The Break

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  ‘He’s in, though . . .’ JoJo tilted his head up towards the glass-fronted office jutting out up on the mezzanine between the banks of seats.

  He . . . Not once since Frankie had started training here again in January had he ever heard JoJo refer to Listerman the Lawyer by his name. Probably still resented him for having had the previous manager chucked headfirst through that window. Or allegedly chucked, at least. A punishment for till dipping, apparently. Though it was more likely Listerman had just fancied increasing his boss Tommy Riley’s share of the business up to a nice round 100 per cent.

  ‘Oh yeah, and he was asking after you,’ JoJo said, a look of warning in his rheumy, bloodshot eyes. ‘Said to send you up if you came in.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Frankie didn’t like the sound of this. Particularly the word ‘send’. Like he was some kind of sodding parcel Listerman just got to dispatch whenever he pleased.

  ‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,’ JoJo told him.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Frankie started heading off.

  ‘You’re moving a bit lopsided there, kid,’ JoJo said. ‘Catch your shoulder on something, did you? Or someone?’

  Nothing got past him. Never had. But when Frankie looked back, he’d already turned his attention back to the ring. ‘Come on, Tiffany,’ he barked. ‘Look like you mean it. Stop bloody pussyfooting around.’

  Tiffany? Frankie grinned. He’d not noticed before, but the girl in the ring in the blue headgear was none other than Jack’s new girlfriend. Or not exactly new now, eh? A whole year they’d been going out. And as well as teaching yoga in the new studios upstairs, here she was getting stuck in down here. Frankie winced as, spurred on by JoJo’s taunt, she piled in with a whip-sharp combination which knocked her opponent’s mouthguard clean out as she sent her stumbling back onto the ropes.

  Not the only useless piece of guard equipment around here either, he saw as he reached the top of the stairs a couple of minutes later. Listerman’s usual grunt was standing sentry outside the door to Jack’s office. Well, Jack always called it his office, but the truth was it was just another one of Listerman’s in all but name. In much the same way that the James Boys Gym itself didn’t belong to either Frankie or Jack. The black-and-white photos of their granddad and great uncle in reception downstairs, who’d both been pro fighters back in the day, were just there for added authenticity. For all the Green Park lawyers, West End luvvies and NoHo new media kids who made up the membership, so they could all of them feel like proper little geezers as they trotted through their boxercise classes upstairs.

  ‘You got an appointment?’ asked the grunt.

  You got a brain? Or any manners? Frankie was tempted to ask back. He must have told this dickhead his name a hundred times, but not once had he remembered it, the knob. But he kept his mouth shut, because what was the point? It would be like trying to teach a goldfish maths. And, besides, after Frankie’s little trip to the Cobden Club yesterday, he’d had enough of argy-bargy with morons like this.

  ‘Just tell him I’m here,’ he said.

  ‘Corporate Hospitality’, a sign read above the door. Alphonse – for that was the dumb lunk’s name – knocked four times, the same as always. Christ on a bike, it was hardly the cleverest of secret codes, was it? More Famous Five than MI5.

  Frankie smiled, remembering what that old bird in the Paradise had said yesterday. She wasn’t the only one now peddling conspiracy theories about Princess Di’s demise, either. The waiter down at Bar Italia, where Frankie had grabbed a quick sarnie and double espresso on his way over, had told him he’d heard aliens had abducted Princess Di seconds before the crash in a flash of white light and switched her body for a double. Because, yeah, sure, of course, that made so much more sense than what had actually happened.

  ‘Enter,’ a voice shouted from the other side of the door.

  ‘Who does he think he is, a porn star?’ Frankie joked.

  Alphonse didn’t get it. ‘No, mate, I don’t think so,’ he said, opening the door.

  Frankie walked in.

  ‘Ah, good,’ Listerman said, ‘I was hoping you’d turn up.’ He peered through his glasses, looking Frankie’s suit over the same way JoJo had. ‘Going somewhere fancy?’

  ‘Got a couple of meetings lined up with The Topster for later on.’

