The Evil And The Pure (17 page)

“I’ve been there,” the technician said. “
A bit downmarket.”

Drake laughed.
“If it gets me in her pants, I don’t care.”

Gawl excited —
a Saturday night disco, Drake most probably stoned (from what Gawl had seen, he hadn’t yet dipped into the gear he’d bought in church), a chance to mingle with the actor, get talking to him, steer conversation around to Clint Smith, let it drop that he could get much better shit at a far more reasonable price, set Drake up with some pussy if his own bitch wasn’t giving any, become his friend, his associate, his right-hand man.

Home, dreaming big. H
e hit the King’s Head again, to find out more about the Starsky & Hutch, learnt it was over by the Borough. Then he struck east to find a pub where nobody knew him, where he could get drunk and fight without any comebacks, knowing he’d have to keep a clear head the next day.

Gawl caught up with the film crew again Saturday afternoon, outside the War Museum, watched for a few hours, then left for home at six, shortly after Drake had quit for the day, to ready himself for his big night out. Washing with cold water, shivering as he scrubbed clean, shaving again, careful not to nick himself, new clothes laid out on the bed, flares and a purple polo neck. Gawl tried them on, checked in the mirror —
ridiculous
! He decided to go in his regular clothes. He’d stick out more if he tried fitting in as one of the clubbers. Pulled on jeans and a jumper, back to the mirror — much better.

N
early a quarter to eight. Figuring,
They’ll have something to eat, a few drinks, won’t leave for the club until eleven thirty, maybe later.
He planned to head over about half-ten, find the place, settle in, be there when they arrived.

Nervous, pacing the flat, checking the time every few minutes, running through plays in his head, how to introduce himself. Start by offering to buy Drake a drink? Say he recognised him from TV or act like he didn’t know who he was?
What if Drake refused Gawl’s offer of a drink or told him to get lost? Come straight out and ask how Clint Smith was or retreat and try again another time?

No
clear answers. He thought about calling it off and getting drunk. Crazy to think he could mix with the likes of Larry Drake. Out of his league, not even in the same game. Foolish to go after a legendary big score. He should be hitting the local pubs, making real contacts, not wasting his time on wild dreams.

Ten o’clock. Ten-fifteen. Ten-twenty. Ten-twenty-two.

“Fuck it!” Out the door, quick march along the landing, down the stairs, bus to the Borough, a pub, a shot of whiskey, a pint. Relaxxxxed. Asked the bargirl if she knew where the Starsky & Hutch was. She stared at him oddly – why was an old fart asking about the Starsky & Hutch? – but told him how to get there. He took his time finishing his pint then headed for the nightclub. Looked like a miserable dump from the outside, heavy security on the gates and doors, Gawl subjected to a rough search, bouncers eyeing him suspiciously before waving him through.

Inside —
low ceiling, loud pumping music, girls in tight tops, short skirts, thigh-high boots, gyrating, sreaming along with the music. Boys in tight trousers, flowery shirts or loose cardigans, dancing moronically with the girls or sitting at the bar and taking in the floor show, getting drunk. Gawl pushed through and shouted his order at a pimply bartender, sipped at his piss-poor beer, watched the doors, waiting for Larry Drake.

Half
eleven. Quarter to twelve. Midnight. Depression setting in. A total waste of a night if the actor didn’t show. Ogling the girls on the dance floor, half-thinking of making a move on them. Been a long time since he’d enjoyed a bit of snatch this fresh and presentable. They’d probably laugh him off, but nothing ventured… He’d give it another half hour. If Drake hadn’t shown by then, Gawl would toss back a few shorts and strut his funky stuff, give these kids a taste of what the seventies had really been like, the genuine article.

At seventeen minutes past twelve, Larry Drake bopped into the club, a beautiful
young woman on his arm, both giggling and wide-eyed from tequila slammers and a couple of E’s. Drake led the girl straight to the dance floor, where he wrapped his arms around her and tried stealing a kiss. The girl laughed and pushed him away, dancing erratically. Drake swirled around her, waving his arms like an octopus, pressing up close every chance he got.

