by James Nally
‘I’m just a fast drinker. Why did you come over then?’
‘I don’t know. I’m intrigued I guess. And I get tired performing like a seal. I figured I’d get a rest with you.’
‘Wow, an attractive woman like you has to perform for them? I thought you’d just stand there and let them drool.’
‘Where would be the fun in that?’
‘Performing like a seal is fun?’
‘I said it was tiring, not boring.’
‘Now I’m intrigued. So who does “fit” here at the Florentine? And how do you keep it interesting?’
‘Well, they’re all wealthy, successful, achievers.’
‘No wonder I stood out.’
She threw me a slightly amused, mostly disapproving look and I marvelled at how even the most worldly Americans don’t quite get self-deprecation. It should be listed as an un-American activity, alongside Communism, small portions and winning wars solo.
She resumed her hostess club deconstruction: ‘Every guy in this place could book a hotel room and order up a girl like a pizza. But they come here instead because it makes them feel like real players. They let themselves believe that all these hot women find them irresistible.’
‘They’re all the same?’
‘No, you’ve got three basic categories. First you’ve got the “can’t get enough” guys – sex at home or anywhere else, status at work, gratification. For them, buying a girl off-the-shelf presents no challenge so they come here to seduce a woman, to re-assert their image of themselves, to prove that they still “have it”. These are guys who have to win at everything, you know? They always feel like they’ve got something to prove. They’re the least interesting and the least interested in us. We’ve got to basically act like bowled-over maidens. Of course, they always try to bang our brains out too.’
‘Of course,’ I said disapprovingly.
‘But sometimes the sex can be amazing.’
‘That’s good,’ I croaked.
‘Then you’ve got your “can’t ever get any” guys, unless they pay for it of course. They tend to be overweight or short or hairy, or all three, possibly attached but not loved. Basically these guys want a woman to touch them and not be repulsed. They’re just thrilled to have the company of an attractive woman and will treat you with the utmost respect. Money is no object. Of course I have to call on all my acting skills, but it’s only a few hours and it means the world to them. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘A tragedy,’ I replied,
‘And then you’ve got your hedonists. They just have to do everything to the fullest extreme, the most expensive champagne, coke. They always want to fuck you up the ass. They kind of hate themselves so hate everyone else into the bargain. They are the ones to avoid.’
I nodded, my education complete.
‘And then we get the occasional wild card, like you,’ she said playfully.
I reddened, as if on cue.
‘Promise, I won’t tell anyone, Donal,’ she teased, leaning in closer, ‘what are you doing here? Are you looking for someone?’
‘In a way,’ I said, thinking she’s going to find out about Liz soon enough. Why don’t I just tell her now and see what she knows.
‘I’m looking for Liz Little.’
‘Oh. You know her?’
‘Yes, and I’m worried about her.’
‘Why? Is she in some sort of … danger?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me Tammy. Did you know her?’
‘What do you mean “did I know her?” What’s happened?’
Shit. I’d drank too much and given the game away. Some master inquisitor I turned out to be.
Tammy stared into my eyes, the only deduction to be made sinking in. Finally, her hands shot up to her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ she whimpered.
‘Tammy, please’ I said, reaching for her knee, ‘don’t give me away. They’re watching us.’
‘You’re a cop?’
‘Yes. And, look, I may as well tell you, because you’ll find out soon enough. Liz has been murdered. I think it’s connected to this place. Is there anything you can tell me?’
‘What do you mean, is there anything I can tell you. I don’t know you from Adam. You could be the killer.’
I slipped out my warrant card, and slid it across the table. When she nodded, I placed my hand over it and whipped it away.
‘Please, Tammy, anything that might help.’
‘I don’t really know her that well. She’s one of the IT girls here. At least that’s what we call them.’
‘IT girls?’
‘It stands for International Travellers. She and a few of the girls go abroad. A lot …’
She stopped talking, suddenly transfixed by events behind me.
‘Mr Lynch,’ came a foreign male voice over my left shoulder, ‘our manager would like you to join him for a glass of Krug in our VIP area.’
