Jesus Christ, thought Annette.
‘We had a good laugh over that. What are you lookin’ at me like that for? It was just a joke.’
‘They may not like you talking about their family. You’re better letting them bring up the subject.’
‘I don’t see the harm in it,’ said Justine.
‘If he’s married, he might feel guilty about being here. He doesn’t need you to remind him about it.’
Justine frowned, as if she found coping with this idea something of a struggle. She said nothing for a few moments. Annette enjoyed the silence and didn’t interrupt. Was it possible that her advice was beginning to register?
Then Justine said, ‘There’s one thing I wondered about . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s just that, it might no’ be anything but . . .’
She hesitated, apparently having at last found a subject delicate enough to stem the verbal flood. Annette had to coax it out of her. It seemed that an unduly high proportion of her customers had opted for oral sex, and she wondered if this was normal. ‘It’s no’ that I mind that much, I mean I’ve done it before, my man Joe used to like it . . .’
‘I wonder why?’ Annette said, half to herself.
‘What’s that? It’s just that I like a right good blether wi’ them and . . . What’s she laughin’ at?’
Candy had returned and was listening to the conversation with interest.
‘Never mind her,’ said Annette, trying to avoid Candy’s eye. ‘Don’t you think . . .’ She paused, trying to be tactful. She noticed that, for once, she had Justine’s full attention. ‘Don’t you think maybe they’re trying to tell you something?’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’ She turned to Candy. ‘What’s the joke?’
‘Nothin’,’ said Candy. ‘I’m just happy at my work.’
‘I mean,’ said Annette, ‘it’s OK to have a chat with the customers, getting them to relax. But that’s not the main reason they’re here, is it? There comes a point where you’ve got to let the body language take over, if you know what I mean?’
It was clear that Justine was still having difficulty with the concept, but a customer took her away before they could discuss it further. Annette saw no evidence of Justine acting on her advice; if anything, she seemed to have speeded up her verbal assault on the customer, as if she was determined to get through the maximum amount of material before the rude interruption.
When Justine had gone, Candy said, ‘Tell me, is she thick, or is she really thick?’
‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Annette. ‘I’m sure part of it’s nerves. I don’t think she’s properly settled into the job yet. Maybe she’s not cut out for it.’
‘Who is?’
‘You are. I’d say you were born to it.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I’ll have a good talk with her. Maybe that’ll help.’
‘Tell her bugger all,’ said Candy. ‘You’ve already said too much.’
‘I thought you weren’t worried about the competition.’
‘I’m not. But if she takes one punter from me, that’s my fag money for the week.’
‘And if she takes more of your customers,’ said Annette, ‘she might save your liver as well as your lungs. You should look on the bright side.’
‘I always do. By the way, not all her punters go for oral. You know that guy I had earlier, the one who took her last week? She gave him a hand relief.’
‘What did he say about her?’
‘Nothin’ much,’ said Candy. ‘He wanted tae know if she’d ever been a tattie howker.’
12
Out to Lunch
‘Cigarette?’
‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’
‘Do you mind if I do?’
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t, Mr Archer.’
‘Sure,’ said Steven Archer. ‘No problem.’ He replaced the packet of cigarettes in his pocket, wishing that he’d smoked another one in the car before meeting this bugger. Somehow he’d thought that, lunching with a journalist, it wouldn’t be a problem. Obviously this guy wasn’t typical. That became even clearer when Steven consulted the wine list.
‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ said his guest. ‘I don’t drink. Go ahead yourself, if you want.’
The words were polite, but the tone a little condescending, as if he was making a significant concession. Damn the man. Steven would have risked a bottle between the two of them, but not one on his own when he was driving. He knew that he could drive quite capably after a bottle of wine, but the cops wouldn’t see it that way if he failed a breath test. He couldn’t afford even the slightest chance of losing his licence. The car was essential to his work.
Steven eyed the waitress with interest as she returned for their order. She filled that old-fashioned maid’s uniform very nicely, like something out of a period erotic fantasy. Pity she wasn’t on the menu herself.
‘Have you decided what you want, gentlemen?’
‘Yes,’ said Steven, looking her directly in the eye and smiling. ‘But we’ll settle for ordering a meal.’ He looked across at his guest, to share the joke with him, but got no reaction. The waitress continued to smile, also ignoring the innuendo. But she knew what he meant all right. Whether the other man did was another matter. It might have been the waitress’s grandmother who had served them, for all the effect it seemed to have on him.
It wasn’t as if his guest was all that old. He could be little more than thirty-five, Steven’s own age, but his conservative dress style and old-fashioned mannerisms made him seem much older. His appearance was obsessively neat, from the manicured fingers to the highly polished black shoes and the well-cut business suit. His short hairstyle was undoubtedly a throwback to earlier days rather than observance of a new fashion: somehow Steven couldn’t see him as a long-haired youth in the 1970s. An uptight, humourless bastard if ever he’d seen one. Steven regarded himself as a man’s man, who found it easy to get along with the normal male. But he felt no rapport with this guy at all.
