Larry isn't with us this week. When Scott queried his absence, Dom Patel just shrugged his shoulders and moved immediately on to the next matter. Christophe and Ali have been much in evidence around the basement office in Hollywood Road of late. When Scott spoke to Bernard the accountant about Larry, he just rolled those large, dark-brown, lively eyes of his. Scott gets on especially well with Bernard. He’s a dolphin swimming with sharks.
Nicky took Scott by the elbow after the daily sales briefing. Leading him upstairs and into Keaton’s Restaurant for a cup of coffee - it's all very hush-hush, nobody will whisper a word … Nicky, hunched over his coffee cup waiting for Alice to go about her business, whispers twice to Scott that what he is about to say is in the strictest confidence. Not to be repeated you understand. It all boils down to Larry supposedly being in Charing Cross Hospital. Both of his kneecaps have been broken. The inital group of four graduates, trainee managers auditioning for the Kingdom of Riches, are now reduced to three. A successful salesman, Nigel, often seen with Larry, someone who Scott’s had a few dealings with, is taking out Larry’s crew. Nicky, moving his head very close to Scott’s, indicates that he can’t say more for the moment. He’s now waving Alice away who’s approaching their booth. Scott smiles at her. She pulls a face. Flounces off to serve another customer …
On the Wednesday Scott saw Bernard briefly in the Hasker Street office. He’d dropped by to give the Advanced Art secretary, Jenny, a birthday card and a present of Black Magic chocolates. Jenny is a lovely young girl. Huge thighs, plump but attractive. Maybe not the full shilling, but a good person with a big heart and a ready smile. Ali once disclosed to Scott, as if passing on vital information that he had deliberately selected and engaged Jenny as their secretary because she wasn’t that intelligent.
“Whatever you do, never employ a smart secretary.” Ali smiles as he passes this piece of wisdom to Scott. Sounds like the philosophy of deceit and intrigue …
Bernard, in a quiet moment, glancing around just in case, furtively whispers in Scott’s ear that Larry had managed to steal over seven-hundred pounds from the company in a twelve-week period. Bernard then shot off before Scott could find out more. Didn’t want to explain to Scott how Larry did it. Probably doesn’t want to give him ideas. Been warned by Christophe in all likelihood. He is the Advanced Art enforcer. It turns out that Nicky doesn’t know any more, or he’s not telling. Like all of these similar situations, when someone has left, everyone moves on. It’s as if Larry was just never here. Nigel and the crew are bringing in the points just the same …
Late at night, back at Milner Square, and Scott is pondering the issue. Wanting to know some answers. The Children of the Empire want to know as well. In truth, he’s never been that close to Nicky, James or Larry when he was around. Never ever went for a coffee with them except this week with Nicky. Never took drugs with any of them or sold them any. Dom Patel is really the only person from Advanced Art that Scott spends any social time with, and that is a drug connection.
Larry was tall, six-foot-three inches or more. Lanky. Talking already in the past tense about him, but it seems he’s gone forever. He always wore a pair of dark glasses. Though they didn't seem to be sunglasses, more like a prescription from an opticians. Traditional in manner, a long black leather jacket down to his thighs. Brown suede shoes that had seen better days. A bit like an edgy Nicky. Lifeless, brownish hair no longer short, combed across. A wave at the front and sprouting ends at the back across the collar of his black leather jacket. Larry could be very laconic for a salesman. Quite often sat in Dom Patel’s office in Hollywood Road late at night, awaiting his turn at the pay-in and not saying a word. When he did utter something it was usually pithy and short. A clipped, wealthy American accent bespoke a family in Connecticut; Harvard Business School which he let slip one night. A young man with a future. Family connections set him up with a good position with prospects at the New York offices of Bank of America. It would seem that he was there some six or seven years. Larry would often, when being ironic or sarcastic, flip into a twangy, New York accent. He had a New Yorker mentality - they're from the centre of the universe and know it … It all filtered through, osmosis, people can gossip like needy fruit flies. Larry was apparently accused of fraud and embezzlement at Bank. Forging signatures on cheques was mentioned. A prominent family friend posted bail for him. He didn’t waste time, he skipped bail and left America. Larry Clayton is his given name. Though Scott believes it must be a false passport. A job like Advanced Art was perfect for him. Where no serious questions are asked. No forms are filled out. No references are required … of course, given that state of affairs, jumping bail, disgraced with Bank of America, Larry cannot go back to his old life in America again. Cast adrift from family and cut off from friends. Larry’s twenty-eightish. There is something similar about him to the character of Ripley in Patricia Highsmith’s novels. Just as some people really enjoy being wicked and others just love to court danger for the sheer thrill of it. So clever thieves enjoy outsmarting people, showing that they are so much cleverer than you or me. What they can really do if they try.
