Romeo's Tune (1990) Read online

  ‘Algy,’ he called, ‘come back in. I think our visitor is slightly miffed with me.’

  Miffed, I’d give the slimebag miffed, but he was still armed and too far away for me to get to him without him being able to use the weapon again.

  There must have been an intercom system from the range into the corridor although I’d seen no trace of it because the door opened again and Algy stuck his head through the gap and gave a big heehaw of laughter as he saw me lying on the floor with my Crombie covered in dust and my dignity just about as pristine.

  ‘How close, Boss?’ he asked through his laughter.

  ‘Miles away,’ said the gunman. ‘Hardly on the same continent.’

  ‘Don’t look like he thought so,’ said Algy. ‘Do you think he shat himself?’

  They both sniffed the air and the gunman shook his head. ‘Don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘You must be out of practice,’ said Algy and burst into fresh waves of laughter. Of course I was loving all this, but I just stayed put on the cold floor amongst all the filth and bided my time. Algy hit a light switch by the door and the firing range was illuminated by a bank of fluorescent lights in the ceiling. I squinted up through the brightness and clocked McBain properly for the first time.

  He was shorter than Algy, but that didn’t make him small. As I got to know Algy better I soon realised that everyone looked small compared with him. McBain was about six foot I guessed, but he wore the highest-heeled cowboy boots I’d ever seen. Maybe being with Algy every day demanded that you had to use any means possible to at least stand as high as his shoulder. The boots were black, made of hand-tooled leather with scarlet inserts. Very snazzy. With the boots McBain wore black stovepipe leather trousers and a baggy black shirt with silver buttons that he’d left untucked so that the tails hung down to the tops of his thighs. I’d have put his age at forty, but with that well-preserved look that lots of money brings. His hair was black with just a few tips of grey, and it was long, three or four inches past his shirt collar at the back, but shorter at the sides so that I could see his ears. Sort of new-age hippy. He had a strong face, but his eyes were just a little vague, like he was somewhere else or sometime else and I thought I could guess why. That look and firearms didn’t go well together. I knew, I’d seen that look on my own face enough times.

  ‘So you’re the debt collector,’ said McBain.

  ‘Amongst other things,’ I replied

  ‘No hard feelings I hope.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  He transferred the Colt to his left hand and hung the ear protectors over his wrist. Then he walked up to me and proferred his right hand to give me a pull up. Bad idea. He’d had the protection of Algy for too long and lost any street smarts he might once have had. I took his right wrist in my left hand and his right hand in mine, and let him pull me up. Over his shoulder I saw and heard Algy begin to protest but it was too late. I let McBain take my weight, got my good foot under me, let go of his hand with my right hand, pulled him off balance with my left and took the Colt out of his left hand with my right like taking sweeties off a baby. I reversed the gun in my fist, all the time keeping McBain’s body close to mine and stuck the barrel of the automatic up into his throat.

  ‘Big man: on the floor, face down, arms extended. Now,’ I ordered. Algy gave me a disgusted look but complied. ‘You, McBain, back against the wall, arms raised. Now,’ I ordered again. McBain did as he was told but protested.

  ‘No need to get excited. We were only having a laugh.’

  ‘Haven’t laughed so much for a long time,’ I said. ‘In fact I can hardly stop.’

  I hefted the pistol in my hand. I had to stop all this nonsense once and for all, and I thought I had a solution – after all, I was only after a few lousy quid, I wasn’t interested in anybody getting killed. I walked across to the range and squinted down to the end. There was a target set up.

  ‘Give me the ear muffs,’ I said to McBain. He tossed them over to me and I caught them left-handed and pulled them over my head.

