Dead Money, page 11
"You're not out of this until I say you're out."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I can go to the police."
"And do what? Tell them you killed someone?"
"I didn't kill anyone, Alan. I beat someone up."
My head thumped in time to the throb in my stomach. I fumbled for the Rennies and blinked back the irritation in my eyes.
I had to move the mobile away from me as I cleared my throat. "Alright, when and where?"
"How's your afternoon looking?"
"Shitty." And getting worse by the minute.
"Then say the Commercial in an hour."
"I'm in Salford. Let's say fifteen minutes. Get this over with."
"Alright," he said. "Fifteen it is."
I hung up.
19
Go in with a smile and leave with a smile, no matter what the outcome.
Beale told me that back in the day, and he never steered me wrong on that score. Soon as you cross the threshold, the main thing you were selling was that it didn't make a blind bit of difference to you whether you got the sale or not. That way you were less likely to give a shit yourself, and the customer wouldn't be tempted into giving you a pity signature that would blow out the next day. According to Beale, I was a lucky guy. I was working for myself. I didn't have a wife and kid to drain the fun out of life.
"What you want," he said, "is to have a lifestyle that's just out of reach, know what I mean? You want to be living just beyond your means. Then you have to work like a bastard to keep it up. You become a good salesman then, because you have to. Sink or fuckin' swim, son. It's the nature of the business. Hunger's what drives a man, Alan. Rich men die old and bored. Working men die younger but happier. Don't you ever forget that."
I didn't. Clearly.
My first ever sit was a ridealong. They were a couple, Mr and Mrs Holland of 72 Hampden Road in Prestwich. They were buyers, because these were the days when Beale used to get the decent leads, back before Jimmy Henderson came on the scene. Beale took me along with him and introduced me as his son-in-law, who'd tagged along to see the family business. It would be a rough customer who decided to make Beale look bad in that situation.
The way Beale worked it, he was most often the sales manager. Sometimes he was even the owner. Either way, it was supposed to be a privilege to have him on a sit. A man of his age, stuck as a salesman, it had a level of desperation to it that some people found unattractive. But everyone liked to be special enough to deserve the boss's pitch, especially if he was the boss of a family business. So of course, with Beale running that schtick, we stepped out of the Holland house with signatures on the whole deal.
Back then, Beale knew people. And Beale taught me everything I knew.
"You're a good-looking lad. Use that. Look successful, but not flashy. You flaunt the fact that you make more money than them, they'll resent you for it and the ink'll run dry."
"Yes, Les."
"Shut up. You say 'Yes, Les', that tells me you're not listening."
"I'm listening."
"You listen with your ears, not with your mouth."
I listened with my ears after that. Listened to him tell me that I was too young for the long pitch, and that my rebuttals needed to come without thought. That I needed to be fast, accurate and focussed on the signature. It wasn't the hard sell, it was the soft sell with balls. A man only hit what he aimed at. Smile, always smile, and make sure it was genuine because even if they didn't know it, most marks could spot a false smile a mile away.
That was the old Beale, though. That was the Beale before the divorce. That was the Beale who had things in his life apart from booze and clubs. That was back when he could be trusted to dispense advice, before he became a booze-sodden shadow.
No, worse than that. He was a child. Couldn't even hold down a job without going doo-lally. He was a coward. He was a fucking ...
Stop. You're above it, Alan. You're in control. You're the man that makes it happen. You're the one pulling the strings. You're the one who can ride this through to the other end with the minimum of fuss and effort.
You are your own creation.
I looked at my smile in the rear view. Looked as if I had vinegar on the roof of my mouth. I was a god.
And I was ready for the Commercial. I breezed through the doors and went straight for the bar. An old bloke sat in the corner, wrapped tightly in his anorak. The smell of stale cigarette and stale ale wafted down from him. At the bar, showing more gabardine shoulder than head, was Beale. He hadn't noticed me yet, hadn't bothered to turn at the sound of the doors. He was preoccupied. That was good. I could use that.
