The Business

by Martina Cole

  The only people in the flesh business who felt the bite of a recession were the hostess clubs, they were hard pressed to get punters in because it cost the punter a fortune in drinks and extras before he could even think about taking the girl away with him.

  Jimmy had made a point of taking out the middle man and he had cut the overheads because his punters did not have to pay for the premises if they were in their own homes.

  Jimmy’s brothels were all private addresses, and as he owned the houses concerned, they were also good investments in themselves. His brothels were well run, spotlessly clean and well decorated. They catered for every taste and for every pocket, and they were also very discreet and possessed of a really good bar area where the girls were open to negotiation, and were looked after by huge, muscle-bound doormen who were paid to keep the rabble element out. They also made sure that the girls who worked there were treated fairly and decently. If any of the girls were abused, either verbally or physically, they knew that they would be protected.

  Jimmy might be a pimp, but he made a point of ensuring that anyone who worked for him was afforded a measure of protection they could never guarantee for themselves on the streets, or in the hostess clubs for that matter. Once a girl left a hostess club with their punter for a hotel, they were on their own. Even Jimmy’s cab drivers were expected to wait for the girls after they had dropped them off. And, if they were still there after their allotted time, they were expected to go to the front door and knock, and wait there until they were assured the woman concerned was all right. If they were requested to stay longer, the cabbie was to stay as well, wait until they finally emerged. Jimmy’s cabs also catered for the men who did not want to be seen in a brothel, no matter how discreet. Jimmy understood and respected that. His brothels, on the other hand, were frequented by men who liked to socialise with desirable and willing young women, who also enjoyed the company of other, like-minded men. Show-offs liked brothels. The kind of men who enjoyed hunting in packs, who needed the bravado of their friends before they could perform, needed brothers. Jimmy understood the psychology of his customers, understood that they were all different, yet basically the same. The men he catered for were fucking users. They saw the women they were purchasing as nothing more than a hole. Jimmy despised them, but he made sure they were all welcomed and treated like valued friends. It was why he was the most influential and the most desired pimp in the Smoke.

  The girls flocked to him, even Imelda Dooley, and he made sure that they were taken care of, and that guaranteed him their loyalty as well as sixty per cent of their earnings.

  And now, after all that hard work, and after all his investments, he was expected to smile happily and hand everything he had built up over to Michael Hannon. On a fucking whim. That was never going to happen, not in his fucking lifetime anyway, and certainly not in Michael Hannon’s. But he hoped it didn’t come to that. But Jimmy knew he needed to be shrewd, crafty, he had to find a way out of this that would leave them both with their egos intact and their friendship still strong.

  Imelda woke up to no one and nothing, and that was just how she liked it.

  The radio was on, as always, she kept it on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. She liked the sound of voices in the background, she liked the sound of other people’s lives, she always had.

  As she slipped on her dressing gown she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wardrobes opposite her bed. She looked at herself as always, as if she was observing a total stranger. She marvelled that, even after two children, she had hardly a mark on her skin. But then she saw the condition of her legs and her feet, and knew that soon she would be unable to find anywhere to inject herself. She used her groin most often, and she had also used her neck on occasion. But she was too sensible to use the obvious, her arms. In her boots she could hide a multitude of sins. She always kept her boots on, and she knew that the men she was with were quite happy for her to do so. She also knew that if they found out she was a junkie they would be mortified. They paid her to perform sex acts, but her drug-taking would be seen by these same men as something abhorrent. The hypocrisy was not lost on her.

  Imelda went through to her kitchen and began the daily ritual of burning her first hit; she loved the first hit of the day. It was always the most intense, and as she backed it on the spoon and watched it bubbling, she felt the familiar excitement inside her that heralded her first high. The whole process reminded her that she was on her way to oblivion, and it also reminded her that she had loads of gear, had bags and bags of brown so, unlike most junkies, she wasn’t burning one armful while simultaneously worrying about where the next one was going to come from. She was always in possession of more than enough for her needs. She made sure of that.

  It was a great feeling for her, the knowledge that she had plenty of the only thing she had ever really cared about. That was what money did for you; after all, rich people never had to scratch around for a wrap. That was why they never got found out like everyone else, their habit could be hidden away, like alcoholism. In a nice flat, with plenty of money, they could function quite happily when it was necessary. It was only the poor who got found out; they thieved, lied and even robbed their own to satisfy their cravings. Imelda knew she was what was classed as a functioning addict, she had learnt all about it while on remand. She also knew that, like functioning alcoholics, she was capable of fooling everyone around her, and she did just that.

  She looked at the kitchen, it was filthy as usual, but she didn’t see that. As she pushed the needle into her groin she sighed deeply and blissfully. She felt the rush as the drug reached her brain and exploded silently, once more numbing her to the world as everyone else knew it. She slumped back in the chair to enjoy her first taste of utter oblivion and, like all addicts, she was already thinking about the next one.

