THEME FROM SHAFT

Mike O’Driscoll

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

He’d been watching me from the jukebox for nearly an hour. The strain was showing in my game. Shinehead had already taken me for two hundred. He sank the black again and grinned, one of those ear to ear jobs he dispensed as if he held the patent on them. I smiled back, just to show him I could take it.

“Rack ‘em,” I said, and sipped my brew.

Shinehead broke and left me wide open on the solid balls. I put a spring in my step as I started clicking and sinking like a real pro. Then I noticed him again, and once more my game fell apart. If he was a Lawman, he could sit there and watch me all day. They like to do that. But I had my papers in my jacket and nothing remotely incriminating. That made no difference though. Being black was provocation enough. Best to just bide my time and let him make his move.

When he did, it wasn’t what I expected. Blades, the barman, called me to the counter. “You gotta call, mon,” he said.

I took it at the far end of the bar, thinking it was Azelia wanting to know if I was coming over. “Yeah,” I said.

“Toole,” a voice like iron said. “There’s a man you should talk to in there.”

“Who’s speakin’ mon?”

“Never mind that. I know you, I know what you do, so drop the act. The thing I do is set it up for people to meet, people who may prove mutually beneficial to each other. This man who I know you have seen by now, has a proposition. He came to me to see who he should see. He knew I was the man to put him in touch with the man he should see. You are this man. I have been paid well. Listen to the man and you may be paid well too.” The phone went dead.

I looked at the man by the Jukebox. There was no one else. So maybe he wasn’t a cop and maybe this wasn’t a frame. I had nothing to lose.

“Hey bro,” Shinehead said as I moved past him, “we ain’t done yet.”

“Later, Shine,” I said and went over to the Jukebox.

“What sounds ya check fer?” I said, glancing down at the playlist.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, “are you talking to me?” A grey mac two sizes too big hung from his back his lank, straight hair hung down to his shoulders and a pair of wire-rims kept sliding down his sweat-greased nose. He wasn’t law, he tried too hard not to dress like them.

“Ya seen me take de call,” I said impatiently. He knew who I was which placed me at a disadvantage. “So speak to me.”

“Right, the call. Uh, can we talk somewhere?” he said.

“Here is fine, mon.”

“I mean, let’s sit down, have a drink, on me of course.”

“I has a brew then,” I said, sitting down.

In a few minutes he was back with two beers.

“I was told that you arrange certain things,” he said.

“Yeah? Well listen mon, first, I wanna know who was that on the line, and second, why he acting like he’s my agent?”

“I really can’t say but that’s not important.”

“Listen mon, long as ya come to me for somethin’, I say what’s important. Now that was who?”

“I’m sorry Mr Toole, all he does is connect parties who may be able to help each other,” he said, sounding desperate.

“Then ya gotta find someone else to help ya with your problem.” I stood up. “I don’t deal with no-names.”

“Wait,” he said. “Fifty grand is a lot of money these days.”

It was, a hundred grand was a lot more. “One fifty, and that fore I hear ‘nuther word.”

“Okay,” he said. “One fifty, now can we talk?”

“For one fifty mon, we can talk.”

“Good.” He went on. “One thing, you really must not ask me any more questions.” He paused, looked around the bar, saw that everything was as it should be, and continued: “I need you to arrange a thing for me, I need it to happen fast, I need a place to stay until the thing is set up.”

“Ya know me business?”

“I know a lot of things about you, I know what you do and it’s in that area that I need help.”

“Who the face?”

“You mean, who do I want the job done on?”

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t tell you? Well Mr Toole,” he lowered his voice to a whisper. I felt like laughing. “I want the job done on me.”

“I seen ya,” I said bitterly.” A Lawman puttin’ the frame on me.”

“No please, listen,” he said

I looked at his face, drawn and pale, unshaven; his tired eyes roaming the bar. I listened

“Thank you. This is no frame, I promise you. My name is Sean Lundy. I operate in a field not dissimilar from your area of expertise.” He waited to see what effect this would have on me. I said nothing.

“Due to a certain technical hitch, my ability to act with impunity in this field has been severely curtailed. Soon, other people will discover this and will dispense with my services. This dispensing is likely to be terminal.”

“Mr Lundy,” I said, slipping out of patois. “It would be easier if you just said what you did.”

“No questions please, Mr Toole.” He seemed unperturbed by my character change, or maybe he just didn’t notice it. “For one hundred and fifty thousand pounds surely you can lose your curiosity until it’s done?”

“Okay, no questions, but there’s information I’ll need, tissue samples, blood types, preferred archetypes for the reconstruction etcetera.”

“Yes, I see, but it’s more complex than that. You see,” he smiled, “I want to be black.”

For awhile I sat there, sipping my drink, saying nothing. Lundy knew what I did alright, but somewhere along the line, he’d been misinformed. The traffic was all one way, and it was in the opposite direction to the one he wanted Black was out of season. We were invisible to all but those few Lawmen who still felt it their holy duty to come to our ghettoes and crack a few skulls; we had to carry ID cards at all times, or face arrest and prosecution; crime was our only living the only one that paid; if the system got you, that was it, no more mention, not even as a statistic. Everyone in the club dreamt that one day they’d score big enough to take the trip; get that derm-op and be on their way up into the white, corporate world.

And here was this newboy, offering me one hundred and fifty grand to fix it so he could land smack, bang in the middle of negritude. Pills, I felt like telling him, were cheaper.

“That is not,” I said at last,” something I do.”

“It will work, I know it.” He was excited now, warming to his theme.

“Why don’t you just kill yourself? Be easier.”

“Look Toole, I know what I’m doing, I know what life is like for blacks, you do okay, your friends over there, they get -“

“You don’t know the first thing about it, guy, your tv don’t tell you a bleeding thing.”

“So maybe it doesn’t, but I have all this money and I’m sure you can find a use for it.”

