‘Who’s Ortega?’ asked Eddie.
‘A pain in my fuckin’ arse, bruv. That’s who’. Charlie nudged Eddie on the elbow. ‘C’mon, let’s find the others’.
Eddie followed his brother towards the building and to where another security man waved them towards their table. It was hidden from the already-crowded pool area behind a four-foot-high, dark-tinted glass barrier, and underneath a series of dark wooden beams wrapped in grape-laden vines. Most people might consider it a pleasant spot, but Eddie knew that his brother had organised the evening to show the Marbella who’s who, that it was business as usual; that the crew were still together, and relevant. Whoever this “Ortega” person was, they had scuppered his brother’s plans.
Eddie spotted Bill excitedly talking with Roger and Kenny, each with a fat cigar in one hand and a cocktail glass in the other. Carol and Judy sat together holding extravagant cocktails, in full gossip exchange mode.
‘So, did she take him back or what?’ said Carol.
‘Dunno,’ replied Judy, too engrossed to notice Charlie and Eddie passing by. ‘But Roger reckoned Mikey knows she had it off with Eddie and he -’.
Carol, finally realising that the brothers were standing within earshot, beckoned at her friend to shut up. It was too late. Eddie had heard.
‘Evening Charlie,’ said Carol, meekly. ‘Hi Eddie’.
‘Ladies,’ said Charlie.
Eddie tapped on his brother’s elbow to get his attention. ‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered.
‘We’ll deal with it,’ said Charlie.
‘Deal with it? How?’ Eddie demanded, but Charlie was already giving Bill a bear hug.
‘Cor blimey Bill, didn’t they feed you when you was inside?’ he said, pinching Bill’s waist. Bill laughed.
‘He didn’t like the menu in the remand centre,’ snorted Kenny. ‘No paella’.
‘Food was bleedin’ awful, Charlie. Worse than when we was in the Borstal,’ said Bill. ‘First thing Gary did when I got out was to take me for a posh dinner uptown’. He offered Charlie a cigar. ‘Cost a bleedin’ fortune’.
‘A fortune, hey?’ said Charlie, shooting Eddie a suspicious glance. ‘Well, it’s good to have you back again. There’s a lot we need to get you up to speed with, though’.
‘So the lads said,’ said Bill, somewhat solemnly. ‘What d’yer reckon happened?’
‘Not here, Bill. The walls have ears and all that’.
‘Oh, yeah. Right-ho,’ said Bill. ‘And thanks for getting me out. To tell you the truth, I thought you’d all forgotten about me at one point’.
Charlie smiled and put his arm around Bill’s shoulder and waved at the revelry all around them. ‘Just enjoy the night, okay. We can talk business tomorrow’.
Kenny and Bill were nodding in agreement, but Roger was looking straight past them at something else. ‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘It’s Ortega’.
Eddie followed Roger’s gaze to see a well-groomed Spaniard in a tailored suit who was mounting the marble steps to the building accompanied by an attractive brunette and several burly men. Eddie watched as Ortega held the wooden door open for his female companion. As he did so, the Spaniard looked straight across to where the British contingent were, and grinned. It was not an expression designed to offer warmth, thought Eddie. Rather, it was one that wreaked of confidence and control. It was deliberate, and it carried a threat. It said, this is my patch, and you are not welcome.
‘Fuckin’ dago thinks he owns the place,’ said Kenny.
‘He does,’ Charlie replied. ‘He bought it. The geezer on the door told me as we came in’.
Roger lowered himself down onto one of the padded chairs. ‘So that’s why they’ve hidden us away in this corner,’ he said.
Kenny was still staring at the building into which Ortega had entered. One of the Spaniard’s minders stood outside, arms crossed. ‘Reckon we should go in there? Tell that smarmy cunt where he can shove his fuckin’ club?’
‘Calm down, mate,’ said Charlie. ‘Remember what Guillem said. We can’t afford no trouble right now’.
A disturbance in the crowd caught Eddie’s attention. A well-built, middle-aged man in a suit stumbled from the dance floor like a combine harvester emerging from a field of mature corn. He was shoving dancers in every direction, ambivalent to their complaints.
