A Killer for a Song Read online

People like Lavenham and Goldfinch were in the room and Mostyn was being unusually insecure. Did those two know who he was and what he had come to do? If they did, then things were not altogether normal, for Mostyn ran Boysie with care: their meetings were always covered with cut outs and markers who were never doubled, fallbacks which were fool proof.

  “You’re my personal secret weapon, old love,” Mostyn would say. “No other blighter will take on the responsibility so I’m landed with you. And you with me.”

  As though reading Boysie’s anxiety, Mostyn nodded to Lavenham and Goldfinch. “See you later,” he said pleasantly; though the words were patently dismissive.

  Goldfinch raised his eyebrows, and the good-looking Lavenham grinned, giving a small shrug. They left the room without a word.

  “Drinkies?” soothed Mostyn.

  “Do they know why I’m here?”

  “Not exactly. Gin, whisky, brandy, anything you like.”

  Boysie accepted a whisky as though he was doing his master a supreme favour.

  “Do they know?” he asked again.

  Mostyn smiled a smirk of superiority. “They know you’re a heavy, but, as far as they’re concerned, you’re here to do the lifting. We’ve got the Frogs and the Yanks in tow. They’ll think the same.”

  “But they’ll know the truth when it’s over.”

  Mostyn’s head slowly moved from side to side. “Not if we play it right. We’re going to lift them in about forty-eight hours. When we get there officially, they’ll have been removed.” You could not tell if it was a smile or a leer. “Removed to a better life.”

  Boysie looked unhappy. “And ...” he began.

  “And you are the removal man, Boysie.”

  “They’ll be suspicious.”

  “Not a chance. I’ll be with you when we go in.”

  “Where are they?”

  “About a hundred miles from here. Place called Puebla; we’ll be going there tomorrow and you’ll do your stuff either tomorrow night or in the wee smalls of the next morning.”

  “Where? In a hotel or where?”

  “They’re in an ‘otel at the moment,” he glanced at a note pad. “La Mansion, Puebla. Someone’s keeping them in the style to which they hope to become accustomed.”

  “And I’ve got to do it there? Just like that?”

  “Rooms 60 and 61. Just like that. I brought you a little present.” Mostyn eased himself out of his chair and strutted across to his bedside table, opening a drawer. “Catch,” the pistol arched across the room. Boysie fielded it.

  “But I’ve got the forty-five. The Colt.”

  “Then I’m adjusting things a little.”

  Boysie looked down at the weapon. A Luger.

  “Catch again.”

  The black tube curled over into Boysie’s hand.

  “It works well enough with the Luger,” Mostyn closed the drawer with his hip. “There’s not much you can do about noise when it comes to forty-fives, but with this it will be a case of things that go plop in the night instead of a bloody great bang.”

  It was all becoming very complicated. He hoped, with some apprehension, that Griffin was carrying the right equipment.

  “How many of your private army are trampling over the ground?”

  Mostyn, reseated in his chair, eyed Boysie’s hand, carefully weighing the Luger, with distaste. “They’re not trampling; they’re all very experienced people.”

  “How many?”

  “The Frog and the Yank are here,” he counted off on his fingers. “The two you’ve already seen. There’re two over in Puebla looking after our cousins, and there’s a treat for you.”

  “What kind of a treat?” Boysie sounded wary.

  Mostyn smiled a great big inviting grin: the kind of grin with which the wolf must have greeted Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. “A bit of nookie.”

  “Department nookie?”

  “In a way.”

  “Well,” Boysie fingered the Luger. He would like to be in a position to use it on Mostyn. When Mostyn offered treats there was always some kind of catch. “Well, we shall see.”

  The telephone began to get anxious, startling Boysie so that he dropped the Luger.

  “Careful with that, old love, it’s Department property.” Mostyn lazily reached out for the telephone. “Yes,” he said into the mouthpiece. Then, “When? ... How do you know? ... Well, we’ve got plenty of time, haven’t we? They won’t be moving on until after he’s arrived. You’ll be pleased to know that the lifter’s here and we’ll take ‘em out in forty-eight hours or so ... What? ... No, I do not think we should do it any sooner: besides, the travel arrangements are made. Once we take them I don’t want to hang about. I can think of nothing worse than sweating in some godforsaken room, drinking tequila and eating tortillas with a couple of hot live pieces of merchandise struggling in the cupboard ... No, Martin, I’m not getting the Mexican disease ... And mañana to you, dear boy. See you tomorrow ... Oh, Martin ... Vaya con Dios.”