“Why, Lundy? Why go to that extreme?”

“Because it’s an extreme the fuckers will never think of.” He said ‘fuckers’ with relish, like it was a word he didn’t often use and now that he had, he wanted to savour it.

“There’s other restruct jobs that are guaranteed foolproof, right down to fingerprints,” I said.

“I’m aware of that, but they’ll search for me, they’ll check out anyone they can link with a clinic for the last six months.”

“So? We give you a new blood spec.”

“But you can’t eradicate the virus, not permanently.” That was the technical hitch. He was dead.

“You tested positive. Your viral status been revoked. Sooner or later, the people you work for will be notified, right?”

“Very astute Toole.”

“Being black won’t cure you Lundy.”

“True, but I might live for years, you never know. If they find me, that will not be the case. As a black, Toole, nobody will care what my viral status is, because I won’t matter, I’ll be part of the scum, but like you, I will function. This has not been a hasty retreat, I have acquired funds along the way.”

“What’d you say you were involved in again?”

“As you well know, Mr Toole, I did not say. Now, do we have a deal?”

“Yeah,” I said. Maybe he could make a go of it, maybe with enough money, he could carve himself a niche. “I’m your man.”

Lundy arrived back at the Club Rio Negres the next morning with his medical specifications. I needed to get him off the street till the operation was set up. I left him with Blades and caught a tram up to Dalston and sat in my Nissan Vortex in its lock-up. The vehicle wasn’t hot but blacks didn’t have wheels like that, not in this city. Besides, if you wanted to get some place you were better off on a tram; it was cheap and it got you there the same day. Only idiots used cars, but there was still enough of them to clog the system 23 hours out of every 24. The Vortex was my office. It was air-conditioned, had a drinks cabinet, a phone and a modem-linked Sony rig.

“Mr Bonaventura please,” I said when I’d dialled the phone.

“He’s with a patient right now,” the woman said. “Can I take a message?”

“Ask him to call Mr Toole.”

“Does he have your number?” she said.

“Let’s hope so,” I said and hung up.

I studied Lundy’s file. 32, no medical problems of note, didn’t smoke, drank moderately, blood group O, no hereditary illnesses, clean carcinogenic and viral status. A clean bill, typewritten and photocopied. Except at the foot of the page, someone had written, “HIV 7 antigens present, repeat test in six weeks. Health Corps notified and recommend immediate revocation of viral status.”

So how long ago had he been tested? It didn’t really matter; test positive once and it was almost impossible to get a clean card again. Like Lundy had said, for a non-white it didn’t make a great deal of difference, you were already at bottom; but a white man, trying to adapt to the curtailing of freedom and rights of access that was implicit in a revocation of viral starus well, the prognosis would not be favourable.

The phone buzzed. It was Freddie Bonaventura. He was a reconstructive surgeon.

“What’s the price on a full derm-job these days?” I asked.

“What is it, Toole? Another of your colleagues make that big score you’re always talking about, or maybe this time it’s you?” He laughed as if the suggestion was an impossibility.

“Not yet Freddie, but soon. Look, It’s a strange one but we gotta agree finance first.”

“What are the details?”

“I gotta white to black job.”

He was silent for a full two minutes. “One hundred grand Toole and I’ll explain why. One, going that way means he has something nasty to hide. Two, the nastier it is, the greater the probability he’s wanted, by either corporate people or the law or both, thus increasing the risk to you, and ultimately to me. Three, chloasmatic drugs and melanin inducers are outside my usual field - don’t have much call for them - so they’ll take a while, and four, he’ll have money, more than enough to pay.”

“I see your logic Freddie, but I can’t see him buying it.” I felt duty bound to protest, even though I’d been expecting him to shoot for at least eighty.

“That’s his problem. There are others in the business.”

“He knows you’re the best,” I saw that the fifty grand left was still five times better than I’d ever made on one contract. “I’ll outline your reasoning to him.”

“Do that,” Freddie said. “Any other details I should know?”

“Anti-body positive for HIV 7,” I told him.

“Christ, what does this guy want to be? An identikit nigger? He’s already got the right profile if he’s carrying. I should ask for another ten for that alone. But I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll let it go. A week to set it up, call me Friday. Get his specs over asap.”

“Doing it now.”

“Fine,” Freddie said and he was gone.

I typed Lundy’s details into the computer and sent them down the line with a self-destruct tag. I took a tram back to Brixton. Lundy was sleeping on a couch in the lounge. It was quiet. I called a man in Camden who owed me some favours. His name was Sammy Lee. He’d been a blood runner. We’d started out together in organs, twelve years back, before we found our separate areas of specialisation. The risks in blood running were high, but then so were the stakes. Sammy Lee was the only runner I knew who retired with a packet and without a production line of antibodies for a whole host of viral fuck-ups. I’d set up his derm job.

After the call I had a sandwich and told Shinehead to have the Vortex at the club by midnight. When he left, I sat in on a hand of poker with some meat packers. The afternoon dragged. It was after four when Lundy woke and stuck his head round the door.

“You sleep good?”

“No,” he said. “Is it set up?”

“I got a safe house for you to stay.”

“What about the operation?” he said, nervously.

“Week, maybe more. The uh, pharmaceutical materials needed ain’t easy to obtain. Someone will pick us up tonight, take us to this house and then all you have to do is wait.” I smiled to show what a breeze it was going to be.

His eyes told me he wasn’t convinced.

Sammy Lee wasn’t Sammy Lee any more, he was Gerald Corinth and after my call, he had decided to take a week’s holiday. Being white bought him access to financial opportunities he had only dreamt of when he was just Sammy Lee. He could take off any time he wanted.