  Frankie’s main business partner in the Soho Open had got a couple of honchos from the Global Professional Snooker Association heading down to his sports agency’s office on Haymarket later on to comb through their plans yet again, just to make sure everything was above board and conforming to their regs – something Frankie was thankful as hell he had Andy there to help him with.

  ‘Good good,’ Listerman said. ‘The devil makes work for idle hands, as they say.’

  ‘Told you that personally, did he?’ Frankie said.

  ‘Oh yes, most amusing. Now take a pew.’ Listerman waved his bony hand at the little chair on the other side of his aircraft carrier of a desk.

  Frankie sat down and looked around, as Listerman used a little stub of a bookie’s pencil to scribble something down next to the long row of figures showing on the pad in front of him. The office had been done up a fair bit too since Frankie had last been summoned up here a few weeks back. Less health club, though, more pimp. A couple of red leatherette sofas. A glass-topped bar for booze and a matching table for coke. Along with a metal pole running floor-to-ceiling in the centre of the room for . . . well, not exactly what you might find in the head office at IBM, say, but no doubt striking just the right note for the kind of corporate hospitality on offer in here.

  Listerman seemed to have had a bit of a facelift himself since Frankie had seen him last month. He still looked like a lizard in a suit, of course, but a slightly less wrinkly one than before. A lot less, actually. More like someone had ironed his forehead on full steam.

  ‘So how was Florida?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Yeah, good. Played a lot of golf.’

  More like sat in a clinic with a bandage wrapped round his face, if the colour of his skin was anything to go by. Didn’t look like he’d spent a second outside. The rest of him was vibrant enough, mind. He looked like a fruit shop, dressed in a maroon suit and purple shirt, with a plum-coloured tie knotted up nice and tight against his closely shaved, wattled neck. He pushed his little pad aside and flicked a dry roast peanut up into the air before catching it cleanly in his saggy ballbag of a mouth.

  ‘Nut?’ he asked, nodding at the packet of KP Dry Roasted on his desk. He flipped his pad over to a crisp white new page.

  Only you . . . another thought Frankie kept to himself. Because, whatever this was about, he wanted to be out of here as soon as possible and with no bad vibes either. Listerman the Lawyer answered direct to Tommy Riley and no one else. Mess with him and Frankie was messing with Tommy too.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Right, well, let’s get down to business, then. Why don’t you start by bringing me up to date on everything that’s been happening tournament-wise, since I’ve been off on me hols.’

  As Dougie Hamilton had so recently pointed out, the price of Jack getting his job here safe off the streets and under Riley’s protection had been for Frankie to give up 20 per cent of the Soho Open. Meaning Listerman had been involved right from the launch down the Ambassador Club last year.

  Frankie gave him a quick run-through of where they were at. How The Topster had finally locked in the sponsors and local TV and radio support he’d promised. How tickets had already sold out, both for the matches down the Ambassador Club and here at the gym, where Jack was going to be dismantling the rings and bringing in tables for some of the earlier rounds.

  Listerman nodded, seemingly satisfied. ‘And what about the presentation of the trophy itself?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s agreed,’ Frankie said, ‘Tommy’s going to be the one to hand it over.’ Not something that Andy Topper had been so keen on, truth be told. The sports agency he ran had half a dozen high-profile clients who
’d have been much better at it than Tommy, and whose involvement would have got the tournament a lot more press attention too.

  ‘Good,’ said Listerman, ‘because he’s written his speech already and invited his mum.’

  Well, whoopee doo. ‘I’ll make sure she gets the best seat in the house,’ Frankie said.

  Listerman scribbled that down. His ‘Little Books of Fucking Promises’, Jack had once referred to his notepads as. What got written down there never got forgotten. And woe betide anyone who promised Tommy something they later flaked out on.

  ‘Tommy wants it to be him who hands over the Beamer’s keys too,’ Listerman said.

  ‘Right . . .’ And fair enough there, at least. Because Riley’s involvement wasn’t all bad. True to his word from last year, he’d stumped up that BMW 3 Series convertible he’d been owed, as an additional players’ prize to encourage top-quality entrants.

