I said, “You and Wolf had a good night, I hear.”
“Shrinky, you’re right,” Bushy said. “That man jus’ don’t keep still.”
Bushy moved his chair closer to me, whispering; two old men in a pub, talking.
I asked, “What information are you referring to?”
He glanced around and then at me. “Don’t yer know? I bin researching around for you. Listen.”
Bushy told me chucking-out time at the Cross Keys was still 10:30. It opened at midday and was always busy, particularly in the early evening, but it closed before most of the other local pubs. Like other dubious local businesses-minicab offices, porno shops, lap-dancing clubs and corner shops which sold alcohol out of hours-the Harridan paid off the local police but didn’t want unruly behaviour to draw unnecessary attention. At closing time, one of the Africans would drive Wolf up West.
I learned from Bushy that, in Soho, Wolf had been working as a doorman at a fashionable club, Satori. As a natural hustler, in ten days he’d soon discovered that such work was lucrative, mainly because of the tips the door staff earned from the clamorous photographers who moved from club to club around the West End all night, earning top sums for the right picture. The photographers needed to know who was in the club-which footballer, soap star, pop singer or movie actor, the price of whose fame was a transparent life-and whether they were coked-up, drunk, copulating or all three.
This information was passed rapidly through the club’s ecosystem, beginning with the bathroom attendants-the Africans whose night’s work it was to clean the toilets, offer towels to the celebs, clean up their shit and pick up meagre tips. They appeared to be almost invisible but were quite aware of who was smoking or snorting what. Aboveground, the bar staff, security and managers were part of this chain of associates: every drink, pass or glance was intensively monitored by numerous unnoticed eyes. Wolf and his pals also had access to the club’s CCTV system, selling the right piece of tape to the right Net dealer.
I said, “What I’ve heard doesn’t surprise me, Bushy. I think it’s good for our friend over there to keep busy and make a living.”
“But do you know this? He pimping after something bigger. He cunnin’ to the core. There’s some rich Indian bird up West. After work he goes into her. She got a fine house in a quiet Soho street. You personally acquainted with the girl, Jamal?” He was prodding me on the arm. “Are yer?”
“Yes, yes. Ajita.”
“That’s the name, I think. You said it.”
“You know this for sure?”
Bushy tapped his nose. “Everything go round the Cross Keys line. The drivers outside talk, all the girls natter. But it was me who put all them pieces together, like you do with a dream.”
“But, Bushy, I’m getting confused as well as annoyed. You told me Wolf had started on something hot with the Harridan.”
“Look at her! It didn’t last. You can see why. The Harridan guess Wolf goes to someone else. She don’t like it, but she don’t want to lose him. He do the electrics, the plumbing, he can paint and all that. You know, I work for Miriam, not her. We’re family. Harridan weren’t ever my employer. I only did favours for her.”
“What are the rumours about Wolf and this girl?”
“He’s risking it.”
“In what way?”
“If he want to get his name on the contract to the pub and all that, and be on the same level with Jenny Harridan, he shouldn’t annoy her by going with other women.”
So Wolf had wanted to take over the Cross Keys; indeed, he had started work on the upstairs rooms, which the Harridan was keen to rent out for private functions. But the rumour was, and it seemed inevitable, that the Cross Keys would be sold and converted into a pub selling basil risotto and Spanish bottled beers with diced limes jammed in the top. It was the end for ordinary street-corner pubs, and certainly for rough and cheap places. The Cross Keys didn’t seem the kind of hostelry that could survive. London was being decorated; perhaps the city would be rebranded “Tesco’s.”
I said, “Wolf’s more than a little crazy. If the Harridan refuses to let him run the place with her, or if she chucks him out altogether, he might go nuts. He’s on the edge as it is.”
Bushy said, “Doctor, don’t get me wrong, but have you thought you might be the crazy one? Paranoias an’ all that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wolf’s getting laid at least. Sorry to tell you, but they’re at it a lot, he’s told the girls. He’s going to be chilled.”
“Is he? Nothing helpful follows from that. It might be even worse. Crazies are always being let out of institutions because they’re chilled. A week later they’re sitting down to a plate of toasted balls.”
“You’re the doc,” he said casually, making me wonder whether I was.
“About Ajita, I should have guessed,” I said. “Perhaps I did, unconsciously. Now I can only worry about what he will tell her.”
“About yer dirty crime?”
“My dirty crime, yes.”
“Is it going round and round yer head?”
“At times.”
“I hate that,” he said.
I noticed Bushy was looking in a mirror at his nose and stroking it. I thanked him for the information and went round to the side of the bar where the girls worked.
I ordered a drink from Wolf and said, “Wolf, please. I need that picture back. You stole it from me, an old friend. How could you do that to me? What sort of man are you?”
“Don’t raise your voice. I’m not a thief,” he said. He leaned across the bar. “It was borrowed in lieu of other payments.”
“You’re doing well,” I said. “I set all this up for you. Isn’t that recompense enough?”
“A job in a bar?” He looked as though he wanted to spit at me. “You smoked my whole life like a cigarette, until it was ash.”
I was almost out the door of the pub when I turned, nipped through a door marked “Private” and ran upstairs to Wolf’s room. His corner was characteristically neat: his jackets and trousers were on hangers, his shirts organised by colour, his shaving gear on a shelf above the sink. The rest of the room was such a mess of broken furniture, ripped curtains and cardboard boxes I wouldn’t have known where to start searching for the Hand.
“Can you help me?”
One of the girls was behind me, half-dressed in pink high heels with a flimsy dressing gown over her shoulders, backlit and looking like a woman in a movie by Fassbinder, one of my favourite directors.
She said, “You the psychiatrist and me you don’t recognise.”
“Hello, Miss Lucy, how you doing?” She shrugged. I asked, “Any chance of a quickie?”
“Quick? You think I that sort?” she said, approaching me. At least she grinned before she pretended to slap me. “What you wanting up here?”
I said, “I think Wolf might have something of mine.”
As she appeared not to grasp a word I said, I kissed her and held her hand. We were looking at one another curiously.
Wolf came in suddenly, looking annoyed and agitated, as though convinced he’d caught me at last, as he knew he would, and now would have to deal with me.
I said, “Just looking for a G-string to floss with.”
“Hi, Lucy.” He winked at me and said, “Up to your old tricks?” and went out.
“He was bad temper today,” she said.
I was laughing when I gave her my mobile number. I thought of Valentin and his charm and facility with women he didn’t know: it was a rare man who wasn’t afraid of women. How odd it was that I still identified with that part of him, after so many years.
I followed her downstairs and watched her for one dance. At the end, I went over, kissed her and said, “I can’t wait to see you with your clothes on.”
CHAPTER FORTY
I rang Ajita that night, but there was no reply. I decided to leave it a few days to see whether she called me. She didn’t. The following week I rang and again asked if she had time to meet. She sounded sleepy but at least said she’d been thinking about me “a lot.” We arranged lunch twice, but she cancelled each time, saying she had a cold.