And of course Mr Corinth and his wife couldn’t afford to be seen associating with blacks, which I understood perfectly. He had a butler, a slab of granite stuck on legs called Oscar. I didn’t like him. Nevertheless, Gerald had left firm instructions that Oscar was to like me and whoever else I brought along and Oscar was determined to comply with those wishes. That was fine. I let him like Lundy all he wanted and decided to spend as much time away from the house as I could without freaking Lundy.

The next morning Lundy gave me the account codes and payment details. It was to be a straight 50% before the op, the balance on completion.

I left after breakfast, pleased Lundy was in such capable hands. I caught a tram out to Dalston. Shinehead was waiting in the car. His day-glo track suit sent a shudder through me.

“Can’t you dress less conspicuously?” I said.

“Ain’t bin no calls,” he said.

“I wanna do some checking on this guy. Take this.” I gave him a print-out of Lundy s medical specs and laid out two hundred pounds in tens. “Start with his doctor and don’t grease any more palms than you have to. Be discreet.” I made it obvious I was referring to the tracksuit. “Who you using these days?”

“A lymphoma case useta be big in the cab business. Wants a nest egg for his missus. What’s the gen on this guy?”

“It don’t concern you Shine, just do the job.”

“I’m on it.” He got out of the car.

“Call me tonight at the club,” I shouted after him.

After two years with me, Shinehead was shaping up. But he was ambitious, wanted something more. I knew he was ready for it, only I just didn’t have the right opportunity for him yet. Maybe something in prosthetics, which was just beginning to take off.

When he was gone I studied the codes Lundy had supplied and fed them into the Sony. His cash was divided into seven separate accounts which fed off a central pool. I had access to only one account. The seventy-five grand there had to be filtered through the central pool, through another clearing station and then into two separate accounts. One, into which I put ten thousand, was in the name of Avram Toole who, according to the bank’s records, was a white businessman involved in theatrical promotions; the rest I transferred into an account in the name of one Anthony Sturgeon, a man yet to be.

Then I called both banks, gave them the correct codes and asked for a statement of each account. In turn they told Mr Toole and Mr Sturgeon what they wanted to know and thanked said gentlemen for their continued custom.

Then I called Freddie.

“The usual deal,” I said. “Your fifty is now on hold. How’s it looking for next week?”

“No arguments about the fee?”

“Some, but he was open to persuasion.”

“Good. I’m clear from next Wednesday.”

“Shit, that’s a week today. I don’t know if he’ll wait.”

“It’s the earliest I can do it. Monday is out, I’ve got a full round at the New Central Hospital, and Tuesday is a fundraising ball for the Department of Oncology.”

“A hard life, man,” I said. “How’d ya stick it?”

“So arrange transfer to the usual account for Wednesday at nine am. Meantime, have you found out anything about our man?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Let me know anything I should know. Bye bye Toole.”

I called Azelia and told her not to expect me for a few days. We argued. She said Ellis, her five-year-old son, was sick again. What did I know about kids? Our relationship was deteriorating. I didn’t know what to say to her.

“So, is it organs? Blood?” I asked Shinehead at the club.

“Not for this guy,” Shinehead said, grinning. “He’s a buyer for Redell’s.”

“Redell’s? Don’t know ‘em.”

“Americans, been in the city now for three, four years. Hotels, casinos, nightclubs.”

“No bells ring.”

“Not surprising bro’, they gotta front name for each place, but Redell’s is the concern in back. Over there they’re big in movies, videos, music. Rumour is, they connected.”

“So what exactly did Lundy buy for Redell’s?”

“Lundy bought the girls.”

“Jesus.” That didn’t fit the picture I’d built up of Lundy, but first impressions had let me down before. “Jesus.”

“So it’s simple. He been sampling the goods or more likely indulging in a little creative ripping off.”

“Maybe,” I said. I didn’t think he was, but I didn’t tell him that. Shinehead jumped to conclusions. Usually the wrong ones. It was best not to confuse him. I didn’t think someone in Lundy’s position would need to ‘sample the goods’, but Shine was right on one point - Lundy had ripped them off.

“So what’s the job on this newboy, Avram?” Shine was getting curious.

“Usual, just being cautious,” I said. “Listen, you better skid. Check me tomorrow at the club. Keep an eye on Azelia. If she asks, I’m away on business. No calls to Sammy Lee’s.”

I waited for him to go. He didn’t. He sat there with an expectant look on his face.

“What is it?”

“Had an expensive day. Got more people to see tomorrow.”

I gave him another two hundred and he went. There had to be something more for Lundy to want this. I’d find it, I’d find it because fifty grand was a great motivator.

“Listen Lundy, you don’t have to tell me anything,” I said, “but the more I know, the better service I give.”

“All I want is the operation,” he said, beads of sweat dripping from his chin into his coffee. He mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. “It’s been over a week and you’ve had half the money. Why the delay?”

“We gotta work out a schedule.”

“And every day I’m waiting, they’re getting closer.”

“Who’s they? Lawmen?”

“No questions, please.” His voice was shrill.

“Look I’ll send Oscar out to get you something to take your mind off -“

“I don’t need narcotics, Toole, and I don’t need that moron waiting on me hand and foot. I’m not dying, not yet.”

“Oscar’s doing his best to look out for you. If you told me about these people, then I could take steps.”

“What steps?” He sounded hopeful for a second, then it was gone. “No, there’s nothing to do, except wait.”

“I’m sorry, guy, but because of the operation’s complexity, we gotta take extra precautions. Normally you’da been booked into NCH as a private patient under an alias, but the surgeon wants you at his private clinic in Harley Street. More discreet.”

Lundy considered this information. It seemed to calm him. He finished his coffee and left the room. He was right though, time had been wasted. I figured it wouldn’t be long till a Redell squad came asking questions. Not to mention the Lawman.

The Redell Corporation had controlling stakes in five Las Vegas Casinos, two Networks and a record company. The top man in Britain was a suit by the name of David Hamsun with a Wall Street background. Lundy, who had three years medical training to his credit and two years studying law, was one of their first recruits this side of the Atlantic.

