by Mark Romain
‘Yeah, VIPs only,’ the one on the right echoed.
There was an air of lazy aggression about them. The one on the left made a point of sucking his teeth disrespectfully, while the man on the left repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared menacingly at the visitor.
Livingstone was unmoved. He had been born in a London slum thirty-five-years ago, and had grown up immersed in the unforgiving violence of gang culture. These pussies didn’t frighten him.
Both doormen were of African descent. They had chubby faces and pronounced foreheads that loomed over eyes bereft of intelligence or initiative.
‘Do you know a man called Goliath, bruv?’ Livingstone asked, unperturbed by their open hostility.
‘Who wants to know?’ the one on the left demanded, jutting his head forward aggressively.
‘Yeah, who wants to know?’ the one on the right parroted.
Livingstone sighed impatiently. He hated dealing with lackeys. ‘Look, I’m here to meet with someone, his name is Goliath. I was told that if I mentioned his name at the VIP door someone would come out and collect me.’
The two bouncers looked at each other, looked at Livingstone, shrugged. ‘Never heard of him,’ they said in tandem.
Anger flared. ‘Let me speak to your boss,’ Livingstone told them, allowing an edge to creep into his voice.
The doormen, identical twins called Isaac and Andre Kalu, were used to drunken punters who got stroppy when they didn’t get their own way. The ones with money, like the man in front of them, were normally the worst behaved.
The twins shared another glance. They were both more than happy to thump anyone who overstepped the line – or anyone that didn’t for that matter – but there was something about the coldness of the man’s stare that made them hesitate.
A clipboard magically appeared in the hand of Isaac, the doorman on the left. ‘Show me your name on this list,’ he demanded, belligerently thrusting it out towards Livingstone.
‘My name’s not on your stupid list,’ Livingstone said, waving the clipboard away impatiently.
That drew a scowl. ‘Then who should we say is calling?’ Isaac demanded sullenly.
‘Yeah, who should we say –’
‘My name’s not important,’ Livingstone snapped, cutting Andre off. ‘Just tell Goliath that the man who wants to hire him is outside, but won’t be for much longer if he’s not shown some FUCKING RESPECT.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Isaac clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth in agitation and then lumbered over to a concealed panel in the wall beside the door. Flipping it open, he snatched out a red telephone on a long cord and dialled an extension inside the club. Shaking with anger, all he could think about was decking the flash wanker who’d just given him attitude. If it hadn’t been for the possibility that he might actually be a client of Goliath’s, he would have done so.
When Isaac returned, Livingstone noticed the bouncer’s attitude had undergone a subtle change and he seemed marginally less truculent than before, which seemed to confuse Andre. ‘If you go and wait by the door, someone will be out to collect you shortly,’ he told Livingstone, indicating for his brother to move aside and let the smaller man go past.
A few moments later, the VIP door opened inward and, as the sound of music escaped, he found himself staring into the chest of a bald-headed black giant who was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. The giant didn’t bother Livingstone with pointless questions about who he was or why he was here. ‘Follow me,’ he simply said, and immediately headed back into the club without waiting for a response.
Livingstone followed the man through the VIP reception area, which was bigger and plusher than he’d expected it to be.
His guide, who appeared to be in a hurry, led him past a cloakroom staffed by a smiling attendant, a couple of fancy looking restrooms, and several plush sofas where well-dressed guests nursing their drinks sat chatting. The further into the club they went, the louder the trashy music became.
Up ahead, another gorilla in a dinner jacket was stationed by a set of doors that led into the club’s interior, ensuring that only the entitled got in. They never got that far, though, because the giant suddenly veered off to his left and keyed open a heavy wooden door marked “Private – staff only”.
‘The manager’s office is the third door on your right,’ he informed Livingstone, impatiently waving him on as he paused to close and re-lock the door that they had both just passed through. ‘Wait in there.’
Livingstone did as he was bid.
The manager’s office was a good size, well-lit and comfortably furnished. The walls were bare, but the magnolia paintwork looked clean, and the grey carpet was thick underfoot. Directly in front of him, a big mahogany desk dominated the room’s centre. Apart from two telephones it was devoid of clutter. A regal looking gold framed King-Throne chair, complete with ornate carvings and a plush covering of red velvet, stood behind it, while three cheap looking Wing-Back chairs with dark blue plastic upholstery had been arranged in a semi-circle at the front of the desk.
Behind the desk was a solitary window; it was barred, making the room feel more like a prison cell than an office.
There was an informal seating area to Livingstone’s right, which consisted of a three-seater leather sofa and two matching armchairs arranged around a large glass-topped coffee table. Beyond this was a long, granite-topped, bar with three padded swivel stools in front of it. A floor to ceiling cabinet, full of expensive looking bottles and an array of different shaped glasses, was secured to the wall immediately behind the bar.
