“This isn’t Vaudeville, for fucksake. Not even the Irish do it with any conviction any more. Do us a bleedin’ favour.”
Another theory was for me to have an obvious tattoo he’d remember.
“Tattoo yourself, Dex... OK...”
I did go along with leaving some envelopes in among the pages of the magazines. These were pinched at random from North London houses.
As we’d argued back and forth over these various diversions, Dex had thrown his hands in the air and shouted, “None of this would be necessary if we just put the bastard’s lights out.”
And Lisa had given me that look that said, “See!”
My street was quiet and we bundled him into the house. The four of us linked in drunken bonhomie apparently. The animal tranquilliser and Dex’s boot had done their work. Baldwin was out cold.
I laid him on the cot and fixed the chain to his ankle. Then I stood looking down. A quiet “sploosh” put my heart pounding. Dex had helped himself to a can of purdey. I said, “The fuck you doing, they’re for Baldwin.”
“He’s going to notice one’s missing. Take it outa my share... Slainte... that’s Irish for Cheers. Tell you wot though, the fuck doesn’t look much lying there. Not so high and mighty now.”
Sweat was cascading down me. God I needed a drink. Lisa turned to me. “Go get yourself a drink baby, I’ll stay here.”
I looked at Dex, said, “You come with me.”
He snapped his heels together, threw a Hitler salute, shouted, “Yaboob Herr Kommandanten.”
In the kitchen I cracked open a bottle of Scotch and drank it by the neck. It burned like desolation and I wanted that.
Dex moved in close. “Tell you big guy, we should have gone for them with a tattoo. Truman Capote knew a lot of the heavy killers on Death Row. Their common characteristic was a tattoo.”
I didn’t answer. Trying to keep the Scotch down. It settles poorly on bile. He continued, “How much notice can you take of a faggot eh?”
“Baldwin’s a homosexual?”
“Jeez, pay attention. Truman Capote. When he was in Russia he flounced out of a hotel in high camp. Swishing it up in front of the comrades. An American official tried to apologise to the Russkies. And the Russkie smiled, said ‘Oh we’ve got them here but we keep them chained.’”
“You like that Dex, don’t you. How long have you had to hold it until the suitable moment arose?”
What I really wanted to ask but I heard horrible echoes of that punk in Stockwell, was, “Truman who...”
I had half the Scotch gone and couldn’t feel it. What I could feel was the sensation of locking the chain on Baldwin. He had a small skinny ankle and I doubt I ever saw anything as vulnerable. One more image to add to the shit heap. I didn’t catch what Dex was saying.
“I didn’t catch that Dex, run it by me again.”
“I asked if I could have a drink too. That purdey is vile shit, must be good for you.”
I handed him the bottle. He took out his hankie. Being Dex, it was more yer red bandanna, from his country personality no doubt. Slowly he made a big production of wiping, holding up to the light and closely inspecting the neck of the bottle, said, “No offence buddy.”
“Keep it yer nasty fuck, just keep putting it in my face.”
“Lighten up, amigo, we’re all under a lotta pressure. Lose it here and you’re in a world of hurt... ‘Predator’... I’m just joshing you, nothing meant.”
I snapped the bottle off him.
“Get yer own fuckin’ drink and get the fuck outa my way.”
He danced nimbly to the side. I headed back to the dungeon. Baldwin was naked on the cot, like a wizened golliwog. I stormed to Lisa, “What on earth are you doing... are you planning to mount him or something?”
“Baby... baby, cool it... I had to get his underpants.”
“What... what kind of shit are you and Dex taking... and can I plu-eez have some soon?”
“Sh-ss-ish darlin’, it’s to send to his wife... unless you want me to sent an actual part of him... do you... do you want to slice him... is that it? Like to carve some dark meat?”
“Course I don’t want it... hey back off alright. Gimme some fuckin’ room. I just want to know what’s happening BEFOREHAND. Enough with the surprises, alright?”
“Whatever you say, baby... yo’ the man.”
“Hey, could you stop with that baby shit. I can’t tell you how fuckin’ irritating it is.”
She didn’t like it and I could give a flying fuck. I was on the verge of walloping the be-japers out of her... and Dex.
She held up the underpants. I could see the brand. Calvin Klein. Another guy who’d had a kick in the head.
She said, “We’ve a call to make.”
Upstairs, Dex was stretched on the sofa. He’d changed his outfit. Unbelievably for him he was wearing a garishcoloured kimono but worse, he’d brought the cowboy boots. Very elaborate black jobs with the high stitching, I could see his bare legs, white and absolutely hairless. Like sick alabaster, like a corpse. I felt a chill. The boots were plonked on the arm of the sofa. Apparently engrossed in a copy of Ebony, he didn’t look up. I slapped them off.
“Get ’em off the furniture.”
“Testy,” he sighed.
Lisa produced a large padded envelope and put the underpants inside. Dex gave a huge chuckle, said, “You’re going to have to stop writing to Tom Jones.”
She ignored him, wrote an address. Then she moved to the phone.
“You know what you’re going to say?” I asked.
Dumb right but I was puke nervous.
“No Nick, I’m going to chat about the weather.”
Like I said, dumb.
She sighed for quiet. Dex mimicked pulling a zip across his mouth. He looked like an evil child.
Lisa was talking.
“Mrs Baldwin... Mrs Ronald Baldwin, so sorry to trouble you at this latish hour but glad I caught you home... We took your hubby tonight... no this is not a poor idea of a joke... yes, I am aware of the time. Time for you to listen up... kidnapped... yes... ugly work but fitting... you hang up and his balls are in the next post... put you right off your grapefruit segments... That’s better... Don’t swear at me you white bitch... you get him back for one and a half million. I perfectly serious... so sell the family jewellery... I could give a fuck, sell yisself... Be home at eight tomorrow evening... you’ll have proof... as they say ‘The cheque’s in the mail’... a little Calvin Klein reminder... no, he’s not hurt, not yet. Y’all have a good night now... Bye now, tootle pip.”
I’d never seen Lisa sweat, not even in the wildest lovemaking... she was sweating now, and speeding. She gasped, “Christ, wot a rush. Better than sex. What’s with the look Nicky... you could hear? She sassed me, tried to be uppity.”
“Nice going Lisa... especially the bit where you called her a white bitch. How hard it’s gonna be to figure your tint.”
“So wot... as long as she pays.”
“It’s careless is what it is.”
Dex watched back and forth, like Wimbledon. Hard to say who was winning. Lisa shrugged and went upstairs. He raised an eyebrow. I wanted to go to pieces as fatigue washed over me. Dex said, “Night John-boy.”
I had some brilliant wipe-out remark in preparation but sleep got me first.
“One too many mornings, and a thousand miles behind...”
Which is about where I felt when I woke. First thing I noticed were Dex’s boots. Standing alone and evenly lined up, like a tiny forlorn salute.
I thought he was watching me as his eyes were open. But it wasn’t me. A look of nothingness... not blankness, just nothing. A face that had never retained the mark of a single experience or emotion. The eyes frozen.