The Evil And The Pure (4 page)

Drugs were what Dave Bushinsky had
found
for his gangly, nervous, pale-faced cousin. He was sure that Clint Smith would never amount to anything, and he didn’t trust the boy – eager to get ahead but totally unsuited for the life he craved, the sort who fucks it up for everybody if you let him get too close to the action – but blood was blood, even if Clint’s mother despised the Bush and phoned Dave constantly, begging him to “release her son before his soul was corrupted”.

Having observed
Clint for several weeks, Dave decided he would be a liability in a position of authority, so he set him up as an independent dealer — lots of opportunities to make money, even the chance to come into the organisation for real if he matured and proved himself worthy. But it also kept him at arm’s length, away from the heart of the Bushinsky empire, where he could do no harm. If Clint ran into trouble, there would be no comebacks. He’d burn alone.

Clint was wading
closer to Lawrence Drake, waiting for a line he could seize upon and use to slide into the conversation, when all of a sudden Drake burst out with “The Big S!” and waved Sandy Murphy over. Clint stepped aside swiftly. He didn’t like Big Sandy. Clint had moved into Kennington when he first went to work for his cousin, close to Cleaver Square where Big Sandy lived. Big Sandy collared him one night outside a pub. “Don’t deal here,” he’d said softly but firmly. “If I catch you dealing on my patch, I’ll break your legs, I don’t care whose fucking cousin you are.” Clint had transferred to a flat in the Borough. He’d had nothing to do with the giant since then and that suited him fine.

Clint had little
contact with men of Big Sandy’s ilk. His business was narcotics, and while it was by no means a clean profession, he liked to believe it was civilized. He struck harmless deals, not with junkies, but with clubbers, executives looking to unwind, people in search of a good time. He joked with his customers and had social drinks with them. He didn’t carry a knife and had never fired a gun. He abhorred tools of violence, despite the fact that it was his dream to one day rule men of destruction and profit from misery and conflict. And that was all Big Sandy was — not a man, but a tool. He disgusted and terrified Clint.

Clint circled
the room, waiting for Big Sandy to split — he had a feeling the brute wouldn’t linger long with Drake and his admirers. A few minutes later Big Sandy slipped away and Clint closed in. A beautiful young woman in a lemon low-cut dress intervened. “You’re Clint Smith, aren’t you?”

“Yuh-y
es,” Clint said, eyeing the blonde beauty nervously, unaccustomed to being approached by such visions out of the blue.

“I think we’re cousins, kind of,
” she said.

“Eh-excuse muh-me?” Clint only stuttered when he was
anxious or unsure of himself, which was more often than he wished.

“My name’s Shula Schimmel. I’m Dave’s niece. I understand you’re related
to him too?”

Clint smiled, relaxing, delighted to have been singled out. “Yes, through my muh-mother.
But you’re not Dave’s ah-actual niece, are you?”

“
No. Alice is my aunt. But I always think of him as an uncle. So a cousin of his is a cousin of mine, in my view.” She smiled – beautiful, captivating, innocent – and offered a tiny white hand. Clint wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to shake or kiss it. He went for the shake.

“Have you been here long?” he asked, releasing her slim fingers
and making eye contact. She had deep blue eyes. She was even paler than Clint, but hers was the paleness of rich marble, and her face was flawless. She didn’t need the layers of make-up that so many of the women in the room relied on. Her flesh was clean and glowing, merely highlighted in a few places with some lipstick and eyeliner.

“I flew in yesterday,” Shula replied brightly
as Clint’s gaze shifted so that he could study the rest of her. She had the body and poise of a model, even though she was not fully formed, still maturing, an alluring but incomplete eighteen year old. He remembered what he had been like at that age and winced at the memory.

“Having a good time?” Clint asked.

She laughed. “I never expected anything like this.” She waved around at the party. “It’s so beyond!”

“Dave loves to throw parties,” Clint grinned. “Any excuse.”

“Can I ask… you’ve probably been asked a thousand times already… but your name…”

Clint chuckled. “My dad loved westerns. I was
always going to be Wayne or Clint.”

