by R. D. Ronald
Tazeem got to the restaurant half an hour before Mangle and Decker were due to arrive, allowing him time to talk with Latif alone. He’d told Latif a few days ago that his two friends would be working exclusively for Latif now, and although no specifics were mentioned, Tazeem was pretty sure Latif had got the message: whatever arrangements or illegal dealings they’d been involved with were coming to an end. Latif saw this as a reason to celebrate and had invited them all to attend the reopening of his restaurant, Mailsi.
Tazeem was impressed with the contemporary remodelling. The tables, chairs and bar were dark rosewood, with pristine white tablecloths. The walls were smooth and painted pale green, with columns and curved support beams finished in burnt orange. Soft light was supplied by wall lamps throughout the restaurant, providing an endearing and intimate atmosphere.
‘Very nice,’ Tazeem said approaching Latif at the bar. ‘But there’s no way you designed all of this. I’ve seen what trouble you get into even selecting your own clothes.’
Latif laughed and ordered a bottle of Becks for Tazeem and another Pepsi for himself from the barman. ‘Very funny, my friend, but nevertheless perceptive,’ Latif said, and signalled a waiter to prepare the corner table for them.
‘It is surprising that Sadiq hasn’t tried to get a slice of this place to add to his growing empire,’ Tazeem said, sipping his beer.
‘Oh, he has tried. He wanted to fund the whole refit but I said no. It has stretched me to breaking point but I’d rather that than trust that man. And his erratic behaviour convinces me even more that I did the right thing.’
‘What has he done now?’
Latif took a moment as he searched for the right words before leaning forward and speaking softly. ‘It has been said for a while now that he has become a little too accustomed to the cocaine he has some of his henchmen selling.’
Tazeem nodded; he had heard similar whispers as well.
‘His habit appears to have got the better of him now; he often mutters to himself and his twitches have got a lot worse. The men who follow him are fickle. They were attracted by his money and power, but this sign of weakness could be enough for an ambitious member of his entourage to try and step up into Sadiq’s place. They are like jackals, after all.’
Tazeem sat back and smiled, took another drink from his beer and waited for Latif to admit to some exaggeration, but his friend remained stony-faced and serious.
‘He said he would call in tonight for the reopening. If you’re still here you may see for yourself,’ Latif added, with a dismissive wave of his hand, evidently happy for Tazeem to witness the level of Sadiq’s decline on his own.
Mangle and Decker arrived shortly afterwards and they all ordered their meals. The restaurant filled steadily as they ate and Latif quipped that he was pleased with the turn-out, although not nearly as pleased as his bank manager would be. The friends dutifully laughed, then ordered dessert and a further round of drinks.
Sadiq made his grandiose appearance before the end of the night. He arrived with a clutch of henchmen and walked from table to table, engaging guests in small talk, slapping backs and asking if everyone was enjoying their meals. Latif excused himself, somewhat irritably, and went to the bar to see that they were served on the house. Tazeem tried to pay little heed, but the way Sadiq entered a room attracted the focus of everyone’s attention. His expensively tailored suit, designer haircut and, of course, the customary array of diamonds that decorated his fingers and wrists, drew the eye; and the effortless way he worked the room, held it. Had Latif ’s earlier words not prompted closer scrutiny, Tazeem might have missed the tremor in Sadiq’s hands and the frequency with which he touched and rubbed at his nose.
The parade of faces Sadiq interchangeably associated with were generally of less interest to Tazeem, until he spotted Mohammed, who, immediately once they’d made eye contact, came across to the table.
‘Isn’t this just like old times,’ he said, his comment weighing heavily with irony and light on nostalgia.
Mangle and Decker looked up from their conversation and gave their obligatory greetings.
‘Still like to keep mixed company, then, Tazeem,’ Mohammed said, and snorted a contemptuous laugh.
Tazeem let the remark pass without comment, which he’d learned in Reedland Grange was the best way to deal with Mohammed.
