Bombproof (5 page)

The drunk looks at him hard. Looks at his empty glass. ‘Rumpelstiltskin.’

‘Close.’

Harry Galanto turns the corner and lets out a bellow. ‘My boy! My boy!’

He squeezes through a gap in the bar and throws his arms around Sami in a bear hug, a beer hug, a cross between the two.

Harry has gone up a few weight divisions since he hung up the gloves. His stomach is like a different person, but he refuses to wear trousers any bigger than a forty-four waist. This has the effect of squeezing everything upwards until his gut spills over his belt in a doughy tsunami.

Harry dusts off a stool. Goes back behind the bar. Pours Sami a pint. It’s his first alcohol in two years. He upends the glass. It’s good.

‘Have you seen Nadia?’ he asks.

Harry grimaces slightly. ‘She dropped by Tuesday.’

It’s not the whole story.

‘She was supposed to do a shift,’ says Harry. ‘She’s been working behind the bar a few nights.’

‘Yeah, she told me. What happened?’

‘I told her not to bother.’

‘Why?’

Harry eyes him sorrowfully. ‘I didn’t like some of the clientele she was attracting.’

‘Like who?’

‘Toby Streak.’

Sami feels his face twitch. ‘What was the Streak doing here?’

‘Sniffing round Nadia like she was on heat.’

‘They were together?’

Harry nods and pours another pint. The beer has reached Sami’s bloodstream. He wants more. Needs it badly. Suddenly, he wants to be one of the boozed up shit-kickers in the bar, living the simple life, drunk by midday and a kebab at closing time. Instead he has to deal with the implications and possible consequences of Nadia being hooked up with Toby Streak.

Sami doesn’t know Streak well but he’s aware of his reputation. He’s a pimp and a small-time coke dealer, but these are just sidelines. His main action is running a lover-boy scam out of nightclubs and bars, picking up girls and showing them a good time.

Flash car, flash clothes, just the right patter. He wines them and dines them; buys them baubles, takes them to stay at expensive hotels. He treats them like film stars or supermodels and then introduces them to the snorting stuff.

And once he’s swept them off their pretty little size-seven feet, he says, ‘Do you love me?’ And they say, ‘Yeah.’ And he says, ‘How much do you love me.’ And they say, ‘Completely.’

‘Would you do anything for me?’

‘Anything,’ they say.

And that’s when he opens the door and invites another man or another girl into the room.

They do it for Toby. They do it for the cocaine. And soon they do it for the camera. Girl on girl. Threesomes. Straight sex and then more.

‘If you love me you’ll do it,’ he tells them. ‘If you love me you’ll have your nipples pierced. If you love me you’ll have a boob job. If you love me you’ll have a “tramp stamp” tattooed on your back. If you love me you’ll let these three men fuck you every which way …’

That’s what Toby Streak does. That’s how he operates. He finds girls, grooms them and sells them on.

Sami feels the vomit rise. He swallows hard. It’s not the alcohol rushing around his bloodstream. It’s the image of Nadia and Toby Streak. The foul taste in his mouth won’t go away.

6

Ray Garza Jnr doesn’t look much like his old man, thinks Ruiz, as he watches him being led into the dock. He looks more like a foppish public schoolboy, who can’t flick the fringe out of his eyes because each of his hands is cuffed to a policeman.

Maybe he has the makings of a moustache on his top lip. Maybe he’s been playing with a black crayon downstairs. Only his eyes betray his breeding. He’s got that Garza don’t-fuck-with-me glare.

Ruiz takes a seat in the public gallery. The cold wooden benches are designed to give you piles.

The prosecutor opposes bail, claiming that Ray Jnr is a flight risk. He talks about the seriousness of the charges, the discharging of a firearm and a high-speed pursuit that put lives at risk.

Meanwhile Ray Junior’s silk is acting like he’s heard it all before. He’s bored. When are they going to get some new material or change the record? He’s not saying any of this, but you can see it in his body language. Then it’s his turn. He takes to his feet. Shoulders back. Launches into a booming defence of his young client, who is going to vigorously defend the charges and who disputes completely the police account of what happened.

It’s a bravura performance, including a description of how earlier on in the evening in question, young Ray had been confronted by hooligans who had taken offence at the vehicle he was driving and made threats against ‘his person’.

