Party Night at the Palomino

Locked-Recruitment have had a highly profitable day and Johnson is informed that his attendance is required at the evening's celebrations. He cavils, he pleads a night in, he buckles, he gives in, he asks which pub he is expected at:


“Locked-In don’t hold their formal events in pubs Johnson,” said Kate, disdainfully.
“They don’t?”
“Certainly not.”
“Where are we going then?” he persisted.
“The Palomino,” replied Kate.
“The Palomino? What’s that?” asked Johnson.
Kate tutted and sighed.
“Where have you been? It’s about time you stopped hanging out in grotty pubs.”
“You go to pubs,” rejoinder Johnson, accusingly.
“I never stay for long. I go purely for the sake of social expedience.”
“Social expedience?”
“A meeting place. One drink. Move one somewhere a little more classy, or for a nice meal, perhaps.”
“Right,” sighed Johnson. “So this Palomino, it’s a right classy gaff is it?” he said, trying to needle her.
“It’s the coolest new bar,” said Kate, “fantastic cocktails.”
“Has it got a pool table?” Johnson asked.
“No.”
“Can’t be very cool then. What about a dartboard?”
“No. It hasn’t got a bloody dartboard. This is not one of your usual haunts, so don’t be stupid, Johnson,” warned Kate.
“Alright. Sorry. What are we doing for food?” he asked.
“Grab something on the run, eat later, whatever,” sighed Kate.
“I’ll get a couple of cheese and pickle rolls or some pork scratchings in this Palomino place,” remarked Johnson.
It was hard to establish the size of The Palomino. The place was full of mirrors and reflective silver surfaces, Johnson resolved not to drink too much as he feared the real possibility that later in the evening he might attempt to strike up a conversation with himself. Kate ditched him as soon as they arrived, she would have done so sooner but he had tagged along determinedly all the way from the office, trying to establish whether he would be able to get a brown ale or a barley wine at The Palomino.
Johnson waited for an age while the barmen tossed bottles back and forth, poured luminous liquids into glasses from great heights, and fannied about with fruit and frivolities. He propped an elbow on the bar and held aloft a ten pound note.
He watched as it took three people ten minutes to serve two drinks. They wouldn’t last five minutes in the Grey Horse, he decided.
“Cocktail, sir?” a barman surprised him by wandering over.
“Me?” asked Johnson, “already?”
The barman smiled, shrugged, and walked away, and Johnson spent another ten minutes watching two drinks being prepared.
“Cocktail, sir?” another barman had approached.
“Pint of bitter please,” said Johnson.
“Sir?” asked the barman.
“A pint of your finest draught bitter please,” said Johnson.
“No draught,” said the barman.
“No draught? said Johnson, “funny old pub.”
“Sir might like a bottled beer.”
“I might,” agreed Johnson, “what are the choices?”
“We have Bishop’s Finger, sir.”
“Anything else?” asked Johnson.
“Just the Bishop’s Finger, sir.”
“Alright. Nun’s Delight it is then,” agreed Johnson, “in a jug.”
“Sir?”
“In a jug. A glass with a handle. Not a straight glass.”
“I don’t think…” demurred the barman.
“There’s one behind you look, said Johnson, “it’s got matchbooks in it.”
“Sir, I couldn’t…”
“It’s fine,” said Johnson, “I’ll have it. Pint of Nun’s Delight in that glass over there, and if you won’t give it to me then I demand to see the manager.”
“What about the matches?”
“The matches? Bloody hell. Well, why don’t you stick them in one of your funny straight glasses?”
“Right sir, good idea.” said the barman, “coming up.”
“Thank you,” said Johnson, “could bring me two of those bottles, please?”
“Another glass, sir?”
“Just the jug will be fine,” said Johnson.
Johnson found a leaning post and a shiny ashtray and stood alone surveying the scene. He was sure they were nice people, these brayers and gigglers and shouters, underneath the veneer of bravado. Some of them had packed in too much strong liquor in too short a time and were a little unsteady, a little sweaty about the brow, and a little too, well, forward. Some looked overanxious as well. Loud music played without variation, the relentless and ultimately harrowing sound of James Brown. Johnson shifted along a burnished shelf and positioned himself a little further away from the speakers.