‘I have to go,’ said Tammy, getting to her feet.
‘Tammy, hang on,’ I said, but she didn’t even look at me again before vanishing.
‘This way please,’ ordered the voice.
I turned to a pair of supersized suited men standing way too close. I looked up and smiled: ‘Gentlemen, I came here to meet girls, not the staff.’
‘He’s opened the ’88. One drink, Mr Lynch, then the boss will be happy to introduce you to any girl you please.’
As I got to my feet I stole a quick glance at Paul Newman. 11.20. Still. The fucking thing had stopped. Fuck! The fake watch was dead. My insides crumbled like chalk cliffs into a raging sea. I was dead. The boss? Did he mean Reilly?
‘What time is it?’ I demanded, flustered.
The lead goon checked his watch.
‘12.25.’
‘Shit. I’ve really got to go.’
‘Come,’ he smiled, gripping my left elbow, ‘the ’88 is a very fine vintage.’
Fintan’s words drifted around my fuzzy head like champagne ache:
When Reilly sees my by-line on that story, then our cover is blown. He’ll realise we came here to check him out.
As the goon guided me towards the foyer, my mind rattled and bounced like the little white ball on a spinning roulette wheel. Scenarios clattered past. Jimmy Reilly had seen the first edition of the Sunday News and was waiting for me. Or he’d learned about it and instructed his men to keep me here until he arrived.
Red or black, odd or even, it didn’t really matter. No one could stop this wheel now. We’d been rumbled. I suddenly pictured a knife effortlessly slicing off the side of my face as if it were ham. My chest tightened. A swill of burning, bitter wine gurgled up into my throat. I held my breath and swallowed hard.
He ushered me through a coded security door just off the foyer. It closed slowly behind us, muffling the club’s joyous cacophony to an irregular heartbeat thrum. It then slammed deafeningly to silence.
I climbed a spiral metal staircase ahead of him, our clanking feet a lonely chain gang of two.
I needed an escape plan.
Deny all knowledge.
Blame Fintan.
Bluff them into thinking my boss at work knows I’m here. This visit is semi-official. Surely they won’t risk doing anything to me then? I’m a serving police officer …
Of course there was always a chance he’d do as Fintan had predicted – offer to put me onto his payroll. I’d have to say no. But would he take no for an answer?
Maybe that’s how other cops wound up entangled in his web. Perhaps Reilly deliberately manoeuvred them into compromising positions, until they reached a point where they couldn’t say no to him.
That’s how I felt right now.
The top of the stairs opened to a red mezzanine. Each side hosted a small, circular, mirrored stage with a pole, a bar and a couple of sofas. All empty.
At the far end, a figure stood statue still, silhouetted by sound-proof glass overlooking the dance floor.
Fuck. It had to be Jimmy Reilly.
‘He’s waiting,
’ hissed the goon behind me.
I walked towards him, unable to feel my legs now, or the carpet beneath my feet. I’d somehow moved beyond terror into a trance-like state of fatalistic doom. This must have been how those soldiers felt during The Great War, I suddenly thought, when they left their trenches to go ‘over the top’.
Somehow, as the silhouette turned towards me, I knew that my life would never be the same again.
As I got closer, he seemed larger than I’d imagined, squat almost, with no neck and hardly any hair.
‘Sit down,’ he said, in a strong Birmingham accent.
This isn’t Jimmy Reilly!
Somewhere deep inside, a hard-wired survival instinct jolted me out of my self-induced stupor into a state of 20/20 lucidity. I’d never felt sharper, more sober or alive.
There was still a chance I could make it out of here unscathed.
I sat. On the little red circular table in front of me lay a folded up Times newspaper, the cryptic crossword half complete, a walkie-talkie and a pair of remote controls.
He turned to me. ‘I’m Bernard Moss, the manager. You can call me Bernie.’
He turned back to the glass. ‘Name your drink, officer,’ he said, ‘and later you can name your girl. All on the house, of course.’
‘I’m happy to pay for my own drinks, thanks all the same Bernie. And girls too, if it comes to it.’