The dossier Shinehead had built up on Lundy was impressive, but there were no clues as to how he became infected. Everything pointed to a highly conscientious company man. Had a regular girlfriend with a clean card. No drug use, no transfusions and definitely no USFs.

I had Shinehead digging deeper, probing at the health status of the girls Lundy had hired in the last year. So far, he hadn’t gleaned much on the inner workings of the Redell organisation, apart from the usual PR bullshit. What Shine had uncovered, were rumours. These rumours had kept me off the street for the last three days, shacked up with Lundy and Oscar.

The door opened soundlessly and Oscar walked in, his graceful steps at odds with his massive bulk. He collected the empty cups and asked if I wanted anything. I asked if he’d heard from his boss.

“Mr Corinth’s business abroad will keep him away until the time is right for him to return.”

“You mean he won’t come back till we’ve gone?” I said.

“It would be imprudent, Mr Toole,” he said, gliding backwards towards the door, not wishing to seem impolite by taking his eyes off me.

I left the house and caught a tram to the Continental Terminal at King’s Cross.

From there I called Bonaventura and told him Lundy was starting to crack

“Tell him his problems are over. Have him here at nine on Friday,” Freddie said.

I felt the tension drain from my body as I hung up. Elated, I walked briskly back to Gerald Corinth’s house on Rochester Place, laughing at the traffic that crawled slowly along College Street easily outpacing it in my eagerness to tell Lundy the news. I jogged up the front steps into the house and found Oscar in a pool of dark blood in the hallway. Clutched in his hands, a Shin Chuo machine pistol pointed uselessly at the ceiling.

I ran quickly through the house, knowing Lundy was gone but checking anyway. I was back in the hall when I heard them at the front door. They were waiting to see who’d come visiting. I fled out the back of the house, over the fence and through the gardens of Gerald Corinth’s respectable neighbours, not caring how he’d react to Oscar’s death, not even thinking about Lundy, just running and trying not to think of Uzis, bullet holes and blood.

It was gone eight when I called Blades from a public phone. The Lawmen had come visiting, he told me, but it was just your usual, turn the place upside down, raid. Later on, there’d been newboys around, white ones, but they’d asked no questions. They’d stayed for one hour, had a drink and left. Shine had a call two hours ago and had left immediately. I hung up and made my way to the club. Blades ushered me into the back room where some packers were playing dice.

“Who called him, Blades?” I asked, taking a long pull from the brew he’d filled for me.

“Ain’t sure, mon, ‘im disguise ‘is voice see?” Blades said.

“White or black?”

“Check either, Avram, but maybe ‘im white,” he shrugged his shoulders, his locks dancing around his head.

“Right. I’ll stay back here. Anyone comes in, let me know.”

I sat with the packers - limb transporters and blood bank raiders who offed candidates who met relevant specs - the trade grunts. They were mostly young and arrogant in a good natured way. While I brooded on Shinehead’s whereabouts, they cleaned me out.

Around two, Blades came in and said I had a call. I took it behind the bar. Wary.

“Yeah?” I breathed into the mouthpiece.

“It’s Shine, I knew them would no get ya, guy, I knew it.”

“Shut up,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Safe. When Lundy said what went down, I -“

“Lundy’s with you?” That was a shock

“Sure. The big guy saw it was a hit and got him out zippo. He make it?” He meant Oscar.

“No. Lundy’s with you now?”

“Yeah man, I said. We in transit, awaiting instructions. I knew them shit-fucks wouldn’t get you.”

“Listen to me Shine. Get him to Dalston, I’ll see ya there.”

“Done thing, man,” Shinehead said.

Three hours later I was in Dalston. Lundy was asleep in the back of the car, sweating profusely. Again.

“It’s good to see ya, guy,” Shinehead said as he got out of the car.

“Go to the club,” I said, maybe too brusquely, but I was tired and I was scared. “Don’t go in, just keep your eyes open. Watch for newboys, white ones. Call me here if you see anything.”

“What about Lundy’s girls?”

“Forget them, just do what I said.”

He went. I let myself in the front passenger seat and felt my chest, wondering how long my heart had been pounding that way.

For two days we lived in the Vortex, eating at Burger drive-ins, our nerves slowly fraying. I wondered if it would make Lundy change his mind.

He’d got out of Corinth’s house thanks to Oscar, who had held off the Redell squad for ten minutes, enough time for Lundy to jump a southbound tram and lose himself in the crowd. He didn’t know how they’d discovered the safe house. Neither did I. Which meant I could trust no one. I didn’t call Shinehead that night, nor the next. I had no intention of talking to anyone except Lundy until I had him safely delivered to the clinic.

The days were murder. We began to hate each other and argued almost continuously. Then there was the traffic; every street I turned into, was torturously slow. I began to hallucinate through sheer frustration. Worst was our fear of Lawmen. When stopped, we told them I was Lundy’s chauffeur. You could see the disgust in their eyes when we told them this, disgust at Lundy stooping so low as to employ a black.

Nights were easier. Nights we got drunk and slept through all night shows at the Victoria Park Drive-in. We checked out some bars in Finsbury Park, avoiding Brixton. And all the time, Lundy was deteriorating, slowly caving in. Maybe I was too. All I could think of was that fifty grand. It was eating me.

Friday, I drove to Harley Street. Freddie’s two assistants were waiting to usher him inside. Lundy turned as he entered the building, glancing up and down the alley, the fear in his eyes worse than it had ever been. He looked right through me then disappeared inside. It was the last time I saw him white.

I drove east till I hit Palladin, then south to the river. By midday I was out of the city. When I hit Brighton I booked into a sleazepit in the black zone and slept for eighteen hours.

When I woke and had eaten, I drank beer for ten hours then slept for another twelve. I repeated the procedure for one more day, immunising my body against the fear that had been with me since friend Oscar had been holed.

