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

business with. I’ve been ripped off too many times.’
    ‘I don’t rip people off,’ I said, ‘unless they rip me off first.’
    ‘I know. That’s why you’re here now.’ He paused, then asked, ‘why didn’t you take that money the other day?’
    ‘What money?’
    ‘The twelve hundred odd – you won it fair and square.’
    ‘You were trying to con me,’ I said.
    ‘Who, me?’
    ‘Come on McBain, you know you were,’ I said. ‘And if I’d’ve lost. I wouldn’t have paid my end.’
    ‘But I’d’ve only taken the fifty pence from you,’ he said, and I believed him too. I think he was just miserable and lonely and wanted a bit of company apart from Algy.
    ‘So why am I here?’ I asked.
    ‘I think you can do something for me.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Get me some money that’s owed.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘Christ, I don’t know. Lots.’ He grinned. ‘Lots and lots.’
    ‘Who owes it to you?’
    ‘My old management and record company.’
    ‘And you don’t know how much?’
    ‘I don’t, but I’ll put someone on to you who does. My investment counsellor. He’s my accountant too. High powered bastard, bit of a silly cunt really, but he’s made me a lot of dough.’
    ‘But he can’t get your money back?’
    ‘He won’t even try.’
    ‘Why not? ‘ I was intrigued.
    ‘They’ve got a reputation, the old firm. A reputation for violence.’
    ‘But you think I can do something.’
    ‘You might.’ McBain’s face was cunning in the firelight.
    ‘I charge.’
    ‘Course you do. How much?’
    ‘I charged Ted Dallas twenty per cent to get his money back.’
    ‘That was just a few hundred. We’re talking about a lot more. I’ll give you ten per cent.’
    ‘How much more?’ I asked.
    ‘Ask my accountant.’
    I thought about it for a moment. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But I’ll need some expenses up front.’
    ‘You sound like a tour manager,’ said McBain. ‘How much?’
    ‘You tell me,’ I said.
    ‘A couple of grand,’ said McBain. I must have looked surprised. ‘That’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s less than our coke bill for a month.’
    ‘And Algy’s so fat,’ I said in amazement.
    ‘You should see his McDonald’s account,’ replied McBain with a flash of humour. ‘Come on – I’ll get you some cash.’
    We left the big room and went up to McBain’s suite. He took me through the bedroom where the same sheets were on the waterbed, and into another room where three of the four walls were crammed with records. There must have been twenty thousand albums, and the floor was carpeted with neatly stacked forty-fives. A state-of-the-art Sony stereo system plugged into Opera House speakers stood on a rack against the fourth wall.
    ‘Nice,’ was all I could say.
    ‘Been collecting since 1959,’ said McBain proudly. ‘I’ve never got rid of a thing. Listen to this.’ He picked up a remote-control stick and pressed a button. The groove started in mid-tune. It was ‘Green Onions.’ ‘My favourite record by my favourite band,’ said McBain. ‘You like Booker T?’
    ‘I like all those Stax sounds,’ I replied.
    ‘Stax and Volt man, what fucking music those guys made. How about Otis?’
    ‘The best.’
    ‘A man after my own heart. Which is your favourite album?’
    ‘I thought about it for a moment. “Otis Blue”, I guess.’
    ‘Right. I prefer “Soul Ballads” myself, but then I’m older than you. Who turned you on to all that?’
    ‘I had an older brother once. He’s dead now. He was a heavy Mod.’
    ‘Yeah? Shit, so was I. Those were the days. Whereabouts?’
    ‘Streatham.’
    ‘I might have known him. What was his name?’
    ‘John, Johnny, Johnny S they used to call him.’
    ‘I don’t know, man,’ said McBain, rubbing his eyes with his hands. ‘I forget. I forget so much about that time.’ Suddenly he turned the sound off. He did look as if he was sorry and I was grateful for that.
    ‘Money,’ he said.
    There was one solitary gold