John could recall how, one day, he recited the words of one of his teachers, who had said that success was just a matter of working hard and that people who worked hard could make their way into wherever they wanted to go. Mary had savagely cut him down, calling him a halfwit. “Anything you want in this world you gotta take! And if you’re too weak for that, well, I might as well put you out your misery now!”
John was never sure what his Aunt had meant by this, whether she really would have ended his days right then; still, he thought better of ever bringing up the businessmen hurrying to work on the Tube again. And he never stopped wishing that one day he’d be one of those people—and now maybe he could—thanks to the opportunity Emma’s dad had given him. His future could involve becoming one of those busy businessmen.
“That looks beautiful,” Billy said, finishing scrubbing the table leg he was working on and stepping back to admire his work.
“What are you going to do if this guy asks where Payne is?” John said.
“Payne told him that I would be his only contact now, simple.”
It didn’t sound simple to John; it sounded completely dodgy. But when put against the context of his brother killing Robert Payne the day before, nothing after that seemed simple. They were caught in a hurricane now, and all he could do was hope it somehow blew itself out.
“He texted Payne’s mobile to say he’ll be here in about an hour,” Billy said, taking Payne’s phone from his pocket.
John looked at Payne’s phone and felt a shudder run down his back. “You should get rid of that phone after today.”
“You’re joking aren’t you? This is great fun,” Billy smiled, looking at the phone. “Do you know how many times Charlie O’Neil has tried to phone?”
John shrugged, trying to ignore the fear even the mere mention of the man’s name inflicted on him.
“Forty-two fucking times!” Billy said, holding the phone aloft.
“The man will be melting down,” Auntie Mary said with a poisonous smile. “Men like that like to be in control, and we’ve taken that from him.”
“I feel like changing Payne’s voicemail,” Billy said, his eyes growing darker, spurred on by Mary’s obvious pride in his actions. “And change it to; Robert Payne’s not here at the moment… Cause Billy Blake killed him!” He shrieked with laughter.
Nick now joined in laughing, in the soulless way that only he could muster, and Auntie Mary looked towards her favourite nephews, smiling with pride. As John looked glumly at his brothers, he caught a glance from his Uncle, staring back at him. The look had no malice or anger; it was merely full of sadness. They both knew that John shouldn’t be here—he had better places to be. But it was not that simple.
“Ray, have we got any tequila in?” Billy snapped.
“Billy his name’s Roy,” John said, the anger at seeing someone slight his uncle, overtaking his normal fear of his brother.
“Really brother?” Billy eyes blackened. “Maybe I like calling him Ray. And if I do, what are you going to do to stop me?”
John glared back at his younger brother. He was filled with fear as he looked at Billy’s dark eyes; there was no soul there, all he saw was pain, pain that had hardened over time and became something else, something that scared John to the bone.
“Look what you started, you stupid old man!” Mary shouted at Roy. “These boys need to be focussed on their big meeting, and you have to get involved and stir things all up!”
“Sorry boys,” Roy replied feebly. “I’ll go down to the storeroom Billy. I'm sure we must have a box of that stuff somewhere.”
“Good, cause if not, you’re going to have to go out and get some,” Billy replied.
John knew he should have stepped in to defend his Uncle—he’d brought these boys up and he certainly deserved better than being treated like a servant.
“Sure thing,” Roy said, walking towards the cellar stairs.
“Now you boys need to focus,” Mary instructed sternly. “Have you still got this list of questions I wrote for you Billy?”
“Yes of course Auntie,” Billy said, taking a piece of A4 paper out of his pocket. “I'm prepared. We'll strike the hardest deal this Mexican has ever had.”
John didn’t care how good the deal was. Providing an agreement was actually made, he could look to leave his brothers with some kind of positive outlook. If they were really set up with these Mexicans, maybe he might even tell them about his new job with Emma’s father, instead of just disappearing. It wouldn’t go down well, but the euphoria his brothers would be feeling from a successful deal might mean that they might just overlook his misdemeanour, and he could keep his family and live his new life in peace.
