The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  Petey and Jack had already realised that the Italians were with them now and the future was looking trouble-free. The new bar, to be called Petey’s Place, would be up and running in less than a week. The liquor licence was already taken care of and the premises, an old gambling club, had been given a lick of gold paint and new brocade curtains. Even the bar had been newly varnished and the old tables and chairs scrubbed and polished for the first time in years. With low lighting from pink bulbs the place had a cosy, almost intimate feel and look to it.

  Petey was proud of it.

  He was auditioning in a friend’s small topless bar called Lautrec’s. Word had hit the street that the new club was going to cater to men with real money. Consequently most of the girls from the lesser bars were there in all their painted splendour and with new outfits. Lipgloss and platform heels abounded and the smell of cheap perfume was overpowering.

  Petey was in his element.

  The girls, realising he was in charge, were all over him like a rash, and Petey, being Petey, was all over them. It was while he was watching a particularly bewitching young girl from Houston, with huge silicone boobs and a surgically enhanced face, that he was approached by one of the DeMarco Capos.

  Petey knew the man by sight. He was one of the old-style Italians. He wore decent suits, his hair was still cut like a marine’s and he always wore a tie with a matching handkerchief in his breast pocket.

  Petey greeted him respectfully but warily. The man, Anthony Baggato, realising why, smiled easily. ‘Mr Mahoney, I hope I haven’t interrupted you at work? I just wanted to have a little chat with you. Is there anywhere we can go to talk privately?’

  Petey nodded. Still wary, he made a big production out of taking the man through to his friend’s office. If anything happened to him, he wanted plenty of witnesses.

  Baggato was not very big, but he had presence. His easy smile and cold eyes made people uncomfortable. That one day he would be Don was not only his opinion but everyone else’s since Santorini’s death.

  ‘Mr Mahoney - or may I call you Peter?’

  Petey stood nervously by the door. ‘Listen, Mr Baggato, say what you’ve got to say and then we’ll talk names and other such shit. You come to me in the middle of the day, I am in a friend’s club, I have work to do. We have all had a bit of a bother recently and what I want to know is: what the fuck do you want and is it trouble?’

  Anthony Baggato smiled gently. The man’s phraseology left a lot to be desired, but Anthony understood his feelings and tried his best to allay his fears.

  ‘I am not here on family business - I am here on my own behalf. I need a supplier for something and have been told that you are the best man to deal with. That is as far as this visit goes. Supply and demand, it’s what makes the world go round.’

  Petey listened carefully. ‘So what exactly would you like me to supply?’

  Baggato grinned now, his face taking on a genial quality. ‘I want you to supply me and mine with heroin.’

  Petey’s eyes widened.

  ‘I understand your confusion, but you see, Mr Mahoney, this is to be a private transaction. I want to deal large amounts of the stuff. I want to be a big supplier, and to supply my own contacts in New York. This conversation is strictly off the record, by the way. This is a deal between me and you. No one else will ever be involved except for a few of my men. As you will know, the five Dons, the heads of our families, are anti-drugs, but what they don’t know will not hurt them, capisce?

  ‘Now, I need a good supplier, and I need one who will keep our business dealings quiet. I was impressed by your family over the Santorini affair. I feel that together we could make a good partnership.’

  He wiped his mouth fastidiously with a snow-white handkerchief. ‘I also know that you are a dealer, and that you have an in with the biggest supplier. I am talking South America here. I can guarantee you safe passage into Florida, Miami, and safe transfer of the drugs to any location in the United States. This is big, big business here, not nickels and dimes. I need your answer, and your word that our conversation will not be heard outside these four walls.’

  Petey’s eyes were nearly out on stalks. This was real money they were talking. Serious amounts of money, and he was already seeing an endless procession of dollar signs and noughts.