‘How is business for you these days, Tazeem? Did you give any thought to the conversation we had that day?’
‘Business is OK. I get by.’
‘Sadiq is doing very well, and those working with him likewise. You’d be a fool not to acknowledge that and take a seat at his table.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Tazeem said coolly. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Mohammed, but let’s not spoil tonight for Latif with any bickering.’
‘I agree. I didn’t come across to pick an argument,’ Mohammed lied, ‘just to say hello to some old jailbird friends.’ With that he turned and walked back to the bar.
‘He hasn’t simmered down any since his release, then,’ Mangle commented.
‘There’s that guy from the shop as well,’ Decker said, ‘the little guy from the stockroom who never says much.’
‘Latif says many of the younger members of our community are falling in with Sadiq. He’s establishing quite a workforce,’ Tazeem said. ‘Come on, let’s finish up and go.’
‘Hello Tazeem,’ Sadiq said as he breezed up to their table. ‘Mohammed says you might be interested in working for me.’
‘I’m afraid he must have misunderstood,’ Tazeem said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.
‘That is a shame. You were always very creative, I’m sure we could do very well together.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Tazeem said with a smile and a note of finality.
Sadiq reached inside his jacket pocket, withdrew three flyers advertising a strip club and dropped them onto Tazeem’s plate. ‘A new venture. You and your friends drink all night for free. Go and enjoy yourselves. Have a look at what else is out there for those prepared to take the chance,’ he said, before returning to the bar.
‘You want to check it out?’ Decker asked when they were back outside.’
‘I wasn’t intending to. What about you?’ Tazeem asked Mangle.
‘Free drinks and naked dancing girls, how bad can it be?’
It was just past eleven when their cab drew up at the club, South of Seven. It was easy to miss, the entrance being recessed back from the main street with doormen who stood just inside the club. The sign above the door looked like a large block of black marble with the name of the club cut deeply into it. Fiery red letters slowly lit up and flickered as if being written by an invisible hand, before extinguishing for a moment until the cycle began again.
Tazeem held the flyers they had been given by Sadiq, and presented them to the doormen. One of them nodded, and said to keep them for use at the bar.
A thick red carpet like an infected tongue ran the length of the large stairway up to the club. At the top a heavy glass door opened into a large oval room. Inside, everything was chrome and red. Scarlet spotlights hazed down from the ceiling onto the cushioned chairs arranged around the stage. Men sat alone or in groups of two or three, eyes fixed on the women spiralling around polished chrome poles in the centre of the room.
The dancers used their hands and tightly toned thighs suggestively as they spun around, carefully surveying their audience. Sultry music came from hidden speakers, adding to the intoxication of their movements. Around the outside of the room other beautiful women wearing little or nothing at all flitted between the infatuated, intoxicated men, sometimes luring them away for a private dance. The men would follow obediently, weighed down by lust and credit cards.
Tazeem led the way to a small table against the far wall. Within moments a waitress wearing only white lace panties and a clip-on white collar and black bowtie sauntered over to take their order. Tazeem placed their VIP flyers on the table and Mangle asked for t
hree vodka and cokes. After a lingering look she turned and sashayed off to fetch the drinks.
‘Is this your friend’s place?’ Decker asked Tazeem.
‘I don’t know if he owns it or runs it, or exactly what it is he does.’
An electro-pop track overlaid with sensual female vocals began to play as the next dancer strutted out onto the stage.
Decker looked as mesmerised as the other men in the room, unsurprising after the number of years he’d spent in all-male company. Mangle watched the other women as they circled, like birds of prey deciding on their next kill. He noticed a raised, darkened area to the back of the room, just beyond the incandescent red glow, which he presumed was for actual VIPs, not just guys lucky enough to have been given flyers for free drinks. A group of men sat there talking, seemingly oblivious to the floor-show.