“You did good work today,” said Richard Nork, appearing at his side and draping an designer-clad arm over his shoulder.
“Er, thanks Richard,” said Johnson, edging sideways, “sorry, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer that you didn’t touch me.”
“No problem,” said Richard Nork, removing his arm. “Just a gesture you know. Gesture of comradeship. Welcome you to the family. Make you feel like you belong. Nothing in it.”
“No, I’m sure there isn’t, Richard,” said Johnson, apologetically, “it‘s just me, I‘d just prefer you didn’t. That’s all,” Johnson supped his beer, fingers wrapped through the handle of the chunky jug.
“No problem,” replied Richard Nork, “not having a cocktail? I can recommend their rusty nail.”
“No. I’m not big on cocktails, thanks,” said Johnson, burying his face in his glass.
“Like the glass,” said Richard Nork, enthusiastically, “where on earth did you get it?”
“Here,” said Johnson.
“You can’t have done. It’s not very Palomino is it?”
“I did,” Johnson assured him.
“Doesn’t fit the image of The Palomino, though. How did you manage it?”
“I insisted,” said Johnson, “I saw it behind the bar and I insisted on having it.”
“You saw something you wanted and you went for it?”
Oh dear, thought Johnson.
“I did,” he replied.
“That’s good work again, Johnson,” said Richard Nork, approvingly, “I’m impressed with that sort of thing.”
“Are you?” said Johnson.
“Certainly am. Let me tell you, after the work you’ve put in today, we notice that sort of thing at Locked-In, you know, the work you put in during the day,” Richard Nork was swaying a little and his breath reeked of scotch, “and I can tell you somebody else who would be impressed,” he continued, “and here he is now.”
Johnson looked up to see Simon Hart’s baby features framed by his crown of blond curls. He was cradling a glass of champagne.
“What’s this then, Richard?” said Simon Hart, “talking up the new blood, eh?” Simon Hart landed a crisp punch on Johnson’s bicep, and Johnson spilt a little beer on the floor. Simon Hart laughed, and Richard Nork joined in shortly afterwards.
“Sharpen up, eh, Johnson?” said Simon Hart, “spilling your drink’s not the Locked-In way, you know.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” agreed Johnson.
“Not the way at all, eh, Richard?”
“Certainly not, Simon,” said Richard Nork, slurring both the ‘certainly’ and the ‘Simon’, and not making much of a job of the ‘not’ either.
“Just to change the subject for a moment,” suggested Simon Hart.
“Sure,” said Johnson.
“You a bit of a writer, Johnson?” asked Simon Hart, sharply.
“A writer? No,” Johnson assured him.
“Or a wit? Fancy yourself as a bit of a funny man, do you?”
“Can’t say that I do,” said Johnson.
Simon Hart was cold-eyed for one who was blessed with such otherwise angelic features, and Johnson felt a definite blast of the chill from Simon Hart’s eyes.
“I understand that you’ve made a good start, Johnson, and that’s to your credit.”
“Thank you, Simon,” said Johnson, draining his beer and snatching up the second bottle in one smooth manoeuvre. Before he had finished swallowing, he was refilling his jug.
“So, no playing silly buggers, eh? There’s a good lad,” Simon Hart’s mouth was smiling at Johnson, but the eyes remained Arctic-cold.
He knows, thought Johnson, he knows. Well, it can’t have taken much working out. I’ll just have to be more careful in future.
“Simon,” Johnson assured him, “I’m not a silly bugger.”
“Would you like to get us some more drinks?” said Simon Hart, in a tone that made it clear that this wasn’t a request.
“Sure,” said Johnson, “champagne, rusty nail, beer.”
“Champagne, water, beer, I think,” said Simon Hart, glancing at Richard Nork.
Johnson talked the barman into preparing three simple drinks without tossing any of the glassware around, and returned to Simon and Richard, who had ousted some underlings and taken occupation of three seats and a table. Johnson fancied that he felt envious eyes on his back as he carried the drinks over.
