The private room was packed with a crowd of Dario’s closest friends. Bucky and Dunsmore were in the corner with girls. On the velvet couch in the centre, Manny sat beside a pretty brunette in her late thirties, stripped down to her underwear.
Paul walked over and joined them. “Enjoying yourself?” He sat down on the seat beside Manny’s couch.
“Best girls. Best champagne. Best blow!” Manny held up his glass. “Tina, get the man a drink. Make him comfortable.”
The woman on Manny’s knee disentangled herself and left to get some champagne.
With the two of them now alone, Paul took the chance to speak to Manny about the afternoon’s events. “DCI Carmichael was round again today.”
“Probing?”
“Usual bullshit. He was asking about the fight outside the club the other night.”
Manny sighed. “Dario knows how it is. He’s had his knuckles rapped. The others too. You don’t shit on your own doorstep. Anything else?”
“He mentioned something about a cargo delivery. Ayr harbour.”
A smile slowly spread across Manny’s face, his golden incisor glistening as he winked. “Whoever his sources are, they’re feeding him crap.” He shrugged.
Paul sighed with relief. “Nothing to worry about then?”
Manny rubbed the top of Paul’s head. “You’re a good lad, Paul.” His hand lingered longer than it should have. Tina came back with a bottle of champagne and he dropped it away. They both watched as Tina began to pour the champagne into flutes.
Manny put his hand on her ass. “Tina, you like your job, don’t you?” he said jovially.
“Yes, Mr Munroe. Very much,” she said with a broad smile as she handed out the drinks.
“That’s what I’m saying.” Manny laughed and gave her a playful slap. She squealed and sat at his side, putting her arm around the back of his neck. They all laughed.
“See, Paul. All I’m doing is providing a service, employment, helping the economy function.” Manny was enjoying having an audience. “If I didn’t, someone else would. Whether it’s drugs, or women or whatever – if there was no demand for it, would there be any point in me supplying it? What’s the problem with that?”
“Hear, hear.” Paul held up his glass.
They clinked glasses and Manny proposed a toast. “To the birthday boy.”
“To the birthday boy,” Paul repeated and clinked again. “Speaking of which, where is he?”
Manny motioned to the back room. He patted Paul on the knee. “It’s a party. Relax. Sit back. Unwind. These girls don’t disappoint.” Rolling up a twenty, he reached over and snorted a line of coke from the spread on the table. “Have a good time!” He passed it to Paul, who helped himself, feeling an instant rush, the irritations of the day suddenly behind him.
As if on cue, Dario re-entered the room. As was usually the case, Paul heard him before he saw him. The grin was coming towards him from the back of the room. Dressed in well-cut jeans, fitted shirt and a designer blazer anyone else would have looked a fool in, Dario strolled over. With his suave brown hair that curled below his ears and year-round sun-kissed tan, he was able to carry off the look with style. His hands rested on the back of the seat Paul was sitting on.
“Paul, my man – you made it!”
“Many happy returns.” Paul reached up and shook his hand, then moved onto the same couch as Manny so he could face him, uncomfortable at having Dario looming behind him, looking down.
“Let me introduce you to my ladies.” Dario smiled expansively. “Top-drawer cocktail – I call them my White Russian. The perfect blend of coffee and cream. Ivona, Milena, meet Paul and Uncle Manny.”
Under the heavy make-up and mounds of hair extensions, Paul barely recognised her. There was something sharper about her appearance. She stood in front of him in a baby-pink thong and six-inch heels, her body muscular and toned. Paul looked at Dario’s hand, placed strategically on her upper thigh, and for a moment it all went quiet.
Ivona’s perfectly spherical breasts and washboard belly rubbed against Paul’s cheek as she climbed onto the couch beside him. She ran her hand through her long, plutonium-dyed hair, placed his hands on her firm behind.
Across the table, Dario sat down. Lena was giving him similar treatment. Paul could feel Manny’s eyes on him as he watched Lena slink coquettishly over to Dario, her body waving provocatively in his face.
