Gently Go Man by Alan Hunter Read Free Book Online Page A

open country beyond it. The lights were cut off quite sharply and beyond them was blackness. A little further right was a pull-up backed by a low, dim-lit building, and on the building was a red neon sign which read: First And Last. He drove in and parked between a truck and a small van. Next to the van, parked in a square, were six or seven motorcycles. When he got out from the car he could hear canned jazz music, somebody beating out the rhythm, a girl’s voice raised in a squeal. He went over and through the door. Opposite the door was an espresso bar. The building was L-shaped, furnished with tables and chairs, underlit and overheated . He crossed to the bar.
    ‘I’ll have a cup of coffee,’ he said.
    The man at the bar looked like an Italian, he had thin features and a twitch. At a table near the bar a truck-driver was eating. The rest of the tables near the bar were empty. It was round the corner where the noise was coming from. There one could partly see the illuminated bulk of a jukebox.
    ‘I fix you some eats?’ the Italian said.
    ‘No,’ Gently said. He paid for his coffee.
    ‘Some sandwiches, fruit?’ the Italian said.
    Gently shrugged, walked away, the Italian watching him.
    Round the corner they’d pushed the tables back and were sitting in a group. There were ten youths and six girls and, in the centre, an older man. Most of the youths wore black riding leathers, black sweaters, black boots. The others wore short, patterned jackets, black sweaters, black jeans. The girls wore various sweaters, black jeans, black ballerinas. They all wore ban-the-bomb badges. They sat on chairs and on the floor.
    Gently walked up to the group. He stood drinking his coffee. They didn’t stop beating out rhythm but all their eyes were fixed on him. One of the girls was Maureen Elton. She squealed something to her neighbour. The jukebox was turned up very loud, it was thumping out New Orleans Blues. The Italian came round the end of the bar, kept making gestures with his head to someone. The eyes that watched Gently didn’t have expression, they were just watchful, continuedly.
    The jazz stopped, leaving a humming. The Italian went very still. From down by the counter came the clatter of the truck-driver’s cutlery. Three of the youths got to their feet, one of them strutted towards Gently. He had a handsome, fresh-complexioned face but with a wide mouth and a receding brow. He stood before Gently, hands on hips. Gently finished his coffee, put down the cup.
    ‘Like what gives?’ the youth said.
    Gently didn’t say anything.
    ‘Like I’m asking you, square,’ the youth said.
    Gently felt in his pocket for his pipe.
    ‘You want I clue you?’ the youth said. ‘Like you’re dumb or some jazz? We don’t go for squares in this scene. Like you’re smart you’ll blow pronto.’
    Gently began filling his pipe.
    ‘Like you’re smart,’ the youth said.
    Gently went on filling his pipe. ‘Sidney,’ he said, ‘you’d better sit down.’
    The youth got up on his toes. ‘What’s that tag again?’ he said.
    ‘Sidney Bixley,’ Gently said.
    ‘Say it again,’ said the youth.
    ‘Sidney Bixley,’ Gently said. ‘Six months in Brixton for armed assault.’
    He finished filling his pipe and lit it.
    ‘So just sit down, Sidney,’ he said.
    There was a squawk from Maureen Elton. ‘He’s that screw I was shooting about. The one they’ve got down from the Smoke. Like he knows about you, Sidney.’
    ‘I don’t know that,’ Sidney said. He’d fetched his hands off his hips. ‘I don’t know nothing about screws. Like cocky squares I know about.’
    ‘He’ll hang you up,’ Maureen said.
    ‘Cocky squares,’ Sidney said.
    ‘Like you’d better not flip your lid,’ Maureen said.
    ‘I murder squares,’ Sidney said.
    ‘Sid,’ said the older man, ‘keep it cool, man. Do as he says.’
    ‘Like making in here,’ Sidney said.
    ‘No, keep it cool,’ said the older man.
    Gently puffed. He came forward.