‘When later that evening a vehicle came up behind Mr Garza at such speed on the motorway, he thought he was being chased and feared for his life.’

‘The vehicle in question had a flashing light,’ points out the judge.

‘Absolutely, your honour,’ replies the silk. ‘And very similar lights are available for a fiver at pound shops and only a month ago one was used by bogus policemen to hijack a high-performance vehicle in Manchester.’

The judge doesn’t respond. The silk is in full flow.

‘It will be our submission, your honour, that the police illegally searched my client’s vehicle. Anything recovered is inadmissible in criminal proceedings.’

The judge has heard enough.

‘This is a bail hearing, Mr Cleary. Save your argument for the trial.’

‘Of course, your honour, I just wanted it clearly noted that my client will be pleading not guilty.’

‘It’s duly noted.’

Mr Cleary’s next speech is almost as florid as the first one. Ray Jnr is portrayed as a model citizen, a promising young businessman and a credit to his schooling and his family.

‘My client’s father is a well-respected business figure and a patron of the arts. He is prepared to put up a substantial surety and to personally guarantee his son’s appearance at any future court proceedings.

‘The only witnesses in this case are the police officers involved so it’s not a question of protecting their interests …’

Ruiz is watching the door as Garza Snr enters. He comes alone, wearing an expensive suit and a cashmere overcoat draped over his forearm.

Ruiz watches him descend three steps. Turn right. Find a seat. He glances into the body of the court, at the judge, the bench, the dock - surveying everything as if he’s putting a value on it.

Finally his eyes rest on Ruiz. They don’t change. Nothing about him suggests that he’s surprised or anxious. This is what people mean when they talk about the stillness on the surface of the pond.

The judge is making his decision. A lot of words say very little.

Ray Jnr is granted bail: two million pounds and conditions. He has to surrender his passport and to report every day to Bow Street Police Station.

Ray Jnr hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t looked at his father. There are problems, thinks Ruiz. Maybe Bones was right. The boy might be Ray Garza’s blind spot.

Outside the Old Bailey, Ruiz waits under the arches. How does someone pay two million pounds in bail, he wonders. Do they write a cheque? Organise a bank transfer? Maybe Garza is so well respected now, they’ll accept an IOU.

A black Mercedes is parked outside, the driver waiting. An hour passes. Garza emerges. Garza Jnr is behind him. They’re still not talking.

‘The wrong Garza was in the dock today,’ says Ruiz, stepping from the shadows.

Ray Snr stops and turns. ‘Many happy returns, Vincent. Did you get my card?’

‘I haven’t opened it.’

‘I’m sure you have dozens waiting. How is retirement treating you?’

‘Fine.’

‘You were never really cut out to be a detective, were you? It must have been like climbing to the top of the ladder and finding it leaning against the wrong window.’

‘The view doesn’t change.’

Ray Snr smiles. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. It’s much better from where I am.’

Ray Jnr has gone to the car. He leaves the door open.

‘I admire you, Vincent.’

‘How so?’

‘Most people choose the path that gains them the greatest reward for the least amount of effort. It’s a law of nature. You defied it. You could have made decent money. You could have had a reasonable life. Instead you chose to make a difference. You have issues, Vincent, an obsessive nature. Maybe your old man was a violent fucker, smacked you round; bruised you on the inside. Now you’re damaged goods.’

‘That’s a fascinating story,’ says Ruiz. ‘Ever think about adapting it for the stage?’

Ray Jnr leans out the car door. ‘Come on. Ditch the drunk. I’m hungry.’

His father laughs. ‘He thinks you’re a tramp, Vincent.’

‘Is that right. Talking out of your arse must be hereditary.’ Ruiz glances at the car. ‘I’m sure they’ll find a way of stopping that in prison.’

Garza slides his overcoat onto his shoulders, wearing it like a cape. He smiles, showing his incisors.

‘Voltaire said that madness was thinking of too many things in succession too quickly or to think of one thing obsessively. Get a life, Vincent. Before it’s too late.’

‘Yeah, well, a philosopher called Jagger once said, “Anything worth doing is worth overdoing”.’

‘You’re a Stones fan. I should have known.’

7

Sami has been sitting on the same beer for nearly an hour. It feels like it cost him his left testicle. Five quid. It’s fucking outrageous!