The perky waitress returned with their drinks on a polished silver tray perched on perfectly manicured fingernails. She plucked the glasses one by one and placed them onto the table, waited for a few seconds before realising she wasn’t about to get a tip, and walked away again, this time with a less graceful gait.
Seductive groaning now accompanied the track as the woman gyrated on the stage, grinding her crotch against the pole. The back-stage door opened and a man led out two girls wearing string bikinis, one pink and the other turquoise. They were attractive, but Mangle’s attention lingered on them for another reason: they carried themselves very differently to the other girls they had seen. Their movements were disjointed, uncertain. They seemed acutely aware of their semi-nakedness. One lagged behind a little and was grabbed firmly around her wrist by the man leading the way. He escorted them around the outside of the room, stopping for a few words with the other girls and to point out things to the two in tow.
One song blended into the next and another dancer came out onto the floor and began her routine. She wore silver sequined heels that matched her bra top and panties. Mangle watched absently for a moment or two before glancing around the room. The girls the man brought out had been left in the shaded section of the club and were being turned and examined by the men who sat there. The girls sat down and Mangle settled back to watch the main act. The silver-sequined girl slid slowly down into the splits, her torso against the pole, and ran her hands wantonly up and down it.
Tazeem signalled to the waitress to refresh their drinks. Decker hadn’t taken his eyes from the girl on the stage. Mangle picked up his glass and drank the last inch. The ice cubes clicked like dice as he replaced it.
The two girls walked back down into the main room. Mangle wasn’t sure what kept drawing his attention back to them, until the girl wearing the turquoise bikini met his eye for a moment as she looked across the club.
‘That’s her,’ he exclaimed, ‘Decker, look.’ He reached forward and tugged at Decker’s shirt sleeve.
‘What’s who?’ Decker said, irritably pulling his arm away.
‘The girl from that job, that’s one of the ones from the warehouse.’
Tazeem was all attention now. ‘The last job you did?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Mangle said, turning to him.
Decker squinted at the two girls. ‘You can’t be sure. It was over a week ago and the light in here is terrible.’
‘Either way, I think we should go,’ Tazeem said, getting to his feet.
A couple of women working the club glanced over at the sudden movement. The girl in turquoise stood rooted in the centre of the room, watching Mangle intently. Decker and Mangle got up and Tazeem led the way calmly but purposefully towards the stairs.
‘I see you before.’
Mangle spun around to see that the girl had followed them. There was no trace of the fear he’d seen at the warehouse. The bruising and puffiness had faded from her face, but up close her eyes looked hazy and unfocused, like someone just roused from sleep.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said, and turned away.
Men from the shaded area had begun to pay attention now and two of them stood up. Tazeem opened the door and walked quickly down the stairs.
‘Will you help me?’ the girl asked, and grabbed for Mangle’s arm, but Decker was already pushing him through the doorway.
Mangle’s heart was racing. He was in no doubt that it was the same girl. Decker smiled at the doormen and all three walked out into the cold night air. The ground soaked from a heavy rain that continued to fall.
‘Keep going,’ Tazeem said evenly from a few paces ahead of them. He ducked into an alley and broke into a run. Seconds later, loud voices could be heard behind them from the direction of the club. Decker and Mangle kept up with Tazeem as he ran this way and that down a rabbit warren of back streets.
‘Did you recognise anyone else in there?’ Tazeem asked, bent over with his hands on his thighs and breathing heavily when he came to a halt a few moments later.
‘No, just her. The guys at the top table seemed to have some authority, but I couldn’t see their faces. It’s possible one or more of them could have been at the warehouse,’ Mangle said.
‘The way they all chased after us, I think you must be right,’ Decker said, and glanced back up the alley to make sure no one was following.
‘So what do we do?’ Mangle asked.
‘Nothing. We don’t know anything for sure, but if you are right the last thing we want is to be identified. We take separate cabs and go home. I’ll be in touch if I learn anything tomorrow.’