Larry will never walk properly again. He'll spend the rest of his life dealing with constant pain as a daily reminder of how not to get caught. Forever reliant on a stick to walk and drugs to relieve the pain. Maybe in the future, with the wonders of modern surgical techniques, he will acquire two new plastic kneecaps, but for now, agony. Be very careful who you decide to cheat ... Clearly Christophe and Ali are not people to be trifled with. Handled with care. They are not English-bred business types, but hard, half-French Arabs who will smile ingratiatingly and put their arms around your shoulders, whilst emptying your bank account and stealing your girlfriend. Digging up the dirt on you. Whatever it takes to gain maximum control. Larry’s kneecapping is a clear message to one and all. Don’t ever cross us. Just look what could happen …
Scott just had to puzzle it out for himself. All one night, sat on his own on the futon in the squat at Milner Square. No interruptions thankfully … It's a conundrum, how in the name of all that is ingenious did Larry manage to swindle Advanced Art out of over seven-hundred pounds? Firstly, Scott’s mind dwells on the different stock checks on the paintings. Of a late evening, you finally get to pay in the paintings hand-in money in Dom Patel’s office in Hollywood Road. For most times, on what you and the crew have sold that day. As an example, say that fifteen crew-points for the evening equals five large paintings on velvet and three small. You give Dom Patel the money when your turn comes. Obviously talking, joking, telling stories, still maybe two other crew leaders in the office with you. Perhaps James and Larry. Behind the sales charades, Dom carefully takes the money and records the amount and notes down the velvet paintings that have been sold. Ten large and five small are the number in one of the red and black-edged art folders, remember. Dom Patel is a very diligent chap. Sharp. Out-front. He will question any action outside the norm. Usually, it's Larry. But the lanky, New Yorker never gets the better of him. Dom is always ready for him. Aware of all the possible tricks and fiddles.
Most mornings: all the hustle and bustle of new arrivals from the ‘Bread for Heads’ adverts, all the while passing drifters poking their heads down the basement stairs, or some tenant from the house across the way, complaining that an undesirable urinated up against their front garden tree late last night; sometimes a visit from Christophe which always requires instant attention. One morning, Alice the waitress from Keaton’s, appears in the basement searching for Scott. Her Tahiti-rose pink skirt with a slit seems to split even further coming down the steep basement stairs it's so tight. She’s collecting for a cancer charity that Keaton’s is supporting, and will Scott persuade the staff at Advanced Art to donate? Hard to hear what Alice is saying as Grace Slick and Jefferson Airplane enter the final phase of the song White Rabbit. A young, uniformed policeman drops by, a follow up on the car deaths, last month, of the American girl, Louie-Anne, and her boyfriend, Billy. It’s difficult to avoid all the distractions. The different people that want a piece of Dom Patel, desperate in that second for his undivided attention …
Scott battles his way to the stockroom at the rear of the basement in Hollywood Road. Dom Patel uses James as a shield, puts him in his office and asks him to cover the telephone and deal with queries while he does the stock with Scott. James is a clever choice. He’s obliging and bland. The Oxbridge accent is not what folks expect to encounter at Advanced Art. He could keep Genghis Khan’s Mongol hordes at bay for at least a minute or two … Dom has his records from the previous night’s pay-in to hand. Only ever allows one crew leader in the stockroom with him at any given time. Dom Patel always shuts the stockroom door firmly and woe betide anyone who should dare to enter. The exceptions would be Christophe and the police. All the checking and handing out of new stock is conducted under a naked, single, swinging lightbulb. It adds to the attentive atmosphere. Dom carefully opens his record book and consults last night’s sales records. It’s as if he’s in a busy marketplace in Bombay. Keeping his back to the stock and watching everything carefully in front of him. He never relaxes this ultra-business stance. Not even when it’s Scott. Christophe and Ali must have drummed attention to detail all times in him. Never relax. You cannot trust people even when you think you know them … Dom studies his black records-book. Confirming with Scott the names of the five large paintings on velvet that were sold by his crew yesterday and the three small. Making sure again they are the ones Scott informed him last night had been sold.
