Corpsing (18 page)

I got myself a beer and had a look round. The Comedy Store, off Leicester Square, was low-ceilinged, black-walled, overheated and cramped. Everything in the room seemed to be sweating.

I got to my seat without being taken for a heckler or an upstager or any other kind of comedy-fodder.

The comic on stage was a nondescript bloke, wearing a collarless cheesecloth shirt, faded blue jeans and desert boots. He looked like about 50 per cent of the male audience (and about 5 per cent of the women) – although he did have considerably less hair than anyone else in the room.

He was slowly dying. Punch-lines thudded out into a soggy semi-silence. It was like watching porridge cook – occasionally, a bubble would blurp to the surface and the steam would hiss semi-silently out. There would be a guffaw over here, a snigger over there – but they would never amount to anything that you’d call actual laughter. The bloke was clinging white-knuckled to the mike stand. The symptoms of imminent death were there for all to behold: pallor, clamminess, dilated pupils, lack of sensitivity to pain.

A drop of sweat ran down the thin bridge of his nose and swung for a moment at the tip. By chance, the drop fell off just as he’d delivered the punch-line to what he obviously felt was his best gag. It involved a housewife and a washer-dryer trying
to decide where to go on their first date. The droplet of sweat hit the microphone, giving out a mini-thud of its own. A few of the audience who had been caught up in the drama of it’s-going-to-fall-no-it’s-not laughed with relief and recognition. The bloke, who hadn’t noticed what was going on with his sweat, looked round the room with a delighted smile.

‘I’ve been Henderson McIntyre, thanks for listening.’

There was a forgiving round of applause as Henderson jogged off.

The compère came on – and made observations about wall-paper patterns for a couple of minutes.

‘And now a big surprise, the moment you haven’t all been waiting for, into the Roman arena of the open mike to preach to the lions and eat the Christians – the ker-rimin’lly funny
Mister…
Tony…
Smart
!’

The microphone was crunched back on to the stand. The lights went down, leaving only a single spot. Tony, carrying his trademark replica gun, came out to loud but measured applause. He still had to prove himself here. This wasn’t
his
audience. Yet.

Tony’s act was mostly to do with the comedy of violence. He was getting laughs from stories of hard men shooting their own bollocks off. (Not from me, he wasn’t.) The highlight came when he re-enacted an armed robbery in the style of anyone whose name the audience shouted out. This routine went on for about ten minutes as more and more suggested characters were introduced: robber (the Home Secretary), cashier (Godzilla), copper (Ronnie Kray), getaway driver (Stevie Wonder), have-a-go hero (Marcel Marceau), underworld boss (Yoda). The audience were killing themselves. Tony was in the sweet eye of the comedic hurricane, calm surrounded by whirling chaos. There he stood, unable to deliver his next line over the screamingly hysterical reaction to his last.

Finally, Tony bowed, fired a couple of imaginary rounds off into the crowd with his replica gun and was gone.

This time the audience was abandoned in its applause. They wanted him back, but he didn’t come.

I went up to the bar. Henderson McIntyre was there, staring into the abyss of a pint. I stood as far away from him as possible. I’d had more than enough of the dead.

As I waited for Tony, I thought about how clear it was why he’d become successful. He was one of those men who quickly rise in their chosen profession (usually the arts) because they so physically intimidate their critics that they get great notices from day one. Tony was known to be mightily ‘connected’ – and though most critics spend all day sitting on their arses, they are still – as a class – known to value their kneecaps.

Tony surfed in on a minty-crisp wave of freshly applied aftershave. He’d changed his shirt (yellow to orange), but was wearing the same blue suit and alligator loafers that he’d had on on stage.

‘Let’s go’ was all he said, after I’d attracted his attention and he’d shimmied up to me.

There were people definitely hovering. If Tony didn’t leave soon he’d be giving in-depth comedy-career advice to a queue of bald men in cheesecloth shirts. He’d already given his advice – I’d read it in a dozen interviews. Tony always said something like,
Give up. You’re never going to be good enough. If you’ve got something else, do it. But if you’re a failure even at giving it up, then you might be in with a chance. Just don’t come asking Tony Smart for advice.

As we passed Henderson McIntyre, Tony gave him a big pat on the back.

