Bleeding Hearts Part 20

'I know you didn't, Mr Hoffer, it's just that ... it's just we've been here before. You've sounded so close to him, so excited, so sure. Do you know what it's like at this end, just waiting for your next call? You can't possibly know. It's like fire under my fingernails, knives stuck between my ribs. It's ... I can hardly move, hardly bear to do anything except wait. I'm as housebound as any invalid.'

Hoffer was about to suggest a portable phone, but didn't think flippancy was in order.

'Sir,' he said calmly, 'I'm doing what I can. I'm sorry if you feel I build up your hopes without due cause. I just thought you'd want to know how it's going.'

'I do want to know. But I'd rather just be told the sonofab.i.t.c.h was dead.'

The, too, sir, believe me.' Hotter stared at the gun lying on his bedside cabinet. The, too.'

And here he sat next morning, awaiting his order of Pull English Breakfast with orange juice, toast and coffee. His waitress was a crone. She was probably in the kitchen grinding up wormwood to add to the egg-mix. He wondered if maybe she had a sister worked in the p.o.r.n cinema where he'd wasted more money than time last night. There were three movies on the bill, but he'd lasted only half the first one. The stuff they were showing was as steamy as a cold cup of coffee, and the 'usherette' who'd waddled down the aisle selling ices had looked like she was wearing a fright- mask. She'd still managed to exude more s.e.x than the pale dubbed figures on the unfocused screen. The film was called Swedish Nymph Party, but it started with some cars drawing up outside a mountain chalet, and the licence plates were definitely German, not Swedish. After that, Hoffer just couldn't get into the film.

London was definitely getting shabby.

A few more hungry clients wandered in off the street.

There was no one about to show them to a table, so some 161.

wandered back outside while others sat down and then wondered if they'd maybe walked into Tussaud's by mistake.

'Mr Hoffer.'

'Hey, Barney, sit down.' Hoffer half rose to greet the policeman. They sat opposite one another. 'I'd ask you to share my breakfast, only I don't have any yet, and the speed they're serving you could probably come back after work and they'd be pouring the coffee.'

'I'm fine, thanks.'

'I'm glad someone is. Thanks for coming.'

'I think it suits us both. You're not exactly this month's centrefold at Vine Street.'

'Yeah, Bob really holds a grudge, huh? Just because I took him off the payroll. Speaking of which ...' Hotter handed over two twenties. 'This ought to cover your expenses.'

'Cheers.' Barney put the notes in his pocket and produced a folded-up piece of lined writing paper. It looked like he'd saved it from a wastebin.

'This is a cla.s.s act, Barney.'

'You wouldn't have been able to read my typing, and names are names, aren't they?'

'Sure, absolutely.' Hoffer unfolded the paper gingerly and laid it on the table. It was a handwritten list of names. There were two columns, one headed 'London/South East' and the other 'Other Areas'. But there were only names, no addresses or other information.

'Maybe I pay too much,' said Hoffer.

'What's the matter?'

'This tells me less than Yellow Pages, Barney. What am I supposed to do, scour the phone book for these guys or what?'

'You said you wanted their names.'

'What did you think I would do with them? Find one I liked and name my first son after it?' The policeman looked uncomprehending. He couldn't understand why Hoffer wouldn't be pleased.

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'This is all hush-hush info. I mean, on the surface these guys are clean. This isn't the sort of gen you could just get anywhere.'

'I appreciate that, really I do. I hear what you're saying.

But Jesus, Barney, I expected a little more.'

Barney took the list back and studied it. 'Well, I could give you some addresses off the top of my head.'

'That would help. I'd be real grateful.' Hoffer took the list back and got a pen from his pocket. He looked around in vain for his breakfast. 'Two more minutes, I swear, then I'm going into that f.u.c.king kitchen and cooking it myself.'

A new waitress had appeared at the front of the restaurant and was handing menus to customers who'd come in, and taking the orders from others. Then Hoffer's waitress appeared with a tray full of food, but took it to another table.

'That f.u.c.k came in after me!' Hofier hissed. 'Hey! Excuse me!' But the waitress had dived back into the kitchen.

'These first three are south London,' Barney was saying, his finger on the list. 'He lives in Clapham, that one's Catford, and the third one is Upper Norwood. Actually, Shattuck's not a dealer so much as a buyer, but he sometimes tries selling stuff on.' Hoffer was'scribbling the information down. 'Now as for these others ...'

'Hey, wait, you said addresses.'

So Barney screwed shut his eyes and concentrated like he was the last man left in the quiz show. He came up with three streets, but only one positive house number.

'They're not big streets though.'

'I am duly thankful,' Hoffer said dubiously. The waitress appeared bearing another tray, this time laying it on Hoffer's table.

'I've got to tell you, honey,' he said, 'the starving in Africa get fed faster than this.'

She was unmoved. 'We've got staff problems.'

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'Right, it takes them longer than other people to fry ham.

Tell them to turn the gas on next time.'

'Very droll.' She turned away with her empty tray. Hoffer attacked a small fat sausage, dipping it in the gelatinous yellow of his solitary egg.

