owe us five hundred fucking quid, Jack.”

Dunjee nodded agreeably. “Or a thousand dollars. Whichever.”

“When?” she demanded.

Dunjee wrinkled his forehead into thought. “When?” he repeated. “Yes, when? Well, noon, say. What about then? I’ll have it by noon. Not to worry.”

She stood up, shaking her head slowly as she gathered up her clothes and slipped into them. “I’m not worried,” she said while dressing. “You’re the one who’d better be worried. Where’s your passport?”

“Get his fucking passport,” Sunday Smith said.

Dunjee pretended that he couldn’t remember where he had put it. All three searched the room until Dunjee finally looked under the mattress where he had slipped the passport earlier. “This what you want?”

Vicki Sloan snatched it away from him, examined it quickly, and then tucked it away in her purse. “If you want this back, you’d better be here at noon with the money. All of it.”

“You’ll be back at noon, huh?” Dunjee asked, knowing she wouldn’t.

“Not me, love. Somebody else.”

Dunjee decided it was time to get rid of them. He went around the two women to the door, turned back the bolts, and unfastened the chain. “Well, I’ll pay whoever shows up. Even offer him a drink — if he’s a drinking man.”

Vicki Sloan put her hand on the doorknob and stared up at him, still furious. “I wouldn’t disappoint him, if I was you. He gets nasty vicious, he does, when he’s disappointed.”

She opened the door and went through it followed by Sunday Smith, who paused just long enough to say, “You don’t have the money, Rollo, he’ll cut your fucking heart out.”

When they had gone, Dunjee closed the door and turned to survey his wrecked room. He thought about calling down for maid service, even for some breakfast, but decided against it, sat down on the bed, and lit a rare cigarette. A minute later he put the cigarette out and lay down. Three minutes later he was asleep.

He was still asleep when the determined knocking began on his door shortly before noon. It took several long moments before Dunjee became fully awake. He concluded that he felt somewhere between awful and terrible. He let the knocking go on for another few seconds, then rose and went into the bathroom to inspect himself in the mirror. He looked even worse than he felt — which was the way he expected to look. After splashing some cold water on his face and half drying it with a towel, Dunjee went to the door and opened it.

The man who stood there wore a gray tweed jacket and a ferocious scowl, but at the sight of Dunjee the scowl dissolved into a sad, lopsided grin. “God save us, lad, will you be dying on me this morning?”

“I might,” Dunjee said. “Come on in.”

The man followed Dunjee into the room and glanced around at the bottles and the smeared glasses and the twisted sheets. “Had a night of it, did we?”

“You her pimp?”

“I’m just a lost soul, brother, with the sad misfortune of being in love with a whore, and I’m fair dying for a drink.” He took out Dunjee’s passport and tossed it onto the writing desk. “My compliments.”

Dunjee climbed onto the bed, reached up, and removed the air conditioning grille. He took out his wallet, put the grille back, and stepped back down to the floor. He opened the wallet as though to check its contents and let the man catch a glimpse of all the hundred-dollar bills it contained. “Let’s have that drink,” Dunjee said and started counting out ten of the bills.

The man turned toward the bottles. He was not quite as tall as Dunjee, but wider and at least seven or eight years younger. He had thinning blond hair and too much forehead and the sad eyes of a failed cleric. There was just enough chin and perhaps a bit too much mouth. He mixed the drinks deftly and handed one to Dunjee, then raised his own glass and said, “To suicide, mate. I’m thinking you might drink to that this morning.”

“I might,” Dunjee said, formed the ten one-hundred-dollar bills into a small fan with one hand, and held them out to the man. There was a moment of hesitation before the man took the money and stuffed it down into his pants pocket.

“You overpaid, you know.”

“I know,” Dunjee said. “What’s your name?”

“Harold Hopkins, sir, and notice how nicely I handle me aitches.”

Dunjee nodded wearily, moved over to an armchair, and sank down into it. Hopkins sat on the edge of the bed. “I really love that bitch,” he said. “Ain’t that awful?”

Dunjee closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “How long were you inside, Harold?”

“Shows a bit, does it?”

“A bit. You’re way too pale, even for London.”

“Something fell off a lorry. I did fifteen straight without remission. Got out a fortnight ago.”

“What fell off the truck, Harold?”

“A pearl necklace. Some gold and platinum bits and pieces. A few diamonds.”

“I’m looking for somebody,” Dunjee said, his eyes still closed.

“And who might that be?”

“A thief.”

“Shame — an American gentleman like you.”

“I’m looking for a good one, Harold,” Dunjee said and opened his eyes.

After several moments Hopkins said thoughtfully, almost with dignity, “I’m a good one,” and somehow Dunjee knew that he was.