Sometimes Dom, clean out of the blue, will come out onto the Hollywood Road, go up to one of the crew cars, ask for the boot to be opened. Take out a red and black-edged art folder at random and check the velvet paintings in it. After the first time Scott saw Dom Patel do this with an art folder from Nicky’s car, he took to hiding that sixth art folder of his under a strip of green carpet and behind the spare tyre in the Cortina boot. You just never know. Dom is always careful to carry out this random check with the selected crew leader looking on over his shoulder. He doesn’t want them to lose face with their crew. Dom understands that. He’s really looking to see if any art folder has five large Audiences or Shredded Times in it. A clutch of George Harrisons, Jesus Christs or Charles Mansons … Scott only ever boxes-clever on the points, never on the particular paintings. Parking around the corner under the leafy elm tree in Cathcart Road has proved to be an advantage … Scott has tried to work out how you could gain extra paintings at the pay-in but can’t. How come Scott has an extra art folder completely full of paintings on velvet? How did he do that? He doesn’t rightly know. So, there are holes to be exploited in the system, but only the occasional fluke. Of course, the beauty of that happenchance, it allows Scott to carry six up with the larger Cortina. Say Mike the specialist on a Friday and everybody has an art folder ...
After a few spliffs, laying back on the comfortable futon, staring up at the peeling paint, what's left of it, on the squat ceiling. Puzzling for hours over how crew leader, Larry, could possibly have accomplished it. To have taken over seven-hundred pounds from Advanced Art. Then hey presto, the penny finally drops … Scott can be slow sometimes, but his saving grace is that he gets there in the end … Larry is living in a strange country. The language and meanings seem the same, but that can be very deceptive. He’s traded in his wanted identity and is flying under false colours. He’s got himself a job of sorts, but he’s having to work long hours into the early night. Having to hang out with hippies, freaks, heads, druggies, undesirables, wannabe artists, people living right on the edge. A generation of youth looking to break down walls. Working for French Arabs from Marseille with Mafia links. Larry is not the least bit interested in any of this New Age, hippie nonsense. Advanced Art is simply a means of survival until better prospects surface. Hence his complete indifference and why most of his sentences, if and when he decides to speak, seem to end with a sneer. An adopted New Yorker in London Town gives him some edge. What will he do adrift in strange waters? Why, of course! Scott is so slow on the uptake. It’s self-evident, baby. Larry will revert to type. That is what all thieves do in semi-alien situations. His expertise, so Scott has been led to believe, is fraud and forgery. It’s so simple, really, why Scott didn’t think of it hours ago is a mystery. The last pay-in every week is, of course, on a Saturday evening. Usually at the basement office in Hollywood Road though sometimes in a restaurant off Kensington High Street right opposite the Royal Garden Hotel.
