by Martina Cole
Gates closed his eyes and said in a pained voice: ‘Now I’ve seen everything. Even Susan P is coming as Cleopatra. I hope you’re not?’
‘Of course I am,’ Cathy said indignantly, ‘and so is Kitty. It’s weird but instead of a real Roman night, we’ve ended up with a Cleo night. All the men, including you, must come as Caesar or Mark Antony. Though looking at you, I’d say Nero would be nearer the mark.’
‘I can just see me in a toga, with my knobbly knees!’ As the girls on the stage went through their paces, he motioned Cathy through into her office. She followed him, intrigued. She wasn’t too worried. Richard often consulted her about things, and depending what it was - say a young girl missing or a young man being pursued by a predatory male, she might then have heard or seen something. He knew better than to question her about real villainy. He had his own grasses who sorted all that out.
Inside the office, she shut the door but the strains of the girls all singing ‘Happy Birthday’ still penetrated through.
‘That sounds fucking horrendous!’
Cathy rolled her eyes at the ceiling. ‘Desrae will love it. One of the bigger girls, Black Matilda, all of eighteen stone, wanted to dress as Marilyn Monroe. In fact, I didn’t see him on the stage so I wouldn’t be surprised if he came like it anyway. The poor woman would turn in her grave if she could see him.’
Cathy roared, enjoying the thought and looking forward to the night’s revelry.
‘Do you know a Mr Cheng?’ Gates asked suddenly.
Surprised, she nodded. ‘Everyone knows Mr Cheng - Little Cheng, as we call him. Why, what’s he supposed to have done?’
Gates sighed. ‘It’s not what he’s supposed to have done. Don’t come all East End innocence with me, Cathy. Have you ever had any dealings with him via Docherty? Has he ever asked you to deliver anything or take a message to Cheng?’
Cathy felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle with fear. She averted her eyes from Richard’s fierce gaze.
‘Never. Eamonn has never asked me to do anything like that. Why would he? And what’s more, why would he be involved with the Chinese?’ She had regained her equilibrium.
Richard said thoughtfully: ‘Susan P knows about it, but I can’t get a word out of her, and she’s frightened, very frightened. I’ve never seen her like it before. Surely that should tell you something? I have it on good authority that something big is going down, and many people are in on it. I’m frightened, Cathy. For you, for Susan, and for the others involved even though I don’t know them. Have you seen anything suspicious recently, either here or in the States? Think, woman, think and tell me. I hear it’s so big even the main men are terrified of it.
‘All I know is, Docherty’s been mentioned and so has Cheng. Now I need to put those two together and find something they have in common. The only thing I can think of is drugs, but even a large cache wouldn’t cause the terror I’ve seen in my narks. It’s as if they all want to escape, but can’t get out. Now I’m asking you one last time, Cathy, can you help me? I’m stumped. If it’s not drugs, what the fuck can it be?’
She looked at him, mystified and wary.
‘Is it to do with the IRA?’ he questioned her. ‘I’ve heard a few whispers that Docherty’s involved with them. Is that what this is all about? Only if it is, tell me. I’ve taken a good kick back over the years not to pull him in; Susan P arranged it a long time ago. I swallow that bastard because he has some high-placed friends, not just in the Met but in Special Branch as well. Both you and I know the Irish wouldn’t have gained such a hold without friends in high places. That stands to reason, doesn’t it? But this is different and I need to know what’s behind it.’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Richard, but I really don’t know anything,’ she said sadly. ‘I’d tell you if I did.’
Gates was looking older and more tired than she had ever seen him.
‘There’s a conspiracy going on right under our noses, Cathy, and we are powerless to stop it. The Russians are over here, the new Mafia of the Western world, with money, guns and power. Money in great amounts can buy power, you see. People like me, supposedly enforcing the law, are powerless to stop them.