Chapter Thirty One - Mickey the Bag
Mickey followed Seamus into the smart reception area of the insurance company; much to his annoyance Seamus was once again full of excitement to meet another so called rock star.
A smartly dressed middle aged woman sat behind the reception desk, which was the only piece of furniture in the whole area, the other feature being elevator doors found on the back walls that she guarded. Mickey eyed the doors angrily; he wanted to walk right past the desk and stroll into the lift. He wasn’t used to having to conform to rules—allowances were normally made for Mickey Dunne. But such an act would pose a number of problems, the first of which was that he didn’t know which floor he was going to, and there were at least fifteen to choose from. He didn’t have time to waste on such a hunt—he was anxious to get back to London. Another more problematic issue was if they did just stride past the desk then it guaranteed that the stupid old bint would call for security and the situation would escalate. He wouldn’t take any shit from some nobody in a ten pence uniform.
Seamus was starting to stride purposely towards the reception desk, when Mickey put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I’ll do the talking,” he said.
The woman looked up at Mickey abruptly. “Yes?”
Mickey gave the woman his best winning smile. “Good morning, how you doing?”
“I’m very busy, thank you for asking. Now what can I do for you?” the receptionist replied, clearly bored with the conversation already.
“It’s funny; the people in your corporate ads seem so much more polite,” Mickey said, giving her a fake smile.
“Well—they are Meer Cats, fictional characters,” the receptionist bristled. “You do realise that such beings cannot actually talk.”
“Really,” Mickey replied, trying to keep his temper. “Thanks for clearing that up.”
“Well if that’s all?” the receptionist smiled.
“We’re here to see Dave Crossbones; we have some business with him. I think you’ll have him on your file as Dave Cartwright?” Mickey said.
“And what business would that be?” the receptionist asked sharply.
“My associate and I…” Mickey said, gesturing to Seamus. “We need to discuss some terms with Mr. Cartwright.”
The receptionist started to rapidly type on her computer and looked up. “Dave Cartwright, sorry there’s no Dave Cartwright or Dave Crossbones here. Are you sure you have the right insurance company?”
Mickey looked across at Seamus, who nodded back insistently. “Yes we do. I suppose we might have the first name wrong? Have you any Cartwrights or Crossbones here?” Mickey asked, slightly exasperated. He was quite prepared to believe that Fame had sent them on a deliberate wild goose chase.
If Fame had sent them up here to get rid of him what would be the reason for that, Mickey wondered. In the end, he didn’t care; but he knew the pain he’d inflict on him in response.
“We do have a Denise Cartwright?” the receptionist offered.
Mickey noticed a subtle change on the receptionist face when she said the woman’s name. It was one that he couldn’t quite read; there was something worrying about how the woman’s lips had slightly curved when she said the name Denise.
One of the many books Mickey had read to ed
ucate himself was “Become The Master Of Body Language”. The author had probably not envisaged a debt collector using it to build up his list of top tips, but it had nevertheless been particularly useful when he had to determine if someone was hiding something or not. And this Receptionist had conveyed a message to Mickey in the way in which she had pronounced the name Denise.
Mickey fought the urge to vault the desk and give the woman a slap. “Definitely Cartwright though?”
“Yes,” The receptionist confirmed.
Mickey turned to look at Seamus. “That stupid idiot Fame has given us the fella’s wife’s details.”
Seamus shrugged, obviously seeming to realise he wasn’t on any safe ground if chose to defend the showbiz manager.
Mickey turned back to the receptionist. “Sorry. I think our company has given us his wife’s details.”
“Wife?” the receptionist smiled, fighting back a snigger.
It was at this point that Mickey started to wonder why this woman was clearly so amused at his interest in seeing this woman Cartwright. Seamus stormed over to the desk before he could ponder this more and leant over the desk in an aggressive manner. “Please don’t laugh at my boss’ hair.”
