Dangerous Lady

by Cole, Martina

  Michael explained to her. She sat curled up on the seat beside him, chain smoking as she listened. She did not interrupt him once. When he had finished, she smiled.

  ‘So it’s Stavros’s cousin is it?

  He smiled too.

  ‘Well, we’ll give the fat little bastard a run for his money!’

  Michael grinned at her. Maura had said the words that he wanted to hear.

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought! Listen, Maws, I want you to think over what I’ve said. Get a few ideas together and then meet me later at the club. I’ll get off home now or Jonny will think that I’ve been topped by someone. I’ll see you later then.’

  ‘All right, Mickey. What about the glass that Roy nicked? Shall I have it sent over to the Met? They might come up with a name . . . a legitimate name and address.’

  Michael slapped his hand on his forehead. ‘Bugger me, Maws. That went right out of me mind. I’ve left it in the club.’

  ‘Never mind, Mick. Just you get home and get a bit of sleep. I’ll sort that out.’

  When Michael left, Maura went to her kitchen and made herself some tea and toast. The more she thought about what Michael had said, the more impossible it seemed. Who would wait over fifteen years to regain a territory? This bloke might be Stavros’s cousin, but his story did not ring true.

  Carla breezed into the kitchen and pinched a slice of toast from Maura’s plate. ‘I’ll be late tonight, Maws. All right?’

  ‘All right, love. Drive carefully.’

  ‘I will.’

  Then she was gone. As always when Carla left the house, it felt empty. She seemed to breathe life into it. Still pondering what Michael had said, Maura went up for a shower. She had a busy day ahead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Maura walked into Le Buxom at ten-thirty-five. The hostesses were, as always, pleased to see her, unlike some of the men who worked for the Ryans who were wary of Maura. She was regarded as a hard-hearted bitch by the majority of them. Though if any one of them got hurt during the course of their work, it was Maura who saw to it that their wives were amply provided for. She half guessed what was said about her and made a conscious effort to keep the myth alive. Maura was happy enough with their respect, she did not want their love. She wanted to be known as a hard bitch. It suited her. The only people she could not con into disliking her were the hostesses.

  They loved her. She always made sure that the girls with children got a good bonus around Christmas time, which was much appreciated. Also, most hostess clubs left the girl to sort out her hostess fee with the punter. Maura had a rule that the hostess fee, which was twenty-five pounds, went on the overall bill. Then, if there was a row over it, which was what frequently happened in the clubs, the bouncer would ensure that the hostess fee also was paid. A girl who had sat all night with a punter and talked him into buying champagne at two hundred pounds a bottle and cigarettes in packs of fifty that cost three times their retail price, could help run up a bill of over seven hundred pounds. If there was a fight over the payment she was hardly likely to be going on to a hotel with the punter. Therefore all she had for her efforts was the hostess fee. At least in Maura’s club they could guarantee that. It was not unusual for a customer to be taken to the back bar where he was punched and threatened until the bill was paid.

  Consequently, Le Buxom was known as the place to work. Maura offered them a degree of protection that had gradually wiped out pimping on their girls. For that they respected and loved her. They also kept their ears to the ground and let her in on anything that they heard. If they got any kind of venereal disease they were out, that was Maura’s main stipulation, along with drugs and drinking. She had seen the effect that these things had on the prostitutes. It made them violent and aggressive. All prostitutes looked on one another as rivals. Hostess clubs were alive with gossip and back biting and trouble. Whores would rip one another apart, yet defend a sworn enemy to the police; would show a young ‘greenie’ the ropes, then try and muscle in on her punter. They lied, cheated and stole from one another.

  All clubs had ‘head girls’, older, over the hill prostitutes who were as hard as nails. They were employed to keep order among the girls and liaise between them and the punters. In some clubs, if the head girl was offered a ‘drink’ - a percentage of the girls’ ‘case’ fees - they would book these girls before their allotted time. (Hostesses generally lived by the rule that first into work was the first to be booked at a table.) So if a girl was offering a ‘drink’ she would be more likely to get a generous punter, either Arab or Chinese, both races known to be well heeled and unafraid of large fixed bills.

