Jealous Jimmy
It's Not Great...
Following anxious glances, the drinkers in close proximity began making artful departures. Who in their right mind would wish to be privy to any conversation conducted by these, the four horsemen of the apocalypse? With that in mind, Jimmy nodded to the assembled and strolled over to the jukebox. This had been with the intention of playing a couple of Phil Spector’s Christmas hits.
Except that on arrival, his attention was drawn from the Wurlitzer to the window. Through which, he had an unobstructed view of Gary being stretchered to an ambulance. Waiting, doors open, on the corner of Clerkenwell Road. Despite the obvious anxiety in the eyes of the medics, Jimmy felt no remorse. There may have been a tinge of concern over the number of coppers flying about but, wanker though Gary was, it was unlikely he, or anyone else, was about to start grassing. It came then as a surprise, therefore, when from behind Jimmy heard the three most dreaded words in the English language:
“That’s him, officer.”
This was swiftly followed by a firm hand on his shoulder and with that — and Jimmy’s heart responding as though it’d been tossed into the Lido’s deep end... in February. Forcing himself to turn and meet his fate, Jimmy came, face to face, with Johnny and Nolte, grinning. Oblivious to what had gone down, the boys were merely employing a touch of criminal humour. Nolte, spotting Jimmy’s fear and clearly in search of more gags. Went all caring: “What’s fucking wrong with you?”
“I’m all right.”
“Yeah, you look it, don’t you.”
By way of confirmation, Nolte turned to Johnny, who was sporting a baker boy and looking like a cross between the American star of the silver screen, Al Pacino, and recording artist, Bruce Springsteen.
“Don’t look too clever, Jim.”
“No. I thought...”
“What?”
Jimmy turned and nodded out at Gary being carefully hoisted into the ambulance.
“That down to you?”
Again, the question stemmed from Nolte.“Sort of.” Nolte raised his brow. Jimmy’d never seen this inquisitive side of his friend’s nature and, in truth, he was beginning to find it quite irksome.
“More the milk crate, really.”
Nolte laughed. Johnny piped up, “Know the geezer.” The Outside Man’s stomach turned. Nolte, having stopped laughing, lit a cigarette and, in a fairly carefree tone, enquired, “Who is he?”
“Used to hang about up the club.”
As this was accompanied by a glance towards Clerkenwell Road, Jimmy realised the lodge referred to was none other than St Peter’s Boxing Club. The thought of them being brothers in the noble art caused the Outside Man to wonder if Boy Balantyne ought to be summoned, but rejected the notion because hitting Johnny Marinello with a metal crate or, come to that, anything else. Might prove unwise.
So, with only his meagre self to rely on, Jimmy cut to the quick: “Pal of yours, then?” He’d used pal as it was the heavy boats’ de facto preference over mate. Jimmy didn’t know why, but then most things about tough guys mystified him. Johnny, meanwhile, stared at the white fly front, as though trying to decide if it met with his approval:
“Nice Mac. Him? No, he’s a complete cunt.”
Jimmy wasn’t sure which judgment relieved him most, but he took the prefix complete’ to mean nobody Johnny considered problematic would be making themselves busy over Gary. This meant, as far as retribution went, all there was to worry about was the barrow boy himself. As Jimmy was confident that Gary lacked the heart for a rematch, that was the end of it. Then again, forewarned, as they say, is forearmed. Summoning a breezy tone and feigning an expression of nonchalance, Jimmy ventured, “Any good at it, is he, the old Marquis of Queensbury?”
Johnny shrugged: “He’s missed a milk crate flying at him. What do you think?”
In reference to Jimmy’s mackintosh, Nolte commented, “You want to get rid of that.”
Jimmy eyed the blood splatters along its right-hand sleeve:
“They can get blood out. Had a yellow bowling shirt that...”
“Going to get you nicked.”