“Did you get teased about it in school?”

“Not much. It was cool to be named after Clint Eastwood.”

They chatted about films for a while. Shula hadn’t seen many westerns, so Clint did most of the talking, telling her about some of his favourites. He began to get confident. He hadn’t much experience of women, certainly none like Shula, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream. He imagined her warming to him as he told her about
The Wild Bunch
and
The Good, The Bad And The Ugly
. Maybe she would fall for him. Sure, she was beautiful, but that didn’t mean she was cold. She was young, from a country where maybe the women weren’t as quick to judge as they were here. It didn’t take much to set Clint dreaming. A kind word was all he required, though it was seldom that he got even that much from a woman like this.

“Are westerns what you mostly watch?” Shula asked.

“Actually I’m more of a gangster fan,” Clint admitted.

Shula’s eyes sparkled. “Me too,” she exclaimed. Then she leant forward and squinted, lowering her voice, trying to sound like Marlon Brando. “
I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.
”

Clint laughed with genuine delight. “Isn’t that a brilliant film? I could watch it forever.”

“Me too,” Shula smiled. “My parents think I’m too young for such films, so I have to watch them in secret. The bloodshed repels me – I always look away when Sonny is killed – but the characters fascinate me.”

Clint thought she might ask about Cousin Dave at that point, if he was anything like the cast of
The Godfather
, but she had probably been warned against such queries, and instead they just talked about the trilogy and other such films, Clint feeling warmed with every passing minute, hardly able to believe that he was holding her interest like this, his dreams solidifying, standing a bit straighter, no hint of a stutter now, confidence lending him a certain handsomeness that he never saw when he caught his reflection in a mirror.

There was a
lull in the conversation when they ran out of steam on the movie front. Clint tried to think of something else to say, loving the way the lights caught Shula’s blonde hair, imagining running his fingers through it, sniffing her scent when it was just the two of them, what she’d feel like in his arms as he leant forward to kiss her.

Then Shula s
aid, “I saw you heading for Lawrence Drake. Do you know him? Could you introduce me?”

Clint
shrunk in an instant as he realised she had collared him to meet Larry Drake.

“Do you get his
show in Switzerland?” Clint asked miserably.

“Yes, on satellite. He’s
such a rogue.” Her blue eyes bright, shining at the thought of meeting Larry Drake. Clint didn’t blame her for using him to get to Drake. He was just disappointed.

Hiding
his feelings, Clint smiled and took hold of Shula’s sleeve, waving her towards Drake and his entourage. “After you, muh-madam.”

“You don’t think he’ll mind?”

“Larry Drake lives to be adored,” Clint muttered bitterly, then guided her into the ranks of Drake’s entourage, apologising for interrupting, asking if he could introduce the guest of honour. They already knew who she was – Drake’s eyes lit up with lust – and welcomed her with gushing kisses and “I love your dress!” and “What do you think of London?” and…

Clint listened for a while, smiling blankly while he was roundl
y ignored. Then he slipped away, leaving the beautiful, wealthy, influential Shula Schimmel to the other beautiful, wealthy, influential people. He struck for the bar, seeking solace with fellow anonymous outcasts.

Clint was nursing a Bacardi Breezer, brooding on the injustices of the world, when Dave Bushinsky stepped up beside him and called to the barman, “The same as before.” He turned to Clint with a swiftly refilled glass of red wine. “That’s a woman’s drink,” Dave noted, clinking Clint’s bottle with his glass.

“Leave me alone,” Clint gr
oaned.

“Life treating you badly?” Dave
smirked.

“I met your
niece,” Clint said.

“Nice girl, yes?”

“Lovely. But all she cared about was meeting Larry fucking Drake. I could have been on fuh-fire for all it would have mattered to her.”

Dave shrugged.
“Girls like actors and singers. What are poor schmucks like us to do?”

“I know,” Clint sighed, “but if I had more
cash, better clothes, the power to get things done…”

“Angling for a promotion, cousin?”

