The Snowfly (16 page)

“And if your identity should become known?”

“I will be promptly rendered incapable of further communications,” he said gravely. His meaning was clear.

“How do you know the government's intentions?”

He leered at me. “You may assume that I know well of what I speak. The authorities dare not use teak here; because of this, they are now developing rubber bullets, very hard, equally lethal, and even less accurate. You see,
rubber
sounds better than
teak,
yes? It's a mere subterfuge, porridge words meant solely for public consumption.”

“If these things are still under testing, how do you know they're lethal?”

“They're testing bullets made of various substances against sheep. If I decide you're the man to do this, I assure you that you will see evidence that will convince even the most recalcitrant skeptic. When you see, you will understand.”

“Aren't there ways to express such concerns through the government?”

“This has been done and led nowhere.”

“By you?” I asked.

“I am neither courageous nor stupid, Mister Rhodes.”

I mulled over his proposition. “I will need some evidence to proceed.”

Shelldrake gave me an envelope that contained a thick wad of newspaper clippings.

“These,” he announced theatrically, “are from the Hong Kong riots of 1967 and earlier. The riots in Hong Kong were fomented by Peking, but that's irrelevant. The constabulary used baton rounds indiscriminately and now British authorities are preparing to do the same elsewhere. It
must
be stopped, sir.
Must
be! If you are interested, I will provide you with the compelling evidence you require.”

“I'll want photographs,” I said.

“This has been anticipated.”

By whom? I wondered. “Photos taken by a photographer of
my
choice.”

Shelldrake studied me. “You will, of course, be discreet in your selection.”

I had no photographer in mind, but I wanted our people doing this in order to be sure of the authenticity of the pictures, whatever “this” turned out to be.

Shelldrake sat quietly for a moment, then got up and nodded. “I will be in touch, Mister Rhodes. Thank you for your time.” The sudden shift from brusqueness to formal politeness was odd. I decided that he was less aggressive than frightened and I wondered what of? His own government? If so, did I want to be involved? I had accepted risk in Vietnam, but this was London and I was looking forward to living without carefully evaluating every step I took.

Shelldrake departed without further comment and I immediately sought Dolly. “Your husband is a cop?”

She nodded solemnly.

“So was our visitor.”

“He presented credentials?”

“No.”

“The laws require it,” Dolly said emphatically. “What makes you think he's attached to the constabulary?”

“I don't know. He had a certain attitude. What was your impression?”

“I'm not a reporter,” Dolly said, “but I do have a bit of a nose for coppers and your officious visitor doesn't fit. I daresay he's more in the mold of Special Air Services.”

I vaguely remembered reading about SAS in the context of World War II, and hearing of it from Green Berets in Vietnam who admired their British counterparts. “Commandos, right?”

“Of sorts.”

“Do SAS personnel have anything to do with riots and civil disturbances?”

“Certainly not on the homefront.”

“What about places like Hong Kong?”

“That would not be unheard of,” she said.

“Have you ever heard of baton rounds?”

Dolly paused before answering. “Yes. They are sometimes used for crowd control in the colonies and protectorates.”

“I understand that some people object to the use of baton rounds. Do you?” I asked.

“I am the wife of a copper. If a weapon keeps him safe, why would I object? Most police in this country still do not carry firearms. I understand their reasons, but I do not share them. If criminals are armed, so too should be the constabulary.”

“Would the police use baton rounds to break up riots here in England?”

“I should think not,” she said. “We
English
do not riot.” After a long pause during which she stared up at the ceiling, Dolly said, “These weapons are not new. If memory serves me, they were first employed right here in London in the late nineteen-thirties. You see, there were provocateurs and pro-fascist Black Shirt groups in the country then who favored Hitler, and there were many vehement anti-fascists. There came a time when the Black Shirts were supposed to march for their cause but decided to change their plans. The anti-fascists had pledged to disrupt the Black Shirts and showed up for the demonstration armed with petrol bombs and rocks and clubs and in nasty moods and the police were forced to deal with them. Baton rounds were used against the anti-fascists, which is heavy irony, if one thinks about it,” she said in conclusion.

