Midnight's Door

by Robert F Barker

  Eventually I said, ‘You’re on a mobile, Stevie. Keep your mouth shut while I think.’

  Only I couldn’t. Not in the time available. What do you say to someone you wouldn’t trust to wire a three-pin plug, who’s six thousand miles away but tells you he’s found the bastard that for the last seven years you’ve been telling everyone you’ll put six feet under if you ever get your hands on him? When I think of Stevie B, the word ‘initiative’ isn’t the first that springs to mind. Nor Shane.

  ‘What’s he-’ I started again. ‘How’d you find him?’

  ‘He was in this bar in the middle of Phuket. The Golden Dragon it was called. Me and Shane was looking for some good quality-’

  ‘STEVIE.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, right. Well, he was just sitting at the bar with this right-fit Thai girl.’ Stevie paused. ‘Least, I think it was a girl. Anyways, I recognised the fat bastard soon as I saw him. We just walked up to him and I says, “Aye-up Ged. Fancy seeing you here.” Then Shane bottled him from behind, just in case he had a shiv on him. Which he did. Down the back of his pants. You should have seen the look on his face, Danny, when he saw me. It was like, 'Aw, fuck.' So we just carried him out and brought him back here.’

  I sucked air. ‘Where’s ‘here’?’

  ‘Our place. We’ve got a room next to a nice little knocking shop right on the beach. You can see the sea and every-’

  ‘Your place?’ Not sure I’d heard right.

  ‘We needed to take him somewhere. Where else could we take him?’

  I shook my head. What a pair of screw-ups. ‘Stevie?’

  ‘Yeah Danny?’

  ‘I’m going to hang up now. Don’t call me back. If anyone ever asks, you rang to tell me you’re sending me the hundred quid, right?’

  ‘Oh, okay. But what do you want us to do with-’

  ‘’Bye Stevie.’ I rang off.

  We still weren’t moving. I stared ahead. Somewhere amongst all the brake-lights I caught glimpses of blue flashes. I thought about Ged Reilly. More to the point, I thought about Ricky Mason.

  Last I heard, Ricky was taxiing. This was about three years ago and at that time Sharon, Ricky’s child-bride, was well on with their fourth. I knew things weren’t going too well with them so I bunged him a couple of ton via a mutual friend, just to help cover some of the bills. I remember how sad it made me feel. Me and Ricky grew up at the same boxing gym, Joe Ryan’s in Bewsey. Ricky was always a better boxer than me. A lot better. After Joe took me aside one day and had a quiet word in my ear, I moved on to other things. But Ricky stayed with it under Joe’s management. He was setting himself up nicely and was hitting all the right notes, until an old ‘friend’ of Joe by the name of Ged Reilly decided Ricky was just the sort of investment opportunity some of his Liverpool ‘business acquaintances’ were looking for. Unfortunately I was in Germany at the time doing personal protection for a poncy finance guy who I later learned was taking the bungs for some Euro-MP. I like to think that if I hadn’t been, I’d have seen it all coming and warned Ricky off. I’m still not sure why Joe didn’t. Joe was like a father to us. I don’t like to think about that too much. For a while it looked like everything was going great. Ricky thought he was being groomed for the big fights and was doing alright for himself. He met Sharon and when she turned seventeen they got married. They had their first two. He was still improving. The future looked rosy.

  It was the night before his first tilt at a national title he found out the truth. Months later, Ricky told me about it. The call came from Ged Reilly.

  ‘You go down in the third and stay down.’

  ‘You can fuck right off,’ was Ricky’s response.

  ‘Listen to what I’m saying,’ Ged said, and repeated the instruction.

  Ricky told him where to go again. He went on to win on points. I don’t think Ricky ever appreciated how lucky he was to get away with it - sort of. By all accounts there was hell to pay. Ged nearly copped for it himself, but somehow managed to convince his ‘investors’ it was all a mistake, that Ricky was young and had ‘misunderstood things.’ Whatever, they decided to give Ricky a second chance. When the same thing happened and he won again, the writing was on the wall.