The woman looked back at Seamus, clearly surprised by the accusation, and Mickey turned to Seamus, much annoyed. “Seamus, she was not laughing at my hair.”
“Oh come on Mickey, look at it. Of course she was…” Seamus stopped mid-sentence, realising his error.
Mickey glared back at the younger man. He wanted to slap him but, this would just extend the time wasted further; he glared at Seamus.
“Sorry Mick,” Seamus said bashfully.
“Excuse me, you can find Denise Cartwright on the first-floor,” the receptionist said, clearly trying to rid herself of the two men.
The first floor was made up in a fashion Mickey imagined most offices were, with a multitude of desks separated by five feet high dividers to give some degree of privacy, with helpful name signs on each. Seamus pointed towards a nearby desk that belonged to Denise Cartwright, and the two men walked towards it. They could see a woman with her back to them on the phone.
“Jesus Christ,” Mickey said, when they were close enough to see that the woman they were looking at was a man.
“Mickey, she’s a man,” Seamus said dumbfounded.
The man, who was dressed as a woman, put down the phone. She looked at the two men and quickly put her hands through her hair to put it in place.
“Hello gentlemen, can I help you?” the transvestite asked.
“You can do the talking this time Seamus,” Mickey said, pushing his colleague forward.
“You…” Seamus said stammering. “You can’t be Dave Crossbones.”
“Why can’t I?” The transvestite looked offended by this statement.
“He’s a drummer and you’re…” Seamus said, continuing to nervously stammer. “You can’t be a drummer.”
“Well actually, I was once called Dave Crossbones and was once a drummer,” Cartwright replied defiantly.
“Are you sure?” Seamus asked, clearly hoping it wasn’t true.
Mickey was now sick of seeing Seamus struggle with the conversation so decided to step in. “You are Dave Crossbones?”
“I can be anyone you want me to be, Mr.Blue,” Cartwright said, fluttering his fake eyelashes.
Mickey had never been fully comfortable with gay people and, in particular, drag artists. He wasn't sure exactly how he should act. Generally, he opted for one of two styles, either behaving in an overtly derogatory manner to emphasise his heterosexuality or acting as if he was completely at ease, in a way that displayed his complete boredom with the whole thing.
Normally he went with the former of the two but today he decided for option two. “Look, there’s no need to get all gay about this! All we’re looking for you to do, is come down to London and play a gig with your old mates in Wild n’ Weird,” he said, unconsciously stepping back as he spoke.
“Despite you asking me so politely, I’m not interested. Thank you,” Cartwright said, going back to his work.
“Right, give him a slap Seamus,” Mickey said firmly.
Seamus looked at the transvestite uncomfortably. “Do I have to Mick?”
“Yes you bloody do!” Mickey snapped.
“Oh can it be on the arse?” Cartwright said, looking at Seamus seductively.
“I’m feeling sick Mick,” Seamus said weakly.
Cartwright stood up and bent over his desk. “Come on big boy. Where's that slap?”
”I’m not going to ask you again Seamus,” Mickey said, crossing his arms steadfastly.
Seamus made a pained face and pointed at the transvestite bent over her desk; but Mickey just glared back. Seamus shook his head before jumping forward. He gave Cartwright a heavy shove. The transvestite fell graciously to the floor and, in the same moment, Seamus jumped away, as if touching Cartwright had in some way burnt his skin.
“Ow! That really hurt!” Cartwright said, slowly getting up off the floor.
“Jesus! I’m trying to give you another shot at the big time, and you’re seriously going to turn it down and make this hard on yourself?” Mickey said annoyed.
“Well who could say no to such nice boys like you?” Cartwright said, getting out a small mirror from his handbag to inspect any blemish Seamus had created to his make-up.