He laughed.
‘Fuck’s sake, have a drink at least,’ he said, still addressing the glass, ‘no one’s gonna know. We’ve got champagne here from before World War Two that you can’t put a price on.’
Suddenly, he gave the glass an almighty slap, raising me an inch off my seat.
‘That fucker’s getting it,’ he roared.
He marched over to the table, grabbed the radio.
‘Table 16 … he’s at it again. That’s the third time. Get him the fuck out of here.’
He glared at me: ‘I’ve already sent staff over, twice, telling him not to put his cigarettes out on Jimmy’s precious floor. Twice he’s told my staff to fuck off. I don’t care who he is, he’s leaving. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s people being rude to waiting staff. It drives me mental. That and cruelty to animals.’
I recalled the advice of a hostage negotiator on TV: keep your captor talking and address him by name.
‘What’s so precious about the floor, Bernie?’
He turned to face me. ‘It’s terrazzo, priceless apparently, over half a century old, and Italian, which Jimmy loves. Makes him feel like Don Corleone. It’s so rare they slapped a preservation order on it so it can’t be removed. Jimmy literally worships it. He gets down on his knees every day and fixes the cigarette damage himself.’
‘Well, you can keep your priceless champagne, Bernie.’ I smiled, digging my right hand into my trouser pocket. I pulled out a tenner and placed it on the table.
‘Any chance we can send your goon to an off-licence?’ I said. ‘I could murder a bottle of Heineken.’
Bernie smiled. ‘Good shout. I can’t stand that fizzy piss either. But I’m getting them. Surely you’re allowed to take a drink from me personally, if you’re not on duty, like?’
‘I didn’t swallow the rule book, Bernie. Why not?’
He stood, summoned the meat over and placed his order. ‘Make sure they’re cold,’ he called after him.
‘Honestly, these muppets … if I didn’t say that, he’d come back with warm ones off the shelf.’
He stared down at me hard. ‘So, how can a copper afford to come to a place like this?’
‘I can’t really. It’s just a one-off. A special birthday treat.’
‘Where did your brother get to?’
My heart caved in. They knew.
‘That’s the thing, Bernie, I’m supposed to be meeting him in Chinatown right now.’
‘I suppose your boss from Scotland Yard will be there too.’ He smiled, the clever bastard.
‘No, but he knows I’m here,’ I lied, my cheeks in full bloom.
He turned to survey the dance floor.
‘The thing is, we already look after some of your lot. If they find out that you’ve come here, sniffing about … well, it puts them in a very difficult position. It totally undermines our arrangement.’
I didn’t see that coming. ‘Arrangement?’
He turned to me. ‘You’ve left yourself completely exposed here, on both fronts. We’ve got video of you accepting cash from your brother and consorting with women of ill-repute. I told Jimmy we should hand this over to our friendly coppers. They’d deal with you in their own way.’
Please don’t, my mind silently begged, I’m on my final warning.
‘But Jimmy doesn’t like to be devious like that. He prefers to deal with matters head on.’
Fuck. What did that mean? Please tell me he’s not on his way …
Blame Fintan, deny all knowledge.
‘Who’s Jimmy?’
He turned away again, his malevolent smirk reflected in the glass. ‘You’ll find out, soon enough.’
That imaginary knife glinted cold against my hot cheek as dread clawed at my guts.
Footsteps lumbered up the stairs. I squeezed my eyes shut: please don’t let it be Reilly.
‘Look at Mary Quant swinging that fucking bag,’ muttered Bernie. ‘I hope you like your beer shaken and stirred.’
The moody goon dumped a bag of cans on the floor, change on the table.
‘I asked you to get bottles, you thick cunt,’ Bernie roared. ‘Fuck off out of my sight, Slob, before I kick you down them fucking stairs.’
He leaned into the bag, pulled out a can in each hand, deftly peeling both open in one smooth move. The beer fizzed up and spilled over the edges, somewhat spoiling his ‘sharp shooter’ cabaret. He handed one to me and raised his. ‘Slainte!’’ he said, then gulped wide-eyed, like a goldfish.
