Smokescreen Chapter 6

The car found its way to Soho; I was hungry. Greek Street was reasonably safe and it wasn’t yet dark. I parked up. Went to a cheap looking place, ‘Bazalgette’s’. It was close enough to Shaftesbury to prefer Euros, but deep enough in Soho not to be choosy, especially if the customer was Old Bill. It was dark inside; there was a couldn’t-put-your-finger-on-it smell; it was recognisable, but probably in the wrong place. The waitress wasn't Polish, but her parents were. She was about 18 in the figure and forty in the face.

‘One is it?’

‘One’s enough.’

‘Window seat?’

‘No thanks, near the bar.’

‘Drink?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What - would - Sir - like?’

‘Just bring a beer you chippy cow!’

She crumpled and I knew I needed that drink. The resentful waitress brought the beer and left the menu in front of me. The lasagne was cheap and tasted like it, I left an extravagant tip, a pile of sterling notes. No-one wished me goodnight as I left.

Berwick Street was around the corner. I fancied a drink in Harry Xeno’s brother’s club. Xeno was Harry’s smoking handle: in the illicit smoke-easys most people use an assumed name. His real name was Aristotle Chryssipous, making his brother Demetrios Chryssipous – a name known to us, as we used to say in press statements. Demetrios’ club was one of several he owned, but the one on Berwick Street was his first. Naturally enough, the lurid blue neon outside said ‘The One Club’.

I flashed my warrant card at the door and said:

‘Ari sent me, got a message for Demetrios.’

The heavy grunted, pointed at the bar. A barman called ‘Boss!’ through a curtain behind. Demitrios came out. He looked nothing like his brother: Ari/Harry looked like a comedy Greek, all moustache and gold - teeth and wrist-wear. His brother looked like what he was, a successful businessman.

‘Ari’s partner, isn’t it? Drink?’

‘On duty.’

‘You do, don’t you: Ari says.’

He plonked a bottle of Ouzo and two egg-cup sized glasses in front of us.

‘So,’ he said, pouring generous measures for both of us. ‘To what do I owe…You know how it goes.’

‘Nothing much. I was in the area.’

He raised an eyebrow and yammed the ouzo. Had the bottle ready and aimed for the next. I followed suit, coughed a little afterwards. The glasses were filled.

‘Try again, Ray.’

‘Seen Ari recently?’

‘What’s recently?’

‘Dunno, when the Spaniard came in and argued over the extras?’

The ouzos were summarily emptied and recharged.

‘Ray, I mean no offence, but what the fuck are you on about?’

I picked up first this time. Grabbed the bottle when the burn stopped.

‘You know Demi, I have no idea…’

‘Costas, bring Mr Murray a snack!’ The barman went through the curtain.

‘Ray, stay, have a nibble, watch the early show, it starts at seven. Do me a favour, though, don’t drink any more, hey?’

He fled behind the curtain.

Costas slammed a plate of figs on the table in front of me. I turned to the stage, dead-eyed.

10 o’clock. I had left the club. Helen of Troy had been the first act. Helen of Amstelveen more like. Six feet two of Amazonian Hollander blonde. Still, whoever saw a Greek girl ‘dancing’ in a Soho club. I got a good 2 hours kip though, and I was grateful to Demetrios for that, at least. Still a bit fuzzy though, I couldn’t quite remember where I’d left the car. Had to be somewhere near that restaurant. Greek Street, wasn’t it?

It was. The not-Polish waitress was leaning against the wing,smoking.

‘Put that out, are you mad? I could arrest you.’

‘You can’t get the smell out of your clothes you know.’

She blew a cloud at me. I snatched the cigarette and threw it as far as I could. It missed the rubbish mounds and landed in a puddle, hissing with rage.

‘Listen, Miss. You’d better be on your way.’

‘You could help me on it. I need a lift. The commis left without me. We had a fight.’

‘I’m on duty. Things to do, places to go.’

‘I’m sure it’s on your way.’

She gave me a hard-eyed look, a look more common a few hundred yards away. I unlocked the car. She got in. So did I. I gunned the motor.

‘Where to?’

‘One of those places to go.’

‘Right. Hang on. I’m in a hurry.’

She put her arm through mine as we walked into the Slug and Lettuce. The Wharf was superficially unchanged. Suited and booted types drinking madly, braying loudly. Power-dressed women in groups of their own or with the simulacra of city types. No-one here was actually in finance at all. Every single body, mostly actors or the unemployed, was bought and paid for by the Tourist Board. The drinks were, mostly, soft - and the suits on both sexes were stained and threadbare in places. I hoped Needles would be on time. My emergency Euro-stash was nothing like as thick as Harry Xeno’s roll had been. We sat at a table. A waiter came, pencil poised;

‘Gin and tonic. Bombay Sapph.’ She smiled at me.

‘I’ll have the same… and an espresso, double shot.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask my name?’ she said.

‘I don’t care what it is.’

She put her hand on my thigh:

‘Neither do I.’

Needles stumbled in, right on time, looking a little conspicuous. It wasn’t just the misbuttoned denim. More the swelling round the eyes and nose and the bloodstains on that jacket. I waved him over. Whistled a waiter; very Flaming Lamborghini; ordered Needles a double malt. He sat opposite keeping the disc of the table top between him and my companion.

‘Confidential, you said.’ He darted a look at the Non-Pole.

‘Bye, lover-boy thanks for the ride.’ She bee-lined for the more exotic Japanese at the far end of the room.

‘It just wasn’t meant to be.’ I said.

Needles necked his nip, rattled the glass on the table top. I waved at a waiter.

‘What happened to you?’

‘After the Commons Bar, I was driving to the office. Got pulled over. Bill. Uniforms. Got a kicking and a gnomic warning.’

‘Eh??’

‘They said: “Passive smoking’s dangerous, careful about the company you keep.”’

‘Sounds pretty gnomic, whatever that is. That’s it though, no explanation?’

‘I heard something, when I was lying doggo, on the pavement.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not sure, I had my hands over my head, it was indistinct.’

‘Spit it out, you fucker!’

‘”Smokescreen,” I think it was. Yeah, Smokescreen.’

I sat silent. Needles was itchy, twitchy, the questions ready to burst out of him. I held up a hand.

‘Let me think, hey?’

The cool, bluey gin tasted good. I could have done another 3 there and then.

‘Let me tell you a story, the kind that stays out of newspapers…’

Needles got a small digital recorder out of the denim Jacket pocket. I shook my head and outlined the events leading up to the visit of the HomeSec to our nick. From the mysterious tip-off to whacking him one.

‘You’re a fucking Nutter, Murray. A real ‘heid the baw’, as they say, aren’t you?’

‘Sometimes I wonder myself.’

‘But… no offence, Murray, so what?’

‘Didn’t you wonder what I was doing with the Task Force? Seen the news on Telly this evening?’

‘No, and no,’ he pointed at his face, gargoyled by the Uniforms’ boots.

‘I was busy, remember?’

I explained how I was the HomeSec’s alibi, except no-one had said anything about the PM’s TOD. Needles’ tongue probed a loose tooth, he winced:

‘Who do you reckon tipped Harry off, about the cigs I mean?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know, mate.’

I looked at my watch, 11.30.

‘Gotta look sharp, Needles… Got to see my Super at the nick. Keep shtumm. I’ll let you know when.’

‘Look sharp, ha ha. Who’s your Super? Oh yeah… McCrackers. Well good luck.’

I threw my last Euros on the table for the bill. The Non-Pole winked as I left, her arms linked with the Japanese businessmen on either side: a little foreign exchange transaction in prospect.