Many in the past had mistaken Indy’s shyness and timid demeanour for fear, even cowardliness. On the contrary to how many would take this branding, he rather appreciated this perception.
Tough men don’t declare their toughness, his father once recounted to him. A lesson he didn’t dismiss.
Through the years he had been in many a bloody altercation, losing as many battles as he had won. This mixed record left him with both a fighter’s defensive mind-set and a mentality to avoid conflict whenever possible. He was most certainly not looking for a fight today. But even with such a pacifist ethos, the voices of the youths began to antagonise him. Like a cold raindrop sliding down the back of his neck. Their speech wasn’t inexcusable, but it was most certainly provocative. Detailing the ease of manoeuvring the so-called cougar on top of their mattress. As well as the ease of ejecting her from the hotel room once activities were complete. It was evident no one was going to have the nerve to ask them to refrain. The youths knew it, the customers knew it, Indy knew it.
He caught their glance for a moment, as he stepped a yard further in the queue as the pregnant woman collected her smoothie.
The American coffee-house was packed to the brim with the youths themselves having to stand as they waited for seats. As two customers near the pregnant smoothie-drinker got up and departed. She turned towards the table only to be overtaken boldly by the two boys continuing their semi-pornographic discussion.
Indy cheeks pinched towards each other as he gritted his teeth. He couldn’t bear the disregard. He almost muttered his indignation out loud before halting. One of the youths noticed his refrain. Deciphering it as weakness, apprehension even. The youth smiled and whispered to his mate, nodding in Indy’s direction. The friend turned to deliver Indy a grimace, a warning to Indy to focus his face elsewhere. Indy instead, reciprocated in kind, delivering a pensive glare, suddenly unprepared to lose ground. The youths could see it and sense it, provoked by the defiance of a random coffee shop stooge.
‘What’s your problem?’ one of them asked loud and aggressive with a slight high pitch. Indy kept his eyes locked on them with his lips pursed. The packed shop quickly fell nervously silent. The apprehensive barista, not wanting trouble on the one day she was the on-duty manager, made herself known. Politely asking the two men to give up their table to the pregnant lady, who followed up by declining the offer.
‘That’s okay; they were here first.’ She said with a polite tone. Indy meanwhile kept his stare.
He had them down. Tough through numbers he thought. Two versus one, classic bullies he wasn’t going to give ground too.
‘He asked you a question.’ The second youth announced, stepping away from the table. Indy still wasn’t buying it. They were all talk, nothing more. They were hoping he would cave. He was sure of it.
They left the table, albeit slowly, and made their way towards him. A metre shy, the closest one halted, restraining his friend gently. He nodded towards the barista who now had a telephone to her ear. Indy could sense their excuse coming. At least he hoped it was coming. He recollected another lesson given to him, this time by his elder brother John.
Bullies kick the backs of those who refuse to turn and face them.
And Indy had his eyes locked on their faces. The youths were becoming more and more uneased by Indy’s apparent indifference to them. Maybe there was a risk to this guy they thought, knowing they couldn’t be certain.
Wanting to save face, they gave each other a final nod towards the barista who was now on the phone with someone. Indy saw it for what it was. Their window to exit. They could leave almost appearing merciful to their supposed prey. And as expected, they grasped the opportunity, taking their leave. Giving Indy a wink on-route.
Indy in response turned to collect his coffee. He would have considered himself the victor if he didn’t feel like such a fool. Sure they were gone, clear of the establishment. But he knew all too well the odds of them waiting around the corner with a knife in hand. What was supposed to be a quick coffee-stop would now be several hours of reading magazines and newspapers on the coffeehouse sofa. Just to be safe.
CHAPTER TWO
On the western edge of the city’s outskirts. The semi-ancient, run-down Old Market Pub sat humbled amongst more modern development. Resolute in its station over decades. It was now positioned semi-underneath a bypass that connected Kingsland to the northern cities. It was a relic. A classic, aged pub which had somehow survived continuous arsons and buyout attempts. Digressed to the point that even its front door was so faulty, many potential customers diverted from it. Believing it to be closed.