I badly needed a hit so set to work. My only hope: Fintan. He must’ve realised by now that something’s gone very wrong. So why hadn’t he come back? I suddenly pictured him holding court in the Troy, bullshitting some foreign girls, tucking into the pint he’d bought for me earlier. I swallowed hard and told myself: he’ll get here before Reilly, and then he’ll think of something.
He always thinks of something.
‘Alcohol is the anaesthesia by which we endure the operation of life,’ declared Bernie. ‘One of your lot said that.’
‘I prefer the Sammy Davis line,’ I said, ‘that alcohol gives me infinite patience for stupidity.’
He glared. I panicked.
‘Because of where I work, Bernie,’ I blurted, desperately.
‘Which department?’
‘The Cold Case Unit,’ I said, wiping my mouth and wondering what I could add that might help me, ‘unsolved murder cases, at least two years’ old. Nothing current.’
Bernie nodded approvingly.
‘So, do you get stick at work, for being Irish like?’
‘A bit,’ I said, ‘not so much from English people. Some of the Northern Irish can be fairly hostile.’
‘Bitter Prods. Tell me about it. I served in Northern Ireland. The Paras. First time I realised I was Irish!’
I latched on; bonding with Bernie might be my only ticket out of here.
‘What are your Irish connections then, Bernie?’
‘I’m not, obviously, but me mum’s from Mayo, dad Leitrim. He’s a right pisshead. Used to beat the shit out of us, so I joined up to annoy him really. I ended up in Belfast during the Hunger Strikes. Of course like most rational people, I had some sympathy for the prisoners. Next thing I’m being called an IRA-loving left footer and getting into punch-ups about it. I nearly got kicked out, twice. That’s how I got this,’ he said, pointing to the lump missing from the top of his left ear.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he smiled, ‘but that’s me good one. The other one’s fucked from shooting.’
‘At least your dad must be proud that you made a stand. Mine’s
ex-communicated me.’
‘He doesn’t know anything about it. We haven’t spoken since. Even when I had kids, he couldn’t bring himself to let it go.’
‘He sounds just like mine, armchair IRA man, professional drunk.’ I paused. ‘I wonder what makes them so … unforgiving.’
‘Well, they were the men of the house, weren’t they? What they said went, unchallenged. Women wouldn’t stand for it today.’
‘How did you end up working here?’
‘After the army, the only work I could find was in security. And even then I had to take jobs on doors in places like Basildon. It’s like the Wild West out there: gangs, guns, drugs. I got into some right scrapes. Jimmy took over one of the joints and told me to clean it up, which I did, eventually. After a fucking war. He sort of took me under his wing after that.’
We both swigged hard.
Bernie belched, placed his spent can on the table and sat opposite me.
‘Jimmy trusts me. I can help you here, Donal. But you have to tell me the truth. Right now, in confidence, man to man. Why are you and your brother asking about Liz Little?’
I swiftly flicked my mind through a multitude of angles, like a wing mirror, trying to read the situation. Bernie didn’t seem to know Liz was dead, let alone murdered. Or was he just playing me?
Blame Fintan, deny all knowledge.
‘Look Bernie, my brother’s a reporter. He offered me a free night of booze and beautiful girls in exchange for coming here and finding out all I could about a girl who works here called Liz Little. That’s all I know.’
‘You’ve got a choice here, Donal,’ he said, leaning back, all statesmanlike. ‘You can either let me help you, or accept the wrath of Jimmy Reilly alone. You’re a cop. I know you know who Jimmy is. He’s on his way here to deal with you. I don’t fucking care either way but, if I were you, I’d take any help I could get right now.’
‘I’ve told you everything,’ I said.
‘This shitty business has taught me two useful lessons,’ said Bernie, leaning forward again. ‘One, how to read people. I know when someone’s going to throw a punch before they even clench their fist. I deal day-to-day with professional liars – criminals, hookers, successful businessmen. I know you’re lying to me.’
Bang! Empty cans and remotes obeyed his slammed fist and scuttled to the floor.
