Free Gilded Edge, The by Danny Miller

dotted around; these were, Vince assumed, to mark properties that Michael de Freitas owned or had an interest in. Vince scanned the map for as long as possible, whilst trying to appear as if he hadn’t even noticed it. He saw that there was an impressive number of pins spread liberally around the neighbourhood, with the largest cluster around the Tabernacle Church area of Powis Square, Powis Terrace, Talbot Road and Colville Terrace.
    Also on the walls, besides a scattering of posters advertising local community events and flats and houses for rent, were framed photos of black leaders. Included in their serried ranks were Marcus Garvey, Elijah Muhammad, Dr Martin Luther King, Muhammad Ali and, taking pride of place, Malcolm X.
    Vince looked down from the photos and towards the six men occupying the office. Like Tiny, they were all dressed in black, all wearing sunglasses. As unpleasant as the strip lighting might be, the wraparound shades really weren’t, by any means, necessary. But in these surroundings, it wasn’t they who looked incongruous. As the only white man and wearing a suit, it was Vince who looked like the enemy.
    Two ‘soldiers’ were standing directly in front of one of the two desks, with arms folded, like a Praetorian guard blocking Vince’s view of the man he was sure sat behind it.
    ‘Police officer,’ came the disembodied voice of the man sitting there, ‘explain yourself and your presence here.’
    ‘I’m Detective Vince Treadwell, Scotland Yard, and who are you?’ asked Vince, knowing full well the who.
    At that, the two men moved apart like a curtain to reveal the main player on the stage: Michael de Freitas himself. It was a theatrical unveiling and one, Vince suspected, that might well have been specially rehearsed for just such an event. Michael de Freitas was dressed in the same garb as the other men, and wearing the same black sunglasses. Vince looked for stripes on his black leather jacket, to signify his leading General status, but there weren’t any. Nevertheless, it was clear he held the power in this room. He hadn’t changed much since Vince had seen him last, being hauled into Shepherd’s Bush station for questioning in connection with a murder. Nothing had stuck. But Michael de Freitas’ reputation on the streets had ballooned after that incident, giving the real verdict as to his guilt or innocence. He was a light-skinned black man (just like his fellow revolutionary up on the wall above him, Malcolm X), his face now a little fuller, the goatee bushier and his hair longer and more natty. But the duds had definitely changed since then: the look was now Che Guevara revolutionary, Marxist chic, rather than the rude boy gangster style of a few years back. The man looked relaxed and regally confident, sitting there in his high-backed black-padded swivel chair, his hands laced together in front of him.
    ‘Mikey de Freitas,’ confirmed Vince, with a smile and nod of recognition.
    ‘Michael X,’ he corrected with a steady and determined shake of his head.
    ‘X?’
    ‘You heard me, policeman. X. Just like my brother.’ He gestured vaguely towards the framed photos on the wall.
    Vince, without being invited, pulled up a chair and sat opposite Michael X. He glanced up at the photos on the wall again, his eyes falling admiringly on the picture of the handsome young world heavyweight champ. The victor stood over Sonny Liston, who lay sprawled on the canvas as the Louisville Lip goaded and mocked him. Vince looked back to Michael X and asked: ‘Has Cassius Clay changed his name again?’
    There was a collective and violent sucking of teeth, indicating a chorus of disapproval from all gathered there. Michael X unclasped his hands and pointed specifically to a framed photo of the other man, the original X, a smooth-looking Malcolm X in dark glasses and a slick suit.
    Vince continued his wind-up. ‘I had tickets for the Cooper fight, but I couldn’t make it. Henry and his left hook