Inside the pub’s main seated area, a single person sat alone. The owner of the establishment, Rashad Remus, known by his moniker Big Red, sat watching the football. A rather stocky thirty-something that everybody loved to know. He sat back with his legs perched up on a nearby table. Endearing was an understatement for the giant, pillow-shaped man of Caribbean descent. Sporting a thick Lewisham accent that could change in pitch dependant on his mood. In the eyes of the law, Red was still by definition a gangster, albeit in the lightest sense. He was the last remaining member of the Gentlemen. A low-level gang that was once highly respected for their delicate approach to dealing class-C narcotics. Now nothing more than a leader emeritus to a deteriorating public house and a few digits in a bank account. Red carefully rationed what payload the brand had left. He used a small percentage to fund his daily betting and to pay his single employee, Abi, who tended the bar.
Fixated on the television, he grasped his betting slip tightly. On the flat-screen, Liverpool scored a late equaliser, nullifying his bet. He slammed his hand against the table. Leaning back in his chair to review the day’s takings. A hunger pang rumbled his large rotund belly and he thought to try his luck.
‘Abi, can I get one of your magical breakfasts in here? Please, and thank you.’ He requested, knowing it was a push to be sure. Abi was absent from the main floor. Changing a barrel in the storage room behind.
‘It’s eight in the evening Red. Kitchen’s closed’ she yelled.
‘It’s my kitchen.’ he whispered to himself before calling back to her. ‘But I’m wasting away. I’m half the man I was twenty minutes ago.’ he yelled. Hearing her drop something substantial in mass.
‘Son of a, fine.’
Red smiled to himself, caressing his belly. The front door rumbled for the first time in days, and to his delight, Frank walked through it. The younger brother of his once closest friend. Red had barely spoken to John since the latter’s exile and relied on Frank’s company to compensate.
‘Frank, my illustrious city mouse, how are things?’
‘Beautiful, Red.’ Frank replied, struggling to close the door. ‘New hinges on this thing soon?’
‘If it ain’t broke.’
‘It is broke Red. I just hit a personal-best opening this thing.’
‘Sit down, make yourself comfortable.’ Red encouraged, welcoming the new company. Frank was well aware of Red’s enthusiasm for his unannounced visits. He used it to his advantage, seeing Red as his own, incredibly welcoming Federal Reserve. Frank had ambitions, and awkward friendships were the founding currency.
‘I can’t stay long.’ he insisted, knowing full well he had all the time in the world.
‘Well let’s get you a drink at least. Abi!’ he shouted.
‘What!?’ she exasperated causing Red to jump up from his chair.
‘I better get it.’ he mumbled to himself.
Frank took a seat at the bar, taking a relaxed, confident posture on top of a worn-in stall.
‘We’re on Red. It’s happening.’ He announced. Red couldn’t help but giggle as he poured a pint.
‘I still don’t know how you did this. Never mind the funds, I know you’ve got your devious fingers in many lukewarm pies. But convincing the old man to sell. Even Kane couldn’t pull this off. You’re going down in the history books for this one bud.’ Red insisted, referring to the
stubbornness of Que Pasa’s owner Old Man Levy. The most resilient venue owner in the city, after Isaac Kane.
For over a decade, Levy had been the proprietor of the establishment. Relying on the millennial-savviness of Frank to secure its income.
‘Levy’s right for the deal, if it’s no fuss and done quietly, he doesn’t want to attract attention.’ Frank advised, receiving a pint from Red who began to pour his own.
‘Neither do I, that’s our agreement remember, a contribution but with anonymity. I’m the silent partner in all this. I don’t want Kane hearing about the Gentlemen being involved.’
‘Why do you say that Red? Gentlemen, plural. There’s one of you...’ Frank reminded him.
‘Not one of us, Abi makes two.’
‘What?!’ Abi yelled once more, wondering what her employer wanted now.
Red looked down, sighing to himself. ‘You’re sure this is a good idea, Vinyar. Lots of baggage with that place. It’s a different game when your names on the door and not just the event flyers. I don’t need to tell you there are envious eyes out there. Kane’s wanted the place for years.’
