Free Romeo's Tune (1990) by Mark Timlin Page A

remains of what looked like a five-skinner.
    ‘Not one of those,’ I replied. ‘Too heavy for this time of day.’
    ‘What then?’
    ‘Gin and tonic’
    ‘Are you a poof?’ he asked. I was rather taken aback, but from Algy I guessed one accepted that kind of question.
    ‘No,’ I answered, polite as a schoolboy.
    ‘Poof’s drink.’
    ‘Make sure you put in a slice of lemon for Mister Sharman, you bloody philistine,’ said a voice from inside the house, ‘and for Christ’s sake bring him in. It’s fucking freezing with that door open.’ It was McBain.
    ‘Yes, Boss,’ said Algy dryly. He stepped out of the way and I entered the house. It was cold in the hall.
    ‘Come through,’ invited McBain. I followed the sound of his voice through another door and into a big, dark, warm room with an open fire burning in a huge fireplace. Thick drapes were drawn over the windows and the only illumination came from the fire itself and two candles dripping wax, one at each end of the marble mantelpiece. Facing each other in front of the fire were two massive sofas covered in dark velvet that probably matched the curtains, only it was too dark to see properly. McBain was sprawled on one of the sofas. He was smoking a regular cigarette and holding a half-empty bottle of tequila in his right hand.
    ‘I see the sun’s over the yard-arm,’ I remarked.
    He looked at the bottle in the flickering light.
    ‘Always,’ he replied.
    Algy came quietly through the door behind me carrying a glass the size of a small bucket. He handed it to me. I tasted the drink. It was full of ice and lemon and gin. There was some tonic in there too, but not enough to drown a fly.
    ‘Barman of the year,’ I said. Algy grinned and picked up his Red Stripe.
    ‘Cheers,’ he said.
    ‘Sit down,’ McBain said to me. I sat on the sofa opposite him. ‘Get lost Algy.’ Algy shrugged and went out, closing the door behind him.
    ‘He takes a lot of shit from you,’ I said to McBain.
    ‘I pay him well to take shit. Better than well.’
    ‘Well enough to afford that car outside.’
    ‘Which one?’ he asked.
    ‘A green Bentley Continental.’
    ‘Another one of mine.’
    ‘It’s got his name on it.’
    ‘I know – can you imagine, a fucking personalised number plate. He’s so tacky.’
    ‘How many Bentleys have you got altogether?’
    ‘Four, I think, or maybe five. Algy sneaks a new one in every so often.’
    ‘It must be a drag.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Not knowing how many Bentleys you’ve got.’
    McBain laughed wolfishly, and stretched. When he moved he creaked and I realised he was wearing a leather suit. He saw me looking.
    ‘Like it?’ he asked.
    ‘It’s fine; a little tight for my taste maybe.’
    ‘Same bloke made it for me as made Jim Morrison’s leathers. Do you like The Doors?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Fine band,’ he mused. ‘Still a big influence.’ He paused.
    ‘You wanted to talk business,’ I said.
    ‘Yeah, sure. Not many people get in here you know.’
    ‘So I understand.’
    ‘You did.’
    ‘Your mother let me in. I conned her really. I’m sorry about that.’
    ‘Doesn’t matter, you got in. And you got cash out of me. Not many people do that either. Not any more.’ He said the last two words with some bitterness.
    ‘You owed it,’ I said.
    ‘I know. I’m not complaining,’ he replied. Then he said, ‘Algy and I put you on the computer.’
    ‘Come again?’
    ‘We’ve got this IBM mainframe fitted in the attic. We hack a bit when things get boring.’
    That must be most of the time, I thought.
    ‘Algy’s good, very good,’ he went on, ‘with all sorts of electronics. He’s got a delicate touch. Not that you’d think so to look at him. So we checked you out. You’ve been into some heavy shit in your time.’
    ‘I’m very upset with you,’ I said. ‘It’s none of your business what I’ve done.’ I moved towards McBain who looked alarmed.
    ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I have to know who I’m doing