  I walked up to the bench, humming a happy tune. ‘You two stay where you are,’ I said. I released the clip and checked the load. 9mm, one fired, one in the pipe, seven in the clip. I smiled down at Algy. ‘Trust me,’ I said, dropped into combat position and fired eight shots at the roundel at the far end of the range as fast as I could pull the trigger. The kick from the pistol sent a satisfying tingle through the muscles of my forearm and the reports must have been deafening without ear protectors. The spent cartridges danced across the concrete floor catching the light as they flew. After the eighth shot I placed the automatic on the bench in front of me, pulled off the muffs and laid them beside it. I looked for the button that would retrieve the target, pressed it and waited for the pulley to bring the cardboard back to me. As I waited I turned and regarded the two men.

  ‘Nice gun,’ I said. They looked amazed. Algy got to his feet and made for me. McBain stopped him with a look.

  ‘Let’s see his score first,’ he said.

  The target stopped by me with a clunk and I checked my score. Three bulls, four inners, one outer. Shit.

  ‘Pulls up and to the left,’ I said.

  ‘Dead right,’ replied McBain. ‘I can’t get the sights spot on no matter what I do.’

  ‘I know someone,’ I said. ‘He’ll do it for you in a minute. He can play Rachmaninov on a gun like this.’

  ‘I’d like to meet him,’ said McBain wistfully, ‘but I don’t get out much any more.’

  ‘I’ll get him to pop by someday, but don’t play tricks on him like you did on me. He’s got a lousy sense of humour.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said McBain. ‘We’ll know better in future. Let me see if I can beat that.’

  He picked up the Colt and moved over to a table covered in ammunition. He chose a clip, checked it, slid it into the butt of the Colt and smacked it home with the palm of his hand. That was the biggie. If he was going to get weird it would be now. But he was cool, he just walked up to the next bench to the one I’d used, gave me a big smile and blasted off nine shots as quickly as I had. The sound was ear-drum-busting but he didn’t seem to care. He pulled the target back and gave a shout of delight.

  ‘Gotcha,’ he yelled. I went over and checked his score. Five bulls, all closely positioned and four inners.

  ‘Sweet,’ I said, although I could hardly hear my own voice for the ringing in my ears.

  ‘I do know the gun,’ I almost lip-read. ‘But even so, not bad.’ He clapped me on the shoulder and I swallowed to clear my ears.

  ‘About the money,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, the money,’ said McBain. ‘I should make Algy pay the bill himself, the big wanker, he racked up the car.’ He grinned another big stoned grin. Algy looked disgusted. ‘But as you’re here, I suppose I might as well cough up. Come on.’

  McBain spun on one boot-heel and walked away. I looked at Algy who shrugged and I followed the man in black. Algy fell into step behind me and the three of us left the firing range and returned to the big house, through the maze of corridors again, and back to the hall. This time I was led up a wide centre staircase. The further we climbed, the shabbier it got. The carpet ran out three steps from the top and we were on bare boards.

  We went down a hall that looked like the first cousin of a demolition site and through a heavy, soundproofed door into what appeared to be a small recording studio.

  It was a long, narrow room that had probably been made by knocking two smaller rooms into one. An RSJ had been cemented from one supporting wall to the other to strengthen the ceiling, into which were mounted spot lights and microphone booms which hung down to head height. Other mikes stood around on stands and were wired into a PA system which looked several times too big for the studio. Amplifiers were scattered everywhere and connected to a control board mounted on a dais in front of two chrome and leather seats.

  The walls were covered with baffle-board and shelving. On the shelves were a series
of linked cassette recorders, more amps and a bunch of equipment that I couldn’t begin to identify. In the studio the floor was covered with thick-pile red carpet. There was a full-size drum kit in one corner complete with a Chinese gong about six foot in diameter standing next to a massive electric organ flanked by two speakers you could park cars in. Both speakers had some kind of horn arrangement mounted on top which looked powerful enough to handle Richmond’s air raid warning system. Other speakers of various sizes were standing against three of the four walls. By the door through which we had entered was a big leather sofa. It was freezing cold in the room.

  ‘Algy, stay here,’ ordered McBain. ‘You, come with me.’

