Coming To An Accommodation
Did an afternoon down the shop. Mick was in a good mood, for a change. Seems to have ‘come to an accommodation’ is what he calls it, by which he means he’s done a deal with the plod so they won’t be pestering him again for a bit. I don’t even ask for the details. I don’t want to know, to tell you the truth. The less I know, the safer I am is my view on the matter.
He’s got some real dodgy stuff in the back room these days. I mean, he’s always done a bit of chicken and S&M but usually just the safe stuff - kids on the beach, blokes wearing gas masks, that kind of thing. But some of the stuff he’s got in now, it’s beyond that. Continental stuff - you know, a bit of Greek, a bit of necklace, Oliver up the Khyber, stuff you’d never think anyone would want to see, let alone get turned on by. I told Mick, I said, if you get raided you’ll end up doing time but he reckons there’s nothing to worry about since he’s ‘come to an accommodation’.
Well, that’s his problem. I just serve out front every once in a while. Anyone asks, I don’t know nothing about what he’s got in the back room. I’m just casual labour.
I told Mick about my invite. To Frankie Fischer’s party. He gives me a sort of leer and says, “Oh yeah, one of his little fuckpigs, are you?”
“What d’you mean?” I say, “There’s nothing going on between me and him. I never even met him till the other day.”
“Taken a shine to you, that’s what he’s done,” says Mick.
“Get away,” I tell him, “He’s old enough to be my soddin’ granddad .”
“That’s why he’s taken a shine to you,” says Mick, “Known for it, he is. Likes a bit of chicken, likes a bit of rough.”
“Yeah well,” I say, “I wouldn’t say I’m chicken exactly,” - subtly avoiding, you will have noticed, the question of whether or not I might be described as a bit of rough.
“When you’re his age,” says Mick, “Anything under 30 counts as chicken. So you, my son, are barely out of the bleedin’ egg!” - and the old bugger starts laughing so hard at his own joke that he practically chokes to death on the fag he’s smoking.
“Yeah, well,” I say, “I can understand why he might have been seduced by my radiant loveliness. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to end up in bed with him,” and as I’m saying this I’m thinking of one of the magazines I’d seen in the back room with boys and old men and the things the dirty old bastards are doing and for a moment I can’t help picturing Frankie Fischer’s face on top of one of the old men’s scrawny necks leering down at me and shaking his wrinkly chest menacingly.
“I’ve heard about stuff that goes on at them parties,” Mick says, “Tell you what. You should take a camera. Get a few snapshots. You never know, might turn up trumps. Might be worth a few bob, sell them to one of the papers. They’d pay a bundle for that, I bet.”
He’s a nasty old bugger, Mick. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I get on OK with him most of the time. But I got to admit that deep down under that lovable exterior of his, there lurks a dirty old man.