Naturally, we are talking about The Souk, that Lebanese restaurant in Kensington Court Place. This favourite haunt of Christophe’s and Ali’s often crops up. They must have some kind of financial interest in it … Dom Patel will usually wait around until nine o’clock on a Saturday evening. Drinking Turkish coffee and smoking cigarettes with Christophe, Ali and Bernard. Pleased for the early night. But the crew leaders don’t get paid until Monday morning at Hollywood Road. No problem. All the crew leaders are cash-rich from selling their paintings on velvet … Bernard, the lovely accountant, is usually in the Hollywood Road office by ten-thirty on a Monday morning. Laughing and joking with Dom Patel. He lives in the same block of flats as Dom … Scott has no need of his services. Dom hands him his money owing in cash. Ali gives you the choice of how you get paid. He’s fond of saying it’s part of the service they provide for all their young trainee managers. Nicky chooses to get paid out in cash the same as Scott. James and Larry opted to get paid out with open cheques which they can readily cash. Scott notices it now in recalling to mind how Bernard, when he writes out the cheques, say in the case of James, will always use the same Parker pen and presumably Parker ink. Larry must have observed all of this very closely from behind those dark black glasses. It would be very easy to obtain the same Parker pen and ink from many stationers. Very standard. Of course, to fraudulently embezzle the Bank of America in New York for over a period of six years, you are not the sort of guy who changes numbers on a cheque and hopes for the best. Maybe it’s possible one time, but you would soon be detected. It’s a fool’s game. Larry must be an expert after all that successful practice. Adept at easing one or two numbers with the right kind of pen and fluids. Signatures are harder to master. Weeks and weeks of laborious practice. But as with most accomplishments in life, to be able to perfectly reproduce somebody else’s signature is a gift
So now it begins to fall into place. A cheque made out for say forty-five pounds can easily be turned into eighty-five. Erase the ‘for’ and carefully write in ‘eigh’, keeping the letters ‘T’ and ‘Y’ in their places. Who is going to check it meticulously? Scrutinize it. Sure, under close inspection by an expert with a magnifying glass it might be spotted. But banks are very busy places. Larry knows this very well and relies upon it. Do you ever see a bank teller hold your presented cheque up to the light to see if any of the numbers may have been altered. No. The bank clerk might query a signature if it looks more like Mickey Mouse than, say, Richard Nixon, but otherwise, it’s strictly business as usual.
“How would you like the money, sir?”…
I bet Larry fought hard to hold back a smirk behind those dark glasses of his every time he collected his cash from the bank. Advanced Art would not have had their attention drawn to the discrepancy in the amounts being paid out to Larry. Bernard would not have thought to study the exact transactions on cash withdrawals. He’s a French accountant not Inspector Maigret. The company is coining in close to a thousand pounds a week. They must have over six hundred pounds being paid out each week. If you stopped to check the record of every expenditure you would never get any work done. Think of all the outgoings. What with Kennings the car hire company, the ‘Bread for Heads’ adverts, the offices in Hasker Street and Hollywood Road, the cheques for the crew leaders, a few salespeople. Then there is Dom Patel, the office manager. Jenny, the company secretary. Jean-Paul and the artists. Of course, Christophe, Ali and Bernard are on a weekly draw. The velvet and the art materials are probably quite cheap. The rent on the garage in Victoria is reasonable, according to handsome, young Jean-Paul. Which Scott guesses means nominal. Plus, Christophe and Ali have their French Arab fingers in other pies. ‘The Souk’ being one. A possible different business venture to do with Russian icons. Original but not unique. Ali has already run the idea of the icons past Scott to gauge his response.
