by David Carter
‘You winning?’ he muttered.
She nodded as he placed his hand in the small of her back and let it slowly fall.
‘Come on,’ the man ordered, and she grabbed her stash and followed him away. She cashed in her chips, linked his arm, and headed for the door. On the way out she glanced back at Vimy. He didn’t smile, she did, and then she was gone. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. Several traders, worse for drink, made lewd remarks.
‘She was on the game,’ said Tommy Eglington, the wheat trader, as if he was an expert.
‘Do anything for a few quid,’ agreed Barley Bill.
‘She liked the look of you, Vimy, did you notice? You were well in there.’
‘Fit though, wasn’t she?’ said Tommy.
‘I know I would,’ said Bill
‘Me too.’
‘You were a bit slow off the mark there, Vimy boy,’ and so it went on, as if Vimy was the loser.
If ever the phrase “all mouth and no trousers” was applicable that was it, as he ambled away and took a look at the craps table, a game he didn’t understand and never would. The room was getting crowded and stuffy and there was an underlying smell he didn’t care to guess about. He turned away and jogged down the stairs and out onto Park Lane. It was a clear balmy night, and he headed back towards the Grosvenor, but halfway to the hotel he was accosted by three young women attracted by his tux.
‘You can have all three of us for fifty quid,’ volunteered the tall dark-haired one in a cockney accent. ‘Fifty quid, that’s all,’ she repeated. ‘Bargain of the night, buy one get two free!’ and they laughed and the skinny one said, ‘Do you think he could manage three of us?’
‘Get away,’ said Vimy cheerfully.
‘Come on love, you know you want to.’
‘No thanks, perhaps another time.’
‘Your loss, mate. You only live once.’
Your loss, mate, you only live once, the calling card of the Mayfair call girl. They giggled and hurried away towards the Playboy Club, certain they would find eager clients there, if only they could get in.
Back at the hotel he looked into the bar and it was busy but there was no one he knew. He ran up the stairs and let himself into the room, undressed and lay on the bed and closed his eyes. An image of the Chinese girl flashed into his mind. Her smile, her figure, her dress, her hands, the way she’d looked at him, until her minder or pimp or whatever he was, had swept her away.
Was she the prostitute his colleagues had intimated? She didn’t look like that to him, but unlike his father he was no expert on hookers. No doubt she was with that ugly git, and his mind pictured them and what they might be doing. He shook his head and banished those images by thinking of Laura, the girl he’d joked to himself he would marry, the young woman he’d foolishly bought a ring for, the glamorous girl he was dining with tomorrow. But no matter how much he thought of Laura, or how erotic he wished his dreams might be, images of the Chinese girl misbehaving dominated his mind.
HE WOKE AT 6AM TO THE sound of horses. A thundering herd of horses’ hooves. Another weird dream? No, there were horses close by, belonging to the Household Cavalry, as they exercised up and down Park Lane. He’d forgotten to close the window, as freshly shod equine feet snapped on the tarmac, as their charges barked out commands.
‘Steady, Shifty! Back Storm!’
The strange early sounds of the city dwindled away as he drifted in and out of sleep. He dozed for a while before rising and stumbling towards the shower where he let the water run ice cold. He swore at his inability to take a cold shower, and surrendered and turned up the temperature. A little later he breakfasted well, sitting alone as the other traders hadn’t stirred, studying the FT, before returning to his room. A loud rap came to the door and ridiculously he imagined it might be the Oriental girl.
He opened up, a slight smile set on his lips, but it wasn’t the girl, it wasn’t any girl. How could it have been? She would have no idea where he was staying. In her place stood a broad man, a man he didn’t know, and when the guy spoke he was obviously American. Vimy might have guessed he was a Yank for his hair was short cropped and dyed, his flattened nose dominated his face, and to Vimy he looked and sounded like a television evangelist.
‘Vimy?’ he said as if they were old pals, ‘Vimy Ridge? I’m Jeb Lomax.’
He held out his hand, a huge rough paw that Vimy matched and involuntarily shook, before the guy swept into the room uninvited. He pulled an embossed card from the breast pocket of his expensive grey suit and thrust it into Vimy’s hand.
