DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction)

‘Zahavi is an original, a literary outlaw’

The Times

‘It's as if Quentin Tarantino was on a writing sabbatical in North London . . . Stacked with smart dialogue and a vivid sense of location, it is a virtually ready-made offering to that tiny corpus of Cockney gangster movies that can hold their own against the Hollywood model’

Independent on Sunday

‘She writes like Harold Pinter with attitude: slyly mannered, darkly ironic, gleefully menacing’

The Bookseller

Also by Helen Zahavi

Dirty Weekend

True Romance

First published in Great Britain by Anchor, 1998

Electronic edition published 2011

Copyright © Helen Zahavi 1998, 2011

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author

DONNA AND THE FATMAN

(
Crime Thriller Fiction
)

Helen Zahavi

CHAPTER 1

A mile or so from Hackney, more or less in Dalston, is a pasta place the locals know as Carlo’s. It’s buried down the end of a cul-de-sac and it can take a while to find it, but it’s a laid-back kind of place, all golden light and mellow wood, the sort of place that beckons you in on a wet November evening.

So when two young men came through the door — a skinhead one and a normal one — no one really looked at them. About a dozen people having a feed, and no one really stared at them. Well-built men with perfect teeth, they smiled a lot, and who could blame them.

‘You hungry, Merv?’

‘Bit peckish, frankly.’

‘Get a menu, shall I?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

The skinhead one, who had a shiny scalp, began moving round the room. He threaded his way between the tables and watched the punters tucking in. Now and then he passed a remark, if he thought it might be helpful — asked them if they liked his hair, or told them food was good for them — but he mostly merely stood and watched.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he’d say. ‘I’m only looking.’

And when they heard that slightly lisping voice and saw the polished ankle-boots they’d suddenly lose their appetite, at which he’d throb and glow with pleasure, he’d almost spurt with satisfaction. For he liked himself, immensely. He was a fine young man, in his opinion. He was benevolence personified. A decent bloke with a shaven skull. He might have scratched too much, but he couldn’t help it, for he always itched when he interacted. He often rubbed himself when he made new friends.

But he had this need for conversation, and when he saw the couple by the window, oblivious and self-absorbed, they seemed so clean and virtuous, such pure and wholesome citizens, that he thought he’d introduce himself, he felt he’d better say hello.

‘That looks tasty.’

He bent and peered.

‘It got a name?’

The husband studied the razored scalp.

‘Zabaglione.’

The skinhead frowned.

‘Not English, then.’

‘Not really.’

‘Nice, though, is it?’

‘It’s one of our favourites.’ A nervous cough. ‘We always have it.’

‘For your afters . . . ’

‘You should try it, sometime.’

The skinhead nodded.

‘Well just a weeny bit, as you’re offering,’ and he dipped his finger into the bowl, scooped out some stuff, and licked it off. A moment’s contemplation, as he thought the matter over, and then he said:

‘Bit sweet, old mate, if I’m being honest.’

He turned to the wife.

‘You come here often?’

And while she’s fumbling for an answer, he hears footsteps behind and his master’s voice:

‘Billy.’

‘Merv . . . ?’

‘The kitchen.’

‘Right.’

He bowed politely to the lady, and followed his friend into heat and steam. There were two men in there, and they didn’t look well. They had a nervous look, if you really looked. The chef was standing by the knife-rack. Didn’t pick one up, but he stayed close by. The other man was slightly older, tinted glasses and manicured nails. About forty-five, if you felt like counting. A well-pressed suit and slicked-back hair and sweating, fairly heavily.

The one called Mervyn smiled at him.

‘Hello, Carlo. All right, are we?’

The kitchen so hot it was like a sauna. He unbuttoned his jacket.

‘Where’s the waiter?’

‘He went out the back. Took the service exit.’

‘Wise lad, I reckon. Pissed off back to Naples, he’s any sense. And who can blame him, all these rowdy East End types.’

‘He comes from Wembley.’

‘Someone has to.’

There was hardly room to move in there, not with four of them, not crammed in tight. Mervyn licked his lips. The air felt moist, as though sticking to his skin. He gazed at the cook, quietly weighed him up.

‘I think it’s time you went,’ he said.

He stepped towards him, right up close. They were nearly touching, almost kissing.

‘We’ve come for a chat with the boss-man, see? Got to talk to Mister Carlo.’

He plucked a jacket off a hook. Shoved it against the man’s chest.

‘So fuck off home, you’re breathing my air.’

The man didn’t move. He was a wiry man, used to chopping things up. A faint, pink flush spread over his neck. Pin-drop silence. He stared at the boys. You listened hard, you heard adrenalin pumping. Ten long seconds of exquisite tension, and Carlo touched his arm, murmured something. The man seemed to hesitate, then shrugged and left. They watched the door bang shut behind him, heard the footsteps getting quieter.

Billy sighed, a soft and wistful exhalation.

‘Pity, that.’

He scratched his cheek.

‘Almost had a scene there, Merv, and I like a scene.’

‘I know you do.’

Mervyn checked his watch. Nearly half eleven. He glanced at the owner.

‘You got it ready?’

‘You need to ask?’

‘So you’ve got it, right?’

Carlo nodded glumly. He took out an envelope and passed it over.

‘I can’t do this, Mervyn.’

‘You can if you try.’

‘I’m bleeding, see.’

Mervyn weighed the envelope in his hand. It felt pleasantly thick.

‘You got a problem?’

‘I’m only saying.’

‘Well say it to the big man, cause he’ll be here soon.’

The skinhead leaned forward.

‘He coming round tonight, then?’

‘I think so, Billy. He’ll be dropping by.’

Mervyn pushed past him and opened the door.