“I’ve worked hard,” Clint grumbled. “I bring in decent money, play it clean, don’t hold back on you. I make good contacts and –”

“No,” Dave interrupted softly. “You don’t.” Clint stared at him, hurt. Dave took pity on him and elaborated. “Good contacts are people who spend thousands
every month feeding their addiction. They bring in others with similar tastes and funds. They’re people of authority and influence, who can do favours for our friends. Bankers, lawyers, MPs, entrepreneurs. You sell to passing trade. Fifty pounds here, a hundred there, nothing constant, no big scores.”

Clint stared
at his shoes, ashamed, hating his cousin, hating himself, hating the whole damn world.

“I’m not criticising you,” Dave continued. “I respect the work you do. But don’t make yourself out to be more than you are. If you want to
get ahead, get serious. This city’s full of dealers no better or worse than Clint Smith. Show me you’re worth more than them,
then
talk to me about promotion.”

Clint trembled but said nothing.
He had never been able to take tough advice. This wasn’t the first time Dave had told him to push himself, gamble and expand, but Clint never listened, just went on dreaming about emulating his screen idols, wanting success so badly it hurt, but unwilling to actively pursue it.

Dave
sipped his wine and observed his cousin in silence, hoping he’d show some backbone. When Clint only slumped glumly over his Breezer, Dave sighed and lowered his voice. “Phials is horny.” Clint blinked and looked up. “He asked for Tulip. You can take care of it?”

Clint nodded slowly. “I’ll have to
ch-check that she’s available, but if she –”

“No buts or ifs, cousin. What Phials wants, Phials gets. If you can’t
secure the hooker for him, I’ll find someone who can.”

“It’s duh-duh-difficult,” Clint said, reddening. “She’s not really a huh-hooker. That’s why he likes her. But…” He gulped and nodded fierce
ly. “I’ll get her. Free or not, I’ll muh-make her come.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Dave smiled. “Take him some weed too, but only let him
smoke what he can while you’re there. Don’t leave any behind.”

“I know the rules,” Clint sniffed. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“I hope not,” Dave grunted. “Phials is your one true
good contact
. If you do well with him, there’s hope for you yet. Screw it up…” He didn’t need to finish. “Phials won’t be free before eleven, but if you want to leave early to set things up, I’ll understand.”

“Consider it done,” Clint grinned, rising, glad of the excuse to leave with a purpose.

“Clint,” Dave called him back. “Larry Drake — you think Shula’s got a thing for him?”

“No,” Clint said. “She just wanted to rub shoulders with a celebrity. She gets his show on satellite in Switzerland.”

“She’s eighteen,” Dave said. “Hasn’t seen much of the world. Drake’s a pussy-hound and he likes it young. I would not approve of a relationship between him and my niece. Should I be worried?”

Clint
sensed an opportunity and made his play. “I don’t think so, but I can keep an eye on her if you like, be her escort, stick close to her.”

Dave considered it, then waved his worries away. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll monitor the situation myself. But if I think she needs a guardian, I’ll bear you in mind.”
Dave touched his cousin’s left hand. “Fast Eddie will pay for the weed, the hooker and any other expenses. Make sure he recompenses you for your time too.”

“My t
ime’s your time,” Clint replied with a shit-eating grin.

“You’re learning,
” Dave winked and returned to the party. Clint left his drink unfinished and hit the street, heading for Charing Cross, fishing out his mobile, dialling Kevin Tyne, making plans.

Clint didn’t like to waste money on taxis. He’d rather catch the Tube, claim the taxi fare back at the end of the night, make a small profit. A man like Dave would sneer at such penny-pinching, but it all added up. So he caught the Bakerloo line to the Elephant & Castle, then the Northern line to Borough. A short walk to his third-floor flat. Untidy inside, clothes strewn across the floor, dirty washing in the sink, an overflowing laundry basket, flies buzzing around boxes from a Chinese takeaway two nights ago which Clint hadn’t disposed of yet. He ignored the mess and cut straight for a loose panel in the floorboards under the rug in the bedroom. Clint had several stash points around London, in public lockers, but he always kept a small supply of grass and pills at home, in case he needed to get his hands on some gear in a hurry.