‘Happens to the best of us, mate.’

Henderson wanted to say something but couldn’t.

‘What doesn’t kill you, eh?’ said Tony, winking.

Henderson almost managed a smile.

We set off again, fast – and so did Tony’s mouth.

‘You see, I am motivated solely by hatred and jealousy. Other people, I see how well they are doing and want to do better. D’you understand me? This isn’t about bringing joy to the masses;
this is about bringing masses of dosh and wonga and moolah to my bank account for me to spend in any way I see fit. These are the quotes. I hope you’re getting them down. This
is
an interview, isn’t it? What are you?
Time Out
again?’

‘No,’ I said.

The flow halted. He looked at me with all the implied violence I’d been expecting, then moved off again.

‘Oh, right,’ he said.

He didn’t bother with the stage door. He was quite happy to be recognized and adulated while moving along at about near-jogging pace. Men, he cruised straight past; women – especially the bigger-breasted ones – caused small stutters in his stride.

Ritual farewells were exchanged with the Comedy Store box office: ‘You could hear a fucking pin drop in there,’ and ‘Fuck off, you tight cunts,’ and ‘Bring your pyjamas next time, big boy,’ and ‘I’m never working this shithole again.’

And then we were out into the cool dark crowded street.

‘Follow me,’ said Tony. ‘Can’t you keep up or something?’

‘Um, actually, I’ve only been off crutches a couple of days.’

‘Oh shit.’ Tony halted, remembering more clearly who I was. ‘You all right?’ Suddenly I’d turned into his infirm grandmother. ‘Take your time. Sorry, mate, I’m just so fucking buzzed when I’ve come off, you know. I mean, did you see that? Did you fucking hear that? All new material that was. Haven’t used one word of it before. And I fucking killed. I had the whole fucking room. It wasn’t the greatest, mind. You need more for that. You need something… transcendental. But they were dead in there, weren’t they? Fucking slain.’

He was speeding up again, surfing the gone moment, pulling 360s on the recollection, tubing down the barrel of joy. He was also, I realized, like all stage-people, desiring something more – a positive response, confirmation, praise – from me. If it would add sweep to his self-surf, he wanted to know what I thought,
but if it would beach his being-belief, he wanted none of my opinions.

There was no need for me to lie –

‘You killed,’ I said.

Tony grinned gurningly, and led me across Leicester Square, along an alley beside the Wyndhams Theatre and down some narrow steps into something called the Koha Bar.

‘It’s Albanian-owned,’ he said, as we walked in.

The barman was the kind of handsome that you’d call chiselled – particularly when you caught sight of the scar that had been left on his right temple. He recognized Tony and served him before two other men who had been waiting. Without asking, Tony ordered me a Budvar.

A low table was free in the far corner. We took it – this was how Tony’s life went: working-class hero, friend to the Albanian people, obstacles clearing themselves from his path, goodwill springing up like plastic flowers all around.

‘My grandmother’s half-Albanian,’ said Tony. ‘The other half could’ve been fucking anything. She used to live in Portsmouth.’

I nodded, as if that explained everything – which, in retrospect, it did.

Our Budvar bottles tipped together, up towards the white-washed brickwork of the ceiling.

‘What do you want?’ said Tony, wiping his mouth with an orange handkerchief.

‘Questions,’ I said. ‘Answers.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grunted, going into right-man-in-right-pub mode.

Before I got on to my more specific questions, I decided to ask around the subject – see how much of Tony’s hardness was real and how much image. What I really wanted to know now was his connection with Alun and Dorothy.

‘What do you know about me being shot?’

‘Nothing much,’ shrug, sip – i.e.,
You’ve got to ask the right questions before I give you the right answers.

‘I’ll tell you what I think. Please interrupt and correct me if I go wrong. Someone wanted Lily killed – and whoever was with her at the time, as well. Now, if they were an amateur – like I am – they’d have to have found someone to help them. Someone like you –’

‘Nah,’ he said.

‘– like you would have been a few years ago.’

‘Guns, yes. Killing people, no.’

‘Look, the guy who shot us had a flash bike, flash clothes –’

‘And a pretty fucking flash gun.’

‘Really,’ I said, realizing that I’d have to dumb myself down even further to get what I wanted out of Tony.

