‘You want somefin’?’
‘Naw, like I said, I’ll go clean.’
‘I meant protection... like a baseball bat. Poems won’t cut it where we’re going.’
‘No... what’s in the sports bag?’
He gave an evil smile, answered,
‘Incentives.’
The building had eighteen stories. An intercom system on the front door. But that had been busted to hell. We pushed through and went to the elevator.
Norton said, ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’
‘What?’
‘The lift... that it works.’
It did.
Covered in graffiti, it smelt of urine and despair. A smell I was familiar with. You don’t ever become accustomed.
On the eighteenth, we got out, and Norton said,
‘Think of it as golf.’
‘Golf?’
‘Yeah, eighteen holes.’
We approached a flat and Norton banged on the door. He took out a small red book. The door opened and a child peered out. Norton said,
‘Get your mother.’
The mother was Indian and nervous. Norton said,
‘Dues time.’
She went back inside and found a bundle of notes, handed them over. Norton checked his book, counted the notes, said,
‘You’re a little short.’
‘It’s been a terrible week.’
He shushed her, said,
‘Hey, I could give a rat’s-ass but tell you what, you can double up next week.’
She agreed far too readily. The three of us knew she’d never have it.
We went down to the seventeenth and I asked,
‘So how’s it work? I mean it seems to me they just get deeper in the hole.’
Norton gave a big smile: all speed and no humor, said,
‘See, you’re a natural — already you’ve got the gist. Time comes, they hand over the lease.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, don’t you worry none. We have removal specialists.’
‘So lemme guess. You re-rent.’
‘Bingo. To yuppies who want a view of the cricket ground. We have six units here already.’
The next three floors, it was the same sad story. Pathetic women of all nationalities promising their lives away. On the twelfth, Norton said,
‘I’ve had nothing but grief from these Spanish gits.’
When the door opened, he barged inside. A woman was screaming,
‘Nada, nada, nada!’
Norton looked round, asked,
‘Where is he, where’s your husband?’
The bedroom door burst open and a man in nothing but bright blue boxer shorts came running. Brushed by me into the corridor.
Norton was after him like a greyhound, manic smile all over his face.
He was getting off.
He caught the guy at the stairs and jerked the boxer shorts off. With his open hand, he slapped him half a dozen times on the arse.
Then ran him back into the flat. The man was crying, said,
‘Take the television.’
Norton rooted in his sports bag, took out a claw hammer.
Walked over to the TV and smashed the screen to smithereens.
He said,
‘Get me the rent agreement.’
They did.
Next floor, he said,
‘Time out for a break.’
Sweat was pouring off him. He was hyped to heaven, said,
‘Don’t wait to be asked, Mitch, you can jump in at any stage, help me out.’
He popped a can of Bull and a tab of speed, asked,
‘Do you wanna get laid?’
‘Now?’
‘Sure, some of them, they’ll do you in lieu of the payment.’
‘I don’t think so. Doesn’t anyone call the cops?’
‘Get real, you think the cops would come to here?’
I rolled a ciggy, lit up, asked,
‘The kids... doesn’t it bother you?’
‘So they get to learn early. Toughen ’em up.’
He looked with disdain at my roll-up, said,
‘You don’t have to smoke that shit, you’re in a different league now.’
I shrugged, said,
‘I like ’em.’
He took out a pack of Dunhill, luxury blend, got one going, said,
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
He looked round, as if we’d be overheard. The noise in the building was ferocious.
Doors banging
People shouting
Kids wailing and
Rap music underwrit.
‘Prison, what was it like?’
I could have said, ‘Just like this.’
But I was thinking of Tom Kakonis, an American crime writer who understood jail perfectly. He wrote:
Call it jungleland, house of mirrors, kingdom of the sociopaths, country of rage, where betrayal is the norm, payback the canon, and mercy never understood or long forgotten. Or, call it a pipe laid across the small of your back, a broom handle up your ass, a shank in your ribs. It means you were utterly alone... No one to protect you.
I didn’t tell Norton this, instead I said,
‘Mostly, it was boring.’
‘Yeah.’
‘No big deal.’
He squashed the can when he’d finished drinking, slung it down the stairs. It hit each step. I could hear it rattling down like a scream on B Wing, that lasts until the dawn.
On the ninth floor, we hit turbulence. Norton was doing his number on a black woman when her man came striding out. He swung his fist and caught Norton on the side of the head.
Then he came for me. He was big, strong, but that’s all he had.
He wasn’t dirty.
I was.
I sidestepped his swing and drop-kicked him in the balls. As he went down, I elbowed him to the back of the head.
Got Norton to his feet, and he wanted to kick the black man till he bled. I pulled him away, said,
‘Maybe we’ll call it a day.’
He agreed, said,
‘Nearly through anyway — from eight down it’s a bust.’
Took the lift the rest of the way. Norton was massaging his head, said,
‘I was wrong what I said about poems.’
‘Eh?’
‘That they’re useless. The way you took down that guy, it was fucking poetry.’
I headed for the van and Norton said,
‘Come on, there’s a pub round the corner, I’ll buy you a drink.’
At the bar, Norton said,
‘We’re working guys, lets have a couple of boilermakers.’
‘Whatever.’
The barmaid had to be told it was pints with scotch chasers.
It was lunch time and the special was bangers and mash. It smelled good, almost like comfort.
We grabbed a table at the rear and Norton said,
‘Slàinte.’
‘That too.’
On the other side of the scotch we mellowed out. Norton was counting the cash, writing tallies in his red book. He mouthed the figures as he wrote. Next he put a wedge together and snapped a rubber band on it. Pushed it across the table, said,
‘Your end.’
‘Jeez Billy, I didn’t do all that much.’
‘You will Mitch, trust me.’
We were coming round by the Oval when I spotted the blond haired man. He was going into The Cricketers. I asked Norton to pull up. He said,
‘What’s happening?’
‘I’m going to stalk a stalker.’
‘That’s supposed to make sense?’
‘Course not.’
I got out and crossed the road. Then into the pub. The man was at the counter, his back to me. I walked up, gave him a hearty slap on the back, said,
‘Guess who.’
He nearly passed out. I noticed he’d a small lager. I gave him a moment to re-group. He said,
‘I knew it was a mistake to return.’
I took a sip of his drink, said,
‘Pure piss.’