‘Kane’s a businessman and if things go according to plan. He’ll want to do business with younger, fresher entrepreneurs. Trust me.’ Frank replied.
Red had already gulped down half his pint in the first few sips. He was always evaluating his business partner. Astonished by how unlike John, Frank was, all the while showing a glimmer of the traits he so adored. The boy’s drive for prosperity was contagious. And his extreme fixation toward his own self-interest could almost garner applause. Red knew there was always a risk in dealing with characters like the young gun, but he trusted John’s blood. Even if he was a callow playboy with a flair for persuasive speaking and creative accounting. It was a solid investment.
‘I’ll have the money in your account tomorrow. But that’s a lot of money F. That’s a lot of trust.’ Red warned. Frank prepared to respond only for Abi to arrive. Realising a Vinyar boy was in attendance, she immediately turned a new face. Glowing a smile, following it with a scowl at Red. The big man couldn’t help but feel a little hard-done-by.
‘Can I get you anything Frank?’ she asked. Red shook his head and sucked his lips, remaining silent as he did so. Not wanting to get on her dark side.
‘No I was just leaving, nice to see you Abi, pop by Que Pasa when Barry White gives you a day off.’ He said, heading for the door, giving the over the shoulder thumbs up as he walked away. Red nodded in acceptance. He would be the butt of the jokes on this occasion.
Frank battled the door closed, only for one of the hinges to collapse in the process.
‘You need to get that door fixed.’ Abi noted. Red looked back and forth between her and the door before shaking his head again, moving back to his table.
‘Breakfast.’ he requested, this time with a more determined tone.
✽
Old Man Levy, a humble and skinny old man of Jewish faith, sat at his desk overlooking Que Pasa’s dance floor. Sombre in his efforts to review the accounts Frank had left on his workstation. His aged mind and tired eyes restrained his ever-dedicated demeanour, as the numbers continued to blur in front of him. Seeing Frank walk through the door, he lifted the files up to segway into conversation.
‘This cannot be right.’ He insisted. Frank took a seat, placing his elbows on Levy’s desk, interlacing his fingers.
‘It’s right Levy. It’s what I’ve been telling you for months. We’ve been trying our best, I promise.’ Frank stated.
‘Oh, I know you have kiddo. I’m just a bit taken aback. These losses have been gradual for almost a year. I’m just disappointed in myself for not recognising the inevitable sooner. I guess I’ve been out on the boat too much.’ Levy replied dejected.
‘You’re sixty-eight, you should be out on the boat. That’s what I’ve been saying these last few months. Let me do this Levy.’ Frank insisted. Levy struggled to accept the proposition, dropping the file onto the desk between them.
‘I just don’t know Frankie. I don’t think you’ve considered all the factors.’ Levy warned, knowing the trouble that came from owning the club.
Levy would make decent cash from the sale of Que Pasa, but the ambition and naivety of the boy scared him. Frank was like an adopted son to him. Having been under his semi-casual employment for almost a decade.
‘I can do this.’ Frank said determined, his posture leaning forward over the desk. He could see a conceding smile develop on Levy’s wrinkled face. Frank was well aware of Levy’s perception of him. He was well aware of the sympathies and privileges he had received because of it. Levy was a stereotypical suit. Whose wealth and assets had spawned during an easier, yuppie era. At least that was what Frank believed and told himself. If the old man wanted to feel sorry for him, bring it on. The sale was at a hefty discount. Frank’s years of playing the good son to the redundant, naive veteran had paid off. Besides the cash from his mother’s life insurance, Frank had been skimming profits from Que Pasa for years. A great deal more so in the last nine to ten months. Creative accounting had disguised his malicious actions. And after Red’s cash-injection, he was now inches close to his end-goal.
‘You know you were always the heir-apparent Frankie. I didn’t need this offer put in front of me.’
‘My way of saying thank you, Levy. Never mind the business degree, I’ve learned so much from you.’ Frank responded. Levy couldn’t hold back his smile. In fact, he looked close to tearing up from the compliment. He wanted out and here was his surrogate son handing him a golden ticket.