I tapped him on the shoulder. He flinched.
"Get 'em in," I said.
And I sauntered over to the usual table. My cheeks hurt, but I smiled through it. Always smile, no matter how weird or painful it might seem. Always, always smile.
Beale bought two pints and chasers but I noticed he counted the money out more carefully than usual.
Same old table, same old window. Same old rain spotting the glass. I looked out at the street. The pavement was dark with water. I flashed on a spinning car, a loud thump and a dog dragged under the wheels. When I turned back, Beale was sat opposite and the Commercial dog was asleep on its bean bag.
"How've you been?" I said.
"I can't go back."
"I don't think anyone's expecting you back, Les."
"I meant the house."
"Where have you been sleeping then?"
"The car."
I took a drink, let the bubbles crackle on my tongue before I swallowed. It made sense. I'd probably be seeing ghosts if I had to live where he did. "You said they'd found him. Where'd you find that out?"
"The news. You not seen it?"
"I've been busy. Some of us still have jobs."
He nodded and sipped his pint. "Henderson called us, right enough. Told us I was out on my arse."
"How'd they find Stevie?"
Beale looked into his pint. His fingers twitched around the glass. "I don't know. They just found him. That's all I know. Soon as I found out, I called you."
I stared at him. He looked up. As soon as his eyes met mine, he shifted his gaze.
"Where'd you hear this again?"
"I told you, the news."
"Which news?"
"Telly."
"Where'd you see one of those if you're sleeping in your car?"
"Crazy George's down Piccadilly."
"And they had the news on, did they?"
"Yeah."
"I went round there today. There's no tape up or anything."
"They must've cleared the scene."
I took another drink. "You're talking shit. They haven't found him. You just said that to get me in here."
"I'm telling the truth."
"And what if we get the landlord to put on the telly and wait for the next news, eh?"
"Alan—"
"What do you want?"
"I need help."
"I helped you already."
"With Ahmad."
"So, money, then."
Beale nodded.
"Then you can get fucked."
There was a flash of something like the old Beale, a rage in his eyes, but it turned out to be only a belch. "You got money, I know you do."
"I do, yeah. Mostly because I don't go blowing it on rigged card games."
"I can make life uncomfortable for you," he said. "I've got nowt to lose."
I leaned across the table and made sure I had his full attention. "Listen to me, Les. You've got fuck all. You go to the police, you go to prison. There's nothing to put me there, and I'm respectable, mate. I've got a job. I've got a wife who'll swear down I was in bed all night Saturday. You've got nothing to lose, but I bet you'll find something if you go to the police. So go on, see how far it gets you."
"You killed him."
"You killed him, Les. You were positive he was already dead when we wrapped him. If you weren't, then we could've sent him on his way and you'd only be up for a GBH."
"I need money."
"And you think blackmail's going to pay out, do you?"
"He's going to kill me, Alan."
"Take out a loan."
"I did that."
"I meant with a loan company, a fucking bank."
"I don't have a job, do I?"
"You own the house."
He shook his head. "Takes too long, man. And Ahmad's putting the pressure on. He's been following us."
"They're all fucking following you, Les."
"No, he was. He caught us outside the Riverside."
"You went to the Riverside?"
"I had to."
"You went to the Riverside." I couldn't smile anymore. I took a nip from my chaser, my lips burning. "Why would you go back there?"
"You fuckin' listening to me? I need money."
"Why there?"
"It's the only place I can go."
"No, it isn't."
He spluttered a little, shook his head. "I had to go, didn't I? I needed to see if anyone had noticed."
"You ask questions?"
"No."
"So how much did you lose?"
His mouth puckered. "Couple hundred."
I finished the chaser, cooled my mouth with the pint. My stomach hated it. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep from showing the pain. I wanted to let it out, smash this pint right into his throat, grind in until he stopped thrashing.