'This is one sad-looking breakfast,' he said. It looked almost as lugubrious as Barney, and had all the charm of the guy in the Gestapo gla.s.ses, who was now having a third cup of coffee. The toast felt like they'd lifted it from a pathology lab, where it must have lain not far from the deep-frozen pats of b.u.t.ter.

'These others,' Barney was saying, 'the other London names, they're north of the river or a bit further out. That one's Clapton, that one's Kilburn, he's Dagenham and the last one's Watford.'

'Addresses?'

Barney shrugged. 'Then there are these ones outside London. One's near Hull, there are two in Yorks.h.i.+re, a couple in Newcastle, one in Nottingham, and one in Cardiff.'

He paused. 'I'm not exactly sure which one's which though, not off-hand.' He brightened and stabbed at a name. 'He's definitely Bristol though.'

"Bristol, huh? Well, thanks for your help. Thanks a heap.'

He tried the coffee. By this stage of the meal, it could hold few surprises. Hotter was suitably laconic. 's.h.i.+t,' he said.

"You know, Barney, a lot of people complain about the food in the States. They say it's beautifully presented, you know, great to look at, but that it doesn't taste of much. Either that or it's all fast food, you know, burgers and pizza, and there's no real cuisine. But I swear, compared to the stuff I've eaten in London, a poor boy sandwich from some mosquito-filled shack in the Everglades is as foie gras and caviar.'

He stared at Barney. Barney stared back.

'You don't much go for it then?'

Hoffer was still staring. 'Did you say Yorks.h.i.+re?'

'Pardon?'

164.

'Two of these guys live in Yorks.h.i.+re?'

'Yeah, Yorks.h.i.+re ... or Lancas.h.i.+re, thereabouts.'

'This is important, Barney. Yorks.h.i.+re? Think hard.'

'I don't know ... I think so, yes.'

'Which ones?'

Barney could see this meant a lot to Hoffer. He shook his head like a pet pupil who's failing his mentor. 'I don't know.

Wait a minute, Harrison's in Yorks.h.i.+re.'

Hoffer studied the list. 'Max Harrison?' he said.

'Yes, he's Yorks.h.i.+re, but I think he's retired. He got cancer or something. It rotted all his face.'

'Terrific. I'd still like an address.' Hoffer was speaking slowly and carefully.

'I can find out.'

'Then find out. It's very important.'

'Why Yorks.h.i.+re?'

'Because the Demolition Man has spent some time there, and some money there.' Hoffer went down the list again, picking between his teeth with one of the tines of his fork.

None of the names set any bells ringing. 'I need to know about the Yorks.h.i.+re dealers, Barney, I need to know about them soonest, capisce?' Barney looked blank. 'Understood?'

Now Barney nodded. 'Good man. How soon?'

'Later today, maybe not till tomorrow.'

Which meant Barney couldn't get them till tomorrow, but didn't want to admit it straight out.

'I mean,' he went on, 'I've got my real job, you know. I can't suddenly go off and do other stuff, not without a good reason.'

'Isn't my money reason enough?'

'Well, I won't say it isn't welcome.'

'A hundred if I get them today, otherwise it's another forty.'

Barney thought about haggling. He was London-born and bred, and Londoners were famed for their street wisdom, 165.

their deal-doing. But one look at the New Yorker told Barney he wasn't going to win.

'I'll do what I can,' he said, getting to his feet.

'And Barney, typed this time, huh? Bribe a secretary if you have to. Use your old charm.'

'Okay, Mr Hoffer.' Barney seemed relieved to be leaving.

He sought a form of farewell, and waved one arm. 'Enjoy your breakfast.'

'Thank you, Barney,' said Hoffer, smiling a fixed smile. 'I'll certainly try.'

He stuck with the coffee and toast. After all, breakfast was included in the price of his room. The toast put up some resistance to the notion of being gnawed to bits and swallowed, but the coffee seemed to have a fine corrosive quality. So engaged was he in the battle, that Hoffer didn't notice the Karloff-Bette Davis test-tube baby leave his table and start walking back through the dining area towards the hotel proper. But he noticed when the man stopped at his table and smiled down on him.

'What am I, a circus act?' Hoffer said, spitting flecks of bread on to the man's burgundy jacket. It was one of those English-style jackets that the English seldom wore, but which were much prized by Americans.

'I couldn't help hearing you try to ... ah, summon the waitress,' the stranger said. 'I'm American myself.'

'Well,' Hoffer said expansively, 'sit down, pardner. It's good to see another patriotic American.'

The man started to sit.

'Hey,' snapped Hoffer, 'I was being ironic.'

But the man sat down anyway. Close up, he had a thin persistent smile formed from wide, meatless lips. His face was dotted with freckles, his hair short and bleached. But his eyes were almost black, hooded with dark bags under them.

He wasn't tall, but he was wide at the shoulders. Everything he did he did for a specific purpose. Now he planted his hands on the table.

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'So, how're things going, Mr Hoffer?'

'I get it, another fan, huh? No autographs today, Bud, okay?'

'You seem nervous, Mr Hoffer.'

'As of right now I'm about nervous enough to bust you in the chops.'

'But you're also curious. You wonder who I am really. On the surface you affect disdain, but beneath your mind is always working.'