After scoring nil for smoking, drinking and casual lechery, Steven expected him to be a vegetarian as well, but he ordered a steak. So that they could establish at least one thing in common, Steven asked for the same. He also ordered a single glass of red wine while his guest settled for mineral water.
‘I’m sure they could pour it from the tap and we wouldn’t know the difference,’ he said. ‘But since you’re paying . . .’
Was that actually an attempt at a joke? Steven reluctantly redirected his eyes from the waitress’s departing rear. ‘Absolutely, Mr Washington.’
‘Robert.’
‘Robert. Be my guest. Go wild and drink as much water as you like. I’m sure you’re going to make it worth my while.’
So maybe he was susceptible to at least one deadly sin. Could his last remark have been an indication of avarice? It was routine for Steven to assess new business acquaintances for weaknesses, in case some form of inducement proved necessary. As far as Washington was concerned, a case of whisky or a night with a hooker seemed unlikely to be effective, but a bundle of used banknotes might just work. Though God only knew what he would spend them on.
Right now it was a hypothetical exercise. This was likely to be a straight business deal, with no need for inducements. Such transactions still occurred sometimes.
‘I’m sure I can be of service, Mr Archer. Or can I call you Steven?’
‘Of course.’ Here we were, almost the twenty-first century, and this guy still seemed to be struggling his way out of the nineteenth.
‘I understand you were thinking of a centre-page spread, Steven?’
‘That was the general idea.’
‘It’ll cost you.’
‘How much?’
Washington told him. Bloody hell, thought Steven. He supposed he could just about afford it, as long as it did the job. But there would be no more free lunches, not even teetotal ones.
‘Tha
t’s a lot of money,’ said Steven. ‘What did you say your circulation was?’
‘A hundred thousand.’
‘As much as that?’
‘That’s the beauty of a free newspaper, Steven. You don’t have to sell it. Your circulation is what you can afford to print and distribute.’
‘You should be able to print a few from the cost of a centre spread.’
‘That’s the way it works.’
‘And what’s your distribution area?’
‘The north side of the city, from Yoker to Dennistoun and as far north as Springburn. That’s why we’re called the North Clyde Advertiser.’
‘You include the West End?’
‘Of course. That’s our heartland. Also the city centre, so the paper can be picked up by people from other parts of the city, and from out of town. In restaurants and pubs and suchlike.’
‘You don’t have any moral objection to distributing in pubs?’ He shouldn’t have said that, not before the deal had been struck. But Washington didn’t appear to take offence.
‘Not at all, Steven. Neither do the Salvation Army. It doesn’t mean that either of us approve of hard liquor.’
Steven felt he was beginning to get the measure of Washington. His strict moral outlook wasn’t allowed to interfere with business. He probably paid his distributors Third World wages, exploiting under-age kids and the unemployed. Not that there was anything wrong with that.
While they were consuming their starters and main course, Washington quizzed Steven about his new housing development – the subject of the proposed advertisement feature – while recording the conversation on a portable tape recorder. Steven had almost expected him to produce a shorthand notebook, but he seemed up to date as far as business was concerned. They discussed the general shape and content of the article, and Steven handed over a number of brochures and photographs.
‘Have you a copy of your paper?’
‘Have you never seen it?’
‘Off and on. But I’d like to examine it a little more closely.’
‘Of course. I thought you would.’ Washington opened his briefcase and brought out a small bundle of newspapers. ‘These are the last six issues.’
Coffees were ordered, and Washington looked through the brochures while Steven scanned the newspapers. At first they seemed much as he expected, being dominated by the adverts which financed the whole concern, along with a smattering of news and features of local interest. All very predictable. Then, in the most recent issue, the headline of a leading article caught his eye:
A FIRST BLOW FOR THE MORAL MAJORITY
In this issue, we take a small but important step in the endless battle against permissiveness, that modern plague undermining the structure of Christian society.
In the past we have indicated our support for the residents of Partick in their fight to excise a cancer from the streets where their innocent children play. I refer of course to the brothel calling itself the Rosevale Sauna. It is scandalous enough that such havens of vice should infest the commercial areas of the city, in some cases even being awarded licences by the council. But when they appear, like the eruption of a boil on healthy skin, right next door to the homes of decent working people, it is time to act.
The authorities tell us they are taking steps to close down this evil cesspit. In order to give them a much-needed nudge in the right direction, we have regularly been stationing a photographer on the street outside. Every week, beginning today, we will let the public see what the patrons of this vile establishment look like.
Fornicators and adulterers take heed. You can no longer hide your shame.
Beside the column, a large photograph showed a small shop unit, on the ground floor of a tenement block of flats. Behind the plate-glass window drawn blinds concealed the interior from view. A man was emerging from the doorway, his features clearly identifiable.
Steven realised that Washington was watching him. ‘I see you’re reading my leader,’ he said. ‘Don’t you agree with it?’
‘No . . . well, I mean . . . yes. It seems a bit strong.’
‘Are you a family man, Steven?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t like to have your children playing outside such a place. Don’t you think the families in Partick deserve the same consideration? Isn’t it bad enough that their children already buy sweets from shops whose top shelves are full of pornography?’