‘They come over, put our girls on the game - and it’s not like the old days. These people tie the women to their flats, won’t let them move. They take all their money and use them till they’re well and truly worn out. This is what we have here now - an underclass of women and boys and little girls being used to make money for the bigger fish. Long live capitalism - the Russians have experienced it and they love it. You can buy justice in this country, buy your way out of a prison sentence, buy whatever it is you fucking want. I should know, I’ve sold plenty of so-called justice over the years. It’s taken me all this time to see how wrong I was.’
The bitterness in his voice, and his defeated expression, made Cathy sad. She realised she had been his last resort - his only chance of finding out what was going on. Walking over to him, she slid her hands around his neck. He pulled her to him tightly.
‘Oh, Cathy, what happened to the good old days, eh? When we all had a little tickle and no one got hurt. The real baddies were banged up and the nice baddies were roaming free. Now it’s a different world.’
‘I think the truth is we’re out of our league now. As you say, the New Mafia, the Russians and all the rest of the Eastern bloc, well, they’ve got the same hunger as we had once. Now we’re all rich, we want a nice quiet life, don’t we? We’re safe and secure and they’re threatening us. It’s the law of nature, the survival of the fittest.’
Her usual cheerful tone of voice had deserted her. She sounded hollow, not her normal chirpy self at all.
‘Well, I for one want out of it all. I’m past ducking and diving. Even the club gives me the pip at times. So I do understand what you’re saying.’
Richard wanted to take her and hold her, she sounded so lonely. He wanted to tell her he loved her. But he knew he wouldn’t.
She had offered herself to him once, and he, like a fool, had refused her. Thinking it was just because she was sorry for him, wanted to love him from gratitude. Over the years he had wished time and again that he had taken her up on that offer. Because he knew he could love her, physically and mentally, better than any man, better than Eamonn Docherty ever could. She was with Eamonn for the same reason Richard had thought she wanted to be with him: because she felt she owed it to him. All they had been through as children had made her see the Irishman through rose-tinted spectacles. To her Eamonn was a product of his environment, the same as she was.
But the truth was her loyalty was totally misplaced. Eamonn was a user and would use even her without a second’s thought.
Richard knew that as well as he knew his own name and address. But Cathy would never see it, not until Docherty finally tucked her up good and proper. And knowing her lover, that would happen one day. He just hoped it wasn’t going to be now with all the rumours of something seriously big going down, something so huge even Richard Gates couldn’t protect Cathy if she stood in the wrong people’s way.
Eamonn had taken the Washington shuttle from Newark airport and by late afternoon was ensconced in the Hilton International bar, a drink beside him and a nervous feeling in his belly. He was taken up to a suite soon afterwards and felt like the condemned man on his last walk.
He tried to pull himself together.
Smiling amiably at the man sent to escort him, he was answered with a stony stare. That in itself didn’t augur well, but he figured this man was probably like that even with his mother. Muscle had to look mean; it was part of the job description.
Inside the suite he saw four men, all known to him, all the last people he had expected to meet here.
There was Patrick O’Rourke, his IRA contact from Ireland, as large as life and twice as ugly, red hair tied back in a straggly ponytail and ice-blue eyes cold with disdain.
There was Sammy Colderi, the Las Vegas Don, short, portly, and lookin
g as if he didn’t know what the hell he was doing here.
Beside him was Manny Steinschloss, a Jewish entrepreneur who ran his own personal bank strictly outside the law.
But the main worry for Eamonn was that the fourth man was a New York Don, the head of the five families: Gesu Molineri. He was a huge man in his late-sixties, quietly spoken and notoriously reclusive. He kept a low profile at all times and to see him here frightened Eamonn more than seeing O’Rourke, deadly as the Irishman could be.
Molineri smiled grimly. ‘Please, Mr Docherty, be seated.’
Eamonn sat down, willing himself to be calm. He had been frisked in the limo from the airport so they were all aware he wasn’t armed. A glass of whisky was placed before him but he didn’t touch it. Instead he lit a cigarette, pleased to see that his hands were not shaking, and trying to look relaxed.