  A million dollars’ worth of heroin was easily passed on to the street. Ten million dollars’ worth could be almost as easy. And why not be the man to do it? There was an endless demand, and the best thing with H was the fact that there were new customers for it every day. The biggest transaction Petey had ever done before was a six-ounce deal for thirty thousand dollars. He was on friendly terms with the Colombians through an ex-girlfriend’s brother, Tito. If the profits were high enough, Jack Mahoney could probably be talked around.

  Petey knew that Tito would have no trouble supplying the Italians through him, and indeed that it would be a match made in street heaven.

  This was the deal of the century. Feeling like a dog with two tails and six lampposts, he held out his hand and said casually: ‘Call me Petey, everyone does.’

  This was the beginning of a friendly alliance that was to last for many years to come.

  Eamonn had been out of hospital six weeks and was still getting back on his feet when he heard from Maria Santorini. He threw her letter away, feeling he wanted to draw a line under that part of his life and make amends to everyone concerned for the foolishness of his actions.

  He made a point of seeing only Deirdra and trying to make himself love her, as much as Eamonn could love anyone. Only Cathy had ever touched that particular place in his heart, and in her absence he feared it had closed over.

  Deirdra for her part listened with rapt attention to the blandishments of the handsome man she was going to marry and basked in his apparent delight in her and her conversation. She knew that she had got him by default but was determined to keep hold of him now.

  The far-reaching effects of the events that took place after Eamonn’s wounding had made things all the better for the Mahoneys businesswise. Not only were they collecting the Cause money, they were also involved in one of the biggest heroin operations in American history. Eamonn took to it all like a duck to water and Jack, after some initial reservations, found it in his heart to agree with Petey that an alliance with the Eyeties could only be a good thing.

  It was this alliance that gave them even more credence and set them up as the foremost Irish family in New York state. They were catapulted into a world of real riches and real money. Eamonn and Petey ran the drug operation with the precision of a military exercise. They also laundered the money and made themselves almost legit.

  Eamonn married Deirdra in the spring of 1974 in the church of St Anthony of Padua. The church on Sullivan Street in Manhattan had never housed such an illustrious wedding before. All the top families came and the Italian guests added extra panache to the Irish contingent in their wedding finery.

  Deirdra, like a good Catholic girl, became pregnant on her wedding night, and Eamonn Docherty soon realised that he had taken on a woman with the sexual appetite of a man. Far from deterring him, he found it a turn on.

  At first anyway.

  Only time would tell what was to become of them all in the future, but on that day they felt that life had dealt them some good cards.

  The sun was shining, the bells rang out in exultation and the bride was happy.

  What more could anyone want?

  BOOK THREE

  ‘Men are like children They start on the breast and they very rarely leave it’

  - Old Irish saying, Anon

  ‘Are you going to women - Don’t forget the whip’

  - Friedrich Nietzsche, 1844-1900

  ‘One murder made a villain Millions a hero’

  - Beilby Porteus, 1731-1808

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  LONDON 1975

  ‘Oh, piss off! You don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  The man’
s voice was as much like a woman’s as Geoff Capes’s, but he was dressed in the full regalia: tight dress, high heels and bleached blonde wig. His eyelashes defied every law of human nature and so did he.

  Cathy sighed as she watched Desrae’s temper rising. This man was a new recruit and his attitude had already caused problems, not only with Desrae but with all the other people working for them.

  ‘Listen, Alfie,’ Desrae told him, ‘it’s nothing personal but the other girls can’t stand the fucking sight of you. And, quite honestly, at this moment in time I sympathise with them. You have a way about you that not only puts off your mates, it also pisses off the punters. Now you either sort yourself out, or me and you are going to have to part company.’

  Alfie, otherwise known as Gabrielle, knew when he was beaten and decided to retire gracefully from the fray. Opening his heavily made-up eyes to their fullest extent, he feigned tears and shook his head sorrowfully. His purple-painted lips were trembling and Desrae closed his eyes in annoyance.