‘Oh, absolutely. I see what you mean.’
‘And while I abhor the conduct of women who sell themselves, I believe the time is overdue for an attack on the men who use them. After all, they’re the cause of the problem. Without them, the women would have no market.’
‘Yes. Yes, you’re right.’
It was Steven’s practice always to agree with business contacts, to tell them what they wanted to hear, though in the present case it was becoming something of a strain. The man was obviously a fanatic, a complete nutter. Was he himself a family man, like those whose interests he was so keen to protect? More probably he was an overgrown mother’s boy, raised in some strict religious sect, still a bachelor. Or maybe he was married to some harridan who kept a padlock on her knickers. Steven briefly wondered whether he should go ahead with the deal, but the newspaper seemed successful enough, despite its owner’s obsessive crusade.
He realised that the photographs of sauna customers probably wouldn’t put readers off, but would be an attraction. The public might not go along with Washington’s extreme views, but they’d still want a look, to see if they recognised anyone.
They finalised their arrangements and Steven paid the bill for the lunch. At last he got free of the man and returned to his car.
He lit a cigarette and sat for a moment, before starting the ignition. What next? The business lunch had taken up much less time than the usual convivial affair, and he had time in hand before he needed to be back in the office. It had earlier occurred to him, since he was in the area, to give the Rosevale Sauna a try, but that now seemed like a bad idea. Fuck the man! Just as well he’d found out in time.
What was wrong with Washington, for God’s sake? His idea of an evil cesspit represented, for Steven, the essence of modern, civilised living. No more need for a messy extramarital affair, fending off demands to leave your wife, worrying about being found out, when all you wanted was your leg over on the side. No need to go kerb-crawling, risking police interference or HIV infection from some junkie. Instead, you just nipped down to the nearest fast-fud shop, then back to work with no one the wiser.
As long as that bastard Washington didn’t have a photographer posted outside.
It wouldn’t take long, he decided, to drive across town to the Merchant City. Maybe that blonde bird Miranda would be on today. Now there was a really high-class piece of pussy, far too good for that place she worked in. Why did she do it? Probably too thick to make the same money doing anything else.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to fight over her this time. Not that it mattered. He had sorted out that wanker all right, and would do the same again if he had to.
13
How to Clean Up in the Sex Business
Jack managed to keep clear of the Merchant City Health Centre for three weeks, his best record since discovering the place. In the intervening period he did his job as a barman, worked at his studies, and watched with relief as the haemorrhage in his savings came to a stop. He worked out a budget and reckoned that he could afford an occasional visit without eroding his capital. After the novelty had worn off, this would surely be enough for him.
Having reached this decision, it wasn’t very long before he convinced himself that the first such occasion was due. It was a Tuesday, and a phone call confirmed that Annette was there on her usual shift, along with Candy and a girl whose name he didn’t recognise.
He was no longer nervous about entering the dingy close in the back street. That had quickly been superseded by a feeling of illicit excitement. He experienced that now
, intensified by his three-week absence. In a perverse way, the seediness of the place added to the pleasure. It was probably the influence of his religious upbringing, from which he had long since lapsed; if you wanted to enjoy a relapse into sin, it helped to do it in the right surroundings.
On the first floor, he had to push past a queue of people waiting for the pawnbroker to reopen after lunch. He kept his head down as he went by, wondering if they knew what was on the floor above. Unless he began to show more self-control, it wouldn’t be long before he would be joining them in the queue, before going straight upstairs with the cash.
‘Hello, Jack,’ said the woman behind the desk. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ She took his money, noted his name and time of arrival in her book, and handed him a towel, locker key and wallet. ‘Still know your way about?’
‘I think so.’
He made his way down the hall to the changing room. The air of seediness no longer ended at the front door. At the time of his first visit, the place had seemed clean and somewhat luxurious; later, with familiarity, it seemed less so. It would have benefited from redecoration and more regular cleaning. It was common to find at least one of the showers out of order, sometimes the toilet as well, and many of the robes and towels were wearing thin. Some of the locker doors were bent out of shape, mainly (according to Annette) due to drunken customers, unable to work the lock, or reduced to vandalism after parting with their money only to discover that their desire had exceeded their capability.
As he was making his way from the shower area, Annette came out of the lounge with a customer. ‘Hi there, Jack, how are you?’
‘Fine. Yourself?’
‘Fine. I’ll see you later.’
She continued on her way to the cabin, chatting to the customer as she went. Jack recognised some of her patter, which she had used on him in the past. What did she mean that she would see him later? She was taking a lot for granted, wasn’t she?
There was only one other person in the lounge, a girl whom Jack hadn’t met before. It didn’t take him long to notice that she was the best-looking girl he had ever seen in the place, with the possible exception of Miranda. She was younger than the others, in her early twenties at the most. She had long, dark hair and a slim but full figure, which the regulation white coat couldn’t entirely conceal. She gave Jack a smile that was friendly, a little bashful and quite endearing.
Murder in the Merchant City Page 6
