Jack Carter and the Mafia Pigeon (19 page)

“Well, I’ll go down then.”

“Yeah. Don’t want him coming looking for you, do we?”

Obviously not; Wally disappears downstairs.

A minute or two later Tina comes out of the bathroom. You got to hand it to her, she knows what it’s all about. She hasn’t bothered to get into her nightie or anything, well, of course she wouldn’t, would she, and in any case there’s nothing to hide I haven’t seen, but she’s very clever; she is
in fact hiding it, because she’s put on a pair of brilliant white knickers and over the crutch is a transfer that says Do
IT
Now, and of course she’s well aware of the fact that having already given her special attraction a previous airing, the wrinkling satin of the pants somehow draws to it an added attraction, which she doesn’t detract from by sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs open, while she dries her legs and her back and eventually her tits, and while she’s doing all this she’s looking at me, and in the look she’s expressing something that’s usually seen in the face of a stripper who isn’t entirely doing it for the money. Now, as far as I’m concerned, I can normally take or leave this kind of behaviour, being as I am in the line of business I happen to be in, where this kind of situation, wherein a young girl from one of the clubs imagines she can advance her career more than somewhat, occurs much more often than does three aces out against three threes. In the normal course of events, I would remind the piece of the existence of Audrey Fletcher, pat her on the bum and send her on her way. Of course, from time to time, I would pat her on the bum without reminding her of the existence of Audrey Fletcher, but those times are very few and far between, the nature of Audrey being what it is. If I ever digress as far as Mrs. Fletcher is concerned, it’s usually with persons that operate as far off her patch as possible. But in this situation, where it is just gone ten o’clock in the middle of nowhere and Audrey’s miles away, those white satin knickers and their message redolent of Norman Vincent Peale are affecting me in a way that the frequent full frontals have failed to so far, and the gaze, too, is an outward shorthand for what it might be like once the knickers have been thrown out of the window.

“A new pence for them,” Tina says, rubbing the towel against some strands of hair at the nape of her neck.

“For what?” I ask her.

“Your thoughts’ll do for starters.”

“I was just wondering how the Spurs went on in the replay what they was playing last night.”

“Is that what you do to keep your mind off it? Think about a bloody silly game?”

“Better than some games I can think of. I would have thought you’d have had enough of the other sort.”

“My back’s sore. Nothing else.”

“If your back’s sore, I should keep off it for a bit, then.”

“You don’t always have to be on your back.”

I don’t answer her. She drops the towel and arches her back and locks her fingers behind her neck.

“Jesus Christ,” she says. “I feel really stiff.”

She looks at me.

“You don’t, obviously.”

She shrugs and starts to make as if she’s going to take her pants off. She’s great, she really is, because what she does is to slip them down her thighs a little bit, then makes a tutting noise and picks up the towel and begins to dab at her hair again, as if she’s overlooked a little bit.

“All right,” I say to her.

I get up off the cot and lock the bedroom door and the bathroom door. Then when I’ve done that I walk over to the bed and stand in front of Tina. For a moment or so she pretends not to notice me. Then after she’s gone through that routine she looks up at me and says:

“That your after dinner exercise, was it?”

“Part of it.”

“Another part to come, is there?”

“Yes,” I tell her, undoing my pyjama cord, “this part.”

The pyjama trousers reach the floor. Tina looks at me, but this time not in the face. Still doing that, she begins to pull her pants the rest of the way down, but before she can get very far I reach out and stop her; holding her wrist. She looks up at me.

“That’s something I like to do myself,” I tell her, releasing her wrist and transferring my grip to the satin her open thighs are stretching tight as a whip. She lies back on the bed, her legs bent double, her knees in the air. I drop the fragment of satin on the floor, and put one knee
on the bed, between her legs. Just as I do that there’s a knock on the door, followed by the sound of Wally’s voice.

“Jack,” he says, “you’re wanted.”

I can’t think of an answer to that so I don’t give him one. On the other hand, I don’t give Tina one either, because we both remain poised in the positions we were in before the knock on the door.

“Jack,” comes Wally’s voice again. “You’re wanted. On the blower.”