  This form of hostessing had been gradually stamped out in Maura’s club and the girls were grateful for it. Maura’s club had waiting lists of girls who wanted to work for her. She ran her club like she ran her cab ranks and her hot dog stalls - fair and square. She was always on the right side of the police and had never had so much as a parking ticket herself. She was a very different person to the naïve young girl that Terry Petherick had known. She was frightened of no one. Even the large, hard-faced prostitutes, known lesbians and violent streetwalkers, held no terror for her. She walked the streets of Soho without a trace of fear. She had established her reputation long ago.

  Tonight, an ex-hostess had brought in her baby and every woman in the club was clustered around the tiny bundle. Punters were left sitting alone while the child was duly praised and cuddled. The girl, Jenny Randle, had left the club a year earlier to marry one of her regular customers, a banker from Chiswick. She was radiantly happy. Maura took the baby into her arms and breathed in the smell of Johnson’s baby powder and urine. The baby was wrapped in a white shawl and all that was visible was a tiny heart-shaped face, still red and wrinkled. The child opened its eyes and yawned, its tiny little rosebud mouth making a perfect ‘O’. Maura felt the familiar longing rising inside her, and was embarrassed to find tears in her eyes. That was all she needed in front of the hostesses! Proof that she was soft.

  ‘Oh, Jenny, she’s beautiful . . . Gorgeous.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss Ryan. I’m so happy.’

  Michael walked down the stairs and into the club. All he saw was twenty-odd women huddled together at the entrance to the meat seats.

  ‘What’s going on here? A bloody union meeting?’ His voice was annoyed. At his words the girls broke away from Maura. Michael was astonished to see her standing there, in a hundred-pound suit, holding a baby! As he looked into her face he saw the naked longing there, as did most of the hostesses, and suddenly he could not be cross with her. Maura treated the girls as if they were valued employees. Sometimes it drove him mad. She listened to their stupid quarrels, helped them when they were in trouble, financial or otherwise, arranged abortions for them, even paid for their baby-sitters if the woman was having a hard time getting ‘case’. He admitted, grudgingly, that the club ran smoothly, but this was the ultimate piss take. It was like a secretary going into her office with new offspring. The bird was a brass, for Christ’s sake. Next thing they’d be having Tupperware parties. Maura smiled at him.

  ‘Jenny’s new baby, Michael. Isn’t she lovely?’

  All the hostesses were on their guard, waiting for his reaction. Maura gave him a penetrating look that begged for his co-operation in front of the girls. He smiled to himself. She had so much front! Only Maura would expect him, Michael Ryan, the most feared man in London, to make a fuss of an old tom’s baby. With all the aggravation they had at the moment with that nutty Greek, Maura expected him to act like the benevolent uncle! He took out his wallet, and pulling out a couple of ten-pound notes thrust them at Jenny. He smiled his most winning smile that secretly melted all the women’s hearts.

  ‘Get the baby something from us, Jenny.’

  She took the proffered money and grinned at him.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ryan. I will.’

  Feeling embarrassed, he left the women to carry on their inspection of the tiny scrap of humanity and went
upstairs to his office.

  Maura grinned at the hostesses who were all smiling at each other. It was at times like this that they were made aware of how lucky they were to have Maura Ryan’s championship. She treated them as real people, not just whores. Even though they sold their bodies for a living, a fact that automatically made them second class citizens to the legitimate section of the female community, Maura made them feel like honest working girls. Like real people, doing a respectable job.

  She handed the tiny baby back to Jenny and pulled down the jacket of her pale gold silk suit.

  ‘She’s a diamond, Jenny. You’re very lucky. Now then, you lot!’ She made her voice jocular. ‘There’s some lonely-looking punters sitting at the tables! Back to work!’

  The girls who had left men sitting alone went meekly back to their tables, glad of the change in their nightly routine. Jenny’s baby had been a little light relief.

  Maura, leaving the other girls still cooing over the baby, followed Michael upstairs. In the office she put her finger to her lips and laughed.

  ‘Not one word, Michael Ryan!’

  He sat behind his desk, scowling at her.