‘Most guns used in armed robberies are stuff left over from the Second World War, or Farmer Giles’ old shotgun, or something your mad uncle Frank’s built in his shed. As I understand it, what we’re talking about was a Gruber & Litvak – practically brand-new. If you want my opinion, the guy who shot you is a real expert. He’s been well paid in the past. He’s able to demand exactly the gear he wants. Fantasy stuff. He gets paid vast amounts of cash to do something he’s very good at.’

‘If he was so good, why did he get caught?’ I asked. ‘And why am I still alive?’

‘Bad luck – or, in your case, good luck. Happens to everyone.’

‘Well, he hasn’t told the police anything.’

‘He wouldn’t. He’s a professional. He’ll do his time, keep shtum, come out and collect a nice little bonus.’

Two men walked down the stairs and into the bar. One of them was very white and one of them was very black. They were wearing identical charcoal suits, identical down to the very folds. Also, identical dark glasses, black shirts, blue ties, black loafers. Both of them were carrying mobile phones in their right hands. I recognized them: these were the undercover policemen who’d followed me in the unmarked Mondeo. Together, they removed their dark glasses. The bar was so dingy that the albino had no
need to squint – but his eternal squint lines were there, raw and pinkly etched into his skin, like nappy rash, all around his eyes. I thought of baby chicklets before they get their feathers. Everyone turned to look at them, then turned away so as not to get caught looking again. In my experience, the albinos I’d met had always been fairly irascible – one might say ratty – individuals. This one seemed no exception. His every movement was a tetch or a twitch. The black man was a picture of stillness and calm. The two of them went up to the bar – ordered drinks – came over – sat down at the table next to ours. So strong were their don’t-look-at-us vibes that people kept involuntarily turning to look, not at them, but at the vibes. I could feel the curiosity of others reflecting off them and on to us: were we being so obvious as to stare?

‘If I wanted to get hold of a Gruber & Litvak,’ I said, ‘where would I go?’

‘Well…’ said Tony, glancing over towards the albino. There was the merest glint of eye contact.

‘Germany,’ Tony said, as if that were what he’d originally been going to say. ‘They’re manufactured in Germany.’

‘So, they’re very hard to get hold of in London?’

The albino and the black man started talking about football: QPR and Wimbledon, Arsenal and Spurs. Just in case I was wrong about them being policemen, I listened closely to their talk – neither of them had the rough voice.

‘Almost impossible,’ said Tony. He finished his Budvar.

‘Can I get you another?’

‘Uh-uh-uh,’ Tony was freaking out completely – clammy and stuttering, like a stand-up virgin. He hated the police. ‘Okay, then, you know, right…’

Once at the bar I did my best not to get served, leaving Tony alone with the two policemen, to see if there’d be any further contact.

There wasn’t, at least none that I saw. The police obviously
knew that their mere presence – each of them was about as present as anyone I’d ever seen – would be enough to keep Tony in line.

An idea occurred to me – a very naughty one – as I carried the two beers back to the table.

‘Cheers,’ I said, loud enough for Tony to know the police could hear. ‘Thanks for your help. I don’t think I’ve got any more questions. I’ll just follow up on everything you’ve said.’

Tony looked terrified.

‘But,’ he stammered, ‘but I haven’t told you anything.’

‘No, really. You’ve given me more than enough – I didn’t expect you to be anything like so helpful.’

He looked at me, jacklighted. His explaining would have to come later – elsewhere.

I was sure the idea of talking to the police, of risking his wonderful life, was what had got him panicked. If I’d been him, I would have panicked, too. But then again, if I’d been him, I wouldn’t have gone round giving free advice on crime and criminals to anyone who came asking.

The police were still talking about football. Not a word of what we’d said had registered, externally. But if possible they were both even more intensely present than before. They seemed the very embodiment of the law: whole long lines of corridors and holding cells and courtrooms and prison cells – all stretching out into the behind-them distance.

We drank up, in silence, untasting, quickly.

Tony was sulking. He was in the weaker position, probably because he was more clearly aware what his position was. I had outsmarted him. (No pun.) This wasn’t something he was used to. As I glowed with beginner’s luck, he glowered with expert’s pique. Or maybe it was something else: this being just another step up for him, further off street-level, less in touch with the necessary instincts.