Without waiting to be invited Jeb Lomax sat in the armchair and crossed his legs, revealing bright red socks. Vimy glanced at the card.
Mr Jeb Lomax,
The Merignac Corporation,
Merignac Tower,
New York.
Global Strategic Assets.
What the hell were Global Strategic Assets? And why was everything suddenly Global? Vimy had a feeling he was about to find out. Jeb was a one-man sandstorm. He dominated any room he entered, leastways he tried to, rarely sitting still or stopping talking for a second.
‘Say, what are you doing today, fella? We wondered if you’d like to come downtown and talk with us. You won’t regret it, Vim. We’ve been trailing you for months. Betcha didn’t know that. How about it, pal? What say we take in the London office, I’ll buy you lunch, my treat? What d’ya say? Let’s have some fun?’
Vimy was flattered, who wouldn’t be? It wasn’t every day the biggest commodity company on the planet came knocking on the door offering to buy lunch. And anyway, Vimy had a free day, he had planned to take in an art gallery or two, but this proposition was wholly more interesting, and he’d definitely like to see inside Merignac’s London headquarters. He might learn something. They’d recently taken space in the long empty Centre Point Building. Two whole floors, if memory served, and he’d probably never get another chance.
‘I’m free most of the day, but I’ve a meeting tonight.’
‘Fine. Great. It’s fixed. Shall we go? You won’t regret it, I’ve things to show you, and things to tell you, you won’t believe.’
Vimy gathered his things together, and they left the room and went downstairs. He paid his bill, and they skipped down the three steps and out of the hotel. He glanced hopefully for a taxi but before he could attract one, a chauffeur driven extended Ford Granada purred up in front of them. The smart driver jumped out and said, ‘Morning gents,’ as he opened the door with a leather-gloved hand, as Jeb beckoned Vimy inside.
‘The office, Chuck,’ Jeb said, ‘and step on it, will ya?’
Jeb pressed a button that closed the glass partition between driver and passengers. Vimy guessed he was trying to impress, and the stupid thing was, he succeeded. In the busy traffic it took thirty minutes to reach Centre Point and Jeb blustered non-stop all the time.
Merignac’s offices were state-of-the-art, kitted out in company colours of blue and yellow. They were the first commodity company to utilise computers, and they were everywhere. Huge humming blue and cream beasts with twirling tape holders that watched menacingly over the workers like pairs of demented unmatched eyes, or crazy mutant owls.
The office was crammed with staff, young for the most part, energetic, constantly on the move. The men in neat royal blue suits, light blue button-down shirts and pastel yellow ties. There was something holiday campy about them. The women were better dressed than the men, leastways Vimy thought so, in smart two-piece yellow numbers, well-cut suits that hugged their bodies in all the right places. There was a zeal about the place, as everyone smiled at everyone else. Cursing was forbidden, as was smoking and drinking, and it bore the ambience of an evangelical movement. Jeb fitted right in. Four young traders strode past, heading for the pit, dressed in startling blue and yellow striped blazers. No one would ever miss the Merignac gang.
‘Let’s hit the boardroom,’ growled Jeb. ‘The coffee’s better there.’
The boardroom was locate
d on the higher of the two floors. It spanned the entire width of the building. You could stare out across the city in both directions. A couple of minutes later a smart girl entered the massive room and poured coffee, a tall skinny blonde; something of the catwalk model about her, trace of pink lipstick, and the obligatory yellow suit. She didn’t speak except to say, ‘Good morning, gentlemen, coffee?’ But she smiled a lot, like all the rest, like walking toothpaste ads. She smirked at Jeb and Vimy in turn, leaving an impression of perfect teeth and expensive perfume. Coffee poured, she left by the opposite door as quietly as she’d arrived. Vimy noticed her new shoes. Everything in the whole damn place seemed brand new.
‘Edson will be along in a minute,’ jabbered Jeb, as he scratched the top of his head. ‘We’ll wait for him if you don’t mind. What do you think of it? The office? Ain’t it cute? And the girls? My oh my.’ He waved his hand vigorously in front of his mouth. ‘The girls man, there’s nothing like this in New York. Yeah, they’re pretty there too, but nothing like this. Here they’re a, a...’ and for once, Jeb was lost for words. ‘Classy, that’s it, they’re damn classy, and I’m a sucker for that accent!’
