Hits. She said, ‘It’s all a bloody joke, isn’t it?’
I started to agree, thought she was talking generally, and then she tapped the pages of the Sun. The picture showed Bob Geldof addressing a group of politicians, and, of course, some celebrity un-worthies. He was on the tap for more cash for the developing world.
‘I wonder how many African babies that suit would have immunised?’ said the waitress.
I nodded, tried to appear interested.
She fumed on. ‘I don’t see the likes of him using our lousy health service or hanging out for a pittance of a pension.’
I felt like I’d been trapped in the back of a taxi, listening to some cabbie’s bigoted nonsense. I looked down at my roll. God, I felt hungry.
‘It’s a disgrace.’ She added, ‘Bono — he’s another one. If they’re so bothered about saving the world why don’t they give their money away and come and live like the rest of us!’
‘That would be a bit of a soberer for them,’ I said.
She smiled at me. I saw I’d done enough to humour her.
‘You better eat up, love, that roll will be going cold.’
As she turned away I flattened the newspaper, wiped the base of my cup on its cover. I raised my roll to take a bite, saw the rashers cold and grey within; then in walked plod.
He was bang on cue. ‘Morning, Officer,’ I said.
‘Dury. By the cringe.’ Fitz the Crime’s eyes lit up like polished hubcaps.
‘Can I buy you a pot of the usual?’ I said.
He nodded, sat down, said, ‘What you after?’
‘Oh, and real nice to see you too, Fitz.’
He leant forward, went, ‘Don’t bollocks me, Dury.’
I stood up, called out, ‘A pot of your finest, love.’
I felt a hand pull me back into my seat. I knew Fitz felt anxious, but he’d no need to be. Fitz and myself, we go way back.
‘Jesus, what’s with the animosity? I thought I was in your good books, after — y’know.’
Fitz squirmed, unbuttoned his overcoat, said, ‘Look, Dury, that business is over with.’
He referred to the time I kept his name out the headlines. The filth may be prepared to turn a blind eye to one of its officer’s peccadilloes, but they do tend to draw the line at it appearing in print for all the world to see. Examples have been known to be made in such cases. Fitz, however, merely lost his DI badge. Busted back to buck private as the Americans say.
‘One good turn deserves another, wouldn’t you agree?’ I said.
‘Piss off.’
‘Now, now, Fitz, you never did pay me back.’
‘Aye, and now you’ve nothing on me, Dury, and you’re all washed up.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Aye, it is. Who would take the likes of you seriously?’
He sat back. A contented, smug grin crept up the side of his face. He looked like a lizard after its tongue has snapped an insect. I felt drawn to reaching across the table and smacking seven bells out of him. For years Fitz had been what is commonly called ‘crooked as two left feet’, and he knew it as well.
‘Isn’t that a risky strategy, Fitz?’
Cogs turned behind his eyes. I imagined a gerbil on a plastic wheel inside that great fat head of his. Who was he kidding? The only weight he brought to this table sat round his waist.
‘Risky, you say?’
‘Oh, I’d say very risky. Have you ever watched The Blues Brothers?’
‘ You what?’
‘ The Blues Brothers — you know, Belushi and the other one.’
Fitz looked lost. Truly stupefied. I waited for a drool to start from the corner of his mouth.
‘Anyway, in the movie they have this saying, “We’re on a mission from God”. Do you remember?’
He shook his head. He had the face of a saint… Bernard.
‘No. Oh well, they did. It’s what they said. But do you know what they were really saying? Deep down, what they were really trying to say with that statement, Fitz?’
I swear his mouth widened.
‘What they were saying was — Don’t fuck with us!.. Fitz, let me tell you something — I am on a mission from God.’
‘Fucking hell, you’ve cracked. You’ve finally cracked, Dury!’ he roared.
The tea came, the waitress gently placed it on the table before us. Fitz rose to his feet.
‘Shall, I be mother?’ I said.
He put on his hat, hurriedly fastened up his overcoat.
‘Fitz, I’m gonna be in touch soon. Real soon, about that favour.’
11
A crusty-looking geezer with a suitcase stopped me in the street.
‘Wanna buy the latest U2?’ he said.
I didn’t want to buy the first. They’ve had one good album, maybe two, tops, said, ‘Why would I?’
‘Oasis?’ he said.
‘I still have Revolver, what’s wrong with the real McCoy?’
He stood in front of me, held out his arms, tried not to let me past.
I stopped flat, said, ‘That’s a sure-fire way to get yourself hurt.’
He stepped aside. ‘Okay, okay, I can tell you know your music — name it, I’ve probably got it, or can get it. Just name it!’
‘Frenzal Rhomb.’
‘What?’
‘Australian punk outfit. Have you got Sans Souci? That’s their best.’
I started singing from my favourite track, ‘Russell Crowe’s Band’.
He left, tapping the side of his head.
Back on the bus, my phone went, said, ‘Amy?’
‘Who’s Amy?’
Turned out to be Col.
‘Sorry. I thought you were someone else.’
‘Obviously. I was calling to see how you were moving, but I see you’ve got your mind on other things.’
‘No, Col. Shit no. I was just…’
‘Distracted?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well don’t be, Gus. Get your mind on the job I’m paying you for.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Did you speak to the tart?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘Like you said it.’
‘But did she give you anything.’
‘Hell no, no way. Col, I’m working here, what do you take me for?’
‘I meant, information.’
‘Oh, right. No, nothing really. Look, I’ve put out some feelers.’
‘Any leads?’