“Sorry about the other night,” Dario shouted over to Paul while Lena climbed over him with sleek feline prowess and an air of haughty seduction. Dario’s hands slid up and down her body, caressing the small of her back. She moaned a little and looked over at Paul with wild, blazing eyes.
On his knee, Ivona battled for his attention, but to no avail. Paul manoeuvred her aside.
“What are you doing here, Lena?” Paul called over to her.
Lena’s eyes narrowed. “I’m working.”
“So, do you two know each other?” Dario beamed.
The muscles were oddly strained on Manny’s usually expressionless face.
“Since when?” Paul started to get up.
“Since now.” She turned her head to ignore him and ruffled her fingers through Dario’s coiffed hair.
“I’m telling you, Paul, she is one dirty little minx.” Dario laughed and motorboated her tits. A second later, Lena leaped away like a scalded cat. Her hand went to her breast, where Paul saw a small bite mark. Dario was grinning broadly.
Paul felt Manny grip the back of his shirt but it didn’t hold him back. Breaking free from it, he crashed over the table.
“Fucking animal!”
He punched Dario in the face. Blood spurted from his nose. Paul sat on top of him and got one more punch in before he was dragged off by Bucky and Dunsmore, one on either side of him. He punched out and continued swinging, caught one of them, but a sudden, sharp jab in his windpipe sent him to the floor gasping for air. It was followed by a boot to the ribs.
He could hear a voice, it sounded like Manny’s, shouting, “Stand back. Let him handle it!”
Two huge hands grabbed the back of Paul’s shirt and the skin underneath at the same time. His face was pressed against the red carpet, which was strewn with broken glass and dusted with white powder. The two hands lifted, the carpet became distant and he was flung through the air towards the fire escape. He caught a blurred glimpse of the Zimbabwean bouncer as he smashed through the doors and rolled out into the alley.
The bouncer slammed the door shut behind him so it was just the two of them alone in the alley.
“Yarpie fuck!” Paul moaned from the ground.
With a fist like a wrecking ball, the bouncer swung towards him. Paul’s hands moved to cover his throat. It was the last thing he did before everything turned dark.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The taxi driver shook Paul awake. “Right, pal, that’s you at the hospital. You need to get out now.”
Paul opened his eyes. Through the rain-streaked taxi window he could see the blurred lights of A&E.
“C’mon, pal, you’re bleeding all over my seat.”
Paul began to feel about for his wallet, but the driver stopped him.
“The fare’s been taken care of. Hope you get the chance to thank the pretty lady. I wasn’t for taking you, but… I’m a sucker for a pretty face. Shame about yours,” he added sympathetically, and waited while Paul, dizzy and disorientated, dragged himself off the seat and out onto the street.
Sucker for a pretty face, Paul thought. He wasn’t the only one.
A&E was packed with people. Paul staggered in and propped himself against the front desk. Through clenched teeth he rasped out some noises to the receptionist, who, miraculously, managed to understand them. She sent him over to join the crowd of walking wounded and a nurse brought over forms, a glass of water and gauze for his forehead, w
hich was still seeping blood. He prepared himself for a long night ahead.
In the sobering yellow glow of the hospital, he began to understand just how seriously he’d fucked up. Putting his fingers to his aching, swollen jaw, the taste of blood in his mouth, he recalled Manny’s hand trying to hold him back. His fist smashing into Dario’s nose. If his own face wasn’t messed up already, it would be by the time Manny finished with him. Trying not to think about it, he willed his turn with the doctor to arrive soon, hoping that when it did he would prescribe something strong.
An hour passed, then two. Teams of bedraggled girls in miniskirts blurred in and out of focus, wailing. Drunks shouted. Slashes, gashes, burns, vomit and blood. A wash of colours and voices in a surreal circus show. The pain in his head had intensified and all he could think about was curling up in a dark room. The halogen light glared down as once again the waiting area was in uproar. Two stretchers were wheeled in at breakneck speed, a murmur of a stab wound rippling from person to person. Beside him, a young mother hugged her injured toddler even closer, her thin arms like roped steel around him, whispering words, singing songs. Paul tried to doze but found it impossible.