Gawl watched intently, ears thrumming from the music, broken lines of patter flashing through his thoughts. Most of his attention focused on Drake,
no interest in the blonde teenager with the actor, dismissing her as a nameless bit of skirt, no idea she was Shula Schimmel, Dave Bushinsky’s niece.

Drake and
Shula spun off the dance floor and found two chairs in a dark corner. Rocking as they sat, giggling, Drake clearing a space on the table they were sitting at, crouching over it, making two lines of coke, Shula watching uncertainly, Gawl incredulously — what sort of an arsehole did coke in the middle of a club, out in the open, where anyone could see?

Drake took out a fifty pound note, rolled it up theatrically, snorted half a line, transferred it to his other nostril, finished the line. Offered the rolled up note to Shula. She waved it away, but half-heartedly, woozy from the tequila and E’s, not thinking clearly. Drake pressed the note upon her again, shouting something in her ear. This time she shrugged, glanced around nervously, leant over the table and attacked the coke, shivering as she sat up, panting heavily.

They took to the dance floor again, stumbling, almost falling over, out of their heads. Drake wrapped his arms around Shula and groped her breasts. She laughed. He tried to slide a hand up her skirt but she wasn’t
that
stoned — slapped his hand away, shook a finger at him,
naughty-naughty
! Drake pulled a face then grabbed her tight, bounced up and down with her, Gawl watching, a plan half-forming. If anyone interfered with them – tried to grab the girl from Drake, or told them they had to leave – Gawl could step in, control the situation, ensure the pair enjoyed the rest of the night uninterrupted. Seeing himself coming to their rescue, Drake grateful, ordering a car to take them home, slipping his phone number to Gawl, telling him to give him a call, Gawl nodding politely, “Thank you, Mr Drake.” “Hey, call me Larry.”

After a couple of fast-paced songs, the pair retired to another tabl
e, did two more lines of coke, crooked lines this time, more coke than previously, neither of them able to finish, letting two nearby boys snort up the last of the coke, waving away their thanks. Sitting, gazing off into space, smiling dreamily. Gawl thought about approaching Drake but the actor was out of it, grinning blankly. He decided to wait, still hoping that someone would mess with Drake and his girl, affording Gawl the opportunity to flex his muscles and impress.

Later they returned to the dance floor, a slow shuffling dance even though the rhythm was fierce, both glassy-eyed, numb,
Drake nuzzling the girl’s neck and playing with her breasts, Shula taking no notice, her first time on coke, hardly aware of where she was or who she was with.

Another number started. Halfway through, Drake guided Shula
towards the exit. Stoned as he was, he had plans for her and they didn’t end here. Gawl saw that they were leaving. He thrust his pint away, lurched to his feet, started after them, pausing when they swayed, letting them get ahead, not wishing to barge up behind them.

Outside, past the bouncers, no cabs. Drake took a right turn, guiding Shula, muttering to her, laughing, Shula responding sluggishly. Gawl trailed
them, alert. This was a dangerous area, dark alleys, not many people around. Drake and his girlfriend were easy targets. Gawl prayed for an attack. Thinking ahead — if they weren’t attacked tonight, he could arrange a mugging another time, hire a couple of toughs to give Drake a going over, Gawl on hand to leap to the rescue.

Shula stumbled
and yelped. Drake laughed, bent over, hands busy at her breasts, kissing her. Shula panting hard when she got to her feet. Drake tried sliding his hand up her dress again. Gawl heard a sharp, “No!” The girl gave Drake a push, staggered ahead on her own. Drake caught up with her, tried to kiss her. Shula stubbornly resisted. She pulled aside, doubled over, threw up. Drake glared at her, horny, interested only in fucking her, not caring what state she was in. He handed her a tissue to wipe around her mouth, the extent of his chivalry. Then it was back to mauling her as they walked, wearing her down.

