True, the actual pickpocketing was pretty much the same as I’d done in my act a hundred times before. Same technically, anyway. And I’d picked pockets for real before, illegally that is, a couple of times. But it hadn’t given me quite the buzz I’d expected it to. No sense of occasion. This was different though. The river bit might have been shit but there were still two million happy, stoned, drunk singing people all squashed up together. All mesmerized by a few colorful lights in the sky. And everyone happily embracing their fellow man, getting up close and hugging, like they didn’t actually hate each other, like they weren’t all cunts for one second. I’ll give you “Auld Lang Fucking Syne,” you twats. “Should auld acquaintance be forgot...” Forgot to keep an eye on that, mate, thanks very much. “And never brought to...” Mind if I take that off you, sir? “Should auld acquaintance be for...” Gotcha! “For the sake of auld lang...” Signing off now, gotta go!
All in front of about a zillion boys in blue. It was a good night. A new beginning. The way forward.
After the show I figured I’d go for a celebratory fuck. Vanya would still be working. I’d been going to her for about six months — since she’d come over from Croatia. She was very good value for money — extremely pretty face and a good body, but still reasonable rates. If she were English she’d probably have charged twice as much. Maybe three times. But then I guess that’s one of the benefits of immigration. Cheap, efficient labor
I started slowly working my way through the throng. Up the Strand, past Trafalgar, and on toward Piccadilly and Shepherd Market. Made up a little song on the way, to the old Robin Hood theme tune: He steals from the thick/And gives to the whore/Robbing’s good!/Robbing’s good!/Robbing’s good! Sometimes, Jonathan Marcus Tiller, I thought, you really are the wittiest fucker in the world. In the fucking world.
I was just taking in Piccadilly Circus — the glitz of Burger King, the glamour of Dunkin’ Donuts — when I was approached by an American tourist: “Hey there. Could you direct me to Piccadilly Circus?” He said the last two words uncertainly, as if no such place with that name could possibly exist.
I didn’t reply, just announced the thing with outstretched arms, then turned to him with an expression I’d hoped conveyed: What the fuck do you think that is, cunt? Now fuck off.
It didn’t work.
“Only, I’m kinda here to make this movie and I was told Piccadilly Circus was where to look.”
I glanced up and down his face as he spoke.
“Look for what?” I said, mildly intrigued.
“To meet actors. Only, I’m filming the thing in my hotel tonight and I thought you might like to...”
Suck your cock? “Don’t think so, mate. But yeah, this is the right area — just a decade or so too late...”
I left the Yank fruit to it and carried on up Piccadilly. Walked along the north side. It’s lined with imposing gray-stoned edifices, like gigantic doormen keeping an eye on things, keeping the undesirables out. Raising a suspicious eyebrow at anyone who dares venture near the promised land of Mayfair. Perhaps sir would be more comfortable taking a different thoroughfare? A street more suited to sir’s... position, shall we say?
Not tonight though. Tonight I wasn’t being hassled by them. It was as if I’d passed some kind of test. Like I was okay now. They hadn’t exactly handed me the keys, but at least they were going to turn a blind eye while I picked the locks for a while. It was definitely a new beginning.
I took a right down White Horse Street and into Shepherd Market, a twisty-turny little red-lit corner where all Mayfair’s dirt had been swept to, out of sight. Like a mini Soho but better-spoken and wearing a blazer. By day, the place wasn’t really that special — a bit too twee for my taste. But come night — proper night, that is, once the after-work lager’s been drunk and the late-night diners have fucked off — that’s when it happens. When it reveals its true identity. The perfect place for a discerning maverick street thief artist.
I stopped to hitch my rucksack up, then turned left, then right into Market Mews. Stopped at the open door marked Model 1st Floor and made my way up the stairs. Up the wooden hill to Shagfordshire. Another good one, Jonny boy. On the way up I waved at the CCTV camera on the wall and pressed the plastic doorbell helpfully labeled Press. Rita opened up. A short round woman with enormous sagging tits, bald but for a few patches of yellowy-gray hair. She was sporting worn-out pink slippers and a loose-fitting cream-colored tracksuit topped with an off-pink toweling dressing gown. Rita is Vanya’s maid, the woman who welcomes the punters.
“Hello, Jonny love, she’s with a gentleman at the moment, be about ten minutes, that all right?”
“Fine,” I said, unhitching the rucksack and plopping myself on the foam two-seater sofa in the living room. The only other rooms in the flat are a tiny kitchen with a kettle and microwave and a small bedroom.
The TV was on so Rita and I sat watching the ITN news report of the millennium celebrations. I broke a Marlboro open to pad out a joint while Rita puffed on her B&H.
“Looks bitter out,” she said, nodding at the TV images of the crowds along the Thames. She got up to turn the thermostat to one hundred.
“Yes,” I said, twisting the end of my newly constructed joint before lighting it up.
“Aren’t you playing a show tonight, love? Thought you’d be busy tonight of all nights.”
“Nah. I could’ve had a gig but I wanted to check out the River of Fire,” I said, watching the end of my joint glow as I toked on it.
I’d often chat with Rita while Vanya was otherwise engaged. She thought I was a bit glamorous cos I was a magician.
“Been busy?” she asked.
I told her about the last gig I’d done — a Christmas party for an accounting firm in the city. I’d been booked with an illusionist called Damon Smart to entertain the staff before dinner. I’d worked with Smart before. His real name was Dave Smith. He was a cheesy cunt, but skillful.
We would approach a group of five or six of the accountants as they enjoyed some preprandial quaffing and introduce ourselves as so-and-so and so-and-so who’d just joined the firm. After a while Smart would start behaving oddly, grimacing and rubbing his stomach, complaining of indigestion. Then he’d do some pretend-wretching and — this is the particularly cuntish bit — start pulling a thread of razor blades from his mouth. Yes, it was that shit. Shitter, in fact, cos once his shtick was over I would then produce a selection of items I’d lifted from them while they were busy watching Smart hamming it up. “And I believe this watch is yours, sir...” I fucking hated it. I fucking, fucking, fucking hated the fucking fuck out of it.
Not that I let Rita know this though. She was happy to think of me as some kind of Paul fucking Daniels, so I figured, why upset her? Nothing to be gained.
“So, yeah, it was a good night,” I lied, and took another draw on my spliff.
“You’ll be on the telly next,” she said, nodding toward the box.