Monday morning I called Shinehead. Things were quiet. No newboys. Oscar’s murder had been on the news and the Lawmen were looking for Lundy in connection with the killing. This puzzled Shinehead. I didn’t try and explain it to him.

David Hamsun knew his work would be halved if the Lawmen were looking for Lundy, as well as his own squad. It bothered me that they hadn’t been back to the club. If they’d managed to trace Lundy to Corinth’s house, then they knew about me. Maybe they knew I was out of the city? I put the thought out of my mind and told Shinehead to meet me at the club that evening. I left the sleazepit at midday and drove north, wondering how Lundy was going to cope with his new life.

They were waiting for me at the Centre. Otto Manila, a freelance packer, sat at a table with three pals. He rose as Blades brought my drink over, and followed him to where I was standing.

“Been waiting fe ya, bro,” Manila said.

“What you want?”

“A man wanna talk wit ya,” he said. “He bin very patient. T’inks ya bin outta town?”

“Who’s this man?”

“Money man fe sure. Wanna talk wit’ ya, now.” He nodded towards the pals who sat watching us. “We can go quietly, or, fe sure ya know the routine, bro.”

I knew the routine but, sometimes, knowing something does not necessarily bestow wisdom. I drove my skull down hard onto the bridge of Otto’s nose. A satisfying crack, accompanied by a red spray and a howl of pain, got the pals to their feet and American revolvers in their fists. Looked almost new, as well. I followed the routine then, after they had altered my features some.

All the way to wherever we were going, Otto was insisting that, I was “gonna fucking pay”, and that I was his. Keeping a tight lip seemed in order.

In Soho, Otto’s driver turned out of the traffic into an underground carpark off Brewer Street. Above it rose the sixty storeys of the Starbeam Hotel. The car descended a while before coming to a halt in a dimly lit corner of the auto-tomb. The pals bundled me out and shoved me towards the lift. The light above the door showed it was coming down. This depressed me.

“Be nice to the man now, bro,” Otto said, grinning, his broken nose making him look monstrous.

I was done with Otto so I said nothing until the lift doors hissed open. Three men stepped out and the pals backed off. Otto stood his ground.

“Found ‘im fe ya, just like I said,” Otto said.

“Pay the nigger, Brubaker,” the man in the middle said, brushing imaginary specks of dust from his Armani suit.

The big man on his left took a packet from his overcoat and thrust it at Otto.

Instead of taking it and going, Otto insisted on counting it. “Just to make sure, bro, that’s all.”

“Why you dumbfuck,” Brubaker said, moving towards Otto, but his boss waved a hand, stopping him.

“You should trust us,” he said, removing his tortoiseshell glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s all there, so go. We have business to discuss with this trash.”

“Fe sure, bro, wasn’t that I didn’t trust ya, just didn’t want no mistakes, seen?” Otto said, ignoring the man, his eyes totally engrossed on the wad of notes he had splayed out in his fists as he moved away from the lift to where the pals waited.

I had a feeling that Otto had just fucked up in a big way.

“Into the lift, trash,” Brubaker said. He was American. His accent seemed exaggerated, as if to emphasise that fact.

I went in. Two of them followed me. The one who had not spoken, a weaselly looking guy in a black tracksuit, disappeared into the shadows. The doors slid shut but the lift didn’t move.

“Where is he?” the boss man said. He was younger than me, early thirties, his hair slicked back with gel. He was a big man, athletic, probably worked out two or three times a week. Next to Brubaker, he was a midget.

Brubaker hit me low in the stomach. Three minutes later, when I had managed to get up, Brubaker said: “You got three seconds on each question, fuck-breath, after that, I gotta encourage you some. Unnerstand?”

I understood but I could not speak. That didn’t bode well for the interview. I managed to nod my head.

“Where is he?” the boss man repeated.

“Who?” I croaked.

Three minutes later, when Brubaker hauled me upright, he explained: “Deliberate evasiveness will be discouraged, I shoulda pointed that out, I’m sorry.”

I forgave him, it wasn’t really his fault.

“Look Toole,” the boss man went on, “I know every bloody thing there is to know about your operation. I can fuck it up with one simple phone call. However, as you are not a competitor, there is no need for me to do that. All I want to know is the whereabouts of a certain individual who did something he shouldn’t have done. We want him before the police get him.”

“Mr Shanly here,” Brubaker said, “is a tolerant sort of man. I ain’t. Talk to him, or I’ll rip your Goddamn tongue out.”

“What ya wan’ know?” I said, slipping into patois.

“Where is Lundy?” Shanly said, smiling, friendly now.

I thought carefully about my answer. The five staccato bursts of machinegun fire that erupted somewhere outside the lift prompted a hurried but stupid reply.

“I dunno.”

This time, Brubaker left me on the floor of the lift. I was blind for a minute or two and needed to be sick. I no longer cared about Shanty’s questions, I just wanted the pain to end.

“I did know,” I said, not looking at either of them. “But you too late, ‘im treatment bin completed.”

“His new ID then, what is it?” Shanly said.

“Fore you hit me again,” I said, looking at Brubaker who seemed keen for me to fuck up again. “You gotta b’lieve me when I say we got nothin’ to do with that.”

“Who does?” Shanly said.

“Whites got better access to documents an’ records.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know Toole. Can I trust you, that’s the question. Of course, if we establish that you cannot be trusted, Brubaker here will break your back. Fair enough?”

“Fine, yeah.” It was not fine, but what else could I say. Brubaker s massive fists had a chastening effect on me.

“So here’s what you do. Get back on the street and find Lundy. Do that and we may let you live.”

I didn’t have too many options, so I nodded. My head was still spinning as the doors opened. Brubaker dragged me to a black Jaguar. Along the way we passed Otto and the pals, their twisted bodies full of ragged holes just like Oscar’s.