When the taxi pulled up outside Tazeem’s house he paid the driver and got out, but instead of going into the house he climbed into his car. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He ran a hand over his forehead, then smoothed down his wet hair. Events of the day circled inside his head, like the predatory women at the club. He knew he’d think clearer behind the wheel of his car than he would do lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tazeem turned the key and his Mercedes purred awake. He breathed into his hand and sniffed. He was probably over the limit to drive, but not by much. He reversed out of the driveway and started down the street, keeping his speed down to avoid getting pulled over.
Tazeem thought Mangle and Decker had handled the unforeseen, dangerous situation they’d found themselves in on their last job very well. Mangle’s fake phone call before entering had been a stroke of genius. The man couldn’t bundle them into the back of a van if someone knew their location and was expecting their imminent return.
The contacts Tazeem used were usually reliable, but the very nature of the information he sought made it dangerous for them to question things too openly. He had been told with reasonable certainty that the warehouse was used to take delivery of stolen goods. That had seemed perfect, just the type of place they were after. Now it appeared that stolen goods hadn’t been what they received there at all, and that made their current situation a lot more hazardous. If people were the trade, rather than goods, then the men behind it would be a lot more organised and a lot more dangerous.
Tazeem cursed his stupidity for accepting the passes from Sadiq. They were the only thing that linked them to South of Seven. He’d erased any trace of their connection to the electric company jobs, but for now it might be best for Decker and Mangle to avoid going into Latif ’s shop as well. He scrolled down to Latif ’s number in his phone, clicked it, and waited for him to pick up. It was after 1a.m. now, but after the busy opening night there was a chance he’d still be finishing up at the restaurant.
After five or six rings Latif connected the call. ‘Tazeem, it’s pretty late and I’m just about to head home. Can this wait until tomorrow?’
‘I just need a few moments, my friend. Can I come and see you before you leave?’
‘Alright, Tazeem. But hurry up, I want to get home and sleep.’
Tazeem promised he’d get there as soon as he could. A peal of thunder rumbled overhead as he turned onto the highway.
Thick sheets of rain fell as Tazeem pulled into an empty parking space opposite Mailsi. A jagged vein of lightn
ing lit the sky a bright white as Tazeem climbed out of the car, before another roar of thunder like rolling boulders echoed over him. He put up a hand to shield his eyes and saw a hooded figure get out of a car directly outside the restaurant. The hands poking out from the long sleeves were almost luminously white in contrast to the black top the figure wore. Tazeem, recognising Latif ’s car parked two spaces further down, supposed it must be a staff member kept back to help out, and he began to cross the road.
Oddly, the hooded figure broke into a run, pulling something from his jacket pocket. Tazeem stopped in the middle of the road, unsure why he felt such trepidation as the man ran down the deserted street. When he reached the corner he turned, and looked back the way he’d come. His face, a ghostly white oval, appeared almost featureless from this distance. They stood watching each other, unmoving, for a moment longer before another crash of thunder spurred the man into action.
The blast of hot air lifted Tazeem from his feet and threw him onto his back in the road. He blinked up into the night sky; raindrops glowed orange as they fell towards the earth. With great effort he sat up and looked around dumbly. The car parked outside the restaurant had been reshaped, its metal skeleton taking on the crumpled appearance of balled-up paper. All of the windows and the driver’s side door were gone, and the whole thing was engulfed in flames.
The front of the restaurant was a fiery mess. The windows had blown inward. Curtains, tables, in fact everything he could make out inside, was burning.
Tazeem hauled himself to his feet, walked past the flaming carcass of the car and kicked what was left of the restaurant door inward to gain entry. He couldn’t hear anything, and when he reached up to touch his ears his fingers came away coated in blood. He stepped through the shattered frame, looking for any sign of life. He shouted Latif ’s name over and over, or thought he did: all Tazeem could hear was a muffled echo among the carnage around him.