  They came for Ricky when he was celebrating with his mates at Havana-Fiesta’s on Bridge Street. There were over a dozen of them, all imports from Liverpool brought in specially. They met, weirdly enough, at what was then Mr Smith’s but is of course now Midnight’s, and hazed their way up the main street to Havana’s. They were all in black and wearing balaclavas. By the time Ricky saw them coming it was too late. Four grabbed him and held him down while two did the business and the others formed a circle, warding Ricky's mates off with baseball bats and blades. The one with the Stanley knife did his back, legs and the tendons behind his knees. In all, he needed three hundred and twenty-four stitches. What the other guy did was worse. He lump-hammered Ricky’s hands. A doctor at the General was heard to say that when he picked one up, it rattled like a maraca. Back then Jamie Carver was only a Detective Sergeant, but I know the police did their best. They got the names of the crew no trouble, ran an early-morning swoop and pulled them all in. But no one said a word and they all had witnesses prepared to swear that on the night in question, they were all at a rugby-do at the Royal Oak in Wavertree that lasted into the early hours.

  By the time I heard what had happened and got back from Germany it was too late. The CPS had already dropped the case and despite me turning up three hostesses from the club willing to testify they saw the crew meet there, it cut no ice. And whilst I managed to get all their names – me and Jamie Carver were at school together– Ricky found out and begged me not to do anything. By then he knew his boxing days were over, and that if I got involved it would end with someone dead and someone else – me most likely - doing life. He wasn’t bothered for himself, but by then Sharon was expecting her third. She had already had to put up with the phone calls. And their cat nailed to the back gate.

  But I did turn up something no one else had. Ged Reilly was in Warrington the night they got Ricky. Around the time the crew-leader at Mr Smith’s took the call telling him where Ricky was, Ged was seen leaving Havana’s, on his mobile. I went looking for Ged but by a pure fluke - for him - missed him. Next thing, Ged’s done a vanishing act any magician would have been proud of. As far as I knew, no one had seen or heard of him since - until I got the call from Stevie B.

  Some good did come out of what happened back then I suppose. But for me, not poor old Ricky. To this day, the word around Warrington is that when I went looking for Ged, I found him.

  I thought about what to do.

  I thought about ringing Stevie B back.

  I was still thinking about it when the traffic started to move.

  We moved a mile. Two miles. Speed picked up. The blue lights had gone.

  I rang Eric.

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ I said.

  CHAPTER 2

  As I pulled onto the car park I pressed re-dial. Eric answered at once.

  ‘Back door,’ I said.

  ‘Winston’s on his way,’ Eric said, then hung up. Things were obviously happening. By then it was over forty minutes since I’d rung to say I’d be there in twenty. After a couple of miles the motorway had bunched up again and we’d crawled a while more.

  I spotted an empty disabled bay close to the back door. I floored the pedal and roared up to it then hit the brakes and yanked the wheel right so the truck skidded the last few yards and came to rest with the nearside wheels up against the kerb. I was pleased. The last time I’d tried it, the back end had ended up in the flower bed.

  Jumping out, I grabbed my jacket off the back seat, then jogged over to the rear fire-exit, shrugging into it as I went. The door opened just as I got there. Light spilled out, but not much. Winston Ajero is six-four and built like the proverbial brick s***house. All I could see was a dark silhouette. But then all of Winston is dark, and his uniform - suit, shirt, tie - is black. Th
e way his rasta-braids stood out against the light behind, reminded me of the last holiday I took with Caroline in Majorca. Palm trees against the sunset.

  As he stepped aside to let me pass, he handed me a clip-on tie.

  ‘Thanks Win,’ I said.

  ‘S’okay boss.’ As always, ‘boss’ came out, ‘baaaz.’ When he’s working, Winston likes to play up his Jamaican roots. Off-duty, you wouldn’t tell him from any other Manc.

  As I headed inside I called back, ‘How’re we doing?’ Behind me I heard Winston rattling the fire-exit’s push-bar, making sure it was locked.

  ‘They’re in the office, baaz,’ he drawled. Winston has a habit of answering some other question to the one you’ve asked. Then he added, ‘An’ dat guy Charnley’s been in again. Sniffin’ roun’.’