Bernard once seemed to hint to Scott that Christophe and Ali had other business interests connected with Marseille. Something very shady and illegal, no doubt. Scott doesn't want to know. Too much information can play on your mind. Go round and around your brain and distract from the matter in hand. The real essentials ... Larry has the mentality of a sharp insider. Always on the lookout for an angle. He would have reasoned that he started working for Advanced Art the week after Easter in the early part of April, just as the tax year in England ended. Most company accountants like Bernard will only have a complete audit of their books once a year; unless there is an unexplained shortfall or a blatant discrepancy in the accounts. As Scott understands it, a full company audit usually takes place in England at Christmas time or, more likely, in late February, early March. Balancing the books with a complete inventory of bought and sales ledger. The accounts prepared for that inquisitive dark shadow always lurking in the corners of places of business, The Tax Office. Her Majesty’s Inland Revenue Inspectors. The very name is enough to send a shiver down the spines of honest, God-fearing citizens. Larry must have reasoned that he could safely carry on forging his cheques until late September say. Then jump ship. Seek fresh pastures. Follow Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley to France, Germany or Italy ... But someone smelt a rat after ten weeks. Ali most likely. He is the brains behind Advanced Art after all. A seven hundred pound plus shortfall showed up. They must have got Bernard to go through all of the accounts since the last audit. And sure enough, he soon discovered the difference in Larry’s cheque amounts which were being cashed …
Nicky waited another day until both he and Scott were outside the Hollywood Road office on the scorching pavement in early July. He takes Scott by the arm, the crew are getting used to these short Keaton’s-delays prior to setting off, they like it under that leafy elm tree. The world seems like a happy and safe place for ten minutes.
Keaton’s is heaving with patrons ordering lunch. Alice signals to Scott they can use the booth reserved for staff at the end of the long counter. She wants to take a short break and sit with them ... Takes offence when Nicky indicates they want to be on their own ... Scott moves quickly to catch up with Alice. She goes to say something cutting. He places his hand on her right shoulder as she half turns. Whispers right into her ear.
“Will you come with me on Sunday to visit a sick friend in Charing Cross Hospital? We could go out to Richmond Park afterwards?” Alice’s disgruntled face is suddenly wreathed in a beautiful smile. A customer is calling her from a booth across the restaurant. Alice turns to Scott, mouths a big yes, and goes off to take a fresh order …
Over his cup of coffee, Nicky, in a low voice, which is just audible amid the high buzz of a lunchtime in fashionable Keaton’s, tells Scott he thinks he knows what happened to Larry. His large, dark eyelashes have speeded up, flicking as if piecing together Larry’s demise was a matter of haste. It’s just that they feel a connection to Larry because the four of them were recruited together. And then there were three. Who’s next seems to be what Nicky’s eyelashes are fluttering out. Scott leans close to catch what is being said. Keaton’s Restaurant at this lunchtime crush vanishes. It’s as if he’s in a film of Larry’s downfall. Able to witness the events at first hand … Christophe and Ali have invited Larry to a meal at The Souk restaurant off High Street Kensington at ten o’clock on a Saturday night. Ali hinted at a business proposal to his, Larry's, advantage ... Entering The Souk in those dark glasses and eventually spotting Ali waving to him from a table way over in the far corner ... Seated comfortably, a considerate Lebanese waiter taking his order.
Ali does all the talking. The two dynamos of Advanced Art are sat side by side, opposite Larry. Ali leans forward. Very expressive with his small, thin, darting hands when he talks. It’s as if the words are balancing on his fingertips and being inspected before he selects which ones to use. Christophe says nothing. He’s a large, brooding figure sat right back against the padded brown wall behind his chair. A mass of curly black hair. A military, black moustache. Just looking at Larry, large dark eyes never wavering as Ali bends words with ideas, encouraging Larry to give his thoughts on a proposal. A deal. What exactly, Scott peering on, has no idea. But Larry is hooked. A tell-tale moment on the end of Ali’s cleverness, charm and the proposed scheme ... Small office talk. A story or two. The perceived glories of America, the Land of Plenty, Larry’s general agreement to a plan and the meal comes to an end. It’s well past twelve o’clock ... Larry says his goodnights and makes his way out from The Souk, full of strong French burgundy wine. Heading up a partially lit Kensington Court Place to where he’s parked his Morris Eleven-Hundred. Two heavy Marseille dark-type thugs appear in that narrow little street acrosss from the Royal Garden Hotel. Larry is lying in the road before he can think. Dark glasses smashed. One Arab-looking brute pins him to the road while the other monster smashed both of his kneecaps repeatedly with an iron bar. Larry screams with pain for his life, but the ugly brute has stuffed an oily rag in his mouth. His muffled cries of agony fade on the late-night air. To finish, the monster leans over a writhing Larry and, in guttural tones, heaves out,
“You don’t ever steal from Christophe and Ali! You understand!” Larry too broken with wretched pain to utter anything intelligent, just nods his head ... Larry laid in that road for an hour crying out until someone from The Souk restaurant took pity on him and, with the help of a passing stranger, they were able to drag him up onto the pavement until the nine-nine-nine call for an ambulance that finally arrives …
Scott looks up. Nick is off. Alice comes by and touches him and it’s time to leave …
Scott stands outside Raven’s Records in the Fulham Road, right by the bus stop opposite St Stephen’s Hospital. Along comes the number fourteen bus as good as gold. Operating a Sunday service and Alice Taylor steps off. She’s wearing that very tight Tahiti-rose pink skirt which is a delight. The slit up the side probably saves it from splitting ... All smiles and a warm Sunday hug. Getting into the Paris green Cortina parked around the corner in Redcliffe Road.