Molineri spoke again.
‘I have had a little disagreement with the Chechen - Igor. You know him, yes? We had a small dispute for a while over territory. He seemed to think he could just move into the East Side; I told him he couldn’t. Yesterday he died. But, you see, before he died, we had a long chat. About you.’
He paused to let his words sink in.
‘And about a few other things, principally events that occur in London. Nothing I need really concern myself with, you understand, but interesting all the same.’
Eamonn could hear the steady thud of his heart beating in his ears, the roaring sound that only acute fear produces.
‘I got in touch with Mr O’Rourke. We have a few dealings in Libya together - I am sure you can guess our business there. Yes, unknown to you, I have been in touch with your friends for many years. Even the FBI knew this. You, however, did not.’ He smiled to take the edge off his words.
‘Mr O’Rourke has always held a high opinion of you, especially after you disposed of your great friend, Petey Mahoney. As an Italian I understand it was purely business, and that business must be your god; friendship was secondary. I admired this in you. I have heard many good things about you over the years, and your dealings with Igor and the Russians . . . I admired those as well. Admired the way you carried your trade right under our fucking noses!’
His voice was hard now and Eamonn realised they were coming to the crunch.
‘Now, though, it is time for us to reconsider. Plutonium is the new gold, more expensive than diamonds even. Easy to get hold of if you know the right people - which you did. You have made a lot of money from this enterprise and now we are willing to take the burden from you. I already have customers lined up as far afield as India and Pakistan. In short, I want what you’ve got, and I intend to get it.’
‘What’s it got to do with all of you? I mean, why are the four of you here?’
Molineri laughed heavily. ‘Mr O’Rourke is here to show solidarity, though he will wet his beak. Steinschloss is to be our banker, the Russians trust him, and will also wet his beak. Sammy is here because we want to use Las Vegas as the front for our operation.’
Sammy looked as shocked as Eamonn felt. He was strictly gambling and prostitution, even the Feds knew that and left him pretty much to his own devices. All the more reason for the family to use him then, Eamonn realised. No one would ever suspect him of international arms dealing.
‘So where do I fit in?’ He knew he had lost the contract and now was only interested in letting himself out of it as easily as possible.
‘You, I am afraid, have to explain to the Chinese that we want the stuff you just transported to England. It’s a heavy load, and we have customers waiting. If you explain everything properly, that they are dealing with powerful people, you will be let off with your life and the lives of your family. I already have a buyer for it, though I suppose the Chinese had one as well. They can come to me, I’ll be happy to supply them in the future. I have made a deal with the Russians. Good men that they are, they took Igor’s death well. Like us, they understand it wasn’t anything personal. Just business. His brother is to be my main agent in Moscow.’
Eamonn felt the constriction in his throat. They had it all cut and dried.
‘The Chinese won’t just give it up,’ he told them, dismayed. ‘Can we not wait until the next delivery? Try and keep the peace?’
Molineri laughed then. ‘Fuck the Chinese, Mr Docherty. Get it, remove it, and make sure it is in my possession within four days.’
With that Eamonn drained his Scotch. He needed it.
Desrae was dressed as Cleopatra. His black wig suited him and his eyelashes could have broken a pane of glass, the mascara caked on them enough to make the Guinness Book of Records.
It was coming up for midnight. Inside the club all was noise and bright lights. Regulars were allowed in, but it was pretty much a private party. A constant floor show was going on, over two hundred people were eating and drinking - the noise was deafening and giving Cathy a headache. She saw Gates and Susan P whispering together in a corner and her heart sank.
Since his earlier visit she had been worried, very worried. Her eyes stayed on her daughter at all times. She felt that Kitty was in danger - though from whom she didn’t know. Joanie, the worse for wear, was singing now, a dirty rugby song, being egged on by the punters and the other girls. Kitty, also dressed as Cleopatra, was laughing uproariously, but everyone knew she didn’t understand the words of the song. Which was just as well.