The room’s left-hand wall was home to several banks of CCTV monitors, each providing different internal and external views of the club. Beneath these, a steel table had been bolted to the wall, and this housed a large hard drive and the various toggle like controls for moving the cameras around and zooming them in or out. It was an impressive set up, allowing the manager to monitor everything that happened inside the club without ever having to leave his office.
Various feeds – some colour, some infrared – were currently showing. Livingstone could see live-time images of people gyrating under the strobe lighting of the packed dance floor; groups of animated guests standing around on the mezzanine level above them, cocktails in hand; the different themed bars within the club, all of which looked to be doing a roaring trade; the main foyer, where some of the people he’d seen outside were now paying to get in; the VIP reception and lounge he’d entered the club through; the staff only corridor he had just been shown along; both the VIP and regular customer entrances, still respectively manned by the Eastern Europeans and the Africans, and the car park at the rear, which contained several parked cars, all of which looked to be high end models.
The final camera showed what appeared to be a large empty basement, and Livingstone found himself wondering why anyone would need to have a live CCTV feed from there. Perhaps it was in case the club was burgled out of hours, or to deter light-fingered staff from helping themselves to stock on delivery days?
Suddenly feeling in need of a stiff drink, Livingstone crossed to the bar to see what it had to offer. He was just pouring himself a large glass of eighteen-year-old Macallan whisky when the door opened and the black giant from earlier entered the room. Strutting over to the desk like he owned the place, he flopped down in the throne and hoisted his size fifteen feet onto the desk, setting them down with a loud thud.
‘Ah, I see you found the drinks cabinet, Mr Livingstone. Good, good. Now, please have a seat and let’s get down to business.’
Livingstone chose the middle of the three chairs facing the desk. Sitting down slowly, he crossed his legs, tugged at a small crease that had appeared in his trousers, and took a sip of his drink, savouring the full-bodied taste. ‘My compliments to the owner, bruv,’ he commented, raising the glass appreciatively. ‘He has good taste in whisky.’
The giant grinned broadly, revealing gold capped canines that made
him look like a gangsta vampire. ‘I agree, but then again I would – I am the owner.’
‘Is that right?’ Livingstone said, sounding totally uninterested. ‘No offence, blood, but my time’s precious, and my business is of a sensitive nature. The middleman I went through told me I would be able to speak directly to Goliath. When will I be able to do this?’
The giant grinned again. ‘Fam, I am Goliath. Surely my size gave you an inkling?’
Livingstone studied him dispassionately. For all he knew, the moniker had nothing to do with physical size. ‘Can you prove it?’ Livingstone asked. ‘I apologise if the question seems rude, bruv,’ he added hastily, ‘but a person in my position has to be extremely careful.’
Far from being offended, Goliath – if that was indeed who he really was – seemed to approve of the other man’s caution.
‘You’re quite right to ask me,’ he said, nodding vigorously, ‘I would do exactly the same in your position. So, let me clear that up. You were pointed in my direction by a broker called Clive Middleton. He told you to come to the VIP entrance this evening and ask for Goliath. You were told my fees, which you said were exorbitant. He assured you that I was worth every penny, which I am by the way. You wanted to pay half up front, and the rest on completion. He said that I would expect the full amount to be paid up front, and that this was non-negotiable. Is that right?’
Livingstone gave a satisfied nod. That was pretty much how the conversation had gone down.
‘I’m very much looking forward to being of service to you,’ Goliath said. ‘However, I am half-way through dealing with a little situation that has arisen, so would you mind if we talk while I work?’
Without waiting for a reply, he stood up.
Livingstone hesitated for a moment, but then he followed suit. After all, what real choice did he have? As he watched, the giant went behind the bar and felt for a hidden switch on the side of the cabinet. Something clicked and, placing his enormous hands on one side, he gave it a firm pull. Rotating smoothly outward, the bar opened on concealed hinges like a conventional door. ‘Follow me,’ Goliath said, and stepped inside the gap that had appeared.
Livingstone cautiously crossed the room to join his host, and discovered a dimly lit stairway that descended down to who knew where.
‘I must apologise for those two idiots at the VIP entrance, Fam,’ Goliath said, his words echoing all around them in the confined space. ‘I assure you they were told to expect you, and the way that they behaved was not professional. I will speak to them about that, you can be assured.’
Livingstone ignored the apology. ‘Where are we going, bruv?’ he demanded, wondering if he was being dicked around. ‘I’ve come a long way to see you, and I’m very anxious to discuss my situation, know what I’m saying? How long is this work you’ve got to do likely to take?’
‘Don’t worry, Fam,’ Goliath soothed. ‘This won’t take long at all, and then you can have my undivided attention.’