‘Is that Mike?’ said Carol as he arced towards them, a beer bottle in one hand, the other grasped around Veronica’s wrist, pulling her behind him. Eddie placed his drink down on a nearby table. His pulse had quickened, and he already had the familiar pre-fight feeling stirring in his gut. They watched as the pair walked towards them; Mike looking like an undefeated boxer approaching the ring, Veronica with her eyes to the floor like a prisoner of war. Mike released Veronica and pointed towards an empty seat.
‘Sit down,’ he commanded. Veronica stared up at Eddie and mouthed, ‘He knows’. He spied a bruise on her arm.
Eddie’s blood was boiling. ‘Did you hit her?’ he said, his fists curled ready for action. Mike ignored him and lifted the beer bottle to his lips to take an extended swig.
Charlie moved between them, putting a hand on his brother’s chest. ‘Eddie, not here -’.
Eddie, however, was not for placating. ‘I said, did you fucking hit her?’ he repeated.
Mike twisted towards Eddie. His face was grim, his pupils large and eyes bloodshot. ‘Did you fuck her?’ he drawled.
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Charlie under his breath. Eddie and Mike both pushed Charlie aside to stand toe to toe.
‘She says you didn’t,’ said Mike. ‘But I reckon she’s lying. So? Did yer, soldier boy. Did you fuck my missus?’
Eddie held Mike’s glare, saying nothing.
Roger attempted to intervene. ‘C’mon lads -’ he said, but Mike shoved him back.
‘I want the truth. Did you fuck my missus?’ he repeated.
‘Last I heard,’ said Eddie, ‘She wasn’t your missus no more’.
Mike smirked, before pushing Eddie full-force with both hands. Eddie was braced, but he was still sent backwards into a table. A beer glass fell onto the floor and shattered. He took a step to one side, steadied himself and adopted a combat stance.
Mike laughed. ‘Try your luck, pretty boy’. Eddie could see that Mike was now wearing his brass knuckle-duster on his right hand.
‘Stop it,’ shouted Charlie, but it was to no avail. His brother’s momentary interruption was all Eddie needed. He pushed himself off from his rear foot, blocked Mike’s right arm with his left forearm and delivered an uppercut to Mike’s chin with his right. It was a blow that would have ended most bar brawls, but his opponent was more robust than most opponents.
Mike rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and spat blood to the floor. ‘That all you got, you pansy?’ He lurched towards Eddie, feigned with his right, and swivelled to deliver a blow towards Eddie’s stomach with his left, but Eddie anticipated the move; hundreds of hours in the boxing ring and several years of close-quarters combat training in the army had armed him with a muscle memory that put him at a distinct advantage in any fistfight.
He twisted to his left, sucked in his stomach to allow Mike’s fist to punch into thin air and, with Mike now unbalanced, hit him to the side of the jaw with a twisting clenched fist. Mike’s face shuddered and his eyes closed, and he fell sideways onto a table, sending it and all of its contents to the floor in a crescendo of noise.
Two security guards ran towards them.
Charlie blocked their passage with outstretched arms and his patented charm. ‘It’s alright, fellas. Just a minor disagreement between friends. It’s over. We’ll pay for any damages, don’t worry’. He reached for his wallet.
Eddie remained in a fighting stance, glaring over the now mumbling and bleeding Mike.
Roger and Bill reached down to lift Mike up from the broken glass and spilt drinks and placed him into an upright chair. ‘He’s in a right state,’ said Roger to Charlie while dabbing blood from
Mike’s face with a hanky. ‘We should get him home’.
‘He was in a state before we got here,’ said Veronica, still ensconced on her chair. ‘He’s been snorting coke all afternoon’.
‘What?’ said Charlie. ‘Mate, that’s not you. What were you thinking?’ He curled his hand around Mike’s head.
‘Can’t let the kids have all the fun, can I?’ slurred Mike. ‘So, you gonna tell me, Charlie?’
‘Tell you what?’
Mike lifted a weary arm and pointed towards Eddie. ‘What about her…and…and your brother?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Mate, no,’ said Charlie. ‘That night Veronica stayed over. She slept in my spare room’.
‘I thought you left with that blonde tart?’ said Mike, trying to reconstruct the events of that night several weeks earlier.
‘Nah, turned out she had a husband back at home. I got a quick blowjob before she buggered off in a taxi. We all went back to my place. Veronica, me and Ed. She was trollied and went straight to bed. Eddie and me, we were up for hours talking. We both passed out on the sofas. Nothing happened, mate’.
