rundown shops and offices. Jimmy Armstrong just happened — to be the eyeball at the time and the rest of the team, following his instructions, parked discreetly in an arc 200 to 500 metres away, but not in visual contact with the limo — which was intensely frustrating for all concerned. They had to rely totally on Jimmy’s commentary.
‘ It’s like some sorta shop,’ Jimmy said over the radio, trying to describe the place where Bussola’s limo had pulled up. ‘Low rise… dunno… difficult to see properly without getting much closer.’
‘ Roger,’ Kruger acknowledged.
‘ Well, boss, what we gonna do?’ Myrna asked with a yawn. Since leaving the club her energy had dissipated and she needed her bed quite badly. Suddenly she felt her age.
‘ Sit tight, I suppose.’
Myrna slid down her seat, reclined it and closed her eyes.
Jimmy watched all the occupants of the limo, with the exception of the driver, get out and go into what was probably once a shop with a couple of floors above which could have been storerooms, offices or apartments. The shop at ground floor, with a massive plate-glass window white-washed from the inside, seemed to be derelict.
Jimmy reported there was definitely a light on at both ground-floor and first-floor level.
To Kruger it sounded like it could be some kind of illegal gambling joint, but he had heard lots of things about Bussola from his time as a cop and never was there a whisper of gambling. Everything else imaginable in the criminal line, but not gambling.
Still, you never could tell. Money was money to people like Bussola and where it came from was immaterial.
‘ Update,’ Kruger snapped into his radio. It had been a good thirty seconds since Jimmy had finished speaking and Kruger was getting crabby.
‘ Very little going on… hang fire, the limo’s pulling away without our man. He could be settled here for a while.’
‘ Is there much other traffic?’
‘ Naw — quiet as a grave.’
‘ Pedestrians?’
‘ Nope.’
‘ Anything else?’ Kruger said desperately.
‘ An all-night drugstore at the end of the block.’
‘ Dale — did you receive that?’ Kruger asked the other Armstrong brother.
‘ Affirmative.’
‘ Go check the place over, will ya? See if you can find out anything — discreetly, of course. Treat yourself to a packet of Jiffs while you’re in there. Put ‘em down to expenses.’
‘ Roger. I need to renew my supply… the last ones I bought have gone right past their “best before” date.’
Kruger and Myrna chuckled.
A few seconds later, Dale’s car cruised slowly past. Kruger settled back to wait for an update.
Five minutes later Dale was back on the air.
‘ The guy from the drugstore thinks it’s a telephone sales place now. Used to be a barber shop. Closed down about eighteen months ago. Guy didn’t have anything else to say voluntarily. I got the impression he knows who owns the place and he ain’t too happy about divulging. And I’ve walked past and tried the front door. Locked.’
‘ Idiot,’ Kruger said to Myrna before replying over the radio to Dale. ‘Received and understood. Now you pull outta there and don’t try any more stunts.’
Dale acknowledged.
Kruger was puzzled. ‘Telephone sales?’ he said with disbelief. He looked thoughtfully at Myrna. ‘Telephone sales at this time-a day?’
She shrugged… and something dawned on Kruger. He sat bolt upright and thumped the dash triumphantly. ‘Not tele-sales — tele-sex! Let’s check it out. I’m intrigued.’
Tracey was hot stuff. She was one of the favourites on the sex-line. This was because of her northern English accent, now so familiar to millions of Americans through the medium of the sit-corn F rasier and the character of Daphne, whose dubious vowels are supposed to originate in Manchester.
Tracey was in constant demand from a stream of men who happily jerked themselves off with the assistance of her voice, a telephone and whatever aids they had available.
She had just finished a particularly horrible call with one of her regulars who purported to be a Texan billionaire. He was on the line every night and if he was calling from Houston, as he claimed, it would be costing him a fortune… which, of course, was the whole idea, with Bussola and the phone company splitting the revenue.
Easy money. Big profits.
‘ Keep ‘ em on the line!’ one poster proclaimed on the wall in front of Tracey.
‘ Premature ejaculations we don’t need!’ said another.
And Tracey kept the Texan on the line. Right from the moment she allowed him to rip her clothes off, unpack the whip and vibrator and gently eased the latter up her ass. Thirty-five minutes later, as decreed by the customer, Tracey changed her mind about sex and entered the ‘rape’ phase where the Texan beat up on her — and still managed to make her come at the same time as he did. Except that he really did come all over his belly and she faked a multiple orgasm whilst at the same time chewing on a slice of pepperoni pizza.
She slammed the phone down, closed her eyes wearily and sniffed up through her cocaine-damaged nostrils.
A line of lights flashed on her little switchboard, demanding her attention. She frowned and ignored them, leaning back in her telephonist’s chair and glancing down the row of booths. There were a dozen in all, each one soundproofed from its neighbours, around the walls of the former barbershop which still smelled of hairspray.
Each booth was occupied by an experienced sex-telephonist busy handling calls. Leaning a little further back, Tracey could hear some of the things going on. Grunts, panting, screams of pain and passion, loving whispers, sexual demands. The noises were like the combination of a zoo and a blue-movie soundtrack.
The telephonists — two male, the remainder female — came from a range of backgrounds, each with their own personal reason for being there, not least of which for all of them was that they were paid tax-free. There were single mothers, supermarket cashiers, a former prostitute with a tongue of silk, and a couple of out-of-work actors trying to make ends meet whilst ‘resting’.
And they were all good at sextalk: chat which could make the customer — always a man — ejaculate whilst imagining a vivid sexy scenario. They could ad lib at will, immediately adopting the role required by the caller, always giving their best shot.
‘ Answer yer fuckin’ lines,’ Tracey’s earphones informed her.
She looked over her shoulder and shot a sneering glance at the supervisor who was sitting behind a large switchboard on a small raised dais at the back of the room. From there, the supervisor could dip into all the workers’ calls, keeping a check by listening in… and also being able to tell when a telephonist wasn’t working.
And work they did. This was no easy option. It was draining, emotional toil. Twelve-hour stints. Continuous, consecutive calls. Constantly talking and listening to the weirdest fantasies imaginable and having the ability and imagination to match them. It was beginning to take its toll on Tracey that night as she suddenly found she needed the lift which only one thing could give her.
Bitch, she thought. She gave the supervisor a one-digit salute, ensuring she didn’t see it, of course. She ripped the headset off and stood up. ‘I need a piss,’ she announced and picked up her purse.
At that moment the front door opened.
Bussola, his two meat-head bodyguards and the other guy came in. They walked straight inside, completely ignoring the telephonists, went through a door at the back, down a short corridor and up the stairs beyond.
One of the bodyguards stayed at the door and sat down in a plastic chair.
Tracey watched the entrance of the men, completely astounded. She shook her head, hardly able to believe who had just walked through the door.
Two people she thought she would never see again.
Bussola and the man accompanying him.
Charlie Gilbert.