Vimy raised his eyebrows and sipped coffee.
THE DOOR CLICKED OPEN and a thin bespectacled man aged around fifty crept into the room. His demeanour couldn’t have been more different. He moved silently, was softly spoken, and only spoke when he had something relevant to say. He observed Vimy through green beady eyes that were not lost behind thin rimless glasses. Vimy felt he was being reassessed every few seconds. His name was Edson Laria, Ed to his close friends, but that clearly didn’t include Jeb, and plain Mr Laria to everyone else. He was the head honcho for all of Merignac’s operations outside the United States; senior even to gorgeous Cordell Mulroney, and that took some doing. Vimy knew of him, though he’d never met him before.
He was famous for disposing of anyone who obstructed his path, and he wouldn’t think twice about firing any employee who failed to bring greater glory to the mighty Merignac organisation. With this guy there was never a second chance. He was famous for that too.
He shook Vimy’s hand; Laria’s was cold and small, before he beckoned Vimy to sit at the corpulent oak boardroom table. It was so big and heavy it had been assembled in ten distinct pieces and the architects had felt the need to take advice as to whether the floors were strong enough to support the monster.
‘I’ve been telling him,’ blurted Jeb, ‘that we’ve been observing his progress for quite a while!’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Edson. ‘We have.’
Vimy nodded, still unsure at what was coming next.
Edson sipped coffee, as if debating how to throw the conversation. Vimy sipped too and waited.
‘We thought,’ Jeb mumbled, then stumbled, ‘perhaps you’d like to...’ and he nodded in the general direction of his colleague.
Edson grasped the baton.
‘Putting it simply, Mr Ridge, and coming straight to the point, we’d like to buy your company, not so much for the assets, though I’m sure they are ample, but more for the personnel. It’s you, we want, Vimy, I am sure you realise that. You can name your price, within reason. You’re sure to find Merignac more than generous.’
‘Yeah!’ butted in Jeb, unable to restrain himself for more than a minute. ‘We were so impressed with the way you handled that American Corn business up there in Liverpool. We might own Silver Sword, but I’ll tell ya, the guys down here were real taken with the way you trounced our Cordell.’
Edson smiled weakly. Clearly trouncing Cordell had its fans, as Jeb laughed again like an idiot. Edson sighed loudly as if embarrassed by his hick of a sidekick.
‘Cordell is not, as you would say, everyone’s cup of tea. Of course, if you brought your company to join us, you would be senior to Cordell. In future he would report to you. I suspect you might find that mildly amusing. Would I be right?’
Vimy didn’t answer, Edson continued.
‘There’d be regular trips to New York and Geneva. You’d have a fair degree of independence, a massive staff, almost unlimited budget, and best of all, a two percent cut of the nap.’
‘The nap?’
‘Net annual profit,’ barked Jeb. ‘Believe me, man, you’d want that, could be as high as...’ and he pursed his lips and studied the ceiling as if the figures might miraculously be scrawled up there. ‘Maybe err, ten million a year, dollars! What do ya say, pal?’
Vimy stared across the table at the pair of them. The one broad, rough, and cheerful, who couldn’t stop talking, the other slight and cool, who personified the wicked Gestapo interrogation officer, but for the fact he was obviously Jewish.
‘I’m flattered beyond belief...’
Jeb interrupted before he could finish the sentence.
‘Now don’t you even think of turning us down, Vimy, baby, I’ve a contract drawn up,’ and out of nowhere from below the table he produced a four-page foolscap contract in duplicate. It was immaculately printed from top to tail, and he slid it across the polished table and tapped it affectionately. ‘It’s the best damn contract we’ve ever offered anyone! Believe you me! Better than mine, for Chrissake,’ and he laughed nervously and glanced at the paperwork as if checking for mistakes.
Vimy wondered if that were true, regarding Cordell. Surely when they’d head-hunted Mulroney, they must have divvied up something pretty spectacular to bag that pussy.
‘Gentleman, this has obviously come as quite a shock. It’s totally unexpected and I will need a little time to think about it, you must see that. It would mean a cataclysmic change to my life. I’d like to take the contract away, have my solicitor glance over it, and I’ll give you an answer within the week.’
