Admiration or no, it was a chilly day in Hell when Preetorius actually broke the silence and spoke to him.
‘White boy.’
It was towards eleven, and Gavin was on his way from a bar off St Martin’s Lane to a club in Covent Garden. The street still
buzzed: there were potential punters amongst the theatre and movie-goers, but he hadn’t got the appetite for it tonight. He had a hundred in his pocket, which he’d made the day before and hadn’t bothered to bank. Plenty to keep him going.
His first thought when he saw Preetorius and his pie-bald goons blocking his path was: they want my money.
‘White boy.’
Then he recognised the flat, shining face. Preetorius was no street thief; never had been, never would be.
‘White boy, I’d like a word with you.’
Preetorius took a nut from his pocket, shelled it in his palm, and popped the kernel into his ample mouth.
‘You don’t mind do you?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Like I said, just a word. Not too much to ask, is it?’
‘OK. What?’
‘Not here.’
Gavin looked at Preetorius’ cohorts. They weren’t gorillas, that wasn’t the black’s style at all, but nor were they ninety-eight pound weaklings. This scene didn’t look, on the whole, too healthy.
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Gavin said, and began to walk, with as even a pace as he could muster, away from the trio. They followed. He prayed they wouldn’t, but they followed. Preetorius talked at his back.
‘Listen. I hear bad things about you,’ he said.
‘Oh yes?’
‘I’m afraid so. I’m told you attacked one of my boys.’
Gavin took six paces before he answered. ‘Not me. You’ve got the wrong man.’
‘He recognised you, trash. You did him some serious mischief.’
‘I told you: not me.’
‘You’re a lunatic, you know that? You should be put behind fucking bars.’
Preetorius was raising his voice. People were crossing the street to avoid the escalating argument.
Without thinking, Gavin turned off St Martin’s Lane into Long Acre, and rapidly realised he’d made a tactical error. The crowds thinned substantially here, and it was a long trek through the streets of Convent Garden before he reached another centre
of activity. He should have turned right instead of left, and he’d have stepped onto Charing Cross Road. There would have been some safety there. Damn it, he couldn’t turn round, not and walk straight into them. All he could do was walk (not run; never run with a mad dog on your heels) and hope he could keep the conversation on an even keel.
Preetorius: ‘You’ve cost me a lot of money.’
‘I don’t see – ‘
‘You put some of my prime boy-meat out of commission. It’s going to be a long time ’til I get that kid back on the market. He’s shit scared, see?’
‘Look … I didn’t do anything to anybody.’
‘Why do you fucking lie to me, trash? What have I ever done to you, you treat me like this?’.
Preetorius picked up his pace a little and came up level with Gavin, leaving his associates a few steps behind.
‘Look . . .’ he whispered to Gavin, ‘kids like that can be tempting, right? That’s cool. I can get into that. You put a little boy-pussy on my plate I’m not going to turn my nose up at it. But you hurt him: and when you hurt one of my kids, I bleed too.’
‘If I’d done this like you say, you think I’d be walking the street?’
‘Maybe you’re not a well man, you know? We’re not talking about a couple of bruises here, man. I’m talking about you taking a shower in a kid’s blood, that’s what I’m saying. Hanging him up and cutting him everywhere, then leaving him on my fuckin’ stairs wearing a pair of fucking’ socks. You getting my message now, white boy? You read my message?’
Genuine rage had flared as Preetorius described the alleged crimes, and Gavin wasn’t sure how to handle it. He kept his silence, and walked on.
‘That kid idolised you, you know? Thought you were essential reading for an aspirant bum-boy. How’d you like that?’