‘You promise me, Charlie?’ said Mike.
‘Get it into your thick skull, nothing happened’. Charlie patted Mike on his cheek. ‘I promise’.
Mike lifted his head towards Veronica. ‘I’m sorry, luv,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have -’.
‘It’s just a bruise,’ she said, faking a smile.
‘C’mon, let’s get you out of here,’ said Roger. He glanced at Judy. ‘Mike can sleep it off at ours’.
Judy sighed and put her drink down. ‘Flipping hell, can’t we have one bleedin’ night out without someone having a punch up?’ she asked, before picking up her jacket.
‘Here, me and Bill will come with you,’ said Carol.
‘Call me in the morning,’ said Charlie as he watched them leave. ‘Let me know how he is’. He swung to his brother. ‘You alright, bruv?’ Eddie nodded. ‘Good. Good,’ said Charlie. ‘After all that drama, I need a leak. Kenny, go get us a round in’. He headed towards the main building. Kenny rose as instructed and made towards the bar.
Eddie felt a gentle hand curl around his bicep.
‘My hero’.
‘Are you serious? My brother just stone-cold lied to his best friend for us’. He pried her fingers from his arm and thrust his hands into his jacket pocket.
‘You think Charlie lied for us?’ she said, dismissing Eddie’s assertion with a sarcastic laugh. ‘You don’t know your brother at all’. Eddie wasn’t listening, he was patting his trouser pockets. They were empty. He had lost Charlie’s keys.
Shit.
‘Lost something?’ Veronica said in a childlike tone. Eddie was now scanning the floor.
‘Keys,’ he said while lifting a wooden chair to peer underneath. ‘Charlie gave them to me to look after’. He dropped to his knees to look under a heavy wooden table.
‘Charlie gave you keys? For what?’
‘Just…keys. But they’re important. I need to find them,’ he said. He pointed towards an arrangement of plants in clay pots near where he had been standing when Mike and Veronica had arrived. ‘See if they are over there’. Eddie lifted another table, then several more chairs. Nothing. ‘Fuck,’ he cursed. Veronica remained crouched over the plant pots, her back to him. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.
‘Nothing here,’ she said.
‘Fuck,’ he swore again. His head was spinning. How would he explain this to Charlie?
‘What’s so special about them?’ she asked, still facing away from him.
Eddie did not have time to answer. Kenny returned, panting. ‘We got more trouble,’ he said, gasping for air. ‘Charlie needs you’.
‘Give us a sec, Ken. I’ve lost -’.
‘Eddie. He needs us now!’ The expression on Kenny’s face told Eddie that whatever trouble Charlie was in, it was serious.
‘Okay,’ said Eddie. ‘Veronica, keep looking. I need to find them’. Eddie started after the already departing Kenny.
Veronica watched until Eddie and Kenny had vanished into the crowd, before she unclasped her hand to reveal the set of keys.
One was smaller, tubular and made of steel. The other was larger, flat and made from brass. It was a double-sided, seven-lever mortice lock and bore the logo of the safe manufacturer, Schwab - a logo she had seen before, two years ago, in the secure room underneath Charlie’s bar.
She dropped the keys into her handbag and pulled it over her shoulder.
Eddie followed Kenny out into the open area where Charlie stood waiting for them behind the trunk of a palm tree. There were several hundred people in the club now. It was loud, bright and chaotic.
‘Kenny said we’ve got trouble?’ Eddie asked.
‘We do,’ his brother replied and lifted an index finger towards a group of young men gathered around a table thirty feet away on the opposite side of the pool. They were loud, animated and, from their accents, most definitely from East London.
The beach club was located in a basin-shaped dip between two gentle slopes and with no breeze to speak of, the smoke from hundreds of cigarettes and joints hung low in an unnatural cloud making it hard to see.
Eddie squinted at what Charlie was pointing at. ‘No fucking way,’ he exclaimed upon recognising the first of the group. It was Bobby Pickering, and his entire crew accompanied him.
Eddie and Charlie glanced at each other. ‘What the fuck?’ said Eddie.