  As she sat there, half-naked, her legs spread apart, her innermost body exposed without any kind of care, for herself or anyone else in the world, she smiled widely, finally she was at peace. She was at one with her environment.

  Ten minutes later she was up enough to make herself a coffee, and she counted the money she had stuffed into her bag the day before, and then she planned the new day ahead with a meticulousness that even General MacArthur would have approved of.

  Mary Dooley was worried, but then she was always worried about something. She was convinced that she was being watched, and even as she let the thought go through her mind, she was telling herself she was being silly.

  As Jordanna ate her breakfast, she felt the urge to cry because, as always, that little child left her own food to go cold as she proceeded to make sure that her brother ate his.

  Kenneth loved Jordanna, he knew instinctively that she had his best interests at heart. As he grinned at her, his whole face lighting up with happiness, Mary once more felt the urge to break down and weep.

  But she didn’t, of course, she never cried, at least not in front of people, not any more. She was strong, and she needed to be strong, these two needed her and they needed her to be normal, she was the only stable thing in their lives, the only person who they had ever been able to rely on.

  Mary walked to the window once more and peered through the nets; the two men she had noticed hanging around over the last few days were now nowhere to be seen. But she knew that they were watching her. She didn’t know how she knew that, all she knew for sure was they were watching her every move.

  She had already ruled out the Filth, they were not about to let themselves be seen so easily, also, she had done nothing wrong in any way, other than finding people. She was as clean as the proverbial whistle. In fact, the Filth had approached her on more than one occasion to ask her politely if she could locate certain individuals for them.

  Mary had looked for the people in question, and if they were wanted for sexual crimes, or were known as wife beaters, or if they had left a family behind to fend for themselves, she had served them up. Her little contribution ensured her an easy
ride for the future where the Old Bill were concerned. If they asked her to find someone who was what she termed one of her own, she apologised and said that all she could find out about them was that they were believed to have left the country.

  She then made a point of alerting the people involved, and they were always effusive in their gratitude. Mary worked in a business where trust and honesty were the main ingredients. The people she would tip the wink to were often more than happy to repay her with the current address for one of her errant customers.

  So, being on the ball as she was, Mary knew that if she thought she was being watched, then the chances were that she was. She had already dismissed them as people who owed money to someone heavy, and who knew she would be approached at some point to locate them. They would not have waited so long before confronting her. She had been in that position twice before, and she had talked both of the men down within seconds, pointing out that she was a symptom of their problems, not the cure. She had also had the front to inform them that if anything happened to her, the person concerned would be hunted down like a dog. She knew that she had a good reputation, people came from far and wide for her expertise, and she knew that all the time she could deliver, she was guaranteed a good income.

  So these two men, who she knew were watching her, intrigued her as much as anything else. She was now watching out for them in the same way that they were watching her.

  Mary poured herself another cup of tea and, smiling widely at the children, she went back to the window to resume her sentry duty.

  Michael Hannon was watching Jimmy Bailey as he struggled to find the necessary words needed to out him from his business proposition once and for all.

  It was early for Jimmy, just after ten-thirty in the morning, and he had arrived at Michael’s house all smiles and camaraderie. Michael had expected this visit, had been readying himself for it in fact.

  He liked Bailey, he was a nice enough bloke and he didn’t want to fall out with him unless he had to. Then, of course, he would be forced to fall out with him big time. Apparently Jimmy still couldn’t comprehend that he was the alpha male here. Jimmy clearly needed to be reminded that he could only work his businesses with Michael’s goodwill and his permission. He had been bloody good to Jimmy over the years and, even though he had looked down his nose at what he had seen as Jimmy’s obsession with prostitution, he had been tipped a very serious wink about just how lucrative that business was.

  Jimmy Bailey was really raking it in, and that was not something Michael Hannon could let go. If he was scrumping a fucking considerable amount and, from what he had heard, it was fucking fortunes, then he wanted an in. Even though Jimmy had observed all the formalities, for example, offering him the in from the off, Michael had not wanted any part of it, but the problem was that Bailey would now soon be in a much better financial situation than he was, if he wasn’t already, and the fact that he was considering going into partnership with Graham Parker was another consideration. Together they would make a formidable team.

  Michael trusted Jimmy Bailey, but that did not mean he would still trust him two years down the line. Money, especially large amounts of it, changed people, whether they liked it or not. Money really was the root of all evil. Especially in their game.

  So, sipping at his coffee Michael leant against the work surface and smiling in a friendly way he said gently, ‘So, what’s the problem, then?’

  Jimmy sighed. His dark features were closed now, his face devoid of any kind of expression. ‘I don’t know how to say this to you, Michael, so I’ll just come right out with it.’

  Michael didn’t move or react in any way at all, he just waited patiently for Jimmy to speak.

  ‘I want a partner, but I want a sleeping partner, I want my partner to be in a fucking coma. I have built this up by myself, right from the off, and I don’t know if I can take someone else suddenly having an opinion on it all. Can you understand that, Michael?’

