S. Naipaul and Jonathan Raban, a new biography of Bruce Chatwin.
Macdonald knew that the owner was a complex character. The ground and upper floors were bright and cheerful, overflowing with novels, poetry, travelogues and cookbooks. The basement, which you got to by descending a stairway on the other side of a curtain, was a different world altogether. Magazines with titles like Over Forty and Life Begins at Fifty fearlessly defied the youth culture. The room was always full of customers. Just like that one, Macdonald thought as a man with a flat brown bag hurried out of the store.
Macdonald promised himself that he would read more as soon as he retired from the police force. He was thirty-seven, and he had served Queen and country since he was twenty-three. Only eleven years left. After that he could be a private detective and chase runaway teenagers from Leeds through the bowels of London. Or work as a security guard at Harrods and keep an eye on the Oyster Bar. Or arrange birthday parties for his grandchildren at his house in Kent, never more than ten steps from a malt. He’d let them pull on his ponytail as much as they wanted, he thought as he waited for a car to pass on Brewer Street. Crossing the intersection, he followed Rupert Street for a quarter of a block, nodded at a black man in a leather jacket and entered a theater under a flashing neon sign that said PEEP SHOW.
It took him a few seconds to get used to the shadows. Passing the cashier’s booth, he knocked on a door to the left of the main entrance. He stood and listened to the moans that echoed in the darkness. Somebody was screaming, “Yes, yes, YES, YES,” but it didn’t sound very convincing.
The door opened a couple of inches and another black man stared out at him. After the door closed again, Macdonald heard a rattling sound and it was flung wide open.
The man stretched out his hand and nodded for Macdonald to enter. “Welcome, Mr. Investigator.”
“You don’t skimp on security here, do you, Frankie?”
“Not a chance.”
They shook hands and Macdonald stepped into the office. No larger than a hundred square feet, the room was thick with humidity, along with the smell of vinegar and grease from half-eaten fish and chips on the pockmarked desk. A poster celebrating the pleasures of life in Jamaica was taped to the wall above, its bottom right corner curled, as if protesting the romanticism of it all. Next to the plate of leftovers was a notepad, a pen and a keyboard. The computer screen on the right side of the desk flickered more than it should. Cheap crap, Macdonald thought.
“Sorry I couldn’t offer you my lunch,” Frankie said. “But I’d be glad to order some more.”
“Looks like it was pretty tasty.”
“As English as can be. Should I send Johnny Boy to get another?”
“No thanks, the savory smells are enough for me.”
Frankie flicked his shoulder as if he were brushing off a thank-you after having paid for a five-course meal at Wheeler’s. “It’s your call. So what can a hardworking businessman do for the guardians of law and order?” he asked, taking a chair from behind the desk. “Have a seat, I’ll go get another one.”
He returned carrying a big, clunky chair with red imitation leather upholstery and gray stuffing that stuck out through the loose seams.
Frankie followed Macdonald’s eyes. “It might be ugly, but it’s comfortable as hell.” He sat down but popped back up when a young woman walked in with a tray. After putting a stainless steel teapot, two cups and saucers, a little pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar on the desk, she smiled, bowed her head slightly and left the room. Frankie sat down again and poured a cup for each of them.
“Just what I needed.” Macdonald leaned forward.
Frankie stood up a second time.
“What is it now?”
Frankie walked out and returned with a plate of cookies.
“Are the rituals just about over?”
“Now they are. Jamaicans are crazy about ritual. We
Macdonald knew that the owner was a complex character. The ground and upper floors were bright and cheerful, overflowing with novels, poetry, travelogues and cookbooks. The basement, which you got to by descending a stairway on the other side of a curtain, was a different world altogether. Magazines with titles like Over Forty and Life Begins at Fifty fearlessly defied the youth culture. The room was always full of customers. Just like that one, Macdonald thought as a man with a flat brown bag hurried out of the store.
Macdonald promised himself that he would read more as soon as he retired from the police force. He was thirty-seven, and he had served Queen and country since he was twenty-three. Only eleven years left. After that he could be a private detective and chase runaway teenagers from Leeds through the bowels of London. Or work as a security guard at Harrods and keep an eye on the Oyster Bar. Or arrange birthday parties for his grandchildren at his house in Kent, never more than ten steps from a malt. He’d let them pull on his ponytail as much as they wanted, he thought as he waited for a car to pass on Brewer Street. Crossing the intersection, he followed Rupert Street for a quarter of a block, nodded at a black man in a leather jacket and entered a theater under a flashing neon sign that said PEEP SHOW.
It took him a few seconds to get used to the shadows. Passing the cashier’s booth, he knocked on a door to the left of the main entrance. He stood and listened to the moans that echoed in the darkness. Somebody was screaming, “Yes, yes, YES, YES,” but it didn’t sound very convincing.
The door opened a couple of inches and another black man stared out at him. After the door closed again, Macdonald heard a rattling sound and it was flung wide open.
The man stretched out his hand and nodded for Macdonald to enter. “Welcome, Mr. Investigator.”
“You don’t skimp on security here, do you, Frankie?”
“Not a chance.”
They shook hands and Macdonald stepped into the office. No larger than a hundred square feet, the room was thick with humidity, along with the smell of vinegar and grease from half-eaten fish and chips on the pockmarked desk. A poster celebrating the pleasures of life in Jamaica was taped to the wall above, its bottom right corner curled, as if protesting the romanticism of it all. Next to the plate of leftovers was a notepad, a pen and a keyboard. The computer screen on the right side of the desk flickered more than it should. Cheap crap, Macdonald thought.
“Sorry I couldn’t offer you my lunch,” Frankie said. “But I’d be glad to order some more.”
“Looks like it was pretty tasty.”
“As English as can be. Should I send Johnny Boy to get another?”
“No thanks, the savory smells are enough for me.”
Frankie flicked his shoulder as if he were brushing off a thank-you after having paid for a five-course meal at Wheeler’s. “It’s your call. So what can a hardworking businessman do for the guardians of law and order?” he asked, taking a chair from behind the desk. “Have a seat, I’ll go get another one.”
He returned carrying a big, clunky chair with red imitation leather upholstery and gray stuffing that stuck out through the loose seams.
Frankie followed Macdonald’s eyes. “It might be ugly, but it’s comfortable as hell.” He sat down but popped back up when a young woman walked in with a tray. After putting a stainless steel teapot, two cups and saucers, a little pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar on the desk, she smiled, bowed her head slightly and left the room. Frankie sat down again and poured a cup for each of them.
“Just what I needed.” Macdonald leaned forward.
Frankie stood up a second time.
“What is it now?”
Frankie walked out and returned with a plate of cookies.
“Are the rituals just about over?”
“Now they are. Jamaicans are crazy about ritual. We
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