I decided to keep an open mind about my mysterious visitor and his story.

“Who's our most reliable photographer?” I asked.

“Personally or professionally?” Dolly answered with a playful grin.

“Somebody I can trust to do what has to be done.”

“I know the perfect person,” she said. “Crackerjack with a camera, though a bit off in his own world, if you take my meaning.”

“Somewhat individualistic?”

“To the point of certifiable eccentricity,” she said. “Which, praise God, is not yet a crime in England.”

Three days later I met Charlie Jowett, an elfin man with a jutting jaw and fiery eyes. When I telephoned him, he suggested we get acquainted over a hop-pop, which I would come to learn was a beer. Charlie Jowett had his own language.

I suggested we meet at Nolan's and he readily agreed. I had just walked into the pub when I heard a ruckus in the corner and saw a huge man punch a smaller man, who went flying backward over a table, spilling glasses of beer. Based on Dolly's precise description, I recognized the smaller man right away: Charlie Jowett. I also observed that the beer glasses hit the floor and bounced without breaking, sounding like heavy brass bells. It wouldn't do to be hit by one of those. I stepped into the fray, scooped a pint glass off the floor, intercepted a kick from the big man aimed at the little man on the floor, and, using the leverage of his own kick, spun the big man around sharply and pushed him off balance.

“Sod off,” the big man said menacingly as he stumbled around to face me. “This is none-a your bleedin' business.”

I matched the man in size and was quite a bit younger and ready to take a shot if he made a move, but there was no retaliation. The man glared at me momentarily, took a halfhearted kick at Charlie, fetched his hat and overcoat, and stalked away.

“You didn't have to do that,” the man on the floor said. “I was settin' 'im up.”

“For what? Homicide?”

He looked at me, then laughed out loud. The laugh reminded me of a horse's nicker. Charlie Jowett brushed himself clean of floor dust and checked his jaw several times. He had a bruise, but there was no blood. “Shouldn't have jumped in,” he said. “You know who that was?”

“No idea.”

“Name's Thigpen, stuffer for the Motuzas Brothers.”

“The Motuzas Brothers?”
Stuffer?

He grinned. “Listen and learn, Yank. The Motuzas Brothers lead a quite notorious gang of very nasty bastards. Thigpen's the muscle.”

Not good news to hear. “Why did he punch you?”

“I bettered the bugger in a wager, see? I bet Arsenal over his club and gave him two goals and Arsenal won by three. Not a lot of quid; I expect it's the principle of the thing. The Motuzas Brothers control the full menu for depraved appetites in the West End: boosted whiskey, pay-birds, drugs, and so forth, but gamblin' is by far their biggest earner. I think Thigpen suffered a bit of angst over losin' to an amateur.”

I knew vaguely that Arsenal was one of the country's top soccer clubs, a sport the Brits called football.

In thirty minutes I heard Charlie Jowett's life story. Born in Cornwall, apprenticed to Arsenal's youth development team at sixteen, he had moved up to the professional side at eighteen and scored seventeen goals in his first season only to have his back broken just before a European tournament; doctors feared for his future and, after that, no club would touch him because he had become a medical liability. He told the story straight on, evincing no bitterness.

“What do you do now?”

“Take a few shots, chase birds, fish.”

Shots
were photos, I knew. “Hunt and fish?”

He smiled. “No mate, birds're for bed, though it's okay to eat 'em!” he said, breaking into his nickering laugh again.

“Women.”

“Right, ridin' punt,” he said with a suddenly thick accent.

“What?”

“Cockney, Yank.
Punt
rhymes with
cunt,
see? Gotta think.”

I could only laugh and offered to buy him a beer and then he bought me one and over the rest of the evening we discovered that we were both “mad about trout.”