Finally, unable to bear the freak show any longer, he got up and left the hospital.
Outside, the sun was coming up, the cool air fresh against his skin. At the taxi rank, the drivers were surprisingly kind and without fuss one drove him straight home. When he got inside, he took a slack handful of painkillers and some heavy-duty sleeping pills and flopped down on the bed. The sleep that followed was shallow and fragmented. Voices whispered around him. He could feel the presence of other people in the room with him. His room, but different, like the reflection in a funhouse mirror. Aware he was dreaming, but not completely convinced, he tried to move, but his body was paralysed. He couldn’t even summon the strength to wiggle a finger. Drifting in and out of consciousness, it could have been seconds, it could have been hours later when the phone rang and he blinked awake, the last remnants of his fevered dreams causing him to look around and make sure he was definitely alone.
When he answered, his voice was hoarse and heavy with sleep. “Hello.”
“Drive down and pick me up at the pool hall. Wait out back. And bring five grand.”
“Manny?” he asked but was met with the dialling tone. The earpiece felt cold and soothing against his sore face. Patches of dried blood dotted his pillow.
The bedside clock read 9 a.m. He’d slept for just over two hours. Dragging his aching bones out of bed, he made the short walk to the bathroom and switched on the shower, waiting until steam filled the cubicle before getting in. As he washed his sweat-grimed body, he was careful to keep the water away from his head, face and forehead.
When he got out of the shower he was seized by sudden light-headedness; feeling his way to the bathroom door, he opened it to let in the cold air. The hazy splodge of pink, purple and black looking back at him from the bathroom mirror came into focus. He dried away the excess condensation to examine the damage. One side of his jaw was thick and rounded, the purple skin stretched taut like a drum. One shiny eye was half closed, crusty with blood. As carefully as he could, he dabbed the blood from his face, avoiding the congealed gash on his head. Then he pulled on fresh clothes and started on a delirious journey to Manny’s pool hall.
He waited out the back, just as Manny had told him, his head on the steering wheel, willing himself lucid but barely able to keep awake.
A few minutes later, Manny emerged onto the fire escape, slowly descended the metal staircase and approached the car. Paul leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door. A pain tore across his middle. Withdrawing back into his seat, he did his most convincing impression of someone in the peak of health.
Manny took a quick look around and got in, shutting the door firmly. Without speaking, he inspected every inch of Paul’s face with exaggerated disgust. Paul pulled a pained smile and did his best to appear alert, but Manny’s face was stony. Paul was fooling nobody. Half expecting another blow to his already wounded face, he turned the ignition, his throat dry.
“Turn the car off.”
The humming engine died.
Together they sat in agonising silence while Manny continued to stare at him.
“Are we going somewhere?” Paul asked groggily.
“Did you bring the money?”
Paul reached into his inside pocket, sweat streaming from his brow, and slipped a brown envelope filled with the notes across to Manny.
“We can put this towards reparations.”
Paul watched his money disappear into Manny’s jacket. He followed the movement of Manny’s hands. To his surprise they moved to the door. It clicked open and Manny started to get out of the car.
“Is that it?” Paul slurred in stoned confusion.
Manny put his head back inside the car, his face a furious inferno. “Is that it? Is that it!” Paul flinched as Manny’s voice dropped an octave as he strained to regain control. “What do you want me to say?”
Paul could see him shaking, his face steak-coloured and pulsing.
“You come here looking like that! Bleeding. Off your tits. A fucking disgrace. I’m not getting in a car with you. Go to the fucking hospital, get yourself fixed up!” he roared and slammed the door shut behind him, nearly taking it off its hinges. The car bounced on its axle.