Drake looking for a cab, desperately hailing each taxi that passed, even those already taken. Gawl drew gradually closer, planning to take firmer ac
tion, stand in the middle of the road and force a cab to stop, pull the passengers out if any were in it, cite this as an emergency, push in Drake and his girl, wink big, Drake tickled pink. Almost upon them, ready to do it, when…

A fucking cab stopped.
The driver pulled over and rolled the window down. “Where you going, mate?”

“Fulham Broadway.”

“Get in, I’ll take ya.”

Drake
tried to drag Shula into the cab. She resisted, mumbling, just conscious enough to know she didn’t want to go to this man’s home with him. “Come on,” Drake urged her, tugging hard. “You can sleep on the couch, or I can drop you off along the way, or –”

“No!” Shula shouted, shoving him away, weaving dangerously, almost falling over again. “Let me alone
. Don’t want to.”

Drake lost his temper. “Get in the fuc
king cab or I’ll leave you here.”

“Don’t care,” Shula muttered, swaying, eyes swimming.

“Fuck you then,” Drake roared. He jumped in the cab and slammed the door shut. “Drive on,” he barked at the driver.

“What
about the –”

“Fuck her.
Drive.” He thrust a tenner at the cabbie, who was worldly enough to accept it and keep his mouth shut. The cab pulled away from the kerb, stranding the girl.

Shula stared after the cab, slack-jawed, thinking it was a joke,
that he’d stop and come back for her. When she realised he’d really left her, she slumped. Cursed beneath her breath, made obscene gestures, mumbled senselessly. Then shook her head, did a full circle – Gawl ducked back into the shadows so she wouldn’t see him – and lurched ahead, the way she’d been going. Alone.

Gawl disgusted,
not by Drake’s behaviour but because he’d been cheated out of a golden opportunity to break the ice with the actor. Rage building, a whole night wasted, money down the drain, half-deaf from the fucking club, more sober than he could ever remember being on a Saturday night. About to wheel back to the Starsky and Hutch to get truly pissed. He stopped, sights fixing on the tottering Shula Schimmel as she staggered further away from the club, into darkness and a warren of threatening backstreets.

Gawl
grinned bleakly and set off after the girl, large steps, cock hardening, determined to get something out of the night. Closed the gap, moving like a shark, dead eyes, all-driving hunger. Waited until Shula was at the mouth of a dark alley. Rushed her, grabbed her, hauled her off the main street, into blackness.

THIRTEEN

Big Sandy knew it was trouble when the phone rang at
a quarter past ten. Not especially early, but everyone knew he liked to sleep in past midday on a Sunday and took a very dim view of being disturbed. Nobody dumb enough to piss off Big Sandy unless it was urgent. Groaning as he rose, head throbbing — he enjoyed his Saturday night piss-ups, a long-established tradition. Picked up with a grumpy but respectful, “Yeah?”

“I’m at Guy’s Hospital
. Get over here. Now.” The Bush, furious.

“Which ward are –” Big Sandy began, but the Bush had already hung up. He set the phone down, scr
atching the stubble on his chin. He wanted to freshen up, shower and shave. But the Bush hadn’t told him to shower and shave. He’d told him to get over to Guy’s.
Now
. Big Sandy yawned, dressed, left his flat, stinking of beer and sweat.

He
got a cab to Guy’s and asked in reception for Dave Bushinsky. The receptionist gulped then gave him a room number and directions. Big Sandy strode through the corridors, wondering what was wrong, assuming one of the Bush’s men had been hit, feeling like shit and wishing this could have happened twenty-four hours earlier.

The Bush waiting for him outside a pri
vate room, no bodyguards, not what Big Sandy had been expecting. “Boss,” Big Sandy said cautiously, curiously. The Bush nodded stiffly then stepped aside and nudged the door of the room ajar. Big Sandy moved forward warily. Inside were a nurse, two middle-aged women he vaguely recognised as relatives of the Bush’s, and Alice, the Bush’s wife. The middle-aged women crying, Alice’s face harsh and stained with dried tears, the nurse fussing over a patient in the bed. Big Sandy focused on the patient and his insides tightened, hangover forgotten in an instant. Shula Schimmel, looking like death, bruises, split lips, nightmarish rims around her eyes, shuddering, moaning.