  ‘Well, Maws! What next? National Insurance stamps and baby showers?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, you old bastard! What you seem to forget is that those women down there . . .’ she pointed a perfectly manicured finger to the floor ‘. . . bring us in an awful lot of money. Jenny was one of the best hostesses in the West End. She brought thousands into this club.’ Maura started to giggle. ‘Not to mention a few highly respectable customers. If you remember rightly she worked the New Rockingham club before we poached her . . . and she brought her customers with her. So there!’ She poked her tongue out at him saucily.

  Michael ran his hands through his thick dark hair. There was a little glint of malevolence in his dark blue eyes. ‘Have you by any chance thought over the problems of last night? Or was you out visiting the waifs and strays at Routen House?’

  Maura walked behind her brother and slipped her arms around his neck. She kissed his cheek lightly, breathing in the smell of Old Spice aftershave.

  ‘I love you when you’re angry, Mickey. And Routen House was closed down years ago. They don’t have workhouses no more. They have to go to the Salvation Army.’

  Michael grabbed her hands and squeezed them. He laughed. ‘You’ve got an answer for everything. And that Carla’s getting just like you. Another trappy bird in the family is all I need!’

  Maura pulled away from him and got herself a drink. She needed one. Holding Jenny’s baby had unnerved her more than she liked to admit to herself. As she had clasped it to her breast she had felt a squeezing sensation in the pit of her stomach, similar to the feeling that preceded driving fast over a large hill. Her tummy had turned over. What she would not give to have a child of her own! She sipped her whisky.

  ‘Well, down to business. What do you think about all that last night, Princess?’

  Maura settled herself in the chair opposite her brother. She crossed her silk-clad legs and leant her right arm on the desk, staring at Michael.

  ‘Well, it sounds to me like the bloke wants us to split territories. Let’s face it, we’ve got our fingers in a lot of pies, haven’t we? I sent the glass over to the fingerprint boys this morning.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Mickey. They make me laugh. They want their money for their little flutters and bits of skirt, then when you want them to return the favour, their arsehole goes. Well, I made a few go this morning, I can tell you! We should have a result late tonight. Realistically, Mickey, until this Dopolis makes his next move, or we find out something about him, we can’t do much anyway.

  ‘As for the protection money, he obviously knew that Wong’s was Roy’s last call, so taking the old boy’s rent was just a token thing. A little bit of defiance. Roy had over sixteen grand in his motor. Even though he had Tessa in the car, if this Dopolis had wanted the money he could have got it. If what Roy said was right, and the young bloke had a sawn-off.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, they could have taken the lot, couldn’t they? No, I think we had better wait until this Dopolis gets in touch. Then I bet if we offer him a little bit of action, he’ll be as happy as Larry. The fact that he’s Stavros’s cousin does put the mockers on it a bit . . . it means we all hold grudges. But for Christ’s sake, Bruv, who would be mug enough to take us lot on?’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘We’ll just wait and see, I ain’t too trashed about it all.

  ‘Now then, what about those houses out in Essex? Have you thought about them at all?’

  Michael nodded. ‘If you think they’re worth it, it’s up to you.’

  He was digesting all that Maura had said. It made sense.

  ‘Well, the thing is, Mickey, they’re all knockdown rebuilds. And I’ve got a smashing little firm of NHBC housebuilders who would love the work. We’ll make a fortune, Mickey. There’s no doubt about it. Property is the business to be in these days.’

  ‘Like all the old “tut” you’ve bought around the old docks?’

  Maura smiled tolerantly.

  ‘You crack me up, Maura. Imagine buying a load of old warehouses and Dockers’ Mansions! . . .’

  ‘Those old Dockers’ Mansions will be worth a fortune one day, boy. You mark my words.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, Maws! I can just see everyone dying to live in a two up two down, with a carzey in the garden and a tin bath in the front room. I bet you’ll have queues of people just dying to buy them!’

  Maura laughed. She sat back in her chair. She had never regained the weight she had lost after the abortion and was fashionably thin. In her gold silk suit and matching shoes and shirt she looked as if she had just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. Her white-blonde hair was freshly washed and framed her face like a platinum halo. Her bright blue eyes were expertly made up. She was, Michael reflected, a very beautiful and sophisticated woman. Yet she had never, to his knowledge, had a boyfriend. Not since the policeman. Michael guessed, rightly, that she still held a torch for him. Though they had never, ever discussed it. It was the only taboo subject between them. They discussed everything under the sun, except Terry Petherick.