Back at the hospital, Paul finally saw a doctor. He wanted Paul to stay in for observation on account of the head injury and because drink was involved, but Paul convinced him he was OK to go. The doctor wasn’t happy and at least wanted to contact someone to pick him up, but finally he relented. More than anything, Paul needed his own bed. That, and he had no one to call.
When he got back to the flat he was able to sleep, this time uninterrupted. It was late afternoon the following day when he woke up. Once again he set out for Manny’s pool hall, but now with his forehead stitched and his pain properly medicated. On the way he detoured via The Pink Pussy Cat in the hope of finding Lena.
He slipped in, keeping a low profile, and selected a booth in the corner. It was quiet: just a few punters and a handful of girls at the bar. One jailbait girl broke off from the group and walked towards him, her spindly legs faltering like a fawn learning to walk in a pair of six-inch heels.
“Can I get you something, honey?”
Up close he could see she was older than she looked from a distance. She had undernourished hair the colour and consistency of straw, which reached down to her waist and smelled of mould; her sickly, translucent skin was stretched tight over her protruding bones.
“Yeah, I’m looking for Lena. Is she working today?”
The girl sat down beside him, stroking his arm, pressing her oversized fake breasts into him, pushing the hard sell; ones like her had to. “There’s no Lena here. Just little old me. Don’t you want a dance from me?”
He looked at her limp hair and skinny, knobbly knees. Her holdups had a run from thigh to shin. “Not today, sweetheart.”
She didn’t bother trying to persuade him. Just got up and walked off, throwing a cutting remark as she left, which he didn’t catch. She crossed the room and began whispering to another girl at the bar. Both girls stole an angry look at him. It was only when the other girl began to approach him that Paul recognised her from the other night. She was dressed in a different underwear combo and her plutonium hair was scraped into a high ponytail. He cringed a little.
“Ivona?”
She rested her hands on the table.
“I heard you’re looking for Lena.” Her accent was thick and guttural, her mouth downturned in a smirk. She appraised his broken face.
“Is she around?”
“She doesn’t work here anymore.” Ivona’s cherubic face puckered in a derisive scowl. “Thanks to you.”
“Shit.” He felt a small sting of guilt, tempered by a wave of
relief. “Do you know how I can get in touch with her?”
“Sorry.” She shrugged.
“Sorry you don’t know, or sorry you won’t tell me?”
Not amused, she gave him a cool look, turned and strutted away.
The sky had already turned grey by the time Paul reached the pool hall. Terry buzzed him in. It was late afternoon and most of the tables were in use. Manny was in the corner playing with Marv, the laidback, lanky, motorcycle-booted kitchen manager. Marv’s handlebar moustache was as well maintained as his vintage hog outside, the deep, distant look in his eyes a legacy of his experiments with mind-altering drugs.
Manny and Marv both glanced at Paul as he approached. Manny’s top button was undone, his trousers hitched up. The game continued, the two players spurred on by the presence of an audience and by their lifelong rivalry on the baize. The tension rose as both men raced round the table to finish on black. Even Manny was laughing when Marv finally whacked it in.
“Best out of five?”
“I don’t know, Manny, can you take another beating?”
“That sounds like fighting talk.” Manny mock-hit Marv with the pool cue. Marv laughed at the gag.
“Play the boy here, he looks eager to have a shot.” Marv passed his cue to Paul. “I’ve got kitchen duties. Can’t spend my day shooting pool, drinking beer.”
Paul predicted humiliation over the course of the night for Marv, as usually happened when Manny didn’t come out on top. But something in Marv’s infinity stare told Paul it wouldn’t shake his world. Paul wondered what past sins had led Marv to coming under Manny’s fiery charge.
“I thought that’s what I paid you for,” Manny joked, but Marv had already turned his back, making a show of laughing all the way into the kitchen. When he was out of sight, Manny mumbled under his breath; something about a “useless cunt”.
Paul moved in closer in case he had been meant to hear it. “What was that, Manny?”
S K Paisley Page 21