Brubaker took me back to Brixton and dropped me off in Railton Road. At the club Shinehead was shooting pool.

“Hey guy, where ya bin?” he said, taking a seat opposite me.

“Listen Shine,” I said, grabbing his arm and yanking him across the table. “How long was Manila here this morning?”

“Don’t know Avram, really, I only got here half hour ago.”

“You’re supposed to protect me from assholes like that, Shine, where the fuck were you?”

“Shit, I had t’ings to tend to.”

“Like what?” I said.

“This an inquisition or somethin’?” His eyes flitted warily around the bar.

“How much did they grease you, Shine?”

“Hey now, what you talking ‘bout?” he said, standing up.

“Sit down Shine, or so help me I’ll off you right here.” I had no weapon but my tone of voice convinced him to sit.

“You don’ know what you saying,” he went on.

“Shutup. I ain’t interested, Shine. You succumbed to temptation and now you owe me. You keep whatever they paid you but get out on the street and look for Lundy. Find him, then let me know who and where he is.”

“Listen guy, look I’m sorry ‘bout… but look, I’ll make it up to ya, you see, I’ll -“

“Just go,” I cut him off.

I called Freddie from Dalston late that evening. He was upset when I told him what happened. Not upset at the punishment that had been meted out to me, but upset that I had called him.

“Jesus Christ, did they knock your brains out as well?”

“Listen Freddie, sooner or later they’ll get to you, no way to avoid it.” I paused, wanting him to reflect on that. “But, you can be prepared. They think Lundy’s already on the street. Feed them a false set of specs, anything. If you can convince them, then the pressures off.”

“Yes, just like you convinced them, eh? Just what the hell did Lundy do to them?”

“I don’t know. It’s got something to do with his viral status.”

“Why not let them have him? We’ve been paid.”

“I don’t renege on a deal, and we only got half so far.”

“I’m not happy about this Toole, I don’t need this aggravation. What about your man Shinehead?”

“I’ll deal with him.”

“We may have to put our business arrangement on ice. At least until you can employ more reliable people.”

“He’s a bleeding friend.”

“A good one too, no doubt. Get a grip. These people know who you are. How long before the police know too? Think about that. Lundy will be out by the weekend. He says the codes on the outstanding balance will be sent down the line Friday morning. Once you’ve accessed them, he’ll be on his own. As for these Redell people, I can’t promise anything.”

“Don’t worry, just stick to what I said.”

I hung up and edged the Vortex towards the street. It took ten minutes to slot into the traffic flowing west along Balls Pond Road. I drove with no real idea of where I was headed. I needed to think. About Lundy. What had he done that had so pissed off Hamsun? It had to be more than money. Had he bought contaminated girls into the organisation? It was a possibility.

In the meantime, I had to figure out what to do about Shine. His betrayal pissed me off but it was no great shock. His real loyalty was to himself. The situation wasn’t terminal. The thing to do was to turn him round. I was sure that Otto had greased him. Now Otto and the pals were dead, Shine might begin to see the error of his ways. Shanly and Brubaker would know about him through Otto, and once they saw him out on the street searching for the new, white Lundy, then hopefully, they’d be convinced of my good faith. Otherwise, I was dead.

On Friday morning I keyed in the codes to enable final payment. Once I received confirmation that the money had been transferred, I called Freddie to say Lundy could go. Shanly, Brubaker and the Weasel paid a visit to Freddie the following Monday. They were much more polite with Freddie Bonaventura than they were with me. Brubaker never hit him once. He promised to kill him though, unless Freddie came up with Lundy’s new profile.

Freddie did what he thought best. He told them Lundy was black. They took the specs and thanked him for his cooperation. Freddie told me this on Monday evening, adding, I shouldn’t be mad. After all, he said, we’d been paid. Disgusted, I hung up and decided that when the time came for my own derm-op, I’d find someone else.

At the end of the week, Shanly and company came for me.

“I did my best for you people,” I said in the back of the car, squashed between Brubaker and the Weasel. “I never knew he turned black, man, I did my best.”

Shanly in the front passenger seat, turned to me and said: “We know you did, that’s why we’re extending your contract.”

“What contract?”

“The Lundy Contract,” he said, staring nonchalantly out at the traffic that had grown even more sluggish in the persistent drizzle. Nobody said another word till we reached the Starbeam Hotel. The weasel stayed in the car with the driver. This time the lift began to climb.

“You’re goin’ up in the world, fuck-breath,” Brubaker said, laughing at his own joke.

The lift stopped and we stepped out. Brubaker prodded me on along a corridor then stood with me while Shanly disappeared inside a room. Two minutes later he opened the door and called us in. I was marched to a desk and pushed down into a seat in front of it. They sat either side of me.

A middle-aged man in a sweat-suit came in through a side door.

“I’m pleased to meet you Mr Toole,” he said and stretched his arm across the desk. I didn’t move till a nudge from Shanly prompted a response. I shook the man’s hand.

“I’m David Hamsun, Mr Toole, though I expect you know that.”

“No,” I said, “I never heard of you before.”

“Come, Toole, there’s no need for that. You and I are not enemies.” He slid into his seat. His face was tired and worn, his eyes contained no trace of humour. “In our own way we both provide a valued service to the people. If our services were not needed, then neither of us would be in business.”

“I’m really grateful for the talk, Mr Hamsun, but look, why don’t you tell me what it is you want,” I said. I didn’t care any more, I had nothing to offer them.

I felt Brubaker stiffen with potential violence beside me.

A wave of Hamsun’s hand and Brubaker relaxed. “Of course, Toole, time is money, I understand. Well, this is what I want from you. I want you to find Lundy for me.”

“What?”

“Yes, I’m afraid he’s proving rather elusive. But you Toole, are black. Without wishing to dwell on that unfortunate aspect of your being, it seems obvious that one who has made a success of himself given that factor, would have ways and means of finding out about new faces in, shall we say, the ghetto?”

