Suedehead Read online

  Joe congratulated himself silently. Short cuts had always been his forte. The prison accountant had shown him several tricks and he had latched onto each with an alacrity which had astounded the once-top embezzler.

  Long, lean, lonely Pierce continued: “Where did you learn to calculate percentages to such perfection, Mr. Hawkins?”

  Joe smirked behind a hand ostensibly covering a nasty cough. Lonely Pierce! That suited the musty old bastard. No sane woman would let this parchment-crackling flesh into her bed. Removing his hand, Joe said: “I attended private lessons from a friend of the family. A chartered accountant, you know!”

  Pierce was impressed. He positively beamed. “Excellent, young man. All too few of your generation bother to take instructions from the elders. Have you ever had a job before?”

  Joe hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

  “With whom?” A pen poised ready to make notations.

  He’s after references, Joe thought quickly.

  “Come, boy – with whom?” Pierce demanded slightly agitated.

  “Er...” Joe swallowed, and confessed with Oscar-winning embarrassment, “I am not from a middle-class family, sir. I come from poor people. I worked with a coal merchant before I decided to better myself.”

  “Ahhhh!” Pierce bestowed a generous smile on his “find”. “Rags to riches, eh? A modern progression, lad. Oh, well – we must accept your ability. How does eleven pounds a week sound?”

  Rotten! Joe thought instantly. To Pierce he smiled and said: “Wonderful, sir.”

  “Settled!” The man rose to his creaking feet, began to extend a hand and withdrew it immediately. “Hawkins...” Joe noted the dropped Mr. or the familiar Joe. “We are short-handed. Can you start tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow was Wednesday – middle of the pay week. Joe mulled over the problem of his next loan from the society. If he played his cards right he might just scrape home with an additional tenner.

  “When do I get my first pay, sir?” He cursed himself at once when Pierce raised a scanty eyebrow and fixed him with an accusing stare. “I hate to appear anxious, sir, but there are circumstances which I have not mentioned.”

  “Like what, Hawkins?”

  “Well,sir...” Joe thought fast and found a solution. “I mentioned being from a poor family. My parents do not understand why I should want to better myself, sir. I have a small flat but I’m hard-pressed for the...” He had started to say “ready” but quickly changed this to, “money to pay my landlady. I’m alright until Saturday, sir...”

  Pierce smiled until his dry lips started to crack. “I like your spirit, Hawkins. It isn’t every day we come face to face with a lad willing to sacrifice home and family in an endeavour to rise above lower class graveyards. I’ll personally make arrangements for you to draw a full week’s pay this Friday. Is that enough?”

  “Thank you, sir!” Joe sounded so convincing he began to wonder if, somewhere along the line, he had actually begun to think like these stupid creeps.

  “Right, Hawkins. See you in the morning at nine-thirty.” Pierce dismissed his “help” with an imperious gesture and sank back into his leather-cushioned chair. The sigh of relief spoke volumes as those long, skin-over-bones fingers began rifling through stock market tapes.

  Leaving the musty office with its leather-bound tomes and its legalistic, money-making atmosphere, Joe felt the world had for once returned him a debt. He had been long overdue recognition. He might have preferred to be known as “king of skinheads” but by his reckoning, this set-up would return more authority and more eventual glory than all the commands ever granted to a skinhead leader.

  Those silly bastards beating their heads against stone walls are trash compared to what I’ll be once I’m established, he thought as he walked through the offices of his employers. Look at those girls in their mini-skirts and hot pants. They’re ripe for someone like me. And as for Pierce – crissakes, I could steal him blind and he’d never suspect.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was opening time and Joe hurried along the Bayswater Road. He felt thirsty – and randy. Maybe he could find a girl in the pub: one willing to come back to his flatlet and spend this Sunday afternoon in his company. He had no worries now about bringing anyone to where he called home. Although he lived on the third floor, the entire building was nicely decorated and modest carpets covered every flight of stairs so that passing feet did not disturb the tenants.