"Alan?"
I stared at him. Didn't blink. Wanted him dead.
"Mate?"
"I'm not your fucking mate. You're on your own."
"Wait a minute—"
I got out of my seat, found my hand wavering over the pint glass. Beale was talking, but I couldn't hear him. The old bloke at the bar turned our way, as did the dog.
"Shut up," I told him. "And fuck off out of it."
"I'll go to the police."
"Go on." I faced Beale. "It's a free call. But if you do, you're fucked and I'm gone, do you understand? I'm out of here. And I swear to God if I ever see you again, or hear you've been hanging round Lucy's place, I'll take my steering lock to your fucking skull, do you understand?"
And I smiled again as I moved to the door.
Go in with a smile, leave with a smile.
Whatever the outcome.
20
I used to think Lucy was a cheap date. A bottle of the hard stuff and that was about it. She was making up for it now, though. Of course she wanted the five courses, and of course she wanted the matched wines. Forty quid a head for lunch wasn't my idea of a good time, but it would have to do, given the circumstances.
All the chrome and halogen in the world couldn't stop this place from being basement dark. A lot of glass, a lot of pillars, the furniture supposedly modern but the seats felt brittle under your arse and you couldn't lean on the table for fear of turning it over. Oh, and there were curtains but no windows. What with my surroundings and the fact I was doing a load of money, it was like eating in a casino, which was something I'd managed to avoid thus far.
Lucy was eating something that looked for all the world like the posh dog food Cath foisted on Buttons every day. I had soup with a wine that my limited French told me was a Pinot Grey, which didn't seem very appetising either. A quick swill of the stuff and it was okay. Tasted like white wine.
She paused in her chewing to swallow and said, "I'll be honest with you, I didn't think you'd manage to get reservations."
"So this was a test?"
She moved her head. "Kind of."
"And I've passed with flying colours."
"We'll see what the rest of lunch is like." She dug into the salad. "So far, so good."
"Really? That's good, is it? What is that, anyway?"
She smiled. "It's a terrine."
"Right." I ate some of my soup, which was fine despite being made of cauliflower. "What's a terrine?"
"You are so uncouth. Can't take you anywhere."
"Just asking. What is it?"
She paused. Shook her head. "I have no idea."
"That's what I thought." Just looking at it made me a bit queasy. "Well, as long as it's nice, that's the main thing."
We ate in silence for a bit longer. She finished off, so did I. The second course went the same way. I didn't have the balls to say anything until the lamb appeared in front of the pair of us, and by that time I'd had two large glasses of wine and was beginning to feel the pull a bit. Odd that I'd get slow on wine, but then I wasn't used to it, I suppose. When the red came out with the lamb, we both looked at each other and I knew she was just as mullered as I was. We both nodded and smiled as the waiter told us what we had in front of us, and kept nodding and smiling at him as he left the table.
We both got stuck in. It was good. Probably not forty quid a head good, but still good. "You had any more salesmen come round?"
"No," she said.
"Good. Let me know if you do."
She stopped eating for a moment and regarded me with suspicion. "You're not telling me something."
"I told you everything you needed to know." I put some of the lamb with the fondant potato and shoved it in so I wouldn't have to keep talking.
"You told me that I shouldn't open the door to that guy again, that's all you told me. So what's happening?"
"He's just a nut job."
"What was he doing there?"
"I think he wanted to get a look at you."
"Why?"
"I don't know." Another sip of the red. "Don't worry, I've taken care of it."
"He give you the shiners the other week?"
"Yeah."
"He's your best mate, is he?"
Looked up and she was smiling. I matched it. "Not anymore. Listen, I've seen it before. It's the business. The stress of it, like you keep telling me. Some blokes can handle it better than others. Beale's had a bad run recently, and he hasn't taken it that well. He sees me, I've got the volume, I have the beautiful young girlfriend and money to burn while he's divorced and broke, hey, it would piss me off no end. So when they gave him the boot the other day, I'm guessing that was the final straw."