  ‘It doesn’t cut no ice with me, girl. All the tears in the world won’t make me change my mind, OK? Either buck up or fuck off. I can’t have all my girls up in arms over you and that’s that. We ain’t even open a week hardly and you’re already making the place feel like a battlefield.’

  Alfie walked from the little office with his dignity intact and his temper strictly under control. He knew he was beaten and accepted the fact gracefully - or as gracefully as a six-foot-two man in impossibly high heels can do.

  When he had left, Cathy started to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Desrae, but his face! I mean, you nearly wet yourself when he said that due to circumstances beyond his control, he couldn’t sleep with men under five foot three.’

  Desrae roared then, rouged cheeks bunching up in amusement. ‘It’s his size - I don’t know why the tall ones always wear the highest heels. It amazes me, it really does. A lot of the men, see, they like it up against the wall. Even with a bed in the room, they can get it in better like. So the truly big ones are out of bounds, really. But the littlest men always like the great big porkers. Life’s strange, ain’t it?’

  Cathy nodded. Homosexual love did not bother her in the least, it was part and parcel of her everyday life. Thanks to Desrae’s boyfriend and confidant, as he referred to Joey Pasquale, they had recently opened a small select drinking club in Wardour Street. The shop front was the usual tits and ass bookshop, as found all over Soho. This was legal and a money spinner, the more exotic magazines being kept under the proverbial counter. They owned two similar outlets in other Soho streets. But through the back of the Wardour Street shop were two large rooms, used now as a bar and meeting place for transvestites, transsexuals and drag queens.

  There was a subtle difference between them all - Cathy had learned that much since being with Desrae.

  Alfie was a drag queen; he wore the most outrageous clothes and acted so ultra-feminine that it was impossible to mistake him for anything other than what he was.

  The transsexuals were often more like real women and so were harder to spot. Many of them lived their daily lives as women, and longed for the magic operation that would fulfil their dreams of biological femininity.

  The transvestites were often just cross dressers or homosexuals who preferred dressing as women, for sexual or other reasons. Cathy found them all likeable and a majority love-able. Being square pegs in round holes, they were often more accepting of other people because of their own situation.

  At twenty-two Cathy was beautiful, poised, and thanks to Desrae, happier than she had ever been.

  Joey and Desrae were like the parents she’d never had; they both loved and looked out for her. Desrae fussed over her like a mother hen and everyone in Soho joked about his little girl.

  The only thing that upset him was the fact that Cathy would have nothing to do with boys of her own age, preferring always to be with him and his cronies. She was too much of a loner for her own good.

  Joey’s businesses were doing well. He had bought the club primarily to keep Desrae happy, knowing that he would make a go of it. The kind of club he was running was needed in Soho, the only place homosexuals could really meet in peace. Soho was home to vice, prostitution, and all aspects of the sex industry - from books to films to trading in actual real live people. In fact, the concept of young men for sale was always big business. But Desrae, having been on the receiving end of rough trade in his life, didn’t want anything to do with it. He looked down his nose at people who dealt in kiddy flesh.

  As far as he was concerned, his club catered for grown men, and the people who worked there were grown men. ‘Over twenty-one, legal and looking good’, was his motto.

  The small office they used above the sex shop was a riot of Desrae colours and Cathy, used to his Haut Bordello style by now, saw nothing unusual about the bright pink flock wallpaper. It looked OK to her. Joey had once walked into the office in sunglasses for a joke and Desrae had been mortally offended. Since then no one had made any jokes on the subject of his decorating tastes.

  The club was all navy blue velvet and grey, with pink accents throughout in the carpeting and seating. The navy blue drapes had grey swags that made the place look almost respectable. All the people who worked at or used the club loved the feel and the look of the place, so Desrae felt he must have got something right.

  The small bar area was his pride and joy - a single piece of oak carved with figures of men in all sorts of positions, sexual or otherwise. By the bar were high pink stools with chrome backs and legs. All in all, the place looked what it was: an expensive gay club. The clientele reflected this. They had everyone on their books and the membership fee of £150 per annum kept out what Desrae called the riff-raff.

