If they ever ban smoking completely, there’s going to be a public outcry. But not from me — I’m going to clean up. Big time.
There ain’t nobody on my trail,Ma. Leastways not that I can see. A dozen times I check back before twisting and winding through the dirty back streets of downtown Wandsworth, where even the NeoPuritans with their Smokealysers go in pairs, if at all. The streets give way to grimey alleys, where even grimier, hard-faced characters lounge in darkened doorways.
I pad softly down a flight of steps to a steel door, and give the secret knock. Rap-rappety-rap-rap. It’s a complex code. The panel slides open.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me — Lenko. Open up, Joey.”
“You ain’t give me no password.”
I heave a sigh. I own the joint, for Chrissakes, and still he wants the password already. But I make allowances, you hear what I’m saying, Ma? Joey’s still carrying a .22 in his head from that little settling of accounts with the Putney mob. I give the password and he makes with the Open Sesame.
Inside, the place is a confusion of glitter and coloured light, softened by a mist of swirling smoke. The band is beating out “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”, over the soft whirr of the extractor fans and an undercurrent of chatter from the patrons. Plumes of smoke spiral upwards from the tables. Pretty girls are circulating with trays of breath purifiers and oxy-inhalers. You’d like it here, Ma. You’d like it a lot.
Welcome to Lenko’s Smoke-Easy.
You want the finest cigarettes, from Russian Black Sobranie for the little ladies, right through to Capstan Full-Strength for the serious conny -connesh – addicts? Lenko’s is where you head for — if you got the connections. Or maybe you’re a pipe man, after those hard-to-find, under the counter Navy shags — the ones nice people never mention. Lenko’s can supply them — for a price. Nicotine for the discerning. No home-made junk. And no riff-raff.
I stand for a moment, savouring the dancing girls through the blue haze. Those long, luscious legs… the high heels… the gorgeous sparkle of the costumes… they all help to make Lenko’s the Toast of the Town. Just a shame about the gas-masks, is all.
There’s a lively crowd in tonight, all puffing away at the tables and the bar. A sprinkle of film-stars and some minor royalty. And a couple of big-shots in from Westminster — hey, ain’t that the guy who sponsored the Smokehibition Bill? And over there is a senior bishop, a head honcho in the NeoPuritans, a Harmanista no less, taking a long, satisfying drag from the hookah before him, and fondling the hooker beside him.
All made possible by the very guys who are trying to close us down, the guys that passed the Smokehibition Bill. They kinda forgot that when you ban something, you create a demand – a vacuum that guys like me can fill — if they have the guts.
Didn’t I always tell you Ma? Your little boys ius gonna be a big shot. He’s going places — to the top.
Lenko’s ain’t no overnight sucess, let me tell you. It was a long hard climb to the top, you know what I’m saying? There was a lot of competition, but — let’s just say them guys ain’t around no more. A lot of them are at the bottom of the Thames, wearing concrete overcoats.
I order a Lucky Strike from Tony at the bar, and knock it off in one long draw, then turn to walk through to the back room, where the serious action takes place with the high-rollers, the cigar crowd — the ones that like to roll their own. On the thighs of our Brazilian hostesses.
That’s when all Hell breaks loose, Ma.
The clanging of Joey’s alarm bell razors the smoke apart as the first axe crashes against the outside door. The lights flash madly on and off and a bull-horn from the street announces the arrival of the Purity Police, demanding entrance.
Like we hadn’t guessed.
Just like we rehearsed, the security boys open up the tunnel to the building next door, the tunnel we forgot to mention to anyone. The chorus line scamper out in a shower of sequins, screaming. The patrons do the same and take it on the lam. Also screaming.
Pretty soon it’s just Yours Truly as the final axe blow brings the door crashing down in a cloud of dust. Here and there, small fires are growing up fast into bigger fires. Someone must not have stubbed their cigarette. Careless.
And now it’s just me, Ma – me and the cops. They barrel down the steps with Smokealysers drawn, already too late as I step into the elevator, which we also didn’t mention. It whisks up to roof level, while the flames destroy the evidence behind me. Gee whizz, there musta been somp’n inflamable down there. Who knew?
“You’ll never take me alive!” I snarl. I don’t mean this, natch. But I always wanted to say it.
So here I am, Ma. On the roof. Down in the alley below, the search lights play to and fro, sirens are wailing their song, the loud-hailers are calling for me to turn myself in, and the TV cameras are ready to roll if I should jump. Another quiet night in Wandsworth.
“Come and get me!” I yell defiantly from the rooftops. “Come and get me — copper!” I always wanted to say this, too.
And with all the poise in the world, as the building erupts in flame beneath me, I light one last… satisfying… deeply illegal Lambert and Butler.
Top of the world, Ma. Top of the World!