‘He gets these whims,’ he murmured. ‘Likes to keep his hand in.’

He led them back into the dining-room. It was virtually empty, almost devoid of customers. They’d abandoned half-eaten dinners, and barely-touched desserts, and picked up their coats and departed. An all but vacant restaurant. Very nearly no one there. Just some girl, some bit of nothing, sitting in the corner.

Billy stared round the room and scraped his neck. He dug in his nails where it always itched.

‘Where’s the punters, Merv?’

‘All gone, Billy.’

The skinhead looked a touch perturbed.

‘Was it something I said?’

Mervyn straightened his tie.

‘Might have been.’ He checked his cuffs. ‘You never know.’

He walked over to the girl and pulled out a chair.

‘Hello, darling. You still here?’

She flicked her eyes towards him. The red mouth opened.

‘Apparently.’

‘Apparently,’ he repeated softly. ‘You’re apparently still here. But the thing is, see, the question truly is, my love:
why
are you still here?’

He sat down and took out his fags and looked her over. Not bad, he thought. Bit scruffy, maybe, but he wouldn’t say no. She’d do for a night out in Dalston. He shook one clear of the pack and she pulled it slowly out and slid it between her lips. Short, black skirt, and looking at him in that certain way. He struck a match and leaned towards her.

‘You miss your bus, or something?’

She sucked in tar and nicotine, then blew out smoke in a thin, grey plume.

‘I’m waiting for my coffee.’

He stuck the burnt match in the corner of his mouth. She had her charms, he told himself. Not too many, but one or two. The scarlet nails, the lippiness, that pure, perverted skirt.

‘Hear that, Carlo? Let’s have some liquid for the lady.’

She flicked off ash and studied him, took in the dove-grey suit and the well-cut hair.

‘I didn’t catch your name.’

‘I’m Mervyn, sweetheart. Known as Merv the Perv.’

She watched him lean back in the chair. A big, young lad. Lot of attitude.

‘That your car outside?’

‘You want a ride?’

‘Because I quite like Jags.’

‘It’s a Daimler, actually.’

‘Posh sort of car for such a rough sort of bloke.’

She glanced at his shoes. They were quality shoes.

‘You make a living, do you?’

‘I get by, I guess.’

‘Doing what, exactly?’

He gazed at her and clicked his knuckles.

‘People give me money.’

She moved the ashtray nearer.

‘That’s kind of them.’

‘I know it is. They’ve got generous natures.’

‘That why they do it?’

‘Perhaps they like me.’

‘Why else, Merv?’

‘Why else what?’

‘Why else do they give you all that dough?’

He flipped the matchstick across his mouth.

‘Cause I’m a thug, darling.’

He spread his legs and smiled.

‘I’m a nasty piece of work.’

She was still digesting this useful news when there was a tinkling sound, and the skinhead approached with a plastic tray. Shuffling slowly, an ape with an orchid. He put it down and laid out cups and saucers. Mervyn swivelled his head.

‘You joining us, are you? That’s always a pleasure, son. Always delightful. Now pour it out, why don’t you.’

Billy nodded across the table.

‘Who’s this, then?’

‘It’s a girl, Billy.
You
remember: Curves and stuff. Monthly emanations.’

He watched the skinhead start to pour.

‘You want to try it, sometime.’

‘Who says I haven’t?’

‘I know you haven’t.’

‘You know that, do you?’

‘Case you get germs.’

‘I’m careful, that’s all.’

‘You’re a fucking monk.’

‘It’s a free country, right?’

‘So it’s free,’ Merv said. ‘So what?’

‘So no one has to, unless they want to.’

‘Thing is, Billy, you’re meant to want to.’

‘Oh yeah? Says who?’

Mervyn shook his head.

‘I can’t talk to you, can I?’

Billy spooned three sugars into his cup.

‘Well fucking fuck off, then. Right?’

‘Yeah, right.’

Mervyn grinned and sipped his coffee, and they sat there, quietly bonding, the loving little threesome. For a few brief minutes, no one spoke. Carlo hovered near the bar, and the clock on the wall showed ten to twelve, and the light was low, and the jazz was soft, and it’s a mile or so from Hackney, more or less in Dalston, the sort of place that beckons you in on a wet November evening.

Billy drained his cup and placed it carefully on the saucer. He liked things neat and tidy, bit of order in his life. He fixed her with his skinhead stare.

‘You staying round here?’

‘For a day or two.’

‘Thought you might be. I thought to myself: she looks the type who’s passing through. That’s what I thought, see, when I saw you. That you look like someone . . . transient.’

Peering closer, like she’s zabaglione.

‘Not whiffsome, exactly, but not very kempt.’

A thoughtful scratch of flaking cheek.

‘Some kind of vagrant, are you?’

‘Something like that.’

He hooked his thumbs around his braces and leaned back in the chair.

‘Need money, right?’

‘Might do.’

‘Cause we can smell it, see, that needy smell.’

He glanced at the window and cocked his head. A car was pulling up outside, the well-tuned quietly purring. That muted sound of wealth and steel.

‘Should we help her, Merv?’

‘Fair question, Billy.’

They pondered a while, then Mervyn said:

‘Would a tenner, do?’

The skinhead reflected. He was thinking it over.

‘Ten, you said.’

‘Maybe eleven.’

‘As a gift, you mean?’

‘More like a fee,’ Merv said.

He gazed at her. He was feeling good. Feeling like a young thug should.

‘A tenner, darling. What do you say?’

He pulled open his tie.

‘Nice and friendly, nothing nasty.’

Car doors slamming.

‘Perhaps over the table, as it’s handy. No point shooting home, cause I’ve never been one for sheets and pillows. Bit poncey, really, if I’m being honest.’