  His own room reflected some of the large house’s former glory – decorated ceilings with sunburst plaster-work round the hanging, shaded light, doors dating back to a period just after Regency. Joe did not know about such refinements. He knew that he liked the place and there his information ended. Abruptly. Sadly.

  He shared a toilet and bath with two other flatlets but he had cooking facilities, a washbasin, a large closet which doubled as a kitchen-cum-storage room, and a spacious bedsitter containing twin comfortable beds, a dressing table, chest of drawers, armchair in fresh upholstery and three ordinary chairs for eating at the gate-leg table. The room was carpeted, clean and serviced once a week. He had purchased one of those plastic wardrobes for his coat and suit – singular since he had not bothered to visit his real home since walking free from the Scrubs. To hell with the old man, he kept thinking. To hell with the old woman. Not even if I’m starving would I call on them for help.

  Artists were displaying their multi-hued wares across the Bayswater Road as he approached the pub. Dozens of gawking tourists strolled aimlessly past the over-priced paintings and miscellaneous artifacts. Behind the railings – seen through gaps left as an occasional painting was sold for a knockdown “bargain” – the green grass of the park looked slightly artificial in this concrete jungle that was seething, bustling, swinging London.

  In his pin-stripe suit and clean white shirt with his conservative tie clipped in place by a Stratton gold pin, Joe felt quite the City gent. Funny, he mused, how clothes change a guy’s outlook.

  He could remember those far-off days when he felt ten foot tall dressed in bovver boots, union shirt and tight trousers with the loud braces boldly showing. He could touch his hair and recall the pride of a skinhead cut. Recall! His hair was growing now. In another month or two it would be suede... in between being a skinhead and being what the Establishment liked to call normal styling. Suede – smooth, elite, expensive.

  He smiled to himself as he entered the pub. That was his new image. Suedehead – a smoothie, one of the elite now, and with expensive tastes and ambitions.

  Thumbs behind his lapels, he straightened his jacket and marched to the crowded bar. A huge roast beef stared back at him amid a variety of pickles, salads and other inviting snacks. He was hungry but he dared not spend on food. Mrs. Hale had paid for the suit (an extra loan once he got his City job) but the well was drying up. The society did not have inexhaustible funds for Joe Hawkins, apparently. Not that he minded. He made out okay. He was in for seventy-five quid. On his signature only. And unknown to the ever-smiling, ever-helpful Mrs. Hale he was working the dodge with Social Security too. Life was great. Terrific. Everybody paid for his pleasure. To a degree...

  Mentally he calculated what was left in his wallet. Certainly not more than fifteen nicker. Not less than twelve. He had to buy smokes – a decent brand now he was a member of Stanman, Pierce and Solley. He could still drink pints of wallop but he enjoyed putting on the dog and having shorts with soda. And they cost a packet! If he met a dolly-bird she would probably insist on some exotic concoction so... He fought back the desire to have a beef sandwich with a side salad and settled for a hot sausage on a cocktail stick with Seagram’s Hundred Pipers splashed lightly with soda.

  Squeezing into a seat between a man-wife duo and two hot-panted dolly-birds he eyed what the girls were drinking before unleashing a smile in their combined direction. He could afford to pay for a few rounds. After all, it wasn’t every day a bloke got to grips with birds who preferred milds and bitter to shorts.

  He munc
hed the sausage like it was hors d’oeuvres, sipped his drink in leisurely fashion. He wanted to knock it back, order another, but discretion was the pocket dictate. He let the girls know he was interested without ever stepping on toes. The old methods did not work in this new atmosphere. Anyway the man-wife team were furtively watching him as if expecting a rapist to emerge from inside that pin-stripe suit at any second.

  One girl – smallish, pretty, wearing her hair in a huge knot at the back – laughed as she finished her drink. “How about another Sandra?” she asked her companion.

  Sandra was taller, leaner, less inclined to toss glances in Joe’s direction. She was also in Joe’s opinion, a spoilt brat and decidedly trying to put a wet blanket on her mate’s fun. “Not for me,” she pebble-mouthed. “I find this crowd disgustingly cheap.”