  This time the smile was the one selected by the wolf after he had sampled Grandmere de le petit Chaperon rouge, chasseur.

  “It’s all set up and we’ve got a bonus. Our fat friend, Chiliman, is arriving to pick them up on Sunday morning. Around nine o’clock. You will do them at about five so that comrade Chiliman will get there a little late.”

  “He’ll be cross,” said Boysie, his mind leaping ahead, ticking off, on mental fingers, the information he had to get to Griffin in the nearby Bamer: hotel in Puebla, room numbers, time, method.

  “Very cross,” mused Mostyn. “I think you had best remain incommunicado. You have a perfectly respectable room. Food will be brought to you at regular intervals. The nookie will have to wait until tomorrow night. I must now go and wallow in the Mexican fleshpots, and, judging by the girth of some of the waiters, the pots have never been fleshier.”

  Alone in his room he began to pace to and fro. He knew how hamsters felt in their cages, treading those abominable little wheels. He suddenly realised how tired he was: and how twitchy. The Luger lay on the bed with the sound modulator next to it. The Colt forty-five was in his case. The bloody place was full of artillery, all he needed now was a sombrero and a couple of cartridge belts and he would be on his way to becoming a revolutionary-Mexican style.

  For a minute, in the vivid fantasy area of his mind, Boysie led the peasants through the streets, having conquered the evil dictator El Supremo Mostyno. Voluptuous young women kept throwing themselves at the car, pelting him with roses, trying to climb onto the running board in order to smother their hero with warm kisses, only to be fended off by El Oakes’s henchmen.

  There was one particular woman, slim, dark-haired, with large brown eyes, flared nostrils and the look of a gypsy. “Thees one I’ll have,” El Oakes muttered, and she was dragged aboard. Then the fantasy faded and he was alone in the room knowing that he would have to do something about getting the instructions to Charlie Griffin who would, by this time, be settled into the Bamer under the name Cyril Goodlife, one of his regular aliases.

  Locking the door, Boysie sat down at the dressing table, routed for paper and envelopes and began to compose a note to Griffin, which, if opened, would not entirely give the game away. It took him six goes and the final result read -

  Dear Cyril,

  I much enjoyed our conversation on the plane. I’m sorry but 1 will not, after all, be able to meet you and do the town as we planned. I find that business is taking me to Puebla tomorrow first thing. 1 do not know as yet where I will be staying should you be near there, but I will have to get the business finished quickly - by the early hours of Sunday morning, for instance.

  You could try a hotel called La Mansion. I have some friends there, though they are not in my age group one is sixty and the other sixty-one. So I don’t want to be tied up with them for long, and I should think I’ll be shooting off fast and quietly.

  If we don’t meet again on this trip, perhaps I’ll see you back in London.<
br />
  Yours -

  He signed his name and read it over again. Not very good, and it would not fool Mostyn for a second, but needs must.

  Boysie folded the paper and put it into an envelope, sealing it and addressing it to Cyril Goodlife at the Bamer. Quietly he unlocked the door and opened it.

  “You want something?” Bob Lavenham stood in the corridor.

  “Ah,” said Boysie without inspiration.

  “The gaffer said I was to look after things,” grinned Lavenham. “See you weren’t disturbed and all that. Food? Drink?”

  “Yes,” Boysie was still uninspired. “Yes, food, I think.”

  Lavenham’s grin broadened. “You want me to fix it, or can you manage room service? They speak English.” He spoke as though addressing a not over-bright four-year-old.

  Bastard, thought Boysie. That bastard Mostyn, I know what he’s done: given them all the impression that I’m not fit to be out on my own. Okay, if that was the way he wanted it. “Just order me something light,” he said, trying to sound superior.

  “Local grub?”

  “Of course.”