"So he came after me?"
"No, he just wanted to get a look at you, like I said. Probably wanted to see if you were real."
"Well, I'm glad I didn't hang about, then. Fucking pervert."
"I've got the feeling he'll try something else."
She looked at me, stunned.
"Not with you. You're safe. He ever comes near you again, call me and I'll have him sorted out. No, I'm thinking his next move might be to try and use you against me."
"Like how?"
"Like telling my wife."
"And you're bothered about that?" she said, then shook it away. "Of course you're bothered about that."
"I have to be."
"Okay. I understand. Why do you have to be bothered, though?"
"Lucy—"
"I'm not getting upset. No tears, nothing like that. But I have to ask, the way you talk about her, what do you have to lose? I mean, it's not like you love her or anything. From the way you talk about her, she doesn't sound as though she likes you much, either. And if you're in a situation now where you're seeing someone else, then there's obviously something wrong, isn't there?"
"Yeah. No, you're right. You're absolutely right."
"So what's stopping you from calling it a day? It'd be a load off your mind, wouldn't it?"
"It would." I nodded. "But I can't do it."
"Why not?"
"Because I saw what it did to Beale. His missus divorced him, didn't even take that much money from him, and he'd wrecked himself in a month."
"You wouldn't do that."
"I'm pretty sure he thought the same thing." I shook my head. "No, I probably wouldn't, you're right, but I don't want to take that chance."
"So you're going to stick with the loveless marriage."
"You make it sound so depressing."
"It kind of is, isn't it?"
"There are ways round loveless marriages. People reach compromises." I finished off the lamb, washed it down with the wine. Then I rubbed my mouth with the napkin. "But I'm not going to take the piss, am I?"
"No. I completely understand. You want to patch things up with your missus, I'm all for it. I don't want her getting suspicious, and I don't need you stressed to buggery because of it. Why spoil a good thing, eh?" She smiled, but her eyes didn't show it. "I like you, Alan. I really do. And I'm not going to wreck your life to prove it."
"Okay. So we'll leave it for now."
"It's what you want."
"Are you alright with it?"
"It's what you want," she said again.
I took another drink of wine. "Listen, it might be for a little while. And I'm sure you get plenty of options—"
She laughed so loud it drew glances from some of the other tables, then she stifled it with her napkin.
"What's so funny?"
"You were going to ask me if I was going to wait for you, weren't you?"
That's exactly what I was going to do. "No."
"You're not going to prison, Alan."
I laughed at that. It didn't sound right, and the sound drew more glances. "No, I'm not."
"Look, I'm not going to be Miss Haversham for you, but I promise not to get married too quickly." She arched her eyebrows. "Good enough?"
No, it wasn't. The thought of another bloke made me want to break things. And the look she was giving me made me want to have her right there on the table. But then, as much as my heart hammered and my mouth went shingle dry, I had to pull it back. Understand that this was the right thing to do. Limit the complications if Beale decided to get stupid about the situation. If Lucy wasn't an issue, then she couldn't be used as a threat.
I had some chocolate thing afterwards, with another wine that made my stomach play up. I took some more Rennies and used the wine to wash the dust from my mouth.
Lucy watched me. "Oh yeah, that'll do wonders. You got stomach problems?"
I patted my side. "Just a dicky tummy."
"Stress, Alan. I told you."
"It's a killer, I know."
By the time we had coffee, I was half-pissed with the wine and desperate to sober up a little, because if I got any more tipsy, I'd be catching a cab back to her place and any good intentions would be well out of the window. She was playing up to it, too. Using all the tricks. Touching my hand, looking at me through her lashes, throwing in memories of better, cheaper and sweatier afternoons. Testing my resolve. I brushed it off, or at least that was the effect I was going for. I wanted out of there. The longer I stayed, the more I'd mess this all up.