  ‘Oh, and on that,’ Listerman went on, ‘Tommy had a bit of creative input he wanted to give you too.’

  ‘Oh, right?’ Let me guess. A full orchestra playing Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’, while Tommy was lowered by helicopter onto the roof of the Ambassador Club? Something tasteful like that?

  ‘A ribbon,’ Listerman said.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Tied around the motor.’ Listerman crunched down on another peanut. ‘Only, obviously not the actual motor itself, of course, not the one on the inside of the car. Because then no one would be able to see it, would they? What I mean is the ribbon needs to go around the chassis, the bit that people see, get it? Oh, and make sure it’s a big ribbon too. Tied right tight round it like it’s a great big box of chocs.’

  ‘Chocs . . .’

  ‘Oh, and he wants it in purple,’ Listerman said.

  ‘Purple?’

  ‘Like my shirt.’

  ‘A Prince fan, is he?’

  Listerman frowned. Or at least Frankie reckoned he might have. It was hard to tell, what with his forehead no longer having the ability to move.

  ‘Prince who?’ he said. ‘Charles? Is this something to do with Princess Di?’

  ‘No, I meant the pop star.’

  Another possible frown. Or not. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Listerman. ‘But let’s try and stick to the point, eh, Frankie?’

  Frankie gave up on the joke. ‘And the point is . . . purple?’

  ‘Exactly. Because of Tommy’s fire.’

  ‘His fire?’

  ‘Yeah, his birth element. According to his Feng Shui . . . And don’t smirk,’ Listerman said, watching him. ‘He’s dead serious about it. Ever since he started shagging this new Chinese bird of his . . . Chenguang.’

  Frankie hadn’t yet had the privilege, but Jack had met her a couple of times and had told him her and Tommy were pretty tight. Tight enough that even Tommy’s actual missus would give a serious shit if she saw them together, because Chenguang seemed to have him that much under her thumb. Best not take the piss about her Feng Shui, then, eh? Or he might find out just how much fire Tommy really had.

  ‘She’s told him purple’s his lucky colour,’ said Listerman. ‘Or luckiest anyway. Closely followed by magenta, red and brown.’ Listerman waved his hand demonstratively over his own clothes. ‘Meaning our corporate colours should be the same.’

  Again with the corporate. Was he joking? Apparently not. Then fine. Tommy Riley, Inc. this all now was. Putting the corpse into corporate. Maybe Frankie should offer that up as a possible tagline. Or then again, maybe not.

  ‘Right,’ said Frankie, ‘then purple it shall be.’

  Listerman scribbled that down on his pad. Frankie stood up. Seemed like their meeting was done.

  ‘Oh yes, and before I forget,’ Listerman said. ‘What’s your feeling about making new friends?’

  ‘What?’

  Listerman looked up sharply. ‘Chums . . . pals . . . buddies . . .’ His lips twisted as he said this last word, like it had left a nasty taste.

  ‘My feelings?’ Frankie said, suddenly wary – because Listerman wasn’t exactly famous for his small talk, so what the hell was he on about now?

  ‘Yes.’ Listerman’s eyes locked on Frankie’s as he took a mauve – no, make that magenta – silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket and began slowly polishing his specs.

  ‘Er, I don’t really have any,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Yes, but all the same, I’m sure you’d agree that it’s extremely important what kind of new friends one makes on one’s journey through life?’ Listerman’s teeth smiled, but not his eyes.

  ‘I suppose . . .’

  ‘Only suppose?’

  ‘Well, no, I mean I . . .’

  ‘Agree?’

  ‘Well, yeah . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ Listerman said. ‘Very good indeed. Because I always worry when people don’t agree with me. And Tommy, he always worries the same.’ Not even Listerman’s teeth were smiling now. ‘And wouldn’t you also agree that making new friends with people who your old friends are not friends with is a very bad idea? Particularly when these new friends are in fact your old friends’ old enemies?’