He asked me about the job I “had on” for us and I told him about baton rounds and sheep and the things Shelldrake had said. Charlie nodded attentively and told me that he would be privileged to be not only my photographer, but my ghillie as well, which he explained meant “guide”; the term was usually reserved for professional angling guides.

We migrated from Nolan's to a dark, smoky cellar where several musicians with electrified instruments were knocking out loud, discordant riffs. The sweet smoke swirling above us did not emanate from regular cigarettes. The dance floor was filled with men and women in outrageous and gaudy costumes. The women favored mini skirts, skin-tight satin or velour tops with bare midriffs, and patent leather boots with high heels or platforms. The skirts were garments in name only and it seemed to me that there was an unofficial contest to see who could get by with wearing the least cover without resorting to nudity. One woman near the musicians danced topless. I didn't notice any dirty feet.

Sometime during the night we left the bar with two women and took them to Charlie's place, which turned out to be a four-story house complete with servants and a fire raging in a huge fireplace in a room where the walls were covered by mounted fish and the floor carpeted with something as thick and soft as a cloud.

The women were gone when we awoke the next morning and we sat down to what Charlie's cook called a “proper English country breakfast”—eggs fried sunny-side up, fresh tomatoes, pork sausages he called “bangers,” dark toast and orange marmalade, tea and honey.

“Informative night?” Charlie asked over tea.

“What I remember of it.”

“You've seen it all, old boy: men, women, pot, beer, loud music, darkness, bad air, easy fuckin'. That's Dear Old London.”

I liked Charlie Jowett and had a feeling there was much more to him than he was letting on. How did a freelance news photographer afford servants and a house like this?

“Like to hunt the trout when spring rolls around?” he asked.

“Love to. Where?”

“Southwest. To my mind it's the only tolerable place to angle, eh? The browns there are small and reclusive, but feisty when engaged. And few anglers. I so loathe crowded waters.”

“I look forward to it.”

Charlie Jowett was a thoroughly professional photographer and over the next few weeks I took him on several assignments and learned that we worked well as a team. I told Dolly I wanted to work with Charlie as often as I could and she looked at me and said approvingly, “I knew you lads would get on famously.”

 

•••

 

Having seen the books in the Trout House, and my UPI duties notwithstanding, one of my first concerted efforts was to try to get a lead on Sir Thomas Oxley. Gillian had said he had “oodles” of books like the ones I had seen and naturally I wondered if there was another copy of the manuscipt somewhere in his collections. The Oxley Trust, I quickly discovered, still existed, but had a private, unlisted phone number. I enlisted Dolly's help and she used her husband's contacts to get the number for me. I took the underground north to Hampstead and emerged to find myself on a tree-lined ridge in a small, tidy village, looking south over the city of London. Before making the journey, I weighed my options and decided that arriving unannounced might produce better results than trying to arrange a meeting.

A short walk from the tube took me to the Oxley Trust, which was in the center of Church Row, a short street of narrow Georgian homes pressed tightly together like bread slices and set off by ornate wrought-iron fencing.

I was met at the door by a young woman with thin lips, crooked teeth, freckles, and red earrings the size of fried eggs. She wore thick white lipstick.

“Sah?”

“My name is Rhodes,” I said, handing her one of my business cards. “UPI.”

She squinted at the card. “I see,” she said thrusting her hand out awkwardly. “Freegift Heartfield.”

“‘Freegift'?” I said.

“Yes, sah, it was me mum's idea. Throws people, it does. At first. Can I help you, sah?”

The woman was genially formal, with the hint of a playful smile ready to erupt.

“I'm interested in the Trust's collection of Sir Thomas Oxley's angling books.”

“Are you now?” she said. “Why would that be, sah?”

“I'm considering a possible feature story. Great trout-fishing traditions of England and so forth.”

“Can't help you,” the woman said. “So sorry, sah.”

“No?”

“The Trust is soon to be no longer. I've been 'ere six years and meself have been given notice.”