Vimy glanced across at them. They didn’t look happy. For a moment they remained silent and sullen too. Perhaps they hadn’t imagined anyone could drag their feet over such an enticing deal. Jeb’s huge paw sat firmly on the contracts and slowly he reeled them in.
‘No, we can’t do that,’ said the evangelist.
‘What Jeb means is that the contract can’t leave the building,’ clarified Edson. ‘You can read it through and discuss it with your advisors, of course you can, then return and sign it... but they don’t leave the building.’
Vimy sniffed and beckoned for the contract.
Jeb pushed it back across the table, more reluctant than before, as if it were one of his prized possessions. Vimy picked a copy up and read every word. Edson and Jeb sat in silence. There was nothing in the small print that worried him, except the fact he would be selling his soul to the Corporation. Yes, for big bucks, it was true, mammoth bucks, but selling himself, nonetheless. Had he fought for his independence for this? Fact was, he had no plans to become beholden to an American giant. The idea had never entered his mind.
He pursed his lips and said, ‘I need a week.’
Jeb glanced deferentially at Edson.
Laria gave the weakest of nods and said, ‘You have your week, Mr Ridge, but not a moment longer. I trust that is clear. Good day to you.’
Vimy was dismissed, and he stood up, as the girl returned as if by magic.
‘Rebecca, show Mr Ridge out.’
She smiled sweetly, as Edson and Jeb stood too and shook Vimy’s hand in turn. There was to be no lunch on the Corporation, but all Vimy wanted was to get out of there. Jeb didn’t let go of his hand, but walked him towards the door in perfect step, that evangelical look back on his face. Sincerity, concern, pomposity, and in that moment Jeb imagined himself to be the guiding light. At the doorway he leant over and whispered, ‘It wouldn’t do to say no, man. Ya’ understand?’
Vimy stared into his still eyes and nodded.
He understood perfectly.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
MIDGE HID IN THE ALLEYWAY halfway up the hill. It was another blazing Carsos day. He’d watched Coral and Nicoliades come out of the bar and stand around in the sunshine, as if undecided how to spend the afternoon. He saw Coral looking a
round as if checking she wasn’t alone, and Nicoliades turning to glance up the hill. Midge ducked out of sight.
For a moment it seemed they might head round the harbour, but after swaying this way and that, Nicoliades began ambling up the hill towards him, with Coral trailing a pace behind. She swung her bag nervously, the bag that Midge had slipped two lethal knives into the rear compartment.
The thought of knives made him reach for those taped to his thighs. Nic and Coral approached and on the spur-of-the-moment Midge thought of dashing out and plunging a knife into the Greek’s hated heart. Revenge for raping and torturing his fiancé, job done, mission accomplished, and surely everything the bastard deserved. Ten seconds and it would be over.
But that wasn’t the plan. What was the point in making plans if one didn’t stick to the detail? He hurried around the back streets and alleyways, out of sight, as he planned to do, and as he had practised. He thought he knew those alleyways well, and was about to find out if he did. In the heat of the day he saw no one except an old man lounging, as if half asleep, in one of the doorways, sucking an unlit pipe.
Near to the top of the hill he knew he was close to Nicoliades’ house, though he wasn’t sure which was his. He took a breather and hid in a deep bricked up doorway. He glanced up and down the alley. Still clear. Where were they? He slipped his hands into his trousers, freed the largest knife, and held it before his eyes, as sunlight glinted on the blade. He tested it on his thumb, razor sharp, streak of pain, drop of blood, as he slipped the knife into the top of his trousers like a pirate, and pulled his loose shirt over it. He sucked his thumb. He was sweating hard, a combination of heat, humidity and anxiety. He crept back to the end of the alleyway that led to the narrow street where Nicoliades and Coral were ambling together. He could hear them approaching, talking quietly, almost as a couple, gently, lovingly even, as they ambled up the baking cobblestones, her heels clacking, Nico’s voice cooing like a cock pigeon.
They were close by and had no idea he was there. Nicoliades stopped outside a front door. It fitted Lisa’s description. Midge could almost hear their breathing. Three seagulls flew low above their heads, squabbling and screeching, drowning out his heartbeat. Midge heard a door being unlocked, and the Greek stepping inside.