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Goliath pulled open a thickly padded door. He stepped into a three-foot recess and paused. ‘The room we are about to enter is completely soundproofed,’ he announced proudly. ‘You could be standing on one side of the door while I stood on the other firing a machine gun. You would not hear it.’ Motioning with his head for Livingstone to follow, Goliath pushed open an identically padded door and stepped into what appeared to be a brightly lit storage area.
As Livingston followed him in, he immediately recognised the large open space as the basement area he had seen earlier on CCTV. Only it was no longer empty. The entire floor had been covered with thick plastic sheeting. Two men, both black, both in their late twenties, had been beaten, bound to chairs that were bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, and gagged. The men were clad only in their boxers, and their faces were bloodied and swollen.
The one nearest him was a runt of a man who seemed to be all skin and bone. He sported a big afro haircut like the ones that had been popular in the seventies, and from the smell of it, he had soiled himself. Thankfully, his incessant blubbering was being largely muffled by a filthy gag that had been forced deep into his mouth.
The head of the male furthest away, a short and rather plump individual with a receding hairline, was slumped forward onto his chest, which was covered in blood from where his nose and mouth had recently bled profusely. His chest rose and fell slowly, telling Livingstone that he wasn’t dead, just unconscious.
This was madness. ‘What the fuck are you involving me in, bruv?’ Livingstone demanded angrily.
‘Don’t worry, Fam,’ Goliath assured him, ‘nothing that happens here will come back to bite you. Of that you have my word,’
Livingstone had learned the hard way that you never took anyone’s word for anything. For a moment, he considered turning around and walking away, leaving the club while there was still time to distance himself from whatever was about to go down. But if he did that, his plan would be over and he would have come all this way for nothing.
I hope you’re as good as your reputation suggests, he thought, studying Goliath uneasily.
‘Someone is going to die in this room tonight, Fam,’ Goliath casually announced. ‘They will die brutally, and by my hand, but no one will ever be able to prove that I did it, or that the killing took place in this room.’
Livingstone recalled that a live feed from this room was being recorded on the equipment up in the manager’s office. His eyes urgently sought out the camera. When he found it, mounted high on the wall behind the two men, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Clever, he thought. Very clever,
A ten-by-eight-inch photograph had been expertly positioned in front of the camera’s lens. Livingstone immediately realised that he had been looking at this photograph on the manager’s monitor, and not at the actual basement itself. It had fooled Livingstone, and it would fool the police if they ever seized the club’s CCTV.
‘Let’s begin,’ Goliath decreed, beaming his vampire smile once more. ‘These men distribute product for an associate of mine,’ he explained. ‘Although they were well compensated for their services, one of them got greedy and started skimming the profits. My associate has asked me to establish who it is, and to deal with him appropriately. We were just getting started when Isaac called me to say you were outside.’
Livingstone remained silent. He had witnessed violent deaths before and was completely unfazed by the prospect of seeing another. All that worried him was that he might be dragged into the ensuing police investigation if Goliath was sloppy about the clean-up.
Grabbing a handful of hair, Goliath yanked the man’s head back and stared down into his terror-stricken face. ‘I’m hoping it’s you, Tyrone, and not Drake, here. I really am,’ he told his prisoner. ‘Just between you and me, I’ve never liked you, and I would very much enjoy killing you.’
Shaking uncontrollably, the other man’s eyes widened, and a howl of anguish escaped his lips. His bladder gave way again, causing a dark stain to spread across his lap and a yellow liquid ran down the side of his leg to form a small pool by his feet
Goliath turned his nose up in disgust. ‘You do not endear yourself to me by doing that,’ he said.
Tyrone started wailing again. Goliath let him carry on like that for a few seconds, staring at him in amusement, and then he removed the material. ‘Chose your words wisely, Fam, because this is the only chance that I’m going to give you to speak.’
‘Please,’ Tyrone sobbed, ‘I swear I haven’t been ripping Marvin off. I would never do that, I promise.’
Presumably, Marvin was the drug supplying associate Goliath was currently working for, Livingstone reasoned.
‘I didn’t even know the merchandise was being cut,’ Tyrone sobbed.
Goliath’s eyes hardened. ‘I never said anything about it being cut,’ he said.
‘Isn’t that what’s been happening?’ Tyrone asked, confusion now competing with fear.
Goliath si
ghed. ‘No, it’s not what was happening, you idiot. Cash is being stolen. The takings are way down on what they should be.’
‘It’s not me,’ Tyrone blurted out.
Goliath eyed him with cynicism. ‘Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn’t you, Fam, but how do I know I can trust you?’
‘You can trust me, bruv,’ Tyrone’s quivering voice implored. ‘You can trust me with anything.’
Goliath sighed, evidently bored, and turned to look at Livingstone. ‘I grow tired of this game. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter to me which of these men is responsible, because I know that one of them definitely is. That makes the solution rather easy, don’t you think?’