We watched the news coverage for another minute or so, then Rita nodded toward the bedroom door. “That’ll be it then, love,” she said.
She meant it was time for me to step into the kitchen — out of sight so the punter could leave without the embarrassment of seeing another male in the place. I don’t know how the fuck she knew it was time — I hadn’t heard a thing from the other room — but her orgasm-detector was spot on. I went into the kitchen and shut the door, leaving it open a tiny crack so I could see who was coming out without him seeing me. I always liked to get a look at the bloke Vanya had been with immediately before me. Just natural curiosity, I suppose.
Half a minute later Vanya appeared from the bedroom and left the flat for the communal toilet on the landing.
Then out he came.
I knew I knew him as soon as he came into view. Someone famous, but I couldn’t think who. A newsreader maybe? No, not that well-known. An MP? Not sure, but someone...
He picked up the overcoat he’d left on the settee, then pulled out a tenner and handed it to Rita.
Rita smiled and took the tip. “Safe journey now, it’s bitter out.”
“My overcoat will guard me against the cold, my dear,” he said. “And I shall savor your delicious non sequitur the length of my secure passage home.”
The name hit me.
I waited till I heard his footsteps disappear down the staircase before coming back into the room.
“Do you know who that was?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Nicholas Monroe. The lawyer. He’s...”
Vanya teetered back in from the toilet.
“He’s famous. Well, for a lawyer anyway...”
“Fahmous? Fahmous who? Frederick?” Vanya asked, taking the £60 I had ready for her.
I followed her into the bedroom.
“No, yes — no — his name’s Nicholas Monroe. He’s always on the news. He got that gang off who killed that black kid in East Ham a couple of years ago. And that gangster from where you’re from...”
“From Croatia?”
“Somewhere like that, I don’t know. Albania maybe, it doesn’t matter,” I said, shutting the bedroom door. “The point is, he’s fucking well-known, got shitloads of money.”
“He’s not from Croatia, silly, he’s English,” she said. “Very fine English man. Now what shall we do? Talking or fucking?”
“I mean, what the fuck’s he doing here?” I said, ignoring the question.
Vanya plopped herself down on the bed and started inspecting her fingernails.
“If he wants a shag he could go to some discreet high-class place in Kensington or somewhere. What’s he doing coming here?”
Her eyes narrowed. “He like me,” she said. “He like the way I speak and how I—”
“What, has he been here before? He’s a regular?”
“Yes, of course.” She said it as if it was obvious, as if I was the stupid one. “He come to here every week nearly. I speak to him in Croatian and put my finger up his ass and he...”
Fuck me. “You put your finger up his arse?”
“Yes, of course, this is normal, what’s wrong with this?”
“Fucking hell, Vanya — it’s not what’s wrong with it, it’s what’s right with it. He’s rich. He can’t afford this to get out. He’ll pay us not to tell anyone.”
Vanya had a habit of being a bit “kooky,” like she wasn’t quite all there. Like everything was a game, everything was happening in some surreal Eastern European kiddie film. But now she became more serious, more real. I felt a rise of something in my belly.
“Pay us? How much pay us?” she said.
“Dunno. Ten grand. Maybe more.” Fifty, at least. “It’s nothing to him. He can earn that in a week probably...”
“In a week? Nemoj me jebat!”
“Exactly.” I spoke calmly now, took the tempo down a notch. “We just have to do it properly. Plan it right...”
I didn’t know a lot about Vanya, but I knew she wasn’t a whore by choice, that she hadn’t known this was what she’d be doing when she was brought to England. And I knew that, like Anna and Katarina in the flats upstairs, she wasn’t seeing much of the five grand or so a week she was earning for the management. She listened carefully as I went through the plan, nodding slowly as I showed her how to work the camcorder, where the record button was, and how to tell if it was on or not. Then I marked the exact spot on the wardrobe where she should put it next time Monroe visited. She would phone me as soon as he’d gone and I would come and collect the camcorder and tape and put Phase 2 into operation.
Ten minutes later I left. We hadn’t even fucked but it didn’t matter. This was better, I thought. Much better. As I left the place I became aware of the warmth again. Only now it was spreading, up through my chest and arms and down into my groin. This was proper, I could feel it happening now. The real thing. The way forward. The night’s earlier performance was a mere prelude. A toccata to the fugue I was composing. I went home but couldn’t sleep. Six spliffs and a bottle of wine later, I could...
I spent the next few days in my flat in Kentish Town planning Phase 2 and thinking about what to do with the cash. And afterwards too, the next job. Maybe some type of con. It had to be something elegant, stylish. After a few years I’d retire and write my memoir, get it published anonymously. Reveal myself to a select few, my own little magic circle.
The call finally came on Monday night, about 11. I left the flat and hailed a cab for Market Mews. Rita let me in and Vanya was there on the settee eating a Pot Noodle.
“Did you get it? Did it come out okay?” I said.
“Yes, of course.”
“Where is it?”
Vanya put the plastic pot down on the carpet and pulled the camcorder out from under the sofa.
“Brilliant.” I took it off her. “I’ll give you a call. Gotta go. See you.”
I left her to her MSG-flavored processed soya and caught a cab on Piccadilly.
“Kentish Town, please, mate.”
The cabbie nodded and I got in and hit the PLAY button. It was all there. Good girl. Perfect. Got the cunt.
Back at the flat I fired up my Mac and started working on the blackmail letter. The title — Blackmail Demands — in twelve-point size, centered on the page. I used italics in the first draft but decided it was a bit too soft so opted for plain text. Then the font. That proved more difficult. Gothic Bold seemed like a good choice but it looked too melodramatic. I liked the sound of Chicago, a bit gangsterish, but it came across too friendly on the page. Then Typewriter. Quite sinister-looking, but more of a ransom-note font, I thought. In the end I went for Times New Roman. Simple. Serious. Businesslike.
Then the text itself. I spent a good few hours on this and was pretty satisfied with the results:
I have in my possession a videotape of you, Mr. Nicholas Monroe, QC, engaging in an act of depravity with a prostitute. The tape is three minutes and twenty-six seconds in length and you are clearly identifiable in it. I am prepared to sell this tape to you for a price of no less than £50,000 in cash. Otherwise I will take it to the newspapers. The fee is non-negotiable and there is only one copy of the tape. You will have to trust me on that last point. Bring the cash, alone, to the Printers Devil public house in Fetter Lane, 6 p.m. on Wednesday the 12th of January, and in return you will receive the tape, which will be in the video camera so you can see what you are getting. Looking forward to doing business with you, Jon X
After a couple of spellchecks I printed it out on a clean piece of white A4. It looked good but the vertical position of the text wasn’t quite right so I moved it down slightly, then printed it out again. That was it. I folded it into thirds and sealed the letter in an envelope. Strictly Private and Confidential. Nicholas Monroe, QC, it said. I used my left hand to write it, just in case, then deleted the document from my Mac.