The Black Car
Weird stuff happened last night. I went down the Black Cap. Scotch Harry was there. He kept sniffing poppers and giggling, which really got on my tits. There was some black drag-queen on stage miming to Dusty Springfield, which got on my tits even more. I went across to the Mother Redcap for a bit. It was quieter there. Scotch Harry was going on to that club down Mornington Crescent way but I didn’t feel like that and anyway I’m a bit strapped for cash just now, so I walked home alone after chucking out time.
That’s when I saw Baldie.
At least, I’m pretty damn’ sure it was him. He was on the other side of the road and when he saw me he crossed over, but I broke out into a bit of a trot, being pretty certain he’d never be able to keep up with me, him not being exactly in the peak of physical.
By the time I got to the traffic lights by Prince of Wales Road, I noticed this big black car cruising up behind me. It was one of those America numbers, real slick and flashy, with fins and chrome and stuff. Not the sort of car you see every day of the week. But I’ve seen one just like it once before - parked in Frankie Fischer’s driveway.
So I got off the pavement pretty damn’ sharpish, and I got myself into a dark little doorway, one of these doorways with its own little entranceway thing - a porch or whatever it’s called. The car drove past but didn’t stop. I didn’t get a good look at who was driving it. But I’m pretty damn’ certain it was Baldie. That guy sends shivers up my spine. What the fuck’s he following me for, anyway? I ain’t got no business with him.
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