Now, normally, the Sydney Tafler dialogue alone would be enough to get on my nerves. But coupled with the fact that he’s preventing me doing just that, he’s mentioned the telephone what’s supposed to be off, due to the heavy rains, and all that. So I abandon my supplicant position and draw up my pyjama trousers and when I’ve tied the cord I go over to the door, unlock it, close it behind me, and take hold of Wally by his throat and walk him backwards across the landing until the opposite wall prevents me taking him any farther and before he can gargle out any questions I say to him:

“I’m what?”

“The blower,” he croaks. “You’re wanted on it.”

“I’m wanted on it,” I say to him. “Now that’s very interesting. Not only because the phone is out of service, but also, who, I ask myself, could be wishing words with me on this island, at this time of night, eh Wally? Couldn’t be a wrong number, could it? Couldn’t it be a fortunate false alarm, eh? Or could it be Gerald and Les, phoning out of a deep sense of concern for my safe arrival? Couldn’t be that, could it, Wally?”

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “It ain’t that. It’s Mrs. Fletcher what wants you.”

I give him the kind of look he can do without right now.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

Wally nods, too many times. I close my eyes. Fuck me, I think to myself. This is all I need. I know she’s barmy,
but I didn’t think she’d be barmy enough to pull this one, to put a mouth like Wally onto the fact that Audrey’s making contact with me on the same island where she happens not to be meant to be. My first instinct is to want to give her what is usually reserved for birds that perpetrate this kind of behaviour, but on reflection it occurs to me that once Gerald gets wind of the event, he’ll take care of that part of the arrangements, together with certain contingencies covering my own destiny. So I say to Wally:

“Mrs. Fletcher say why she particularly wanted to speak to me?”

Wally shakes his head. I let him go and walk down the stairs and pick up the extension in the hall. The fish is still dribbling away, and the resemblance to Gerald at this moment takes on a particular poignancy.

“Yes?” I say.

“Merry Christmas,” Audrey says.

Oh Christ. That’s all we need. For her to be pissed up to the gills.

“You’re three weeks early,” I tell her.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t wait to give you your present, seeing as I got it here with me. I mean, what’s the point of waiting? It’s all gift wrapped, pink bows and black lace edging, know what I mean? And as it’s something you never get tired of, doesn’t matter when you get it, does it?”

I take a deep breath.

“Listen, you silly fucking cow. You know what you just done, don’t you? You only just blown everything—”

“Talking about blowing.”

“For Christ’s sake, just leave it out. You’re barmy. I mean, you do realise, when I put this phone down, that Wally gets straight back onto it and talks to Gerald and Les? I mean, you do know that?”

“So what?”

“Jesus.”

“Let him. It don’t matter.”

“Well, I tell you what, try telling me that when you got two stripes on your face and your mouth muscles don’t work the way they should.”

“I told you. It don’t matter. They know where I am.”

“You what?”

“Gerald and Les. They know I’m here. They know I’m in touch with you. Favourite, isn’t it?”

“They know you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“They know you’re in touch with me?”

“That’s right.”

I feel for my cigarettes and matches but of course that’s futile as I’m only wearing my pyjamas.

“So what did you do? Just go to Gerald and say look, I cannot tell a lie, I am not bound for Hamburg pulling birds for the club, I am in fact going to fuck with Jack in Majorca, that all right?”

Audrey laughs.

“All right, all right,” she says. “I’ll tell you straight. I just enjoyed giving you the shits, that’s all.”

I don’t say anything.

“Look,” she says. “They know I’m here, because that’s where they asked me to be.”

“Now I know it’s Christmas.”

“Straight. They asked me to come over here.” She giggles. “That’s not bad. That’s exactly what I’ll be doing, coming over here.”

She begins to build on her giggling so I say to her:

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on or aren’t you?”

“I’m telling you. They asked me to come. They wanted me to deliver something to you. I’m your actual Holiday Tour Courier.”

“Just tell me, Audrey.”

“An envelope. They wanted me to deliver an envelope. Maybe it’s your Christmas Card.”

“Yeah, and it could be my Christmas bonus.”

“I’m your Christmas bonus, sweetheart, and you better get down here before I’m affected by the inflationary spiral.”