  Oh, la-la, Joe thought. What the hell would she think if she had to drink with his old crowd down in East Ham?

  “Sandra! That’s awful... keep your voice low!”

  Sandra giggled and sipped what remained of her pint. “Sorry if I embarrass you, Lois.”

  “You’re deliberately trying to make me feel small.”

  “You are small,” Sandra replied cattily.

  The man and woman quickly finished their drinks and departed. Leaning across the table Joe said: “You’re not that small, Lois.”

  The girl avoided a direct confrontation with Joe’s hot eyes. Lowering her head she softly said: “Sandra believes every woman worth anything should be five-eight.”

  “Not true,” Joe told her. “Would you like a drink – one on me?”

  Lois nodded quickly.

  “Sandra?”

  The taller girl shook her head defiantly, then got to her feet leaving an inch of beer in her glass. “No thanks. I’m going. Are you staying, Lois?”

  Joe tensed expectantly.

  “I think I shall...”

  Joe got to his feet with alacrity. “What’ll it be, Lois?”

  “Would you mind awfully if I switched to the same as you?”

  He forced a brave smile. This wasn’t what he had figured but... “It’s Scotch and soda,” he warned.

  “Lovely. I often sneak a sample of daddy’s scotch.”

  “Large?” Joe cursed his tongue immediately.

  “Thanks – yes!”

  As Sandra took a dignified exit Joe got the barmaid’s attention and ordered large Hundred Pipers for two. He did not think to bring the soda back to Lois so she could fix her own mixture. Instead, he liberally splashed both drinks and went back like an uncrowned monarch about to dispense favours to a loyal subject. He had a lot to learn though the lesson was not imminent.

  Lois smiled, sipped her drink after a murmured, “cheers”, and kept her gaze alerted.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” Joe said conversationally as if he was a regular. In fact, he had been inside this particular pub but only once before. The first night he took his flatlet.

  “That wouldn’t surprise me,” the girl remarked. “I live on the other side of the park.”

  Joe stiffened. Her very word “other” made his side seem vile, vulgar, violent. He would have to be careful with this one. She came from a society family, he was sure. The “daddy” bit and Sandra’s down-the-nose attitude spoke of slumming.

  “I’ve only moved in myself, “Joe said to lessen the antagonism between their classes.

  She appeared interested. “Oh, where did you live previously?”

  “Actually,” he lied effectively, “I’m a roving bod.” He was getting quite expert at inventing backgrounds and denying his past.

  “That must be fun.” She looked straight into his eyes and blushed a little.

  “Fun is not being alone all the time,” Joe said to open the conversation.

  “I’m Lois, as you know. What’s your name?”

  “Joe...” He balked at the Hawkins. That sounded common!

  A fat girl accompanied by a slender man slid into the unoccupied seats. “What’ll you have, ducks?” The man asked.

  “Pint of cider,” fatso said eagerly.

  Joe shuddered. Why did they have to invade his upper-class territory.

  “I like this Scotch. What brand is it?” Lois asked as if the rest of the world did not exist at that precise moment.

  “Seagram’s Hundred Pipers. Quite new, I understand.”

  “Seagram’s... are they the people who make Canadian rye?”

  Joe wasn’t sure but he tried to appear knowledgeable. “Why yes, they are.”

  Lois glanced at the fat girl, smiled at Joe. “Crowded isn’t it?”

  You little viper, Joe thought. “Sunday...” he explained.

  “I’m hungry – are you?”

  I’m bloody starving, his mind screamed.

  “Finish your drink. We’ll find a c...” He almost said “caff”. “A cosy restaurant,” he finished lamely. It was a bloody effort dealing with these snooty bitches. And trying to rise above his skinhead, East End background.

  “There’s a smashing one across the park.”

  There would be! He nodded thoughtfully. “Anything you want, Lois.” Within reason and my pocket-book.

  *

  Immediately he saw the facade and the saw-dust floor he knew this was more than he had expected. And he had allowed for a costly interlude before bringing her back through the park and into his bed.