Mickey turned around and started to walk back to the elevator. “Screw this! Let’s just tell Fame we couldn’t get him. I’m sure he could hire some other drummer for this gig.”
“What was that? Maxie sent you?” Cartwright asked, suddenly showing interest.
“Maxie?” Seamus said uncomfortably confused.
Mickey stopped and turned back to the transvestite. “Yes, who do you think told us where to find you?”
“Oh, if Maxie wanted me to be there, he just needed to give me a quick tinkle,” Cartwright exclaimed.
“A quick tinkle?” Seamus echoed.
Mickey took a business card out of his wallet and passed it to Cartwright. “Right, be here on Thursday afternoon.”
“Is this your place Mr. Blue?” Cartwright asked suggestively.
“No, as it states on the card, it is Fame’s studio,” Mickey replied.
“That’s a shame, but tell Maxie I’ll be there,” Cartwright said, returning to the work on his desk.
Seamus and Mickey walked up to the elevator; Seamus was still looking in shock after his conversation with the transvestite.
“I tell you something; you better get used to people like that if you want to get into show business,” Mickey said with a smile.
“I’m really starting to think differently about rock stars,” Seamus replied.
Chapter Thirty Two - DS Early
DI Khan and DS Early were sat uncomfortably close on a sofa next to the main dance floor in Zebbie’s After Dark Club. Early could almost feel Khan’s body tremble, being so close to another. He wondered if it was racial or religious thing, whatever it was though she was a complicated person with some real issues.
“I bet you could give it some on that floor Guv,” Early said.
Khan showed a flush of embarrassment induced by Early’s comments. “Not all women in their twenties are sluts DS Early.”
“Sorry Guv, I didn’t mean to…” Early said, beginning an apology.
“Didn’t mean to stereotype me as a young slut, DS Early. Oh thank you very much, you’re very kind,” Khan replied with a glare.
It was a lie though, Early had meant to stereotype his boss. He wanted to find out if she was really as uptight as she came across—and she was. He had questioned if he should have passed on the info he had to Hawkins and now he couldn’t help but continue the questions. There was an innocence to Khan. She was a strange combination of a highly driven woman, and one who had achieved promotions she’d never earned. She represented everything that Early thought was bad about the Force these days, but still there was something delicat
e about her. He started to wish he hadn’t made that call to Hawkins.
Zebbie walked through a door on the other side of the dance floor and beamed with delight at the sight of the two detectives waiting to speak to him. It was a fake delight, a face of delight that had been developed over time. Developed out of necessity. Zebbie was clearly well used to dealing with the Police and used to trying to pretend not to dislike each encounter. Early glanced at Khan, who seemed to be giving the nightclub manager a sympathetic smile; she was obviously too green to see through Zebbie’s mask.
“Officers, good morning,” Zebbie smiled.
Zebbie was fifty-two years old, Early had learnt from reading his file. He seemingly tried to hide this by the way he dressed, which was somewhere between a seventies pimp and footballer bling. His skinhead hid any grey hairs, which would obviously have tarnished his appearance, and had earrings in both ears. He was the very stereo-type of his industry.
And he was clean. Zebbie’s only entry, on the record Early had dug out for Khan, was for traffic offences and he was completely clear apart from this—the perfect guy to run a place for organised criminals. The other nice give away that the place was connected to something underhand was that Zebbie had bought the nightclub in cash ten years before; which either meant he had real money or he was being backed by some.
Zebbie sat down on the sofa opposite Khan and Early. His damaged face from the assault earlier in the week was now clear to see under the bright lights of the club. “Can I get either of you a drink?”
“No,” Khan replied quickly, apparently not wanting to give Early the opportunity to respond.
“You’re here cause of what that silly girl Crystal said, aren’t you?”
“That silly girl was worried about you and took a very brave step to protect you by coming forward,” Khan replied.
Her initial sympathy had gone and was replaced by disgust at the man’s uncaring words about the young bartender.
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