“It’s what you’d expect from South-West London. Whole place is a fuckin’ graveyard. How much to bury a dog?”
“About £500. But for your five big ones, you get a small burial service and a headstone. Course you could just cremate for £40.”
She gave a small smile.
“Or better yet, leave it outside a Chinese restaurant.”
We were almost close then. An intimacy tugged above us and I felt such a wave of tenderness. She looked vulnerable when she laughed, as if the world hadn’t yet attacked. The moment was lost as a loud crash came from the basement. She said, “Money can’t be everything if God gave it to Madonna and Julio Iglesias.”
Below, Baldwin had smashed the cot against the wall, but the chain held. As I approached him, he dropped to the ground and began a series of furious push-ups. I watched. He was a fit little bugger. After he ceased, he said, “You’re a bouncer, right?”
Got me.
“Why do you say that?”
“Could be your scintillating conversation. Clubs are my business and you have the stance of a bouncer.”
“Well, Ronnie, my man. Let me tell you something. If you want to keep breathing, keep your observations to yourself. There’s no cookie for clever dicks, just a hole in the ground.”
He gave me a studied look. What he saw, he didn’t relish if his expression was any indicator.
“How very B-feature, dare one say. London Noir. Do you prepare these muscle replies in advance?”
“Ronnie... is this yer normal disposition? The constant arsehole. Christ, who’s going to pay for your return? I mean, how keen could they possibly be for your company? What I’d like to know is how on earth you ever survived till now.”
“Tell me,” he said, “was my drink spiked last night... what?”
“You were bumped, animal tranquilliser.”
“No irony meant, I’m sure... and the bump on my head... an actual animal?”
“My colleague, you don’t want to meet him. Not a man of letters, alas.”
“Where’s my books?”
“Easy with that demanding tone, Ronnie, lest you want twin lumps. Anyway, who the fuck is Rilke?”
“One fears the Duino Elegeies would be somewhat lost on you... however
‘Who, if I cried out, would ever hear me among
the angelic orders and
even if one of them took me suddenly to his heart,
I would lose identity
in his strange being.
For beauty’s only the dawning of terror, we’re
hardly able to bear and
adore
because it serenely disdains to destroy us.
Each angel is terrible.’”
Reciting this at the top of his voice.
I had to roar, “You wanna keep it down Ronnie — they’ll hear you in Brixton.”
“Close... are we?”
“Nice try Sherlock.”
He bowed.
“I think even you’ll agree these opening lines have a certain relevance.”
“Well Ronnie, I think I’ll leave you and Rilke to it.”
“For solitude is really an inner matter,” he boomed.
Turning up the stairs again, I felt something in my back pocket. The mask. I’d never put it on. I didn’t think I’d share this with my chums. Ronnie was unlikely to tell.
As I came into the living room, my heart jumped sideways.
A completely bald man was sitting on the sofa.
“Whatcha think?’ asked Dex. “Radical or wot?”
He ran a hand over his naked dome, smiled.
Radical was one way of terming it. The transformation was extraordinary. He now looked the total psycho... which he was.
“There’s more,” he said.
He buried his head in his hands, there was a loud pssish and he had a full head of hair again. The bald cover he threw at me.
“Try it on Kojak.”
I didn’t catch it and let it fall at my feet. Whatever rubberised material was in it, it jerked and shuddered. For all the world, I thought, like my old dad’s liver. I asked him, “Ever heard of Rilke?”
“One of the Baader Meinhof.”
Lisa’s voice cut off any reply I might have fronted.
“He was the poet of solitude. A constant traveller. He ended as a recluse in a château at Muzot. The Duino Elegies took him twelve years to complete. In his life he won a huge following of female admirers. Sonnets to Orpheus and Elegies are highly regarded.”
She suddenly stopped. Dex said, “Bit of a ladies’ man, was he, liked to roger the old fräuleins eh?”
I asked, “Jeez, how do you know this stuff?”
Dex answered, “ ’Cos her old mum’s a teacher.”
Lisa glanced at me like a stranger, went into the kitchen. The sound of banging cups drew me after her. I said, “And hello to you, darlin’.”
“Fuck off.”
I grabbed her arm.
“Don’t you ever dismiss me like that. I’m not some hired help. You want to throw a moody, I’ll throw you out so fucking fast you won’t touch ground. Am I getting through to you Lisa?”
She jumped at me, ground her hips into mine and her tongue deep in my mouth. Her hand unzipped me and a few seconds later she dropped to her knees.
“What about Dex?” I gasped.
“I ain’t blowing him.”
I told myself I didn’t want to, my body screamed, “Oh yeah.”
A few moments later it was over.
She stood, went to the sink, rinsed her mouth. She said, “You were saying...”
That evening, she was curled on the couch rolling a joint. I said, “Time to make the call.”
“Not making any call.”
“Lisa, you want this thing to go down? Come on, you’ve got to call her.”
“Or wot Nico, you gonna beat on de woman? Oh lawdy, oh puleez mistah, don’t go hitting on de woman.”
God, I was tempted. Highly tempted. So I made the call. Baldwin’s wife answered on the first ring. I said, “You’ve had a day. Are you going to pay?”
“Yes.”
I told her the amount, the arrangements I’d give her tomorrow. To everything she replied simply “Yes”. Nothing else, just a line of yesses. Then she put the phone down.
I roared, “She hung up.”
Lisa said, “What, you were hoping for a date, that it?”
“Don’t mouth me Lisa.”
“I thought I did already. In the kitchen when you were making all those noises... uh... uh... oh... all... as if you were dying or somefink.”
She emphasised the “fink” in a perfect parody of my accent.
I’d about had it with my “team”.
“You’re bored with our little enterprise, Lisa? The excitement palling already? That’s fine with me. I’ll just go down and cut our captive loose — ‘No hard feelings Mr Baldwin, we’ve changed our minds... sorry for the inconvenience.’ — mebbe you could call a cab for him. Say the word, I’ll do it. Try me.”
She stretched, stubbed out the joint on the floor... my floor... gave an exaggerated yawn, said, “Oh, I don’t think Dex would like that.”
“Fuck Dex.”
“I wonder if you’d be able.”
Before I could hammer out a suitably macho reply, she said in a very quiet voice, “Did I ever tell you my angel story. I don’t think anyone’s heard it.”
Baldwin’s line from Rilke “Each angel is terrible” briefly flickered. I thought maybe the dope had kicked in and drawn her headlong on to mellowness. I was glad of anything that took the hard edge off. She continued, “When I was a little girl, the best thing to happen was to be selected as an angel for the school nativity play. Only white girls ever played Mary. Sounds like a title for a Mary Gordon novel, doesn’t it?