Outside, the police were very much in evidence, and while everyone they spoke to was shaking their heads as though they’d been elsewhere when the incident took place, all it took was one mention of a white Mac, and the instant Jimmy stepped outside, he’d be nicked. Possibly, given the police’s custom of starting insanely high up the charge ladder, for attempted murder. By the time the case got to Crown Court, it’d be down to GBH. That, though, still got him a borstal.
“I’ll just shove it in the case. They’re not going...”
Johnny interrupted, “Buy another coat, Jim.”
Johnny was right, but more importantly, he was cool. They, he and Nolte had grown up in environments where expensive clobber was the norm. Jimmy hadn’t. He’d never owned a garment as luxurious as a Burberry before. Not a new one at any rate.
Rolex aside, that Mac was his most prized possession. Slipping it off, he rolled it and placed it between the three wrought iron legs of the nearest pub table. Unable to bear the sight of his fabulous fly front (most opted for the trench coat) on the hideously stained carpet, Jimmy adjusted his stance and thus spotted the approach of a beaming, slightly inebriated Tina.“Whose having what, then?” This was accompanied by the drinking motion. On turning to Johnny:
“Oh, you’re a ringer for the Boss in that!”
The Boss was the nickname attributed to Bruce Springsteen, and despite Tina having forced Jimmy to listen to him, the Outside Man was still mystified as to why. The resemblance, one Balantyne couldn’t deny, invoked in him a searing jealousy.
Matters worsened as Johnny handed Tina his cap and she, on slanting it over one eye, turned to Jimmy:
“How’s it look?”
“Ridiculous.”
All eyes were on him, Tina’s displaying hurt mixed with confusion, the other two’s shock and quite obvious disapproval. Shit. He’d exposed himself. Not only, as a catty bitch, but far worse, a liar.
“No, it don’t.”
Nolte turned to Jimmy: “What’s fucking wrong with you?”
Jimmy sensed Nolte was close to chinning him. Filled with shame and self-loathing, his face flushed with embarrassment, Jimmy lowered his gaze to the beer-stained, fag-burnt carpet, but caught a glimpse of Tina, attempting to hand the baker boy back to Johnny and Marinello, shaking his head: “Suits you. Keep it.”
Nudging Nolte, Johnny winked playfully at Jimmy, a gesture which, despite his having seen it, the Outside Man chose to ignore. Johnny’s generosity was not only disgustingly charming but, from Jimmy’s warped perspective, an act of provocation. As was Tina’s response:
“I’ll give it back in a minute, want to show my dad.”
Jimmy watched her walk to the bar. She looked great in that cap. The only surprising aspect of what happened next was that it took so long. Jimmy’s Old Internal had decided enough was enough: Can’t stand for this. He’s taking the fucking piss out of you. Jimmy’s Voice of Reason tried to counter, but it’d never stood a chance against Old Internal. This was despite usually being right:
You’ve got to be a cunt suffering his bollocks.
Johnny and Nolte were talking when the former turned to Jimmy:
“You?”
“What?”
If his tone surprised them, it horrified him. He was making a mug of himself but seemed powerless to stop it. Voice of Reason was shouting something in the background, but it was so, so faint: Out? Still struggling to hear his Voice of Reason, Jimmy’s response to Johnny was a wince of unfeigned confusion. Nolte interceded: “Coming up my brother’s gaff.”
This was a rundown hovel on Wardour Street, but having fully regressed into that hysterical child, chasing Dear Mother’s taxi, Jimmy was on the brink of tears and, despite standing in such close geographical proximity to a couple of genuine chaps, he’d never felt mentally, emotionally or spiritually more distant. Taking a deep breath, he finally managed a response: “No.”
The problem was that, being so unused to jealousy, at least, the sexual variety, he had no defence against it. With the three postmen’s version of “Jingle Bells” filling the awkward silence, Jimmy looked out of the window in search of a building high enough to ensure his demise. This, given not only what lay ahead but its location, was pretty ominous. Unable to locate a suitable jumping-off point, Jimmy returned his bitter and twisted attention to the smiling Johnny Marinello.
“You taking the piss?”
Sighing deeply, Nolte shook his head- very wearily. indeed…