  One week into its opening they were already taking over £300 a night. Between £500 and £700 on Saturdays. It was small, select and lucrative. From politicians to businessmen, from actors to policemen, the place was full to the rafters every night. They all knew it wasn’t just because the club was new; they were aware they had filled a gap in the market and as such were guaranteed to make their money back.

  Cathy sipped her coffee and looked nervously at Desrae as he glanced over the idea she had written out and presented to him. It was the first time she had ever tried anything like this and she was anxious to know what he thought of her scheme.

  ‘This is a terrific idea, love,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘but where are we going to stage these things?’

  Cathy sat forward eagerly, her hair tumbling over her face. ‘The strippers in the hostess clubs do their acts in much smaller spaces. Our acts can just move out into the centre of the room and perform. I know it’ll be tight but I think it’ll work, Des. After all, the music is piped from the back anyway and most of the girls will be miming, won’t they?’

  He nodded - Cathy could see his mind ticking over. She carried on selling her idea.

  ‘A lot of the men we employ are natural-born artistes. I mean, look at Alfie when he dresses like Doris Day. Him singing along to Move Over Darling is hilarious. I’ve seen him do it in the dressing room before now and the other girls loved it. And Georgina’s Diana Ross is fantastic, he looks so much like her—’

  Desrae interrupted scathingly, ‘Oh, yeah, if poor old Diana was fourteen stone!’

  Cathy grinned. ‘That’s not the point here, is it? A resemblance to the person is enough. Your Marilyn Monroe is brilliant and you know it is.’

  Desrae laughed now, pleased with the compliment. ‘No way am I gonna sing in public.’

  ‘You just need to dress up and tend the place. We can have the girls all dressed up as the women they want to be. I mean, it’s a thought, isn’t it? Having your drink served by Carmen Miranda or Elizabeth Taylor has got to be better than by just any old drag queen, hasn’t it? It’ll give us the edge over the other clubs. The one in Greek Street is seedy and badly in need of a good clean and a decent clientele. We’re going for the better end of the market and as such we need to off
er something the other clubs haven’t thought of.

  ‘Did you see that politician the other night? Guess who was with him? Susan P, that’s who. She wanted to have a look see. Told me that our place was the best she’d been in, and she’d recommend it to clients any day. Now what better accolade can we have than that? Susan’s the biggest and best madam in London and she’s branched out into using boys, as you know. Young men are big business and she said she would send people here and even supply us with men she thought would work better in a club atmosphere. She’d still take her cut from them, of course. But the point is, we can really make this place into a big business. Open other clubs, theme them . . .’

  Desrae held up one perfectly manicured hand and said breathily: ‘Hold on, love, we’ve only just opened this place and already you’ve got us having a chain.’

  Cathy looked at her friend and said seriously, ‘And why not - all over the country! There’s a deep-seated need for them, and why shouldn’t we be the ones to do it? Someone’s going to sooner or later. The laws against homosexuality are being relaxed all the time. I want a club where gays and straights can come and enjoy themselves. We could even open a restaurant eventually . . .’

  Desrae sat back in his Dayglo pink velour chair and shook his head in wonderment. ‘You have given this a lot of thought, haven’t you? A club where everyone can go and enjoy themselves? Now I’ve heard everything!’

  Cathy had her argument ready. ‘Look at the Valbonne, Desrae. Many people go there to watch the TVs. You and I both know that. People-watching is a big thing these days, whether it’s the punks at Tower Hill and Carnaby Street or the hippies in Camden Market. My generation want to experience everything. Gays are accepted now more than at any time previously. Now they’re part and parcel of our everyday life. Let’s cash in on it. This club we’ve got here is a contact club, which strictly speaking is illegal. But the next one we open doesn’t have to be, does it?’