“Newboys we call ‘em, not new faces. I don’t understand, why should I do this for you?”

“It ain’t for you to understand, fuck-breath,” Brubaker said.

“No, Brubaker, Mr Toole has a right to know.” Hamsun rose to his feet. “Come with me please.”

I followed him to the side door. A short corridor led us to another lift. We went up two floors to his penthouse apartment. I followed him through to a room off the lounge. It reminded me of Bonaventura’s clinic, or at the NCH. On the bed in the middle of the room, a woman lay unconscious, tubes and wires sprouting from various parts of her body. A nurse sat in a chair on the far side of the bed.

“This is my wife,” Hamsun said and his voice was a choked whisper. “Lundy did this to her.”

I stared at his wife. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, her hair grey and her body emaciated, her respiration weak. I wondered why Hamsun had married this old woman and then I saw the truth, even before he enlightened me.

“She will be dead soon. Thirty-three is no age to die. He gave her this disease. I can forgive her grubby affairs, these things happen, sometimes they are useful, I can even forgive Lundy, but not for giving her this, for his Unsafe Fucks. It wasn’t enough he was ripping me off - one makes allowances, but killing her was going too far.”

“I’m sorry,” I said and I was, but I sensed there was more. “Why don’t you just let it kill Lundy? He can’t have long.”

“Perhaps not, but you see, Toole, I want to be certain that he goes before I do,” he said and turned and left the room.

In the office, his voice once again under control, Hamsun said: “Find Lundy for me and I’ll pay you fifty thousand pounds. You have one month, then Mr Brubaker will come looking for you.”

Brubaker smiled, relishing the thought.

I put the word out that I was looking for a newboy and waited to see what would come back. I acquired a Walther 9mm for Shinehead and told him to learn how to use it. I told him to watch my back and nothing else.

We were shooting dice at the club, a week or more after I’d seen Hamsun. Blades called me to the phone.

“Toole?” the voice said. “I hear you been asking after me?”

“Could be a talk might be worth both our whiles, Mr…?”

“Oh, you can call me Sonny, most folks do. How you doin’ down there in Brixton?”

“Fine. I need to talk to ya. Sort out some loose ends.”

“Yeah? What you saying man? Hamsun still after me?”

“There’s some things I need to know. You remember that place in Dalston? Be there tonight at nine.”

“Hey man, that might not be possible, I gotta schedule, see. I don’t know if I trust you.”

“You got nothing to fear from me, Sonny.”

“Yeah? Guess I’ll soon know, huh?” He hung up. I called Shinehead and he followed me out on to the street.

“Tomorrow morning” I said as we walked east towards Brixton Road. “Go to Dalston and punch these codes into the computer.” I gave him a set of figures. “Wipe these accounts and transfer the balance to these new numbers. I’m trusting you to do this, Shine. See me back here tomorrow afternoon.”

Shinehead smiled to show the job was as good as done, then walked back towards the club, leaving me waiting for a tram.

At the lock-up, Lundy was waiting. He wore wire-rim mirrors to hide the tissue scarring around his eyes. In the muted streetlight, his restructured cheekbones and puffy lips looked almost normal. His hair had been pleated into dreadlocks and he seemed to have gained an inch in height. Elevators in his Gucci trainers. He wore black jeans and a black and pink ski jacket with a gold chain round his neck. He was trying too hard.

“How ya doin’ bro’?” he asked and gave me the shake. I didn’t tell him he was an anachronism - someone else would, soon enough.

In the car we discussed how things were going. He already had a couple of angles worked out. Narcs was ripe for fresh input, he said. He’d made some good contacts and his only problem was payments for the Lawman.

I said nothing about his plan. I didn’t want to shatter his illusions. Narcotics was for the corporations. What money was in it, they wanted for themselves. The risks were few and they already owned the Lawman. Body bagging, organs, blood running - these were the bones the corporations left for us to chew on - high risk scams, where you had more chance of catching a dose of viral death than making a packet, where you always had blood on your hands, your black hands.

Some among us espoused a doctrine: we should purify our bodies and minds, make ourselves strong and wait for the day when the corporations were so stoned they wouldn’t see us taking our slice of the pie; so we stopped taking dope, not just because we wanted to be strong, but because we could no longer afford the habit. We would get rich off the underside of the Corporations, then get the derm-job, sign on the white line and start to live. Only it was everybody for themselves and there was no one for Lundy. Soon I’d make a call and he’d be dead.

As if sensing my imminent betrayal, Lundy said:

“What you really wan’ from me, bro?”

“Why’d’ya do it, Sonny?” I still wanted to hear his side.

“Man, she was Hamsun’s squeeze an’ she was beautiful. I knew the risk but you don’ turn her down or she gonna stitch you up.” He took out a joint and lit it.

“So you didn’t use anything?”

“Listen bro, wit’ a squeeze like that, you don’ think you’re dealing wit’ a third party. For me, it weren’t unsafe. It was, but those were her bugs, man.”

“She must have insisted on using something” I said.

“Why man? She seen my status, she know I was clean. ‘Sides, what she care who she give it to.”

“Wait now, you saying she was carrying? She loaded you?”

“I see you been spun the party line, bro. That’s why you wanted to see me, ain’t it? Hamsun’s talked to you?”

A worm of guilt crawled into my mind. “You know about him?”

“You think that’s a surprise? Man, that was a certainty. Why you think he wants me dead so bad. Reckons I killed him, bro, but he was loaded ‘fore I ever went near her, only he din’t have himsel’ tested. What fer? He’s a rich man, he don’ need to fuck around wit’ no contaminated shit.”

“He’s very determined, Lundy.”

“Don’t call me that name,” Lundy said, bitterly. “You seen the man and you taking his money now.”