‘Congratulations son, it’s yours.’ Levy announced, raising his hand towards him. Frank for all his careful scheming and anticipation was almost shocked. He forgot for a brief millisecond, all his scamming and genuinely felt thankful. Grabbing Levy’s hand and pulling him up from his seat to deliver a tenacious hug.
‘Thank you, Levy. I’m gonna try and play the game half as good as you did.’
‘It’s my pleasure my boy. Just remember, be smart about this, a lot of troublemakers out there.’ He warned, never considering for a moment the young man was one of them. Wanting to toast his months of work, Frank excused himself and left for what was now his bar downstairs.
Descending to the bar floor, away from Levy’s office and the VIP tables above. Frank could hear a man thanking a waitress behind him. A cool, deep voice he knew only too well. Heracles, the point man for the North London Yardies, was sat in a booth, sipping a Peroni. Delivering Frank a brief nod of recognition. They weren’t open for several hours and yet there he was, having a relaxed drink.
Frank nodded back, his feet still heading in the direction of the bar. Pulling a beer out of the fridge, he twisted the metal cap off and threw it onto the floor. A small symbol of his newfound ownership, something that Heracles immediately deduced.
‘You actually did it.’ The suave customer noted.
‘You shouldn’t be here. Levy’s as anti-whatever-race-you-are as they get. You wouldn’t want to spoil my grand accomplishment now would you?’
‘Our grand accomplishment, Frank. Just remember why the Yardies help front this little endeavour of yours. This place will be the heart of distribution for our product. The Kane family can sift through what’s left of the streets, even with the police at their beck and call.’
‘You’ve scheduled the meeting with your manufacturers. I assume my gold-plated invite is in the post?’ Frank enquired. Heracles gave a brief grin, his pearly-white teeth peeking through his ebony skin.
‘Why do you want to be a gangster so much, Frank?’ he said in a mild attempt to provoke. Frank nibbled.
‘I don’t want to be a gangster. I’ll save that for those more stereotypically qualified for the task’ he responded. Nodding very delicately to Heracles, ‘I just want to fly business class on every trip I make.’ he declared.
Heracles couldn’t disagree more with the concept. He wasn’t interested in simple perks or privilege. His goals wer
e broader and arguably harder to achieve. London was dying, the wealth divide saw to that much. What little culture or roots remained were slowly falling to a famine spawned by the greed of a few. Banker types and middle-east money owned almost everything. Brixton, Hackney, Tottenham were slowly becoming unrecognisable. And the population of those of Jamaican or African descent were slowly being squeezed out. The Yardies, by definition, a series of gangs, had over time slowly become freedom fighters in the eyes of some. In a universally agreed mandate between their various regional fronts. Their crews dispersed and moved their entire business model from out of the capital and into major neighbouring cities. With an end goal to revolutionise their trademark drug business, bringing that money back home to buy a piece of London.
‘You’ll be there. But remember the fee, it’s not just the club. Mads Kane, we need you to mediate that. I don’t want my boys being glassed or dropped in a cell overnight anymore. Handle him.’ Heracles decreed, lighting a cigarette.
‘There’s no smoking in here.’ Frank informed as Heracles took a firm, almost delayed drag.
‘And yet Frank, and yet.’ He said with a cool, calm tone, exhaling a long narrow puff of smoke. Frank would take the demeaning jab to his pride. He needed Heracles, for now.
✽
In a sweat, Indy awakened from his bed, dehydrated and slightly out of breath. A bad dream had sent his temperature surging, even with a chilling night breeze flowing through the apartment. Wide awake, he climbed out of bed, trying valiantly not to wake Eva who was in a deep almost comatose slumber. Her naked body wrapped up tight under the duvet. She ran hot at night but somehow still felt the cold more than most would. Naked and now dying of thirst, he headed for the lounge, passing his bedroom and it’s en-suite bathroom. Feeling the breeze pick up as he walked in, he turned to the open balcony doors. Accidentally left open from the evening’s excitable activities. A draft blew against the thin white net curtain which danced in the air in front of the sofa.
Persona Non Grata: A Novel Page 2