‘I’m going over there,’ said Charlie. ‘Kenny, get Veronica out of here’. He reached into his pocket and took out the car park token. He held it out for his brother. ‘Go get my car and be ready to get out of here’.
‘Fuck that, I’m staying with you’.
‘No, you’re not,’ his brother insisted. ‘We can’t antagonise them, and I want to know I can get out of here sharpish. Go and don’t let them see you’.
Eddie sighed. He had no desire to abandon Charlie, but he had to agree with his brother’s logic. ‘Be careful. This ain’t no coincidence’.
‘I know that, Ed,’ said Charlie. ‘Go on, go’.
Eddie swivelled around and started making his way around the pool, masking his face with his left hand but still monitoring the East End crew. Charlie waited thirty seconds before walking towards them. Eddie saw Bobby Pickering push himself up from a sun lounger upon seeing Charlie. He held out his arms and the two men embraced, after which Charlie pulled up a chair and sat down. Eddie was well out of earshot, but he could imagine what conversation was about. He studied the group’s body language. All seemed calm. Still, he thought, there could be no good reason for Pickering’s crew being in Marbella and in this club in particular.
He was just about to head out to collect the Porsche when he spotted another face he recognised - Jeremy Crampton. A cameraman accompanied the overweight television reporter. They must know Charlie was in the club, he thought. Shit. He peered back at Charlie and the East Enders, who remained locked in conversation. Charlie was talking in an animated manner but seemed relaxed. There was no imminent danger there, he decided. Crampton, however, was clearly making his way towards Charlie and the East End crew.
Eddie put the parking token back in his trouser pocket and tailed Crampton through the crowd of dancers. He had to prevent Crampton getting that meeting on video, but there was no way Eddie could get to Charlie before the camera was in range. What to do? Cause a distraction somehow? But what? How?
Then he saw his opportunity.
Crampton was pushing through the crowd close to the pool edge. The cameraman was right behind him. Eddie darted between a man who resembled Simon Le Bon and a young woman who was the spitting image of Sheena Easton. The man swore at Eddie as he shot past. ‘Simon’ and ‘Sheena’ could get it on later, he thought as he reached the back of the cameraman. He hoisted the man upwards, stepped to his right and dropped him and his equipment into the pool.
The splash caught Crampton’s attention, and he spun around to face Eddie.
The sight of the cameraman - who, it quickly became apparent, could not swim - splashing around in the pool, caught the attention of most of the people in the club including Charlie, Bobby Pickering and his entire crew.
Eddie peered at his brother, who stood open-mouthed, staring straight back at him. Charlie started to shout. Eddie could not hear what his brother was saying, but he could lip-read well enough.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Eddie could do nothing to reply, except to shrug.
A lifeguard in tight black speedos dived into the pool to rescue the cameraman who was now bubbling underwater.
Eddie felt a hand grab his jacket. He twisted with an instinctive movement and blocked the unknown assailant with his left forearm and prepared to strike with his right fist only to realise it was only Crampton.
The reporter was incandescent with rage, saliva hanging from his top lip as he shouted. ‘You arsehole,’ he screamed.
‘Sorry, mate. It was an accident,’ Eddie said, unable to suppress a wry grin.
Crampton stepped towards him - so close, Eddie could smell his breath. The reporter had eaten fish not long ago. ‘Fuck you,’ Crampton screamed while stabbing at Eddie’s chest with a stubby forefinger. ‘And fuck that idiot brother of yours’.
‘Blimey, someone’s got a potty mouth when he’s off-camera,’ said Eddie.
‘I’ll get you,’ said Crampton. ‘Just you see. I’m doing a special show all about Charlie’s crew. I’m going to burn them, and I’m going to burn you. You…you piece of shit, bastard son of a whore’.
Eddie grabbed Crampton’s wrist and twisted it to force the reporter to his knees. ‘Say that again, I dare you,’ Eddie snarled.
‘I know what you are, Edward Lawson. And I’m not frightened of you or your pretend brother’.
Eddie twisted Crampton’s wrist another ten degrees, and the reporter yelped out in pain. ‘You may not be frightened, but if I break your arm, it will still fucking hurt’.
‘Eddie! Enough’. Eddie peered up to see Charlie, who grasped the back of Eddie’s collar and pulled him up. ‘They called the fuzz. We gotta go’.
Den of Snakes Page 27