The Bullet Trick

'Hey, multiethnic Britain, no reason why you couldn’t be related.'

'Only through drink.'

Jacque slapped Shaz’s hand lightly and set to repairing her hair. I gave the room a last glance, taking in the scattered clothes and makeup, the rumpled bed with its tired candlewick and said, 'If you ladies want to make a quick escape I’d recommend you pack up your gear and leave it at the door.'

Shaz had started painting her nails the same flame red as her lipstick. She looked up at me.

'Don’t worry. You may be the magician, but there’s not much you could teach us about vanishing acts.'

I could tell from the rumble of male voices that reached me as I went down the stairs that the lounge had grown busier. I searched out the door girl; it turned out her name was Candy, though I doubt she’d been christened that. The girls had been right. She was eager to help me in a surly kind of way. I explained what I wanted her to do, then went back through to the lounge. Bill wasn’t the only one required to mingle with the invited guests.

The disco lights glowed hazily through the sheets of cigarette smoke that shelved the air. The room smelt of alcohol, testosterone and sweat. There were about twenty of them.

They’d ignored the booths that lined the walls, choosing to congregate in the centre of the room, knotting together like a fragile alliance that da break ranks for fear of treachery.

I sloped over to the bar, ordered a double malt and looked for Bill. I soon spotted him talking to a small man seated at a centre table. Bill was angled away from me, but he had the peripheral vision of a sniper. He turned and met my look, holding up three fingers, indicating he’d be with me soon. I nodded and raised my glass to my lips, letting the whisky do its slow burn down my throat, surveying the crowd.

A casual observer would have got an impression of cohesion, a solidarity of spirit. But as I slid amongst them the divisions started to come into view like the fractures in a jigsaw.

They showed in the tilt of the men’s bodies, a half-turned back, the block of a shoulder.

Their clannishness crossed age boundaries, but it showed in the style of their dress, the cut of their hair.

Near the centre of the room was a tight knot of dark business suits, the type you see crushed into the tube early in the morning reading copies of the Telegraph, though commuters generally had fewer buzz cuts and broken noses. Grouped around them were louder tables where the camaraderie seemed stronger. These guys were quickest to their feet with the fresh rounds. Their colour was higher, cheeks shinier. These were the ones to watch, men out of their depth who wore their smart casuals with the self-consciousness of people used to wearing a uniform. I spotted a glass or two making their way from them to the suits. The exchange seemed one way, but perhaps I’d just missed the reciprocating rounds. Furthest from the centre tables were the men I labelled serpico wannabees. These guys were dressed with a scruffy trendiness that spelt money. Their laughter had a superior edge. If I had walked into a bar in a strange town and seen this assemblage, I would have gone in search of somewhere else to drink.

The room had gone from silent to the edge of boisterous. I had a special routine for macho crowds. An unfunny string of jokes Richard had encouraged me to buy as an investment from one of his down-on-their-luck comics. I hated them, smutty schoolboy gags that no one finds funny but everyone laughs at, all lads together. I silently rehearsed, then amused myself by deciding which line of crime these men would be best suited to.

The man sipping lager near my left would be perfect old-time bank robber material. No finesse, just a sawn-off shotgun and a stare that said he was mad enough to use it. The sly-faced weasel next to him would surely be a pickpocket. The broad-shouldered grunt behind Bill’s companion would be ideal for strong-arm stuff. I identified conmen and drug dealers, pimps and burglars, then turned my mind to the man Bill was talking to. He was compact for a policeman, surely just within the height regulations. Mid-fifties, dressed in a slate-grey suit, with a blue shirt and a pink tie that matched his eyes. What would he be? It was obvious. The Boss, the mild-mannered gang leader who wore conservative suits, drank VSOP brandy and executed his enemies with a nod of the head.

Bill began making his way towards me, shaking hands, squeezing shoulders, smiling a crocodile smile that was all teeth. He patted me somewhere near my elbow in a gesture an anthropologist would probably describe as dominating, then offered me another drink.

'No thanks, one helps, two hinders.'

'Maybe afterwards then.'

I wanted to escape before the girls started their act, but I smiled and said, 'If you like.

So who’s the birthday boy?'

'Detective Inspector Montgomery, the man I was talking to. Him and my dad went way back, he made himself useful at a difficult time.' Bill smiled dryly. 'I used to call him Uncle Monty, so I’ve got a personal interest in his send-off.'

'Young to be put out to pasture.'

'Law enforcement pays.' Bill smiled knowingly. He drained his drink, putting the empty glass on the bar. 'They’ve had their official party with wives and , testimonials and all that stuff. Tonight’s the real celebration. Just go with it.' I nodded and Bill smiled, satisfied I was cool with whatever was going to happen. 'Right, let’s get the music turned off and give you a big build.'

'Why not?'

Bill nodded to the barman. 'Crowther, switch that racket off.'

Crowther was already busying himself freshening Bill’s glass. He hesitated, unsure of which order to obey first, then did them both at once, laying the drink on the counter with one hand and killing the sounds with the other. Bill ignored him, turning the swizzle stick in his brandy and soda.

'Remember, keep it brief. Forty-minute set max — thirty would be better.'

He took a last slug of his drink and made his way towards the small dais to present me.

There was no calling for attention, no tinkling of teaspoons on glasses. Bill just stood there and the room grew quiet. I glanced at Montgomery. His face wore a small smile. The kind Stalin was reputed to wear after a good week. Bill’s voice cut through the silence.

'Gentlemen, this is a special evening, the retirement of James Montgomery, one of the finest police officers it has been my pleasure to know, and I’m sure yours to work with.'

There were murmurs of agreement and Hear hears from the men at the tables. A couple of those near to Montgomery leaned over and patted him on the back. Montgomery nodded, whatever his attributes modesty wasn’t one of them. I wondered how sincere Bill was, why he was giving the address and not one of the squad.

'I know you had a posh gathering on Wednesday with the Chief Constable, so you’ll have heard your quota of speeches for a while.'

There was laughter at this. Someone shouted, too true.

'So tonight for your delectation and entertainment we have The Divines.' There was a cheer from the audience and the sound of deep nervous laughter from some of the men. Bill held up his hand for silence. 'A pair of very beautiful young…’ he hesitated as if searching for the right word. 'Dancers.' More laughter. 'But before we meet them we have a very special guest. It’s well known that Inspector Montgomery is a worker of wonders. Indeed, he’s got so many illusive convictions he’s been christened the Magician. So, in tribute to Inspector Montgomery’s well-earned retirement I’d like to ask you to put your hands together for William Wilson, mentalist and magician.'

Half-hearted clapping scattered across the room and suddenly I thought that maybe I should start doing kids’ parties. At least some of them might believe in magic. There was a fraction of hesitation, then the barman put on the CD I’d given him and mysterioso music drifted across the room. I walked up onto the stage and stood there silently for a moment with my head bowed, hands folded in front of me, letting the soundtrack do the work, then slowly raised my eyes, keeping my stare level, my mouth serious, wishing I had a lovely assistant to flash her legs and take some of the heat off me. The music died and I cast my gaze across the room, grave as Vincent Price’s Van Helsing revealing the presence of vampires.