  ‘I answer to the name Sharman,’ I said. ‘Or Nick. But not whistles, or “Hey”, or “You”, or snapped fingers or anything like that. I’m just old-fashioned I guess, but there you go.’

  ‘Sorry, Nick,’ said McBain. ‘I’ll try hard to remember that.’ I couldn’t make up my mind who was taking the rise out of whom, and nor could Algy who sat down on the sofa with a bemused look on his face.

  McBain pushed through another exit door from the studio and I caught it as it closed behind him. The door led into another corridor which again looked as if the builders had just downed tools and gone to lunch, but somehow had the air of a place that had lain untouched for years. Gouges had been cut in the walls with one or several blunt instruments, and dust lay thickly on the bare floorboards.

  McBain just grinned. At the end of the corridor he opened a set of double doors and ushered me into what was obviously his bedroom. It had that air of grubby decline that I would come to always associate with McBain. In the centre of the room was a massive circular bed. It was unmade and the satin sheets were tangled and creased. Hung on one wall were two dozen or more gold and silver discs mounted on wooden plaques or framed behind glass. I walked over and examined them. The earliest dated from the mid-sixties and I recognised the name of the band. Their records were played all the time as golden oldies on Radio One.

  ‘Was that your band?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ said McBain. ‘Of course they were. We had two consecutive number ones in 1965. And do you know what I earned out of them? Twenty pound per week tops. I never saw a penny in royalties. It was a classic rip-off. I could buy as many clothes as I liked in Carnaby Street. But cash, never. And satin shirts don’t pay the rent and you can’t eat flash trousers. And do you know the worst thing? I played some of those fucking gold records, and they aren’t even our music. It was some stuff they couldn’t sell so they sprayed it gold and gave it to us. Fucking slags.’

  ‘So how do you live now?’ I asked.

  ‘Easy, now I’m rich. I write songs.’ I looked at the state of the place and he caught my look.

  ‘I’m rich all right,’ he said. ‘I started to earn when I wrote a song for a Three Dog Night album – do you remember them?’

  I shrugged. ‘Vaguely,’ I said.

  ‘They never did much over here, but the album stayed fifty-six weeks on the American top hundred and then they put the track on the B-side of a single that went to number four. So I cut down touring and just wrote songs. You’d be surprised what I’ve done. Last year alone I had two American number ones, a British number one and hits all over the world.’ He seemed proud and I didn’t blame him. ‘I bought this house in ‘66 on a mortgage and nearly lost it two years later. It may not look like much now, but it’s still worth a fortune, looking over the park and everything.’

  He went over and flopped on to the bed. It moved under him like jelly.

  ‘Water bed,’ he explained. ‘Eight hundred gallons. It weighs a ton. I had to have the floor strengthened.’ He shook his head. ‘Stupid really,’ he said.

  I almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘So you’re a private detective, are you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. I took out a card from my pocket and handed it to him. He flicked it on to the bedside table.

  ‘Did you used to be fuzz?’ he asked.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘You’ve got the look. I’ve been busted a couple of times.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Drugs, guns, motoring offences,’ he replied.

  ‘Bentleys?’ I asked.

  ‘Not any more. They’re Algy’s toys. Like I said, I hardly ever leave this place now. I even had the outside phone lines disconnected. I don’t communicate much any more, just with music. No, Algy likes Bentleys, and smashing them up and spending my money. Do you know what he did once? He took one of my, repeat my, Bentleys and had it chopped and channelled. He turned the fucker into a low rider, like some East LA punk. He even had the leather upholstery removed and replaced with tuck and roll velour. I ask you.’ He shook his head.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ I asked.

  ‘I couldn’t care less. He’s a good percy.’

  ‘Percy?’ I said. ‘I thought his name was Algy.’ I was getting confused.

  ‘Percy,’ said McBain. ‘Personal, personal roadie, minder, whatever.’

