Scarlet Women

‘Say what?’ Tony shrugged, smoothly changing gear.

‘Whatever’s on your damned mind, Tone. Either that or stop with the face, will you? I got troubles enough, without you throwing a strop on me.’

Tony was still silent.

Fuck it, thought Annie, and sat back.

‘Okay,’ he said suddenly. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Mrs Carter. Called in the Barolli mob when we’ve got people of our own at hand. It gives a bad impression. Makes it look like the boys can’t soak up a bit of trouble, and you know they can. They’ll hear about it, and they won’t like it. You’re belittling them. That’s all I got to say.’

Annie let out an exasperated breath.

‘Is that what you’re brooding about? For fuck’s sake.’ Annie stared at him wrathfully. ‘Look, Tone. Here it is. I was in a mess and I had to act fast, I didn’t have time to think about hurt feelings, for the love of God. But what I did think was this: I couldn’t call the boys into a dispute with the Delaneys on Delaney turf. It would have looked like an aggressive act—hell, it would have been an aggressive act. And they would have had to retaliate or look like weaklings, like fucking pussies. Redmond Delaney could have moved against Dolly in reprisal, and then it would have been outright war.’

Annie paused. In the past, she knew she had acted on instinct, recklessly, without thought, causing things to happen that could have been avoided. She regretted those things every day, with all her heart. Now, she had learned. She was more careful. The tragedies of the past still haunted her, and her own culpability had made her more circumspect in her actions. She didn’t want Dolly or anyone else hurt if she could avoid it.

‘You ever play any chess, Tone?’ she asked him.

‘A bit,’ said Tony.

‘Max taught me when we were abroad. It’s an interesting game, you know. Moving pawns and knights and stuff around the board. What I did by calling on Constantine was checkmate. It ended the game, cut all repercussions dead. Redmond Delaney wants to get in good with Constantine. He respects him. But more important than that, he fears his power. I knew that only someone with Constantine’s clout could smooth this over without unnecessary bloodshed. Now do you see why I didn’t just call up the boys?’

Tony’s eyes met hers in the mirror. His expression was slightly warmer.

‘Yeah, Boss,’ he said.

‘Happier?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you’ll explain it to the boys, pass the word? I wouldn’t want to make them unhappy.’

‘I’ll tell them, Boss. Count on it. Where to now? Back to the Alley Cat?’

‘No, I’ve had another thought. We’re overdue a visit to the Delacourts.’

‘Holy fuck, not you again,’ said Rizzo Delacourt, standing in the doorway wearing pyjama bottoms and nothing else. He was yawning, stretching, running a hand through his thin, messy hair, scratching his navel. His skin was white; he was scrawny with a sunken chest and a small pot belly. Not a pretty sight. The heavy reggae backbeat of ‘Israelites’ was thumping off the dingy damp-stained walls of the hall; Desmond Dekker was giving it his all.

Out in the front garden, Annie and Tone had picked their way past a threadbare sofa, a pile of pallets and a mound of dog shit. Now, Annie stepped into the house without waiting for an invitation, and Tony followed.

‘Hey, I’m busy you know,’ said Rizzo, following them into the front room.

Tony looked around in disgust. It was filthy; he could smell dirt and piss in the air. A woman who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty looked up dully at them as they came in. Her hair was scraped back from her skinny face, her eyes looked sunken and red and without hope. She was smoking a fag, drawing the stuff deep back into her lungs and sitting huddled in a scruffy armchair beside an empty fireplace. There were photos on the mantelpiece above it, all thick with dust.

Inside, the row was deafening.

‘Turn the music off,’ said Annie to Rizzo, but she couldn’t make herself heard above the din.

She looked at Tony. He picked up the boom box and searched for the off switch. When he didn’t find it, he smashed the box against the wall. Desmond Dekker fell abruptly silent.

‘Hey! There’s no call for that,’ shouted Rizzo into the sudden peace.

‘I want a word with Mrs Delacourt, Val’s mother. Are you Mrs Delacourt?’ Annie asked the seated woman.

‘Well, maybe she don’t want a word with you,’ said Rizzo furiously.

‘Hey, my friend, keep it down,’ said Tony.

‘This is the one, Ma,’ said Rizzo, hopping from foot to foot in rage. ‘This is the one who had her bastard yobs kill Benj. Can you believe anyone would do that, kill a helpless animal?’

Annie looked at Rizzo.

‘That dog was a fucking menace,’ said Mrs Delacourt.

Annie looked at her in surprise.

‘Used to scare the shit out of me, that bloody thing. You had grandkids, you couldn’t let them anywhere near a dog like that.’

‘But you don’t have grandkids,’ said Rizzo.

‘The neighbours got kids. They complained to the council.’

‘Well fuck them.’

‘I know I ain’t got grandkids, you don’t want to go rubbing it in,’ said Mrs Delacourt, almost talking to herself. ‘Not gonna have any now either, am I? Val’s gone. Fuck knows what’s happened to Peter, he never even shows his face these days. All I got left is you, Robbie, my little Robbie, and look how you turned out.’

‘Well, that’s just fucking charming,’ said Rizzo.

Litle Robbie, thought Annie.

She stared at this object standing there and thought of what he had done to his own sister, luring her into a life on the streets; and to Mira, feeding her drugs until she was clean off her head. Both of them, sinking into a pit of despair and dependency. Mira might yet be pulled back from the edge, but Val was beyond hope, beyond anything at all. Cold anger flooded Annie at the thought of what this pathetic little man had inflicted on them.

She held it down to a dull roar. Looked at the mother sitting there, also without hope. Poor cow. Annie looked at the photos on the mantel. A pretty blonde there, could be Val. Two dark-haired boys, seven or eight years old, arm in arm, laughing on a beach. A tattooed man, flexing a huge bicep for the camera.

‘Is that Peter?’ Annie asked Mrs Delacourt, pointing to the photo.

Mrs Delacourt looked up at the print, nodded. ‘I don’t like all them tattoos,’ she said with a scowl. ‘Ugly things. He’s a handsome man, my Pete, why does he want to go covering himself in all that stuff?’

‘Is he here?’

‘Nah, he never comes over, never bothers with his old Ma. He’s got his own shop,’ Mrs Delacourt said.

‘I know,’ said Annie. ‘The one next to the Alley Cat nightclub in Soho. You see him much? Only the place seems to be shut up most of the time.’

Mrs Delacourt opened her mouth to speak.

‘Hey!’ Rizzo cut in. ‘Who d’you think you are, coming round here asking all these damned questions? We don’t have to answer to you, bitch,’ said Rizzo.

Annie turned her gaze on Rizzo. ‘What did you say?’

‘Hey, you heard. You got something else you want to say to me, sister? Like, sorry for barging in like this, you being not even dressed yet, something like that?’ asked Rizzo, returning her stare.

Annie looked over at the huddled woman in the armchair.

‘Not in front of your mother,’ said Annie. She turned and walked out the door. ‘Bring him, Tone,’ she said over her shoulder.

Rizzo Delacourt wasn’t pleased to be hauled off God-knew-where while still wearing his night attire, and he