  “You sure? It can play havoc with the old bowels.”

  “My bowels have been likened to those of the rhinoceros.”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  “Well, just have the stuff sent up.”

  “Okay.”

  Lavenham disappeared along the corridor and, for a second, Boysie thought of making a run for it, but what small amount of common sense he retained told him that was not the way. He turned back, flopped into a chair, lit a cigarette and riffled through his money. He needed a largish tip for room service if he was going to pull this one off.

  Five minutes later there was a tap at the door. Lavenham stood there looking pleased with himself.

  “Grub up soon.”

  Boysie nodded. “Good. I want to eat and rest.”

  “I could keep you company if you like.”

  “I’d rather be on my own. If I change my mind, presumably you’ll be within shouting distance.”

  “Just outside. I feel a bit of a Charlie actually.” Boysie grinned: after all it was his turn. “Good luck, Charlie.”

  Lavenham gave him a wry smile and retreated. Ten minutes later there was tap at the door. Boysie expected room service. Instead it was a chambermaid: dark, curving where it mattered, and with a winning smile which hurt.

  “I turn down bed? Make ready for sleep?” She asked ingenuously.

  Boysie’s flagging loins reacted and he wanted to suggest things which would undoubtedly land him inside the nearest Mex jail. Lavenham still lurked in the corridor pretending not to notice. Boysie grinned, nodded and stepped back to let the girl in. She was dressed in black with a white apron, not unlike the French maids in cheap porno films.

  She also walked with a flounce and went about her duties slowly, as though trying to draw attention to herself. Eminent jailbait, Boysie thought. Then his mind went into after burn.

  If Lavenham was leeching and marking he would expect clandestine messages to be dropped cheekily in public, or via room service with a damned great tip. The chambermaid might be easier.

  Boysie crossed to the writing table and retrieved the letter from under the blotter.

  “You speak English?” He asked as casually as he could manage.

  “Leetle,” she smiled. It was the kind of smile that hit you somewhere between the heart and the genitals, just where you keep your cheque book and wallet.

  “You do something for me?” It came out lecherous and she backed away.

  “No-no-no,” Boysie rattled. “I need a letter delivering.” He flapped the envelope as though fanning himself. “You understand?”

  “Yes,” she looked and sounded puzzled.

  “Not illegal. Nothing wrong, but big business deal,” he rubbed his right thumb against the first and second fingers indicating that money was involved. That sparked interest.

  “I have many business rivals. It must be private otherwise I would send it with the porter.” His right hand traced to his pocket, disclosing a sizeable wad of pesos.

  “Yes,” the chambermaid repeated. She understood all right.

  “Letter has to go to the Bamer. Now. Tonight. Nobody must see.”

  “I take,” her smile lodged like a pocket of wind behind his ribs. She was eager. “You want me come back later?” The innocence was gone.

  Boysie would have given a lot for her to come back but it was not on. He shook his head. “Just hide the letter and take it to the Bamer, soon.”

  The envelope passed between them, together with the pesos. She held them tightly in her hand, suddenly uncertain. Then, with an eloquent gesture, “Where I hide so nobody see?”

  Boysie shrugged. That was stupid, all women have personal hidey holes: they start their secrets at school. A picture flashed into his head of the playground and a blonde girl standing close to the red brickwork with the cricket stumps chalked uncertainly nearby. The screw of paper passing between them (Meet you top of Three Chain Hill seven o’clock), the flash of thin thighs and dark blue underwear and the note gone, deposited with the handkerchief and chewing gum and god knew what else.

  The chambermaid did her female ESP act, drooped her head, looked up at him under the eyelashes and fluttered. Then her hands swooped down to the hem of the black dress.

  Boysie felt the personal bitter lakes of sweat break out as the envelope and money vanished: the long legs as sweet as any illicit peek, bringing on the hot flush. He was short of breath.

  “I come back,” the girl repeated.

  “No,” Boysie said firmly.

  She gave a little sigh and pulled a face. “Okay, I deliver letter. No trouble.”

  She left, Boysie in a state wishing that female company could be allowed.