The place is called the Rockpool, which is pretty apt considering they let slime like Toby Streak hang out here. He’s not around yet, it’s early days, but he’s expected, according to the bartender. It took another fiver for the information. Extortion.

The dance floor is starting to fill. It’s all yuppie music and rag trade types, wannabe models, wannabe wannabes and mega-rich girls with shit-paying jobs on
Tatler
and
Vogue
.

Sami knew the bouncer on the door, a Neanderthal called Albert, who used to do security at some of Sami’s gigs. The queue stretched down the alley, most of them men. The good-looking birds were ushered inside.

It’s a numbers game. Women won’t go to a club where drunk blokes on the pull outnumber them and drunk blokes won’t go to a club where there are no women.

Sami keeps scanning the room, looking for Nadia. He should never have left her. Never have allowed an incompetent lawyer to talk him into pleading guilty.

He keeps glancing at the door every time it opens, waiting for Streak to arrive. He knows what he looks like. They’ve met once before but he doubts if Streak will remember. It was at a party in Notting Hill full of music producers, sound engineers and managers. Sami had been invited to meet a top manager, one of those guys who turns run of the mill pub singers into the next Robbie Williams.

Streak was there. He came in the back door, grabbed a Bollinger and acted like he was a proper guest, the life and soul, and everyone’s best friend just because he was bringing their toot. But once they had their stuff they wanted him to fuck off - use the tradesman’s entrance please.

That’s the thing with pimps and coke dealers. They hang out at celebrity parties and backstage at rock concerts, thinking they’re bosom buddies with celebrities but they’re nothing but delivery boys.

Sami didn’t sign with the manager or get a recording deal that night, but he did shag a cute-looking waitress from Rotherhithe who had a thing for doing it in the shower.

The club is heaving. Young babes and blokes with city jobs are bouncing up and down on the dance floor. Streak should be here by now.

There he is - on the stairs. He’s wearing a Paul Smith suit and drinking a cocktail. He’s with a girl. It’s not Nadia. She’s blonde, young, with an innocent face and an athletic body. She presses it against Streak, rubbing her tits against his chest.

Streak is treating her like she doesn’t exist - gazing over the top of her head - perhaps looking for someone prettier.

Sami watches him for a while. Every so often someone approaches. A nod, a wink, a palm against palm, and then they wander off. A few minutes later, Streak sends the girl after them. She must be carrying the stuff. Where? There’s no room in that dress for anything else but her tits.

She comes back again. Steak gives her a little something as a reward. She queues for a cubicle - the lines are longer outside than inside - and she comes back all dreamy and grateful, nibbling on his earlobe.

Sami waits for a while. Gets the lay of the land. A black girl in a short denim skirt sits on a stool next to him. Her handbag swings against her rump and her braided hair click-clacks like marbles in a sack.

‘You look lonely,’ she says.

‘You look expensive,’ replies Sami.

She gets the hump and walks off, swinging her hips.

Finally, Sami approaches Streak. Says hello. Watches his reaction. He doesn’t remember him. Sami wants to reach out and squeeze his throat until his eyes pop out.

Instead he negotiates a score. He glances at the girl. She throws her shoulders back so her tits lift higher. So does the hem of her dress. My God, those legs! She’s seventeen if she’s a day.

‘Outside in the alley,’ says Streak, yelling over the music. ‘Zoe will meet you there.’

Sami turns away and pushes through bodies on the dance floor. The music seems to die suddenly as the fire door closes. He can hear himself think.

A few minutes later, Zoe joins him. Her eyes check him out as if she’s trying to decide if he’s a player. Suddenly, she puts her arms around his neck and kisses him. The small silver foil wrap slides between his lips. Her tongue caresses his. His hard-on is instantaneous. He’s been inside for nearly three years. It’s criminal to press a body like that against him.

‘You know someone called Nadia?’ he asks.

Zoe frowns. ‘Nah.’

She’s lying.

‘She used to hang out with Streak.’

Zoe glances toward the fire door.

‘Nadia is my sister. I’m looking for her.’

Zoe steps back. She’s wearing a handbag the size of a cigarette packet. She pulls a lipstick from inside.

‘She used to hang out with Toby. He dumped her.’

‘When?’