  Michael Hannon didn’t say a word for a few moments; he knew that whatever he said now would be the yardstick that would be used between them in the future. He knew that he had to think clearly and succinctly before he answered Jimmy, because this man had not asked politely for him to take a back seat, he had just declared outright that he was not willing to share the day-to-day running of the business in question with anyone at all. He therefore had to be very careful as to how he reacted to this statement. He weighed up the pros and cons in nanoseconds and, sighing heavily, he opened his arms out wide in a gesture of disbelief and sorrow. ‘I don’t want to walk into something that you have built up by yourself. You wanted a partner and I am willing to be that partner. If you don’t want me to give any input, then I will respect your wishes. All I want is a slice of the pie, that’s all, mate.’

  Jimmy Bailey felt his body relax, he had not realised just how tense he had been. He knew that Michael had expected to walk in and take over, and he also knew that he had only staved him off for the present. It was not in Michael Hannon’s nature to be a part of anything without at some point trying to take the lion’s share. It was the nature of the beast, it was the survival of the fittest. It was also not going to happen, not in his lifetime anyway.

  Well, he had managed to calm him down this time, but he knew it was early days yet. At some point Michael Hannon was not going to be so easily placated and that was when the trouble was really going to start.

  Imelda was watching her two children with what her mother always described to herself as an unhealthy disinterest. Mary would observe her daughter as she looked at the children she had produced from her own body, and see the complete and utter bewilderment in her eyes. It was as if Imelda had no recollection of carrying them inside her, or the pain of giving birth to them. She had no real care for them at all. She liked to show Kenny Boy off, but that was because he was a big lad, a handsome lad, and Imelda could only ever really bond with males. Poor Jordanna was seen by her mother as a threat, all females were seen as a threat to Imelda. Jordanna was already a beauty, and that was not just the proud granny talking either. Jordanna was stunning, she was her mother’s double in many respects. But thank Christ she had not inherited any of her mother’s personality. Jordanna was a kind, generous and giving person, and she found it inside her to forgive her mother time and time again for her wanton neglect and for her vicious remarks.

  She herself would police her daughter when she visited her children, unable to cut her daughter completely out of her life because Imelda had custody of the children and therefore she only had them because Imelda said so.

  Mary didn’t think that Imelda would bother with all that drama again, would probably not try and take them away from her out of spite, she was older and wiser these days, but she was still capable of using them to get what she wanted if the need ever arose.

  On the plus side, however, Mary was also well aware that Lance’s death was still an open case where a lot of people were concerned, especially the Filth. So she knew that Imelda had to toe the line in many respects because of that, and she was confident that Imelda was not about to have her life turned upside down by two little kids, kids whose lives were monitored by social workers and probation officers. Not that they had been any use the last time. They were fucking useless, all they did was spout shite. If Imelda burnt the poor little fuckers alive they would still try and find the good in her.

  But, even knowing that, Mary also reminded herself that Imelda, when thwarted, was capable of anything, would use anything or anyone to make her point, or to force the issue. She was a wild card, and as such she had to be kept close. Like any good enemy she needed to be watched, and watched over carefully.

  ‘Ain’t she got weird legs?’

  Mary looked at her daughter and, frowning slightly, she looked once more at the television in the corner of the room. It was never turned off, and Mary stared at it for a few seconds trying to work out who her daughter was referring to. All she could see was three men discussing the latest w
orld events.

  ‘What are you on about?’

  Imelda pointed at her daughter and said loudly, ‘Her, Jordanna, she’s fucking weird. Look at her legs, they are two minutes off bandy. I never noticed that before, did you?’

  Mary saw the hurt on Jordanna’s face and, shaking her head slowly, she looked at her daughter and said snidely, ‘Had a fucking good look at yourself lately? That child is your double, lady, so if she has got bandy legs, then she inherited them from you.’

  Imelda laughed at her mother’s indignation. ‘She’s fucking bandy, Mother, you could drive a number nine bus between her legs.’

  Kenneth was now watching the two women, he sensed their antagonism, their mutual dislike, and he felt Jordanna’s nervousness as if it was his own. He moved instinctively towards his sister, Jordanna opened her arms to receive him, and she pulled him into her arms. They stood together as if they were one, and Mary saw the anger that simple action caused by the sudden dislike in her daughter’s eyes.

  She hated Imelda when she was like this: petty, hateful, vindictive. She wished her daughter dead at times, and the guilt she felt for those thoughts was terrible, yet she still wished for it on a daily basis.

  Imelda was wearing a beautiful navy-blue wrap dress; it was very plain, and it looked wonderful on her slim frame. Her hair was perfect as always, as was her make up. She wore her trademark boots, but they looked good with the dress; her long slim legs made it possible for her to wear what she wanted and still look good. Her Imelda, her junkie daughter Imelda, unlike others of her ilk, looked as far from an addict as you could possibly get. She was such a strong personality that, even though her life revolved around drugs, she still had the determination and the energy to make sure she was well turned-out.