  ‘Do you remember Auntie Nellie’s house, Mickey? I used to love staying there when I was a kid. I remember one New Year . . . the old man was in the ’ville, I think, and Mum dropped me off there for a couple of nights.’ Maura closed her eyes as she remembered it all. ‘I was only about six or seven, and as the clock chimed in the New Year Uncle Bertie opened the front door. It was foggy that night. I can see it so clearly. All of a sudden all the ships’ hooters began to blast. It was as if all the boats were going to sail straight into their little front room. The noise was deafening. Uncle Bertie gave me a hot toddy to help me sleep . . . I loved that little house.’

  Michael grimaced at her comically. ‘Turn it up, Maws! You’ll have me crying in a minute!’

  ‘You rotten sod! You’ve got no soul, that’s your trouble! For your information, Michael Ryan, those old places will be worth the National Debt in a few years. There’s talk of them building a marina there, everything.’

  ‘On the old docklands?’ His voice was sceptical.

  ‘On the old docklands.’

  ‘Well, I still can’t see it, Maws.’

  She sobered as she looked at him. ‘Property is the money making scheme of the future. I’m telling you, Mickey. Houses don’t eat nothing and they make you a fortune. You buy them cheap and you sit on them until the prices rise.

  ‘There’s so much building going on in London at the moment, soon there’ll not be any building land left except what can be reclaimed from the old dock areas: Wapping, Woolwich, all up the Thames.’ She smiled. ‘You just wait and see.’

  ‘Do you know something, Maws?’

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘No. What?’

  ‘You are one clever bird. If you had been a bloke you could have taken over the world.’ His voice held genuine admiration.

  ‘Well,
I’ve got you and the whole of London. That’s all I want, Mickey.’

  ‘You’ll always have me, darling.’ Michael’s voice was soft. Maura smiled at him. As long as she had Mickey she didn’t need a husband, a lover - anything. As she looked into his dark blue eyes she was aware of how much he had changed over the years. At forty years old he was still a handsome man but his body was more bulky now than it had been. He was beginning to run to fat. Yet he was still good-looking enough to gather glances wherever he went, from men as well as women. His dark hair was touched with grey. His face still had the high cheekbones and deepset eyes of his youth, except now he had the crow’s feet and lines that denoted middle age. Like most handsome men, his age suited him. Unlike women who tried to keep young for as long as was physically possible, men like Michael wore their age with a panache that made it look like a desirable attribute. Maura poured them both out a whisky.

  ‘Before I forget, Mickey. I had Mahoney on the blower today. He wants some more hardware, mainly M16 rifles. He said that Father McCormack would get them to Eire as usual. Don’t ask me how. Probably by boat. He wants them by the end of the month and I said that was fine . . . provided he paid the money up front. I don’t really like dealing with them, Mickey. But as you say - if we don’t, someone else will.’

  He nodded. Father McCormack’s predictions in Sarah’s front room all those years ago had proved startingly accurate. Now they dealt with many aspects of the Irish Republican Army’s operations. Not only arms, but also providing safe houses and, when possible, safe conduct for its soldiers.

  ‘How much are they willing to spend?’

  ‘A lot. The arms from Libya have dried up since the Arabs started fighting amongst themselves, but the money from America is astronomical now. They can’t spend it quick enough. Shall I get in touch with Dixon then?’

  Michael sighed. ‘Yeah. Use Billy Bootnose as a go-between. I don’t want you or me seen with them.’

  ‘I will do. While you were sleeping the day away, Michael, I -’ she poked herself in the chest ‘- have been sorting out the monthly accounts . . . as well as sorting out the fingerprint men!’ She laughed. ‘We’ve had a few big bets placed at the bookies, but no harm’s been done. The club’s doing all right. Considering it’s nearly Christmas, the hot dogs are bringing in a small fortune. Especially on the new sites we took over.’