  ‘Right.’ I filed it away for later. Dave Charnley and I used to work together. Now he runs his own door company. But not the one that has the contract for Midnight’s. That’s mine.

  The corridor curved to the right, following the contour of the outer wall. Built in the sixties, Midnight’s was originally a cinema. As I hurried along I could feel as much as hear the music coming through the wall on my right. By now the floor would be bouncing. At the front door, the corridor joins with the lobby, but I peeled off before, heading for the office. I could check the door later. Besides, I already knew what I would find. The previous week we’d agreed with the Police they would make their appeal and hand out flyers tonight. One-by-one they were getting round all the clubs. But I needed to sort the Agnes thing out before I got involved in anything else.

  In the office, I found Eric, Vicki and Mr Midnight himself, Frank Johnson, crowded around the CCTV. Behind them, arms folded and looking serious, was Tony Chapman. Tony manages the place on Frank’s behalf. Least, that's what he's supposed to do. As I came in they all looked round.

  ‘About time,’ Frank said.

  To say he looked stressed, would be another understatement. Midnight’s owner, I always thought Frank looked like he would be more at home running a carpet warehouse, than a nightclub. Thinning grey hair, wire-rimmed glasses, business suit that would stand a good press. Crumpled-incompetence I call it. That said, I’ve no reason to believe carpet warehouse managers are particularly incompetent. And to be fair, Frank owned three night clubs around the Northwest all of which were doing okay thank you very much, despite the recession. As is her way, Vicki didn’t acknowledge me but went straight back to the monitor. Tony stayed with his arms folded, looking stoic. I think he practises it. Only Eric moved, stepping aside to let me in.

  Eric Pritchard and me go way back. His dad and my dad were best mates. He’s been my number two ever since we started up. A hard-bitten scouser, he taught me everything I know about door-work, having learned the trade first in the city, then later in the pubs around Huyton and Kirkby during the time the Wallaces and Rathbones were at each others’ throats. He was on the door of The Laughing Cavalier in Huyton the night Jimmy Wallace got his legs blown off. He once told me that when the car pulled up, he recognised Deggsy Rathbone just before he pulled his balaclava down. But he never said a word to any one. ‘Not my business,’ he said.

  Taking Eric’s spot, I found myself next to Vicki. She was wearing her usual perfume. At this distance, its scent was pretty intoxicating. I tried to play it casual, making out I was focused, like a Security Guy should be.

  I said, ‘What’ve we got?’ But the only thing in my mind at that moment was that I’d never been so close to Vicki as I was right then. The screen was angled slightly away from me. The way the strip light overhead was reflecting, I didn’t have the best view, or so I told myself. I went, ‘Tch,’ and leaned to my right so my arm pressed up against hers. She didn’t move and her gaze stayed rooted on the screen. I had no idea what that meant, but my imagination ran riot. I’m a real dick when it comes to women like Vicki.

  Vicki Lamont is Midnight’s resident, VIP Hostess. Young Miranda helps her out now and again, but she’s not a patch on Vicki. Vicki is amazing. She has this gorgeous mid-brown hair that falls in waves across her face in a way that gets men going and always reminds me of Kim Basinger in LA Confidential, one of my favourite films. Thin around the waist and with a face that wouldn’t be out of place on the front of one of those women’s glossy magazines, she still has a girly look about her, though she won’t see thirty again. A club like Midnight’s needs a VIP Hostess who’s classy and has certain qualities. Vicki ticks all the boxes and more besides. She takes her job seriously and is good at it. Say what you like about Frank Johnson, he has some excellent contacts and manages to book some good VIP Guests. Most of the time they’re soap stars or one of those celebs who’ve appeared on some singing/dancing reality programme, but now and again he gets a real Pop Singer. Rick Astley is a regular, naturally, though he’s getting on a bit now. Most of them are okay. They know their star will only shine so long, so they don’t want to fuck it up. Others are real arseholes, out to boost their ego by showing they can still get people to run around after them while they act like spoiled kids. That’s when Vicki comes into her own. I’ve seen her use humour, diplomacy, patience, and anger to get them to perform the way they’re being paid to. I’ve seen her play coy, daft, flirty and downright seductive which, naturally, upsets me. But at the end of the day she sticks to her job description and doesn’t do add-ons – ‘favours’ - like some hostesses I’ve known. Some of the team call her, ‘Ronseal’ - Does exactly what it says on the tin. Seeing as she comes from Widnes and her dad was a rugby prop-forward, she’s pretty remarkable. I've only ever seen her struggling once. It was a Saturday night and I was walking past the Green Room when I heard a commotion inside. I won’t say who the guest was but suffice to say that back then his name was ‘household’. He’d had one Number One and has had a couple more since. The noise I heard was something between a scream and an angry shout. I stopped dead. It was followed by what sounded like some sort of scuffle and then I heard Vicki, giving a very clear, ‘Get OFF.’ Other than escorting them to and from the dias in the main dance floor, we’re not supposed to have anything to do with the guests. I knocked on the door.