  Shit it. Frankie’s throat turned dry. Because he meant Dougie Hamilton, didn’t he? He’d been caught out, hadn’t he? That’s what all this was about. Bollocks. Someone must have seen him at the funeral.

  ‘You’re talking about Terence Hamilton’s funeral, right?’ Denying it would only make matters worse.

  Listerman sat back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together in a spire. He said nothing, just watched.

  ‘You’re talking about me being there?’

  ‘Ah, so my information is correct, then.’ Listerman wrote that down. ‘That is good to hear.’

  ‘I can explain,’ Frankie said.

  But could he? Because what exactly was he meant to say? That Dougie Hamilton had personally asked him there? That Frankie had gone because he’d had no choice?

  Because, no, he couldn’t say any of that, could he? Because telling Listerman that would lead to him having to tell Listerman why, which would mean telling him all about the pistol with his prints on it. And telling Listerman that would be admitting that Dougie Hamilton now had him over a barrel. Leaving Frankie at best a risk, at worst an outright liability. And there was only one way that Tommy Riley ever dealt with them.

  But what the hell was he meant to tell Listerman instead? The first thing that came into his mind: ‘The Old Man asked me to go.’

  ‘Who, Bernie?’ Listerman looked as surprised as a man with an entirely immobilized forehead could.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And why exactly would he do that?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Frankie bluffed, ‘ . . . because they knew each other, didn’t they? As kids. Him and Terence. And Tommy too.’ A shit reason, but a reason nonetheless.

  ‘I lost my virginity round the back of the bike sheds at school to a right little goer named Dorothy Kenton,’ Listerman said.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘My point being that, even though I was once extremely fond of her, and in particular her firm little tits, she’s not someone whose funeral I would feel in any way inclined or obliged to attend now. And I’d certainly not send along one of my nearest and dearest offspring in lieu of myself.’ Listerman leant forward again, watching Frankie carefully, like a bank manager regarding someone who’d just reneged on a loan. ‘Leaving me both surprised and perplexed as to why your father would have sent you. Because, you see, as far as I know, your father is a wise and sensible and, indeed, reliable man, who made his decision a long time ago to side with Tommy and not with those Hamilton cunts.’

  Frankie swallowed. Far from quelling Listerman’s suspicions, it looked like all he’d succeeded in doing was pushing them onto the Old Man.

  ‘It’s just something he asked me to do if I was passing,’ Frankie said, floundering, ‘you know, out of respect.’

  ‘If you were passing? And did you just happen to be passing the Cobden Club a
fter the funeral as well?’

  Double shit. So Listerman knew about that too. Meaning he had someone on the inside? Christ, how much more might he know? Frankie had to stick as close as he could to the truth, without giving him an inkling of what him and Dougie had actually talked about. Unless, of course, his informant happened to be the twat with the bat who’d been the only other person in the room. In which case, Frankie was screwed.

  ‘No, it was Dougie who asked me there . . . after he spotted me at the funeral.’

  ‘Dougie himself?’

  ‘Well, no. Through a third party.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A woman. Viollet something. A South African bird.’

  Listerman wrote down her name.

  ‘And why would he do that?’ he then asked. ‘Seeing as how you’d already paid your respects?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And yet, regardless of young Dougie’s known antipathy towards both yourself and your brother, you decided it was still a good idea to take him up on his kind invitation and trot along to see him at his club?’

  ‘I felt it would have been rude not to.’

  ‘Rude?’

  ‘Disrespectful.’

  ‘Disrespectful . . .’ Listerman was still watching. Still not satisfied. Still wanting more.

  ‘And . . . all right,’ Frankie said, ‘dangerous . . . I thought it would have been dangerous to tell him no . . . I thought that maybe by going there I might be able to somehow smoothe things over between us.’

  ‘Smoothe . . .’ Listerman scribbled that down too. ‘Ah . . . now at least that makes a modicum of sense. Because of your brother, yes? Because of how you’re still worried that Dougie Hamilton wants him dead?’

  Frankie nodded.

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dougie, of course. When you spoke to him at the club. I’m assuming you did get to speak to him?’