“Is the person we're going to visit a close friend?”
“No. In fact, he’s not a friend at all. We’ve been working together. We joined the Art company at the same time when they were looking for graduates to become trainee managers. It’s all really just an excuse to see you outside of Keaton’s, Alice Taylor, you know that. He’s the tall, lanky American guy with the dark glasses and a sharp line in sarcasm. I doubt we can cheer him up, but we can try.”
“I know the one. You keep hanging out with people I don’t like, Scott.”
“You mean I should be with someone like you.”
“Exactly.” Alice laughs and blackbirds sing.
What do you take a man who's been severely kneecapped? Well, it’s Sunday so the Sunday Times with the colour supplement and the News of the World to give him something to mock. Two packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes, his favourite smoke. A bunch of black seedless grapes. Why always grapes in hospitals? Well, Scott guesses that banana skins are a hazard. Oranges are messy. You need a hammer and chisel for a coconut. Pineapples can give you mouth sores and the runs. Apples aren’t everybody’s favourite. Grapefruits are for breakfast. Pears ... well, like apples they can end up in bed with you. No wonder everybody buys grapes ... Some great American advertising campaign in the nineteen twenties. ‘Give grapes, they’re better than dates.’ …
Charing Cross Hospital, just off the Strand and the nearby St-Martins-In-The-Fields ... they're early for visiting time, but they let Scott and Alice in anyway. They are the first visitors that Larry has had. Maybe the hospital staff are taking pity on him. The male receptionist kept staring at Alice’s tight, Tahiti-rose pink skirt. As if wishing it to split.
Larry’s bed is right at the end of the ward. Larry doesn’t seem surprised to see them, just nods. His legs are suspended in traction, his discomfort is obvious ... Introducing Alice. He leers. He’s wearing his broken dark glasses which make him look pathetically comical. He lights up a Lucky Strike and a nurse comes running down the ward tut-tutting and asks him to put it out. His reply is unprintable ... Sat by his bedside with nothing to say. Larry seems more interested in reading the Sunday newspapers. Total blank. Scott feels he can’t ask him about his kneecapping and what happened. Larry seems bolshie and vulnerable at the very same time. At war with the world … Scott and Alice are pleased to leave after an awkward ten minutes. Larry can’t even be bothered to acknowledge them as they go. So much for any sense of camaraderie amongst the four trainee managers.
Driving out to the Robin Hood Gate entrance to Richmond Park. Smoking a spliff and not saying anything. Alice only talks when she’s got something to say which is great. Sitting on the grass edge by Beverley Brook before going into the park. So peaceful and serene here. Alice, on impulse, kisses Scott. They laugh … Walking back to the car arm in arm. Driving into Richmond Park to sit and look at the deer. Take afternoon tea. Smoke spliffs. Kiss. Gradually the bad taste left in Scott’s mouth by the visit to Charing Cross Hospital to see Larry leaves him…