“You want to kill the rich. I just want to take their money.” Truer words, Neal, old pal, truer words.
“You take their money, you have to take their shit.”
“Not if you do it right.”
Colin looked at him differently. “Maybe we’ll talk.”
“Maybe.”
They left The Club at about 2:00 A.M. Neal had a major buzz on from the speed, the coke, and God only knows how many pints. His head rang from the combined effects of drugs, alcohol, noise, and the nagging anxiety of not knowing where Allie was. Maybe I should have split and followed her. Maybe she wants out and is just looking for her chance. Maybe I could have grabbed her at whatever hotel she’s at and said, “Here I am to save the day” and gone straight to Heathrow and caught the next flight out. Maybe. But more likely, I’d have blown the whole thing.
So he hung with Colin, Crisp, and Vanessa.
“Come crash at my flat,” Colin said.
“No thanks. I’ll catch a cab back to the hotel.”
“Not at this time of night down here. Come on, you can crash on the floor, go home in the morning.”
“Streets aren’t safe this time of the night,” Crisp said. “Lots of punks wandering around.” He grinned like an old horse headed for the stable.
“Yeah, okay.”
They walked along the monotonous streets lined with blocks of flats, sweetshops, and news brokers. All the places were shut down for the night and few cars prowled the street. It was pretty dull. Until they came across the Pakis.
There were five of them and they were pissed. Pissed as in drunk. Pissed as in angry. Five larger than average Pakistani immigrants in loud pastel shirts, white jeans, and black loafers. They looked like a band at a cheap wedding. They blocked the sidewalk.
“Hello, Colin,” said their leader. He impressed Neal as a muscular type.
“Your name wouldn’t be Ali, would it?” Colin inquired pleasantly. “In fact, would all your names be Ali?”
Ali’s name was, in fact, Ali. And he wasn’t amused. “Where’s your gang, Colin?”
“Fucking your mother, I should think.”
For good measure, Crisp chimed in, “Why don’t you stinking wogs go back to Pakistaniland where you belong?”
Ali smiled and said, “Colin thinks he’s a big man now because he has some protection down on the Main Drag. But, Colin, this is not the Main Drag and you don’t have any protection here.”
“You see, Neal,” Colin said, “you’ve gone and stumbled on what the BBC calls racial tension here. We don’t like the Pakis. We don’t like them taking our jobs, our flats, our shops, and our parks. We don’t like them crowding up our city with endless brats and their ugly wives. We don’t like their dingy color, their smelly food, their greasy hair, their bad breath, or their ugly, stupid faces. The only thing they’re good for is providing poor blokes like us with a bit of a hobby. Our version of bird shooting-Paki bashing.”
“Yes, Neal,” Ali said in a voice that let him know he was in for it, “but one of the great features of Paki bashing is that the white fellows need to be twice our number.”
He pulled a very nasty-looking leather sap from his jeans pocket.
Neal Carey hated fighting. He hated fighting for several reasons. One, he thought it was stupid. Two, it was scary and people got hurt. Three, he was bad at it and was usually one of the people who got hurt.
“Another time, then,” said Neal, and he began to move around Ali. This might have worked, except that Colin had a question to ask.
“Tell me, is it your father, or mother, or both that take it up the arse in the loo at King’s Cross?”
The sap flicked out and would have done considerable damage to Colin’s brains, except he wasn’t there. He had ducked beneath it and opened a deep cut from Ali’s hip to knee with a single swipe of his blade. Ali dropped to his knees and let out a scream, which Colin quickly silenced with the toe of his shoe delivered soccer-style to the mouth.
In the meantime, Crisp reacted somewhat negatively to a vicious kick in the balls by straightening up with the beer bottle in his hand and smashing it on his assailant’s chin. Undaunted, the young Pakistani punched Crisp in the side of the head and broke two knuckles, so he was a bit distracted when Vanessa laced him across the throat with a chain.
Neal was feeling considerable gratitude that his opponent seemed to be bearing no weapon and was prepared to duke it out in honorable, manly fashion. Neal assumed the position: right hand held in by his chest, ready to strike; left hand held high to block opponent’s right. Block and then counterpunch. Except this guy was left-handed and launched a straight one that caught Neal flush on the nose. And hurt. And hurt even more when he did it again.
Neal wanted to fall down, which had always worked in the gym, but he figured that hitting the deck here would just invite a boot on the neck or a nice kick in the face, so he stayed on his feet and waited for the kid to push his luck with a third shot, which he did. Blessing his attacker’s lack of imagination, Neal stepped to his own left and dodged the punch and drove a hard left hook into the kid’s stomach. Son of a bitch if it didn’t work. The kid doubled over and Neal took advantage of this to fall on top of him, knock him over, and lie on him.
Colin was beating the uncouth piss out of the last Pakistani when Vanessa spotted the police car turning the corner.
“Peelers!” she yelled.
Colin broke off his engagement and grabbed Neal by the back of the collar.
“Run like a bastard!”
Neal wasn’t sure exactly how a bastard ran, but he assumed Colin was following his own advice, so he followed him. They ran several blocks before ducking into the proverbial alley, where he leaned against the wall, gasped for air, threw up, and started bleeding again.
Colin’s flat was a surprise.
It shouldn’t have been, Neal thought. Dope dealers and pimps always make money, even young corners like Colin. The flat was by no means luxurious, but it was in a not-so-bad part of shabby Earl’s Court. It was a second-floor walk-up, but spacious and surprisingly well kept. The sitting room was large and French windows led to a small balcony. The kitchen was not small, but certainly under-used. A coffeepot and a tea kettle sat on a stove, along with jars of Nescafe and sugar.
Colin’s bedroom was large and dark. A blackout shade hung even at night. Neal expected the water bed and the Che Guevara poster. He expected the five locks that secured the main door. He didn’t expect the expensive television in the sitting room, nor the pricey stereo equipment, nor, especially, the brick-and-board bookcases lined with paperback volumes of poetry: Coleridge, Blake, and Byron, Colin was doing all right for himself.
Colin disappeared into the bedroom and came out with a bowl of hash. “Here. This will help cool you out.”
He went into the kitchen and came out with ice wrapped in a paper towel. He handed it to Neal.
Neal placed the cold cloth on his face. It felt great. His nose had started to throb. He felt around it again and decided it really wasn’t broken.
He loved undercover work.
Colin lit the pipe, took a long drag, and handed it to Neal. Neal shook his head. More than enough is more than enough. “It’s mild, Neal. Bopper dope.”
Neal accepted the pipe and drew the hash into his lungs. He held it for a long moment, then exhaled. It beat the shit out of Oval tine.
Carnal sounds came from the small bedroom. “Violence turns Vanessa on,” Colin explained. “Is it worth it?” “For Crisp, it is.” “What’s his real name?”
Colin shrugged and took another drag. He offered the pipe to Neal. Neal declined. More than enough is enough. “I’m going to get some kip. I’ll get you a blanket.” Daddy Colin.
Neal had just dropped off when Allie came in. He heard her long sigh, and heard her put the kettle on the boil. She stood impatiently until it whistled. He listened as she stirred in milk and sugar and then tiptoed to the bedroom door. He heard it open and shut again, and was surprised to hear her tiptoe back into the sitting room. She finished her tea while looking out the window. Then he heard her shuck off her shoes and her jeans and felt her lie down beside him.