  A little later, room service arrived - a large and blue jowled waiter wheeling a trolley loaded with food, one bottle and a brace of tumblers.

  “Okay,” said the waiter giving him a big twinkle which turned sour as Boysie signed the bill and discovered that all his loose change had gone to the chambermaid.

  “I’ll see you later,” Boysie made it sound sincere. “Si,” he was unconvinced, and left throwing looks like poisoned darts.

  Boysie turned his attention to the food. He suspected that it was Mexican food for tourists. There was a kind of salad and some chicken in a spicy sauce. He picked at the food and drank a considerable amount of the booze -an unidentifiable wine, with a jazzy label.

  Boysie had consumed his third glass when two events occurred simultaneously. There was a rap at the door and the telephone began to ring. Boysie froze, unable to work out the logistics of the situation. After a few seconds, which seemed to take a couple of hours, he plumped for the door. Lavenham leaned against the jamb.

  “Have pity for a poor struggler out in the cold.” Why in hell did Lavenham never stop grinning? “Your telephone’s ringing,” he added unnecessarily.

  “Oh, come in if you have to,” Boysie leaped from the door to the phone.

  “Hallo.”

  “Mr. Oakes?” Griffin, furtive at the far end of the line.

  “Yes ... No, I think you have the wrong room.”

  “You mean you can’t talk?” persisted Griffin.

  “Mmmm.”

  “What’s the form? Answer yes or no.”

  It took Boysie a second to work out that the question was not one easily answered by the negative or affirmative.

  “Are our friends in town?” Griffin sounded more stealthy than ever.

  “No,” firmly. Then, lower key, “You’ve got a wrong number.”

  “Where are they then? What’s the score?”

  Boysie’s mental agility leaped to Olympic heights. “Note?” he said loudly, “What note? I know nothing about writing a note to you. Who are you anyway?”

  “You mean you’ve sent a note to me?”

  “Yes. I’m very sorry, you’ve got a wrong number, I really can’t help
you anymore.”

  “Mr. Oakes, look, I ...”

  Boysie had cradled the receiver. “Some freak,” he muttered to Lavenham who had stopped smiling.

  “It’s bloody embarrassing, lurking in that corridor,” Lavenham took a couple of steps forward.

  “You shouldn’t have joined them, should you?”

  “Oh, come on, we’re all in the same boat.”

  “Not me, chum,” Boysie had his bolshie mood firmly in position. “I do this for Uncle Mostyn all the time. It’s like this on every operation: sitting around in bloody hotels, jetting all over the place - instant boredom alleviated only by short bursts of terror.”

  “You’re a pretty heavy bloke then?” It could have been rhetorical. “Mind if I have a drink?” That one was rhetorical: Lavenham had already picked up the bottle.

  “Help yourself.” It was time to cover himself, Boysie thought. Time for some studied fiction. “I don’t know about being heavy. It’s like working as a bailiff. I’m a kind of mobile arresting officer. I’m told I’ve got the build for it.”

  “You often get wrong numbers on your phone?” Lavenham was jumpy about that telephone call.

  “I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been here long enough to find out. What’s Mostyn’s game, anyway, keeping me trussed up?”

  “You’re not trussed.”

  “Well, cooped then.”

  “I gather it’s an edgy situation. He doesn’t want you to go missing before the main event.”

  Boysie looked aimless and artless. “I never did before.”

  “Jesus, what vile booze,” Lavenham took a long pull at his drink. “I don’t think he’s really worried about you, but he has some heavy competition leaning in his direction.”

  “The Yanks and the Frogs.”

  “Reputations at stake. Heads likely to roll. You know how it is.”

  “Not really, I’m only a cash-and-carry man myself.” Boysie settled back into his chair. “How did you get into the filth trade?” He knew it was a verboten question, but the best form of defence was attack. Keep them thinking about themselves and they might lose you.

  “You sound like a classic whore’s client,” Lavenham raised his eyebrows.

  “Aren’t we all classic clients? Or classic whores? It’s a similar trade: we use ponces, dirty postcards, street corners, window displays, whips, the kinky stuff, two-way mirrors, bedbugs, flashers. You ever work with Mostyn when he’s pulling a bit of black?”