‘You going to be good?’ I hissed.
He nodded and looked at me through eyes dulled with agony and I eased the pressure, pulled him to his feet and propelled him across to an unmade bed. I threw him on top, rescued the Slugger and stood over him slapping it into my palm.
‘Are you Derek?’ I asked.
‘What of it?’
‘Jimmy Himes,’ I said,
‘What about him?’ I could tell it hurt him to speak.
‘You know him?’
A nod.
‘He scores off you?’
Another nod.
‘Seen him lately?’
A shake of the head.
‘How long ago?’
‘Last week.’
‘Where’s he stay?’
Silence.
I slapped my palm again with the bat. Harder.
‘Upstairs,’ said Derek. ‘With Wayne and Duane.’
‘Who?’
He repeated the names.
‘Where exactly?’
‘Top floor.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, put the bat carefully on the mantelpiece above the dead gas fire and left the room.
I went further upstairs. All the way, until I came to yet another door and I wondered what I’d find behind this one. I rapped on it with my knuckles and heard movement, and it was opened by a huge young guy dressed in a white singlet and blue and white checked trousers like the ones chefs wear. Around his head covered with long dark hair was tied a white bandanna. He had a lot of upper body development, and his skin gleamed with oil.
‘Wayne?’ I said ‘Duane?’
‘Duane. And who might you be?’ His voice was surprisingly high for one of his stature.
I got the picture.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘My name’s Nick Sharman. I’m looking for Jimmy Himes.’
‘Who isn’t? Come right on in. Be my guest.’
He pulled the door right back and I went inside. There was a short hall interrupted by three doors, and he pointed me to the one at the end. Inside was another massive young bloke dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. ‘Well hello,’ he said in a deep, masculine voice. ‘Who have we here?’
‘Someone looking for Jimmy,’ trilled Duane. ‘This is Wayne by the way. Wayne, this is Nick.’
‘Welcome to our abode,’ said Wayne. ‘Be it ever so humble.’
I looked round. It was a living room cum gymnasium. One side was furnished with rugs on the floor, curtains at the window, two matching armchairs and a daybed covered with cushions to make a sofa. One wall was lined with shelves holding a TV, video, stereo, albums, cassettes and books. The other side was jammed with what looked like a full Nautilus rig and a whole lot of other weight lifting shit. Now I knew where Wayne and Duane’s muscles came from, and I pulled back my shoulders. The walls of the room that weren’t covered with shelves were adorned with posters of gay icons: James Dean in Giants Marlon Brando in The Wild Ones; Boy George in full drag; Jimmy Sommerville in nothing much. Par for the course.
‘And you’re looking for young James,’ said Wayne. ‘Or just a little romance?’
‘Nothing like that,’ I replied. ‘His mother and father have hired me to find him. I’m a private detective.’
‘A private dick,’ said Duane, with emphasis on the word ‘dick’, and flexed his biceps at me.
I smiled at him. ‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘What if he doesn’t want to be found?’
‘If I could see him and he tells me that…’ I shrugged and didn’t finish the sentence.
‘We’d like to see him too,’ said Wayne. ‘He owes us some rent.’
‘If you know where he is…’ I said.
‘Probably,’ said Duane. ‘But why should we tell you?’
‘To put his mother and father’s minds at rest that he’s all right. That’s all. I don’t intend him any harm.’
‘Sez you.’ Wayne this time. I was getting tired of the double act.
‘Anyway,’ said Duane ‘We can’t possibly talk now. We’re due at work soon.’
‘What do you do?’ I asked for something to say.
‘We work in a restaurant in Covent Garden. Duane cooks, I serve,’ said Wayne.
Jesus. The fucking salmonella sisters, I thought. Perfect.
‘So if you’d like to leave,’ he went on.
‘No.’ I said. ‘I’d like you to tell me where Jimmy Himes is.’
‘Duane,’ said Wayne, and Duane flexed his biceps at me again, and moved closer.
I was getting nothing but aggro at this house and I was getting sick of it, and what I did next was probably an over reaction, but I did it anyway.
I pulled the Colt out from my jacket pocket and stuck the two inch barrel into Duane’s face. On his forehead. Right where his third eye should be if you believe all that mystic bollocks. I cocked it with a loud click. Loud enough to scare the shit out of Duane anyway. ‘Relax Shirley,’ I said. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ Then to Wayne. ‘And as for you, Dorothy. Lie face down on the sofa there and spread your arms. You must be used to that.’
If they thought I was a homophobic fascist all the better. It wouldn’t be the first time. I used to wear a blue uniform, remember.
I didn’t want to pull the trigger and splatter Duane’s brains all over Marlon Brando, but I hoped he’d think that was exactly what I did want to do, and not get physical and try to be a hero. It worked. He stood stock still whilst Wayne made a high pitched sound at the back of his throat, turned, and fell forward onto the mattress of the daybed.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Now we’ve got that sorted. How about telling me where Jimmy is. Duane?’
Duane squinted along the length of the gun I was holding, and swallowed. When he spoke his voice was even higher pitched than before. ‘He works the meat rack,’ he said.
‘Do what?’
‘The Dilly,’ said Wayne, his voice muffled by the mattress he was lying on. ‘Piccadilly, Coventry Street, Leicester Square. The cafes and arcades. He’s a rent boy. Didn’t you know?’
‘No,’ I said. “
‘It pays for his habit,’ Wayne went on. ‘He works there most evenings. We assumed he’d met a rich punter who took him away for a few days.’
‘So why didn’t you just tell me?’ I said disgustedly. ‘Instead of giving me the old queen act.’
‘We didn’t know who you were,’ piped Duane. ‘You won’t hurt me, will you?’
I shook my head. ‘No Duane. I won’t hurt you.’ and I put up my gun, and let the hammer down gently. ‘I’m off now,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the information. And next time don’t be so aggressive. You never know if it’s a pistol in my pocket or if I’m just glad to see you. Have a nice day, girls,’ and I backed out into the hall, through the door, down the stairs and outside, back to my car.
I didn’t see a soul as I went.
I took the photo of Jimmy and drove up to Piccadilly to try and find him.
I parked the Jaguar in the NCP at the back of Leicester Square and started my search. By two that afternoon I’d shown the photo round most of the cafes and arcades in the area, and I think I’d been told to fuck off in fifteen different languages. I went into Gerrard Street and found a pub full of Chinese and bought a pint of lager. At least in that boozer there were no happy Christmas revellers. I was sitting at a table, smoking my second cigarette when a kid sidled up to me. He was young and looked like he was auditioning for a place in The Jam. He was wearing a skinny two-piece suit of silver tonik mohair, black and white shoes, a pale blue button down shirt and a narrow black leather tie. He had blond hair cut into a pudding basin, and down his left cheek, from his eye to his chin he had a nasty looking thin scar.
‘I hear you’re looking for someone?’ he said.