  ‘And guns?’ I reminded him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said you got busted for guns.’

  ‘Yeah, I like guns.’

  ‘So does your mother.’

  ‘I like to make sure she can protect herself. I taught her how to handle a gun. Down on the range.’ It sounded like a song title. ‘She wasn’t too keen at first,’ he went on. ‘but I insisted. Here, just take a look at these.’

  He clambered off his waterbed and walked across the room. There was a cabinet maybe six foot by three foot mounted on the wall. He unlocked it and swung the doors open. It was lined with velvet and contained about twenty hand-guns. It was a fine collection. There was everything from a twin-shot Derringer to a gorgeous gold-plated 1911 model Colt .45 covered in scroll work and filigree.

  ‘Christ,’ I said.

  ‘Nice huh?’ asked McBain.

  ‘Have you got licences for these?’ I asked.

  ‘Once a copper.’ He grinned. ‘All legal and above board.’

  ‘With drug convictions?’

  ‘I said I got busted, not convicted,’ he said. ‘And I’m a member of several reputable gun clubs, even though I haven’t been out for a while. I’ve still got a bit of a name. It’s easy. Most coppers are groupies. You should know that.’

  I grinned. ‘You couldn’t be more right,’ I said.

  I went over to the cabinet to get a closer look at the weapons.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I asked.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  I lifted a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum with a ribbed barrel out of its mount and hefted it in my hand. ‘Nice pistol.’ I said.

  ‘I prefer the .44.’ he said.

  ‘What for?’ I asked. ‘Shooting elephants?’

  He laughed, then asked: ‘You’re a shootist. What’s your favourite gun?’

  ‘Colts are my preference,’ I replied, ‘but not automatics. That Commander was all right, but autos jam and that can be troublesome, and besides there are times when leaving cartridge cases all over the shop is just too much like taking out a small ad. Revolvers are favourite. A Cobra or Python maybe, something without too much kick, but at least you know you’ve fired it.’

  ‘I love automatics,’ he interrupted. ‘That gold Colt .45 is my favourite. It was a present from a girl-friend in the States, but I prefer this.’

  He went over to his bedside table and pulled open the top drawer. From it he took a Broomhandle Mauser 9mm automatic pistol fitted with what looked like a twenty-shot magazine. It was over a foot long and altogether a very frightening weapon.

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘You know you should have that locked up.’

  He shrugged and hefted the gun in his hand. ‘She’s my baby,’ he said. ‘I like to have her around when I sleep. She’s better than any woman and I don’t have to ask if the earth moved. When I fire this bitch I know that the earth moves.’

  He replaced the gun r
everentially in the drawer. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You’ll do, let’s get down to business. How much was that bill again?’

  I told him and he walked over to his dressing-table and opened the middle drawer.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said. The drawer was full of crumpled bank notes. Everything from fifties down to out-of-date pound notes.

  I counted out twelve hundred and sixty six pounds, I guessed J.R. could try his luck at the bank with the odd oner. I searched in my pocket for a fifty pence piece. McBain laughed as I held it out to him.

  ‘Toss you, double or quits,’ he said.

  ‘Sure,’ I replied and flipped the coin up.

  ‘Heads,’ he said. I caught the coin in my hand and slapped it on to the back of my hand. I took a peek.

  ‘Tails,’ I said, and showed him.

  He smiled. ‘Take it then,’ he said.

  I took another old pound note from the drawer.

  ‘What about the rest?’ he asked.

  ‘What rest?’ I asked, slightly mystified.

  ‘What you’ve got there,’ he said. ‘I tossed you double or quits for the bill and I lost.’

  I couldn’t believe it. The guy was serious too.

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I tossed you for half a quid.’

  ‘Chicken,’ he said, and laughed again.

  I gave McBain a receipt for the cash. He wasn’t in the least bit interested. He took the sheet of paper, screwed it up and tossed it in the general direction of the floor.