“That’s not how it is, Sonny.”

“Fuck you,” he said, getting out of the car. He stubbed his joint out against the wing, then leaned back in the open door. “You done me a favour, bro, now I guess you gonna do one for him. We all gotta do what conscience dictates. Yours say, sell Sonny, then do it.” He strolled away to the end of the alley, his body adapting to an alien rhythm, swaying in the silver streetlight. He stopped at the main street and looked both ways, rounded the comer to his right and was gone. I never saw him again.

“Where you bin,” Azelia said that night. “You don’t come round for near a month, then stick yo’ head roun’ the door, just’ like dat. Ain’t good enough, Avram.”

I closed my mind to her and went through to the living room and switched on the tv. She followed me.

“This s’posed to be relationship? It fool me fer a start. Now look, you woke Ellis.” She left the room to tend her son who had started crying in his bedroom. I listened to her soothing words, feeling nothing. The relationship had fooled me as well, but no more. It had stagnated, become a habit which neither of us could break. Like all habits, it was damaging. I was going to kick it then, soon as the time was right.

She came back into the room, carrying the child. “See what you done to your boy?”

“He’s not my kid, Azelia,” I said, wearily. “We’ve been through this before.”

“You bin through it, I ain’t. When you took me on Avram, you knowed I had him. You gettin’ bored now, scared a responsibility, you scum, boy, cos you got no loyalty to no one ‘cept yo’self.”

I went to bed. She had no right to say those things to me, even if they were true. If I did owe her something, then an op for her and Ellis would clear the debt as far as I was concerned.

At midday I went up to Dalston and checked the computer. All the accounts were empty, including the new ones. I punched in an override command, directing it to tell me where the money was. It whirred, then the screen flatlined and went blank; phosphor dots stormed the screen and it stayed that way. Booby-trapped. I rang the Rio Negres.

“Shinehead? Him ain’t bin in all morning,” Blades told me.

“Fine, forget it for now,” I said and went to Harley Street.

For three days I staked out Freddie Bonaventura’s clinic. The weather was turning cold and a persistent drizzle fell, soaking my Crombie. I watched from across the street, knowing he would show up. And on the third evening, he did.

I rang Hamsun from the Centre that evening. Shanly took the call.

“You found him?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“I wanna talk to Hamsun.”

“That’s not possible,” he said, laughing softly. “There’s been a bereavement. Mrs Hamsun. We’ll take care of Lundy. Mr Hamsun would prefer it that way. So, where is he?”

“I’ll call you soon,” I said.

“What are you playing at?”

“Plenty time, Shanly,” I said, enjoying his mute rage. “You wait by the phone and you won’t miss my call.” I hung up.

The next day I opened a new account for Avram Toole and put a hundred pounds in there. Then I called Shanly.

“Friday morning I’ll give you an address where he’ll be. I won’t call till the money’s lodged in this account.” I gave him the number. “Soon as I see it there, I’ll call.”

“Wait a minute, Toole, what sort of operation do you think this is? We are not-“

“I don’t care a fuck what you are,” I said. “If the fifty grand isn’t there by ten Friday morning, then you in shit with your boss.” I put the phone down and went back to Freddie’s in case of an early discharge.

I checked the account Friday at nine forty. It was done. I rang Shanly from Harley Street and told him where I was waiting. Thirty minutes later the Jaguar drew up beside me. I sat in the back beside Shanly. Brubaker and the Weasel were in the front.

“I put the word out that I was looking for a newboy, a black one,” I said. “I had a hunch.”

“A fucking hunch, Jeez,” Brubaker said, disgusted. He glared his hatred at me in the rear view mirror.

“Shutup,” Shanly told him. “What are you saying, Toole?”

“I wanted him to know that you know he’s black.”

“I see,” he said. “He came back to Bonaventura. I guess you used your head this time. Gentlemen,” he turned to the two in front, “Mr Lundy will be with us shortly.”

Anger bloomed inside me while we waited. Even if it was only revenge, I was still happy. I could wait all day. He came out after fifteen minutes.

He wore a grey Italian suit, a matching trilby and a pair of mirrors. He smiled at the top of the steps as he gazed up and down Harley Street. I could tell by the way he clutched the leather briefcase beneath his arm, he was confident that what was in there would guarantee him a piece of corporate pie.

Brubaker and the Weasel got out and sauntered through the slow moving traffic. Even when they sidled up to him, he didn’t see it. He cracked his stupid black grin on his new white lips and made some joke. Only when a Mauser was placed against his chest and another was rammed through the mirrors into his left eye, did Shinehead’s smile fade. Crimson jets erupted silently from his head and back. Brubaker and the Weasel were halfway across the street before the body hit the ground.

Rumours. Even after ten months I hear them. They say that Lundy is still out there, hustling in his own small-time way. No one says he is dying. They only speak of his fedora with the diamond studded headband and the gold that hangs from his neck and none of them know it is only a noose.

An acquaintance put me in touch with a Swedish doctor in Finchley a while back. I set things up for Azelia and the kid but when I told her, she told me to stick it, said if she was born white then that was fine, only she wasn’t and she wasn’t chasing after no dream like Avram Toole. She had her pride, she said and didn’t try to stop me when I moved out.

Some stupid sense of loyalty stops me from getting the operation while he’s alive. I watch the news bulletins every night and scan the papers every morning for a piece on the death of a two-bit narc hustler. It should be reported somewhere, if only for its curiosity value. Sometimes I imagine the autopsy: those people peeling back that black flesh and discovering him beneath. What would Hamsun say if he found out? He would say nothing. He is dead. Lundy’s life or death is of no value to anyone. Except me, because it holds me here in the black.

I’ve opened a new account for Anthony Sturgeon while I’ve been waiting. He, at least, understands my predicament, understands why I must wait. He has waited for thirty-five years to be born. Another one or two makes no difference

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