  ‘Vicki?’ I said. ‘Can you spare a minute?’

  There was more scuffling, then urgent whispers which I couldn’t make out despite trying. A moment later Vicki opened the door, just a few inches. She sometimes wears a blouse and skirt, which can look professional while still being sexy as hell. On this occasion her blouse had come undone so she was showing more cleavage than when I’d seen her earlier. A stray lock of hair was hanging across her face. She was breathing heavily.

  ‘What is it, Danny?’

  ‘I need a word, if you don’t mind?’

  She gave me a long look. It was the first time I ever noticed how green her eyes were. I wasn’t sure if what I saw in them at that moment was relief, annoyance or shame.

  ‘Just a moment.’ She shut the door.

  There were more whispers. What sounded like another brief scuffle, followed by a sharp slap. I’d had enough and was about to go in when the door opened again and she came out. She closed it, firmly, behind her. Her face was red. She looked close to tears. She took a deep breath, composing herself.

  ‘Everything alright in there?’ I was desperate not to embarrass her.

  She seemed to think about it. She didn’t ask what I’d called her out to speak about but simply said, ‘Would you mind the door a minute?’ I like to remember there was a pleading look in her face, but I’ve probably imagined that bit.

  ‘No problem.’

  She disappeared down the corridor towards the Ladies. I thought about nipping in and having a quiet word with me-laddo, but opted not to. The embarrassment factor again. Hers mainly, but the club’s also.

  When she returned, five minutes later, you’d never have known. She was all together, hair put right, relaxed. And her usual distant self.

  ‘Thank you, Danny.’ She said it the way a school teacher might thank one of h
er kids for a small courtesy.

  She opened the door, wide enough this time for me to see inside. The wanker was reclining on one of the cream leather sofas, drinking from a prissy martini glass. As he turned to look round, butter wouldn’t have melted. Vicki made sure to hold the door open long enough so he could see me.

  ‘That’s not a problem, Danny. Thanks for letting me know. We’ll be along in a few minutes.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll wait here until you’re ready.’

  She shut the door.

  I remember to this day the feeling I had standing in the corridor that night, looking out for her. Firstly the buzz from the little play-act she’d involved me in. Secondly the thought that I was now her White Knight and she would be forever suitably grateful.

  Five minutes later she came out with him in tow. They were laughing and joking. There wasn’t a sign anything had happened. He avoided looking at me and she only did to say, ‘Lead the way, Danny.’ As I went in front, he was making stupid jokes like he actually thought he was being funny. She even laughed at them. It was all I could do to stop myself turning round and giving him the slap he deserved. Later that evening, when it was all over and we were closing up, I saw her chatting to Frank outside the office. As I passed them by he said, ‘No problems tonight, Danny?’

  ‘Very quiet,’ I said. I tried to catch her eye but she blanked me, as always. I hung around longer than usual that night, waiting to see if she would seek me out, say anything. She didn’t. I was there with Eric when she left through the front door. ‘G’night guys,’ was all she said. The following night she didn’t mention the incident. Neither did I.

  Eric brought me back to reality.

  Sidling round to Frank’s other side, he started playing with screen icons. I gave him my attention.