“One of you two must be the owner. Mr Chandler?”
Tommy stuck his hand up like a school kid. Eve thrust hers out and shook his roughly.
“And you are…?” She stood in front of me, her eyes bright and challenging.
“Who’s asking?” Two could play her game.
“Eve Copeland, reporter from the Daily Trumpet, Mr…?”
I took a risk that Inspector Austen would play along with a wind-up of the press.
“Hamish MacTavish, night watchman.”
She squeezed her lips together to curb the grin. She shook my hand, and dug the nail of her pinkie into the palm of my hand. I don’t know if it was tiredness, or after-effects of the fight, or too long without a woman, but I had a sudden and overwhelming wish that we were alone and I was biting those compressed lips.
The rest of the scene became an all-round farce: Austen trying to get rid of Eve and Eve trying to get the story she already knew from the inside. Tommy and I played along as best we could. Behind us, the sorry-looking gang were marched off, glowering at me with a message in their eyes that I had just bought myself a heap of trouble. The wounded foreman was carted off moaning on a stretcher, chest bound and face blanched.
Eve caught the late edition with enough tantalising hooks to ensure that the main morning run would sell out in minutes. It painted a picture of a plucky night watchman – one Hamish MacTavish – and a few doughty storemen besting an armed gang intent on plundering a treasure house piled high with exotic silks.
She even hinted at having witnessed the shoot-out herself after a tip-off by underground contacts. This fearless reporter scaled the warehouse river-wall just in time to see the tail-end of the tussle. She referred to Hamish as the ‘humble hero of the waterfront’.
The boys and me laughed about the first article that evening over a few drinks in the George. I’d come with their wages from Big Tommy. He’d been so pleased he’d added a bonus tenner to each of us, and the way Midge and Stan were putting it away, they’d have nothing left in the morning except the mother and father of all hangovers.
“I thought you was a fucking magician, Hamish, the way you drew that gun,” Stan was slurring. “A fucking magician. Didn’t even see you move.”
Cyril butted in, slopping his pint over the already sodden table. His beard glistened with beer. “Then we saw it was the bint! Could hardly believe it. I know it was a pop gun. But what’s she doing carrying it? And where did she learn to shoot like that? Have her in my unit any day, so I would.”
We were in a little corner of the lounge bar, a bit away from other customers but the lads’ voices were getting louder with every round.
“Keep it down, will you?”
“What’s it matter, Danny?” asked Stan, who’d chosen the tallest seat at the table and managed to look like an elf on a kiddie’s high chair. He could have done with a bib as well, the state of his shirt.
“I just don’t want the world and his wife to know. You get names and photos splashed around and next thing the rozzers’ eyes are on you, or some prat decides to take you on to prove he’s a big guy. Low profile, that’s best, then we can get more work. If you’re sober enough!”
“What? Us? Don’ you worry your pretty head, Danny boy,” said Midge through his thickening tongue.
I was suddenly aware of someone standing nearby. I turned. His shoulders were as thin as a rail and his spine humped under his shiny jacket. Sparse black hair was slicked down with too much Brylcreem, and he kept passing a fag from one hand to the other taking a short suck in between. It was Fast Larry, a bookie’s runner of my acquaintance. When he saw I’d noticed him, he smiled and edged a couple of feet closer. They can smell the money, these boys.
“No nags tonight, Larry. We’re just having a quiet drink.” Quiet? I glanced round at the ever-louder trio. Fast Larry was shaking his head and was now within three feet. He signalled with a finger to his lip and pointed at me. I let him come right up. He bent over. I could smell his sour breath. I turned my head.
“The word’s out, Danny.”
“What word is that, Larry?”
“You and the boys, here. You done over the gang in the paper there.” He pointed at the evening version of the Trumpet soaking up the spillage.
“Not us, mate.”
Larry rubbed his oily nose. “Gamba put the word out.”
My blood started running faster. “Gamba?”
“Gambatti. Pauli Gambatti. He’s looking for you. Those were his boys you got nicked this morning. He’s not ’appy.”
The underworld grapevine never ceased to impress me. I looked at Fast Larry and wondered why he was telling me this. Loyalty to his regulars? Larry was only as loyal as the last bet. Ordered to by Gambatti? A strange instrument. Or just malicious? His eyes were flicking all round the room. He was one of life’s parasites. Always on the edge of a crowd looking in. Seen as a go-between, not a person in his own right. Breaking the news to me got him into my life stream, gave him existence. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t acknowledge it.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Larry. If you bump into your mate Pauli, tell him we had nothing to do with it.” I was conscious the others were listening now.
“Yeah, piss off Larry,” called out Stan, who felt he could lord it over at least one bloke who was in worse shape than him.
Fast Larry winced like he’d been struck. He turned and shuffled off. But he’d left behind a small cloud. I didn’t have to explain to anyone at the table who Gambatti was.
EIGHT
Nor did I have to explain to Eve. I found her the next night celebrating her scoop with her fellow hacks in the Coal Hole in the Strand. The pub was just far enough away from Fleet Street to avoid bumping into the editor, but close enough at a slow stumble to put the evening edition to bed. Eve saw me and pushed towards me. None of her flush-faced cronies seemed to miss her. Her face was rosy with drink and success. It was a big transformation in thirty-six hours.
She waved the front page of the Trumpet at me. “Read all about it! Fearless reporter scoops gang- bust!”
“I’ve seen it. A great story. Almost wish I’d been there.”
“It’s what we agreed, isn’t it?” Her voice dropped. She looked anxious, as though I was upset.
“I don’t need the publicity. Not with Gambatti out for blood.”
“He’s going to be my follow-up piece.”
“Are you daft?” I exclaimed. “Why get Gambatti even more upset than he already is? You can’t name names without proof.”
She drew me further away from the rabble at the bar. We were standing by a shelf running along the smoke-blackened wall. Her face was close enough for me to smell her scent. She pressed a hand to my lapel and fingered the cloth. We got a hoot from her friends at the bar. She ignored them.
“Danny, this is my biggest scoop in years. I need to milk it for all it’s worth.
I’m too public for Gambatti to do anything to me. He’d be the first suspect.”
“From what I’ve heard, that wouldn’t matter a toss. He’s a complete nutter. He had a waiter’s fingers chopped off for slopping soup in his lap. He made a fortune out of the war. While the good folk of London were cowering in bomb shelters he sent his lads out on looting sprees. Lost a few of his gang in the air raids, but he never worried about it. Plenty more deserters to chose from.
Cleaned out whole streets, they tell me. Even nicked the poor blighters’ blackout curtains. Flogged them back to the owners on Saturday at the market.
He’s an all-round villain.”
“That’s what makes him so newsworthy.” Her eyes shone provocatively. And something in them – maybe a recognition of what we’d just been through – told me that if I leant forward to kiss her she wouldn’t slap my face. Her smile grew and she shook her head.
