He Died With His Eyes Open by Derek Raymond

Author:Derek Raymond [Raymond, Derek]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General
ISBN: 9781852427962
Google: Gll69ZKPCvcC
Amazon: 0345342895
Barnesnoble: 0345342895
Publisher: Melville House
Published: 1984-01-01T19:00:00+00:00

19

I parked on a double yellow line in Old Compton Street and pushed my way into the German pub. One corner was packed with young men from good homes, the kind that draw unemployment benefit and do moonlight building and plumbing work on the side; they wore paint-stained Falmer jeans, sneakers and T-shirts, and accounted for the row of bikes on the pavement outside. They were big young men and were drinking lager. The other customers were Greeks, Italians, Asians or Maltese. Some of them were local delicatessen owners and shopkeepers, but. most of them were pimps for the whores lounging around the two bars; we knew it was a pick-up centre, but we never did anything about it. It was a pub where the police couldn't win—sited in just the right spot, with the whores' flats, the sex shops and a porno cinema opposite. Also the governor's kickbacks for copping a deaf 'un were too big. The brewers had good legal advice too—the best. So we let it go and just felt a collar or two from time to time without making a lot of fuss about it.

When I ordered a lager I had to shout. 'Just like a Butterfly Does' and 'Woman in Love' roared out of the jukebox, which was surrounded by girls (most, though not all of them, black) and by punters, most, though not all of them, hesitant, and none of them very appetizing. I drank some beer, then carried my glass over to the group of young men.

'Evening,' I said pleasantly. 'Anyone here seen Eric?'

'Eric the Knack, you mean? No, he's not in tonight.'

'He's broke,' said someone. 'He's out grafting.'

'He couldn't graft his way out of a wet paper bag, Eric couldn't.'

'Pity, I've got something for him,' I said.

'Money?'

'Why not?'

'Well, you could try his pad. You a friend of his?'

'I'm sort of like his uncle,' I said.

'Eighteen, Petworth Street, third floor. This end of Berwick Street market.'

'I know it,' I said. 'But I thought that building was condemned.'

'Well, it is,' said the young man I was talking to. 'It's a squat.'

'You're not a writ-server, are you?' said the boy next to him.

'Certainly not.'

'Not from the council, either?'

'Not a chance.'

'Well, if it's really money you've got for him, he owes me a tenner.'

'And me! He's into me for fifteen quid.'

One of the young men said suddenly: 'God, I fancy that black bird over there, the one with the sequins.'

'Bet you the next round you don't go over and tell her.'

The one who fancied her blushed violently under his short fair hair. 'Do what?' he said. 'No way.'

'Here,' I said, 'why don't I introduce you to her?'

'Oh, no. Really. I just sort of fancied her, that's all.'

'You never know,' I said. 'It's the sort of relationship that might mature.'

'No, honestly.'

I knew her by sight. She called herself Gloria Lovely, and I had come across her years before when I was with the Vice Squad. I just hoped she didn't remember my face, but she saw so many faces in her line that I doubted it.

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