would be first.’
‘So who am I preceding?’
‘A fine duo known as The Divines.’
‘Tell me they’re mind-readers and not strippers.’
‘They’re billed as erotic dancers.’
‘Really pitching me high, Richard, support act to a pair of lap-dancers.’
‘Don’t knock it, William. I’ve seen these girls, they need a lot of support if you get my drift.’
‘What’s the bottom line?’
‘Peachy, you could write a symphony about their bottom lines.’
I was beginning to understand why Richard had so few female artistes on his books.
‘What’s my fee?’
‘Two-fifty. Hey, who knows, maybe you could buddy up with the girls for the night? Make some of their clothes disappear?’
‘A real novelty act.’
Down the line more smoke was sucked into lungs.
‘Don’t be so bloody Scottish. Tell you what, if you get laid I’ll waive my ten percent.’
I said, ‘You’re a prince, Richard.’
And heard his laugh collapse back into coughs as I hung up the receiver.
*
That evening a bomb scare on the tube shut down main stations and the flatmate of the girl who filled in as my occasional assistant informed me that Julie had got a proper acting job. When I asked her if she fancied taking over instead she’d laughed and said, ‘After the stories Julie told me? You must be joking,’ and hung up still laughing.
I wondered if I could get a volunteer from the audience, but half-cut coppers waiting for a skin act didn’t seem promising recruitment material. Hurtling beneath the city in a carriage, pressed amongst jaded commuters who would rather take their chances than be rerouted and nervous tourists bracing themselves for an explosion, my mind drifted towards the dog track. A quick change of underground line and I could be there in time to place a bet on the third race. There was a young dog in the running that I fancied, it was untested enough to have high odds, but could do well if the conditions were right. I was onto a sure two-twenty-five from the gig once Richard had shaved his commission off the top, but if luck was on my side I could win a lot more. I thought about the money I owed my bookie and the demand for rent that the landlord had slipped under the door that morning after he’d got tired of battering on it. Next time he’d send one of his sons with a key and a couple of helpers to give me a hand shifting my gear onto the street.
We pulled into the station where I needed to switch line if I was going to abscond and I almost got to my feet, but I’d never missed a show to go gambling yet. Only addicts took a bet on their job.
The club turned out to be a private members’ place in Soho. I found the street, walked three blocks, then realised I’d overshot it and had to retrace my steps. The entrance was at street level, an anonymous green door with no sign or brass plate to distinguish it, just a number beside an unmarked buzzer. I pressed the buzzer and somewhere in the building a mechanical droning announced my presence.
There was a brief pause, then a bustling beyond the door and a Judas hole slid back with a crack. A pair of green eyes painted with emerald glitter and fringed by false eyelashes appeared behind a tiny wrought-iron grill. They stared at me unblinking, like an exotic anchorite.
I said, ‘Joe sent me.’ And the Judas hole slammed shut. When it became clear that the door wasn’t going to open I buzzed again. This time when the hatch slid back I gave my name and when that got no response added, ‘I’m the conjurer.’
‘The what?’
The voice was cockney, younger than I’d expected and full of scorn. I gave her the benefit of the William Wilson grin and said, ‘The magician.’
The eyes looked me up and down, and found me wanting. The voice said. ‘That’s funny, I thought you were a bloody comedian.’ And buzzed me in.
‘You’re late.’
The door led straight into a tiny entrance hallway divided by a counter into a reception and cloakroom. Black carpet ran across the floor, ceiling and walls. A harsh neon strip revealed fag burn melts and ooze between the jet pile. I guessed a TV design guru wouldn’t approve, but once the lights were down it would suit the musty come-alive-at-night feel of the place.
The green eyes belonged to a large pale girl, squeezed into a red and black dress whose lace-up bodice was losing the struggle to control her bosoms. She was the kind of girl old gentlemen like to pinch: ripe and big, with skin that fitted like skin should. Once you got past the hardness of her stare she’d be a fine pillow against the world. Her hair was a mass of white-gold curls, piled high and tumbling on the top of her head. A soft blush of down brushed her cheek. The overall effect was voluptuous, blowsy and somehow Victorian. My grandmother would have called her a strumpet, but I thought she looked too good for this place.
The girl lifted a flap on the counter and put it between her and me.
I smiled and asked, ‘All on your own?’
I was aiming for avuncular, but it sounded like a line that Crippen might have used. The girl ignored me and switched on the Tiffany lamp on the counter, then started to dim the overheads.
‘What’s in the case?’
‘My props.’
‘Have you got a rabbit?’
‘Aye, but he’s invisible.’
She gave me a disgusted look that suddenly revealed the teenager beneath the makeup.
‘Bill’s upstairs chatting up the tarts.’
I guessed she was used to creeps and thought of saying something to show her I wasn’t one of them, but couldn’t come up with anything other than, ‘Maybe I should go and introduce myself.’
She shrugged with a look that said she expected nothing less and pointed towards a set of swing doors.
‘Changing rooms are through the bar and up the stairs.’
The bar was a larger, more dimly lit version of the foyer. A disco light bounced a coloured spectrum half-heartedly against the walls and from somewhere an eighties chart hit, that I dimly remembered from a stint I’d done at a holiday camp in Kos, was blasting across a tiny dance floor. A few men who looked too serious to consider dancing sat drinking at dimpled copper tables. I might be late, but the party wasn’t swinging. They dropped their voices and followed me with their eyes as I passed. They would be hard men to entertain, hard men full stop. I gave them a nod and they kept their gaze level, each man’s stare a mirror of his companion’s even look. I thought of a school of fish, each in tune with the other, slipping as one through a dark ocean. I wondered if Rich had meant two-fifty before or after his cut. I always forgot to ask.
At first glance Bill looked vintage doorman. Broad-shouldered, squat-nosed and tuxedoed. He was leaning