“So,” said Simon Hart,” as Johnson took his seat, “are you looking forward to our little weekend away?”
Johnson regurgitated a little bitter into his glass.
“Weekend away? What, us three?” he asked, a little agitated.
“Us three?” Simon Hart was laughing, “away for a weekend together? That’s good. No, no, that really is good.”
“Obviously hasn’t checked his e-mails,” said Richard Nork, who was slumped a long way back in his seat.
“E-mails?” said Johnson, “well, I haven’t looked since this morning, to be honest. Been so busy.”
“No excuses, Johnson,” said Simon Hart, “think of a suitable punishment will you Richard? For dereliction of E-mail duty?”
“I’ll get on to it first thing,” said Richard Nork, eyes closed.
“Make it suitably harsh and painful, eh?” smiled Simon Hart, “something nasty.”
Richard Nork appeared to be asleep.
“He’s a good man, Richard,” said Simon Hart, “but he can’t hold his drink, Johnson, you see?”
“I see,” agreed Johnson, pouring from his new bottle.
“Now, to business.”
Johnson sat up attentively.
“Our little weekend away. Coach arrives at the office at nine-thirty next Friday. We all pile on with our kit for the weekend. Coach all the way east, cross to France, get the tents up, all set for the activities,” Simon Hart sipped his champagne and sat back in his seat. “Pencil you in can we?” he asked.
“Kit?” asked Johnson, faintly.
“Got a list here somewhere,” said Simon, hunting in an inside pocket, “here we are, two pairs thick socks, running shoes one pair, walking stroke climbing boots one pair, shorts pairs two, swimming gear, T-shirts at least two but recommend more, sweatshirt or rugby shirt, casual wear for the evening, oh, and a flower and a hat. Prepare to get wet, to get shouted at, to get bloody exhausted, and let’s not forget, to have a whole barrel-load of Locked-In fun and laughter.”
“I’m busy that weekend,” said Johnson, forcing beer into his mouth through the gaps in his gritted teeth.
“Disappointed in that, Johnson, I have to say. Disappointed. After such an impressive start too. I understand you’ve really hit the ground running.”
“Well, there we are,” said Johnson, keen to be making his way home, risking a mugging.
“What are you doing, then?” asked Simon Hart.
“When?” Johnson replied.
“Next weekend,” said Simon Hart precisely, as if addressing a child.
“Usual stuff. I’m busy most weekends,” said Johnson, adamantly.
“It sounds to me Johnson,” said Simon Hart, “like you’re being a little more evasive than is necessary here.” He made a gesture with his hand and a bottle of beer and a glass of champagne arrived within thirty seconds. “If you’re planning a weekend at home watching nauseating television programmes or consorting with some of the more repulsive members of your friends or family then you only have to tell me. I won’t hold it against you,” said Simon Hart, reassuringly, but in a voice which didn’t seem to Johnson to drip with empathy.
Johnson took a steadying pull of Bishop’s Finger, Simon Hart had succeeded in rattling him.
“As a matter of fact,” said Johnson, rolling the words around his lips, “I’m going sky-diving.”
“Sky-diving, eh?” said Simon Hart, “how exciting. Tell me all about it,” he smiled, encouragingly, folding his arms and affecting an interested look.
“Sorry?” said Johnson.
“Tell me about it. Sky-diving. I want to know what you do.”
Johnson gained a little thinking time by pulling out a cigarette. He placed it in his mouth and fiddled in his jacket pocket, he found the lighter, but brought out an empty hand.
“I’ll just get some matches from the bar. Seem to have lost my lighter,” he announced.
“Use mine,” said Simon Hart, leaning forward and proferring a slim gold affair.
“Thanks,” said Johnson, forcing a smile, “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Oh, I don’t,” said Simon Hart, “I used to, but I stopped some time ago. I was always attached to this lighter, though, so I never stopped carrying it around. Filling it up, replacing the flint, cleaning it and so on. Comes in handy too, means people don’t have to disappear when they need a light. If they do you can so easily lose the thread of the conversation, don’t you find that? I do.”
Johnson, inhaled, exhaled and nodded.
“Now where were we?” asked Simon Hart.