Cathy went over to Susan and Richard. ‘Watch Kitty for me, will you? I have to slip back to my flat. I won’t be long.’ She was going to put on her own costume and see if she could get in touch with Eamonn.
She hurried through the streets, conscious of a deep feeling of foreboding. She hoped Eamonn was back from Washington; she needed to talk to him. She let herself into her flat, shutting the door behind her and walking through to the lounge.
Little Cheng turned to face her as she came into the room. Shock at seeing him in her home registered on her face.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
A large man came from behind and pinned her arms to her sides.
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘What’s going on? What are you doing here?’ She could hear the panic welling up inside her, making her voice high and quavery. Cheng was feared in Soho, many of the Chinese were. But they normally kept to their own. What could he want with her? Her mind was whirling.
‘Where is it, Mrs Pasquale?’ His voice was tight.
‘Where’s what, Mr Cheng? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He walked up to her, his little body stiff with threat. Taking out a long slim-bladed knife, he held it to her face. ‘I do not have time for this, Mrs Pasquale. I need to know as soon as possible where my merchandise is. Now tell me what I want to know.’
Trying to pull herself free, Cathy finally surrendered to the panic inside her. She became hysterical. The knife had a strange smell - the smell of cold steel. It was cool against her skin and as she realised what he was going to do, she opened her mouth to scream. Using all her strength, she kicked out at the little man and pulled free from the bigger Chinese behind her. She ran for the door but he caught her by the hair and dragged her back into the room.
Lying prone on the floor, she began to take a beating the like of which she had never thought to experience in her life. Ten minutes later she was half-conscious, talking rubbish but somehow holding the attention of the man above her.
‘The cases, Mrs Pasquale. Where are the cases?’
She was in such pain his words seemed to drift towards her on a warm red tide. She told him where she’d left her cases. As she lost consciousness, her final thought was that this was all Eamonn’s fault.
She had been set up by the man she loved.
Cheng looked down at her gravely. He had what he needed. Glancing at the bigger man, he nodded. ‘She can’t be left alive.’
He stood up, his suit stiff with blood, and sighed. He had always liked Cathy Pasquale, everybody did.
But Docherty had phone
d an hour ago, had tried to tell him that he needed the merchandise back, that he was to deal with the others from now on. Cheng knew a double cross when he heard one. He didn’t trust Docherty. There was something afoot and Cheng had a buyer all lined up. He was not going to let them down. Not for anyone.
As the bigger man went to work with the knife, Cheng visited the bathroom and tidied himself up as best he could. Then, thinking quickly, he went into the lounge and said heavily: ‘Rape her - it’ll look more like a domestic robbery.’
The other man nodded, pleased with this turn of events.
Mr Cheng left the flat then. There were some things he did not choose to witness. He had his standards.
Desrae was well drunk. It was a great party. Even Kitty had been allowed a few glasses of champagne and looked all starry-eyed and grown-up. The cabaret consisted now of young men in leather dancing to soul numbers.
Susan P, coked up and hot to trot, suddenly said to Richard, ‘Where the fuck has Cathy got to?’
He glanced at his watch. Cathy had been gone over two hours. Fear drenched him like a cold shower. He looked at Susan P. ‘Come with me. I think she might be in trouble.’ They handed Kitty over to Desrae and made their way out of the club, apprehension plain on their faces.
As they walked through the streets of Soho they made an incongruous pair. Richard was dressed in one of his out-of-date suits, his heavy body making him lumber along. Susan P was costumed as Cleopatra, her gait unsteady, eyes dark with worry. More than a few people turned to stare at them. Even in a wacko place like Soho they looked strange.
They found Cathy five minutes later.
As Richard phoned the ambulance and police, Susan P threw up repeatedly in the toilet. It was the worst sight she had ever seen. One she would never, ever forget.
Cradling Cathy’s ruined head in his lap, Richard Gates cried bitter tears. It looked very much as if he had lost her.