“Look,” I tell her. “Just for two minutes. Just start again and tell me what you’re doing here.”

There’s the sound of a glass clinking against the plastic at the other end of the line.

“They told me to leave Hamburg out, as they’d got something important to let you have, and they could only trust me to get it to you. That’s a laugh, isn’t it?”

“You know what’s in the envelope?”

“For once, no. I never asked. All I thought about was getting out here with their blessings, what a giggle that was.”

“But you do know what’s going on up here?”

“What’s going on?”

“About D’Antoni.”

“Oh, the Yank. Yeah. They told me he’d be staying a few days. Why?”

“That’s all they told you?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” I tell her. “I mean, them being the straightest people in the world, and all that.”

“What’s happening, then?”

“Never mind. Where are you?”

“Where do you think I am? At the bleeding hotel. The one I booked into before the Ugly Sisters said I could go to the ball.”

“All right,” I tell her. “How soon can you get up here?”

“What you talking about? I may have got their blessing, but Wally’s going to have something to tell them if I screw with you up there.”

“It’ll look even more dicey if you don’t stay up here.”

“Anyway, they told me to give you what I got away from there. In private, like. They want me to give it to you in private.”

The harsh giggle crackles down the line again. Audrey, I think to myself, sometimes I wonder. I really do.

“All right,” I say to her. “I’ll come down. I’ll be about an hour.”

“Well, don’t be any longer. I know you’ll hurry. I mean, it’s been a few days since you seen any. I hope you been saving it up, and if not, I hope Miss Wrist has been due to your loving thoughts of me.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

I put the phone down. The fish keeps on dribbling. I walk back upstairs. Wally’s no longer on the landing, but the bedroom door’s open. When I go in I’m greeted with a tableau not too dissimilar to the one I was into before the bell tolled. Wally’s leaning over the bed, but this time Tina’s between the sheets and her legs are drawn up a different way.

“And if you think I’m so fucking stupid not to know what’s been going on,” Wally’s saying, “you got to be out of your tiny mind.”

“I just think you’re fucking stupid,” Tina says, drawing on one of my cigarettes.

“Look—” Wally begins, but I interrupt him by walking over to the bedside table and picking up my cigarettes and matches.

“My old man thinks you’re a dirty old man and that I’m a dirty little bitch,” Tina says to me.

“Is that right?” I say, lighting a cigarette. Wally seems to be at a loss for words.

“Yeah,” Tina says. “Funny, isn’t it?”

I ignore her and say to Wally:

“The Mercedes got plenty of juice in it?”

“Er—yeah, it’s nearly full, that is.”

“Good.”

I go over to the wardrobe and take a shirt and a suit off the hanger.

“Why, you going out?”

“That’s right. Down to Palma.”

“Well what about him?”

“He’s spark out, isn’t he?”

“I dunno.”

“ ’Course he is. Otherwise he’d have heard the phone and he’d have shot it to bits with his bazooka, wouldn’t he?”

“What about us if he wakes up?”

I ignore him and walk into the bathroom and start getting changed. Naturally, Wally follows me in.

“You can’t leave us on our own,” he says. “Christ knows what he might do. I mean, think of Tina.”

“She can look after herself, don’t you worry.”

I straighten my tie in the mirror and walk back into the bedroom. Tina’s no longer in the bed.

“You see?” Wally says.

“Show me the car, Wally.”

“Jack—”

“Wally.”

Wally shuts his mouth and leads the way out the bedroom. On the way down Wally’s tempted to look in the lounge to check on the state of D’Antoni, but my eyes on the back of his neck cause him to think better of it. We cross the entrance hall and Wally opens a door and we go down a short flight of steps that descend into a short corridor that turns at opposite right-angles a couple of times until we’re at another door and Wally opens this door and we’re in the garage. Wally switches a light and flickering neon finally stabilises and the white Mercedes is revealed in all its boring pristine beauty. Wally presses a button and the garage door slides up and a cool wall of air moves into the garage.

“The keys in it?”

“Oh, yeah; the keys,” Wally says, and fishes about in his pocket. “Here they are.”