“Oh. I’m not sure,” said Johnson, “now then, what was it…?”
“I know,” announced Simon Hart, banging on the table and making Johnson jump and waking Richard Nork, who greedily gulped down all of his glass of water.
“You do?” asked Johnson, sounding depressed.
“Our activity weekend in France,” said Simon Hart, proudly, “see, I remembered.”
“So you did,” agreed a happier Johnson, “France, of course.”
“And then you were going to tell me all about sky-diving,” said Simon Hart.
“I was, wasn’t I? How about another drink?” Johnson asked.
“Just got one, thank you.”
“I think I might get myself another one,” announced Johnson.
“You’ve got a full one there.”
Johnson had drained his jug before Simon Hart had finished the sentence. A little beer ran down his chin, but most of it was racing to join the rest, settling in his near-empty stomach.
“I’ll get another,” said Johnson, rising to his feet.
“No need,” said Simon Hart, “here’s the waiter. Another beer over here please, and you’d better bring him some more water,” he gestured at the red-eyed Richard Nork.
“Thanks,” said Johnson.
“So,” said Simon Hart, expectantly.
“So,” said Johnson.
“Sky-diving. Take me through it.”
“Well,” Johnson screwed up his eyes, this shouldn’t be too difficult, “A group of us are going to meet on Saturday morning, at the airfield, and we’re going to get on a plane, which will take off from the land and go up into the sky.” Johnson’s right hand did a useless imitation of an aeroplane.
“With you so far,” said Simon Hart.
“And then we all jump out,” said Johnson, triumphantly, “the end,” he took a self-congratulatory gulp of beer.
“And that’s it?” asked Simon Hart, puzzled.
“That’s it,” concurred Johnson.
“Well, I have to say, you’re very cool and calm about something that always terrified me,” smiled Simon Hart.
“Sorry?” Johnson choked out the word.
“From my days in the paras.”
“The paras, really?” Johnson felt hot and flushed.
“Then it was all safety checks. Thorough, methodical, potentially life-saving safety checks. You didn’t say anything about checking your ‘chute, or anything else.”
“I didn’t want to bore you with mundane details.”
“I see,” said Simon Hart, “and which airfield do you use?”
“Which one?”
“Yes. Which airfield do you fly out of?”
“It’s to the north,” said Johnson. James Brown pounded on in his ears.
“To the north? To the north of what?”
“North London,” said Johnson.
“Called?”
“I always get a lift,” said Johnson.
“And you’ve never noticed where you’re going?”
“Usually asleep in the back, you know.”
“Or the name of the place once you’re there?”
“Put it down to adrenalin,” explained Johnson, “I’m just focussed on the moment. I’m in the zone, that’s what we call it you know, the zone, we call it being in the zone. When you’re in that hyped-up state unimportant details just don’t register.”
“Of course,” said Simon Hart, “I understand. What’s the bird?”
“Eh?” asked Johnson.
“The plane. What is it?”
“Oh, I’m not good on that technical stuff,” said Johnson.
“You don’t know what sort of ‘plane you fly in?”
“Nah,” said Johnson, “I’m only interested in getting up there and jumping out as quickly as possible.”
“I see,” said Simon Hart.
“And then going home again,” said Johnson.
“I see,” repeated Simon Hart.
“I mean I get the underground at least twice a day but I’ve no idea who makes the trains,” said Johnson, confidently. He felt that he might have weathered the storm.
“Fair point,” said Simon Hart.
“Cheers,” answered Johnson.
“Listen, I have to circulate,” said Hart.
“Of course,” replied an understanding Johnson.
“I’ve enjoyed talking to you, it’s been most interesting. Not to say enlightening.”
I wouldn’t have said it was particularly enlightening either, thought Johnson.
“Likewise,” said Johnson, waving his jug in acknowledgement, “catch you later, Simon.”
Simon Hart disappeared into the crowd and Johnson abandoned the still sleeping Richard Nork at the table. Johnson headed for the corridor and, after a brief detour to the gents, which bore so much resemblance to a hall of mirrors that in the confusion he pissed on his shoes, he made his escape to the street.