  Once inside, however, he felt better. The menu did not read like the national debt. It was reasonable. He’d have to remember Flanagan’s. Posh, a throw-back to Edwardian times and the right type of atmosphere to make any reluctant virgin say “yes” without hesitation. He felt better, more inclined to splurge. Soon, he’d have money to do those things he had always thought were his due. He’d be like the stars in a black void as gazed upon by astronauts – a millionaire. Hawkins would not be a surname to feel ashamed of then. It would be a title almost.

  Thrusting aside his daydreams he concentrated on the menu.

  “I’ll have Royal Game Pie,” Lois declared.

  “Me, too.” He dropped the menu.

  “With Spotted Dick?”

  “Naturally!” He feigned aloofness, not bothering to cast a second glance at the menu. The act went over excellently, he thought, as her eyes shone enthusiastically.

  “Shall we have something to drink?”

  He swore inwardly. This was the test. He knew absolutely nothing about wines, about correct procedures. Beer was fine with chicken according to him, according to his old man.

  “You must have a favourite,” he suggested.

  Lois smiled thanks. “I enjoy Sauterne.”

  The waitress nodded approval. Joe puffed out his chest. “A bottle of Sauterne, miss.”

  What the hell is Sauterne? he asked mentally. He had never tasted the drink. But never!

  Waiting for their order, Joe studied Lois. She was more than pretty. She was beautiful. She had large, luminous blue eyes and the way her chestnut coloured hair was gathered into that back-knot made her face definitely exciting. Her figure left much to be praised, nothing to be desired. She had firm, high breasts; lovely legs admirably displayed in those velvety-green hotpants. Her skin was pure satin – smooth, blemishless, so naturally untouched.

  “What do you do for a living?” she asked.

  “I’m with Stanman, Pierce & Solley, stockbrokers.”

  Mrs. Hale had been adamant. She had insisted he refer to his position as being with the company. Not merely a junior clerk working for them.

  Lois’s blue eyes enlarged into liquid pools expressing her joy at finding “one of her own” on the Bayswater side of the park. “Fascinating, Joseph,” she said.

  The hell with you, bitch! Joe thought. Joseph, indeed! Never!

  “The name is Joe,” he said tightly.

  She did not catch his tension. “I think that Joseph is a marvellous name. Much better than Joe.”

  ‘Tm Joe,” he said viciously.

  She began to worry. This wasn
’t a boy willing to please a girl’s preference for a name. This was a stubborn man thrusting his opinionated self down a woman’s throat. The arrival of the waitress saved her from an argument. She watched carefully as Joe quickly caught onto his duty and sampled the wine. He nodded, much too soon. He isn’t accustomed to this, she thought.

  Once – it had seemed like eons ago – Joe had read a book where the private eye had sampled wine and expressed his opinions on its merits. He saw those lines now and said: “A good year. Very palatable.”

  Lois frowned. Was she wrong? He sounded as if he knew...

  *

  “Shall we take a stroll around the park?”

  Joe champed at the bit. The meal had been near disaster but by watching how she handled her knife and fork he had managed to avoid total disgrace. That time when a slice of pie had fallen from his fork had almost undone all he had hoped to achieve. Luckily, Lois had been lost in her flavour buds and listening to the conversation from the next table.

  “Across the park,” he said deliberately.

  Her hand briefly touched his. “You’re trying to compromise me, Joseph.”

  “Can’t you do what I ask?” he requested pleadingly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Call me plain Joe.”

  She laughed and concentrated on ducks floating lazily on placid waters. Their outrageously coloured feathers contrasted sharply with the brownishness of polluted, weed dank liquid.

  “Do you have a job?” Joe asked finally. He was fast approaching tongue-tied frustration. If he did not have to keep being something he was not there were a dozen topics he could talk about. He’d have enjoyed discussing the merits of West Ham or Chelsea or Arsenal’s chance of pulling off the “double”. He could have spoken about the days when he ruled a gang with an iron hand and took those girls he liked with the simplicity of a stallion servicing a sprightly mare. But that was the past. His present image demanded less crudity, more gentility – and it was eating at his bone marrow at an alarming rate.