‘Yeah, like the bird. Jack Nightingale.’
The man nodded slowly, then turned and unlocked the front door. He disappeared inside for a few minutes and then returned. He jerked a thumb. ‘In,’ he said. Nightingale stepped inside and as soon as he did the heavy slammed him against the wall, kicking the door closed with his heel. The hallway ran the full length of the house with a kitchen at the far end, purple doors leading off to the right and a flight of stairs, which had also been painted purple, leading upstairs. A pretty black girl with waist-length dreadlocks was sitting halfway up the stairs, inhaling from a large glass bong. She exhaled a cloud of sweetish smoke and waggled her fingers at Nightingale.
‘Easy,’ said Nightingale. His hands had gone up against the wall instinctively and he kept them there as the heavy patted him down, looking for a weapon. He didn’t resist and didn’t say anything. Eventually the heavy was satisfied and he told Nightingale to turn around.
He took him down the hallway to the first room. The walls were painted a pale purple and there was a huge spherical white-paper lampshade hanging from the middle of the ceiling. There were three large sofas around a coffee table that was piled high with drugs paraphernalia including several bongs and a silver bowl filled with a white powder. Nightingale smiled and shook his head in disbelief. If Chalmers and Evans had turned up with a search warrant the drugs alone would have meant Smith going away for a long time. An episode of
The heavy shoved Nightingale against one of the sofas. ‘Hey!’ shouted Nightingale, but before he could say anything else a man stepped from behind the door, grabbed Nightingale by the collar of his coat and pushed him towards the wall again. Something hard pressed under Nightingale’s chin, forcing his head back.
‘What the hell you doing here?’ growled the man with the gun.
‘It’s a social call,’ said Nightingale, trying to sound as though having a gun jammed against his neck was no big thing. But it was a big thing. A very big thing. Especially when the man holding the gun was a gangster like Perry Smith. ‘I just wanted a word.’
‘Fucking comedian, huh?’ said Smith. He pulled Nightingale away from the wall but kept the gun pressed against his flesh. Nightingale could just see the handle of the weapon: a chrome semi-automatic. ‘The cops outside? Because if they are you’re a dead man.’
‘If I was with the cops, I’d hardly have come in here on my own, would I?’
Smith glared at Nightingale, his nostrils flaring as he breathed slowly. Nightingale could feel his heart pounding but he was pretty sure that the gangster wasn’t going to pull the trigger. Not one hundred per cent certain, but close enough that he managed to force a smile.
‘I just want to talk, Perry.’
Smith scowled but released his grip on Nightingale’s coat and slowly took the gun away. He released the hammer with his thumb but kept the gun aimed at Nightingale’s face. He was wearing a silver tracksuit and gold Nikes, with several large gold chains on both wrists.
‘You do know who I am, then?’ said Nightingale.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ asked Smith
‘You do know me. Last time we met you were wearing a Puffa jacket and a ski mask and you had a MAC-10 in your hand,’ said Nightingale. ‘You couldn’t fire the thing to save your life but you did manage to hit an innocent bystander and scare the shit out of a lot of shoppers.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Smith. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘I came here to talk,’ said Nightingale. He gestured at one of the sofas. ‘Can I sit down?’
Smith nodded. As Nightingale sat down a big man in an LA Lakers shirt and baggy jeans came down the stairs and into the hall, holding a Glock against the side of his leg. He joined the first heavy at the door and they both glared contemptuously at Nightingale, who smiled and raised his hands. ‘Please don’t rape me,’ he said.
Smith grinned and so did the man with the Glock. ‘He’s funny, isn’t he?’ asked Smith, waving his gun at Nightingale.
‘Yeah, funny as fuck,’ said the man. He tucked the gun in the waistband of his trousers.
Smith placed his weapon on the coffee table, then reached for the TV remote and muted the sound.
‘You remember me now?’ Nightingale said to Smith. The heavy in the Lakers shirt went to stand by the windows. They were covered with dark oak blinds and the heavy peered through the slats, checking the street outside.
Smith wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You used to be Five-O, didn’t you?’ he said.
‘In another life,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m self-employed now.’
Smith laughed, showing several gold teeth at the back of his mouth. ‘Ain’t we all these days. What do you want, Birdman?’
Nightingale heard a soft footfall on the stairs and another heavy appeared, a big man with a shaved head. He was wearing a Nike tracksuit and a gold chain around his neck that was as thick as Nightingale’s thumb. He dropped down on the third sofa, his head bobbing back and forth. He had earphones in and an iPod strapped to a bulging forearm.
‘I want to talk to you about Dwayne and about what happened in Queensway,’ said Nightingale.
Smith’s eyes narrowed. ‘You wearing a wire?’
‘Why would I be wearing a wire?’
Smith nodded at the heavy on the sofa. ‘Take his clothes off,’ he told him.
‘What?’ said the man. Smith mimed taking out the headphones. The man did as he was told. ‘What?’ he repeated.
Smith gestured at Nightingale. ‘Strip him.’
Nightingale held up his hands. ‘Whoa!’ he said. ‘I’ve already been patted down out there. You can pat me down again if you want. But it’s a waste of time, I’m not wired.’
‘Technology they’ve got these days, you could have the mike up your arse and picking up everything we say. Your choice, Jack-Shit. Get naked or the boys will take you for a ride.’ He reached for his gun.
‘Perry, I’m here to talk not to screw you over.’
‘If you want to talk I need to know that it’s safe,’ said Smith. He gestured with his gun at Nightingale’s trousers. ‘I’m not gonna bother counting to ten, just do it.’
Nightingale sighed, then took off his raincoat. He held it out to the heavy with the iPod but the man just stared at him, stony-faced. Nightingale draped the coat over the back of the sofa, then unbuttoned his shirt. He turned to face Smith and held the shirt open.
‘Take it all off, Jack-Shit.’
Nightingale did as he was told, putting the shirt on top of the coat and then removing his shoes, socks and trousers.
Smith pointed his gun at Nightingale’s shoes. ‘What are they, suede?’
‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘Hush Puppies.’
‘They comfortable?’
‘Sure.’
‘They’d have to be,’ laughed Smith. Nightingale held out his arms to the side. All he had left were his black Marks amp; Spencer boxer shorts. Smith waved his gun at the boxers. ‘The lot,’ he said. ‘Don’t be shy.’
Nightingale cursed under his breath and slid off his boxers. Smith and his heavies burst out laughing and Nightingale hid his private parts with his hands. ‘Look, it’s bloody cold and I’m under a bit of pressure here.’
‘It’s true what they say about white men,’ sneered Smith.
‘What? That we can’t jump? Look, are you happy now?’
‘I’ll be happy when you’ve turned around and spread your cheeks,’ said Smith.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ said Nightingale. ‘What do you think, that I’ve got a Nokia up my back passage?’
‘You’ve never been inside, have you?’ said Smith. ‘You’re lucky I don’t make you squat and tense. Now just show me your arse and we can start chatting.’
Nightingale muttered under his breath, turned around and bent forward. The three men roared with laughter. Smith told Nightingale to get dressed, then he grabbed a pack of cigarette papers, reached over for a ceramic jar decorated with a Chinese dragon pattern, and opened it to reveal a large amount of cannabis resin.
By the time Nightingale had put all his clothes back on, Smith was lighting his joint. He took a long drag on it, held the smoke deep in his lungs then blew it at the ceiling. He waved at the empty sofa. ‘Sit your lily-white arse back down, Jack-Shit,’ he said.
