by Mark Dawson
Billy Stavropoulos had a large cigar clamped between his teeth. Edward looked at him, sitting there like the cock of the walk, and had the same anxious thoughts again. He was not the least bit contrite about his behaviour that morning. He’d made a joke of the beating he had meted out, laughing at the guard’s request that he should be marked and suggesting that he would have no trouble now in persuading his employers of his innocence. He’d get a raise, he reckoned, on account of the fight he must have put up. Edward thought Billy was hideous. He was cruel and unpleasant, uneducated even by the standards of the others, untroubled by the faintest shred of culture. If there was a potential impediment to his plan then he, undoubtedly, was it. There was a feral cunning to him, a natural wariness so that Edward knew he would always have to be watchful when he was around. He would never be able to truly relax. Billy made another crack about the morning’s work and looked around the table, gawking at the others to ensure that they found it amusing. Add a needy insecurity to his emotional make-up, Edward thought. The man was horrid from his head to his toes.
Lennie Masters chuckled at Billy’s joke, baring a yellowed set of teeth. Joseph smiled with a forbearing expression and Edward realised that he had come to accept the extremities of his behaviour. It was “just Billy,” he had explained by way of explanation earlier. He had “always been like that.” That really was not good enough so far as Edward was concerned. They were already taking significant risks and it made no sense to him to tolerate behaviour that made the risk worse. If he had been in control, that would be something that he would not allow. Billy’s behaviour was clumsy, stupid, dangerous and unnecessary. He knew he would have to discuss him with Joseph and he wondered how best to do that without annoying him. Billy was an old friend, after all. His oldest. Edward was new to the scene and knew it. It was difficult.
The bets were called, hands were folded. Billy, Jack and Edward were the last men standing.
“Let’s see your hand, then,” Billy said to Jack.
Jack gleefully laid the cards on the table. “Three Queens,” he said.
Edward had a pair of jacks, and he hadn’t played them well at all. Jack’s trio beat him. “Damn,” he said. “I’m out.”
Jack reached across the table for the pile of chips.
Billy raised a hand. “Hold on, my old mate,” he said.
“Piss off, Bubble––you ain’t never beating that.”
“Sorry,” he said with a grin that said he wasn’t sorry at all. “I am.” He put his cards face up on the velvet. “Full boat, kings over tens.”
A full house? Edward chuckled. Billy had played them both like a cheap fiddle.
Joseph and Lennie, long since out of the hand and undamaged, could afford to laugh. Jack and Edward were out of chips. It was just Billy, Joseph, Lennie and one of the businessmen left in the game.
Edward and Jack stepped away from the table and delivered their empty glasses to the bar.
Edward had quizzed Joseph about Jack McVitie as they made their way across Soho to the club. He had been involved with Joseph almost as long as Billy had. He had been born in Islington, and had had a difficult childhood, dropping out of school at an early age and falling into petty crime. He met Joseph in borstal in 1936 when both boys were twelve. Joseph had been sent down for burglary, Jack for stabbing another boy in the back with a pair of scissors. The two endured their inside year together, and, when they were released, they started thieving. Then, Joseph had gone to war while Jack had paid a dodgy quack to sign him off with asthma. He had spent the duration robbing whatever he could get his hands on and feeding the black market, but it had been hard graft and he had been glad to get cracking again with Joseph once he got back from the fighting. He was six foot two, heavily built, and crippled by vanity. He kept his balding thatch covered with his ubiquitous hat and had pushed a broken glass into the face of the last bastard who made a joke about it. That had done the trick. The subject hadn’t come up since.
“We were fooled,” Edward complained. “I could have sworn I had him beaten.”
“It’s a bad night when you let someone like Bubble gull you. He’s as subtle as a slap in the face. I must be drunker than I thought I was.”
“Might as well keep drinking then. Another one?”
“Why not. Whisky.”
Edward ordered the drinks and they took them to the large, deep-buttoned red leather Chesterfield next to the bar. They touched glasses.
“You’ve known Joseph for a while, haven’t you?”
Jack nodded. “Since we was nippers.”
“Do you know his family well?”
“Course.”
“You know George?”
“Well enough.”
“Everyone seems to be scared of him.”
Jack smiled at him as if he was a small child. “Have you met him yet?”
“Only briefly.”
“You want to be careful. His temper… Jesus.”
“Really?”
“You having a laugh? George Costello? Bloody right. Let me tell you a story.” Jack sipped his drink thoughtfully. “There was this one time, last year, just before Christmas, the family was having trouble with a bent slip out of West End Central. This bloke was on the take like they all are but this one was greedy, he wanted more and more, said he’d turn up the heat if he didn’t get another few notes when he stuck his hand out each month. So George meets him in the Greek dive on Old Compton Street, says he’s going to pay him what he wants but then he goes and pours a boiling hot coffee-urn over his head. In front of everyone. The slip got awful burns. In hospital for a week. They had to peel the skin off him, like an onion. He was bloody horrible to look at after.”
“He did that to a policeman?”
Jack nodded.
“And he didn’t get nicked?”
“Don’t be daft. The slip was out of order––his bosses would’ve given him a right going over. George has too many of them in his pocket. No-one wants to upset the gravy train.”
“And Violet?”
“If anything, she’s worse. It was her who set George on the copper. Between you and me, she’s a devious bitch and she ain’t got no scruples whatsoever. She might pretend to be sweet and light, but that’s only if you’re on the right side of her. She don’t do the sorting out herself, but then she don’t need to, not when she’s got a evil swine like George to sic on people.”
A shout of indignation signalled the end of the game. Billy had fooled Joseph, too, busting his aces with a trio of fours. They had each put ten pounds into the middle, winner takes all: a tidy amount. The businessman and Billy agreed a split of the pot, Billy gloatingly fanning himself with his winnings.
“Bugger this,” Joseph said, disgusted.
“Don’t be a sore loser,” Billy crowed.
They both joined Edward and Jack at the bar. The proprietor of the spieler was a man in a satin and quilted smoking jacket, of average height and Mediterranean colouring and with a pencil moustache that recalled Clark Gable. He opened a door at the far end of the room and led four girls inside. He brought over a humidor of excellent cigars and offered them around. “Gentlemen,” he said, his accent inflected with Latin accents, “allow me to introduce you to these delightful ladies.”
The four girls came over to them, each wearing a fine dress that shimmered in the subtle light, each of them smiling a knowing smile as if they were party to an excellent joke of which the poor chaps were hopelessly ignorant. They were superbly dressed, expensively and precisely made-up and with hair arranged in various fashionable cuts: one had a chignon, another the modishly popular Eton crop. Their décolletages were immodest and Jack whistled soft approval.
Billy made a show of sniffing his cigar––they were fine Cohibas––and placed it behind the ruffled handkerchief in his top pocket, patting it, grinning the whole time. “Alright, darling,” he said to the nearest girl, grabbing her slender wrist and tugging her closer. “Have a seat.” She giggled and allowed
herself to be pulled down into his lap.
One of the girls lowered next to Edward. “Hello, honey,” she said. She had a fuchsia-coloured cigarette in a long holder, the gold tip barely noticeable. The straps of her expensive dress were pencil-thin, hardly strong enough to support the fabric, framing a long white neck. She crossed a leg, the dress slipping aside to reveal a slender, alabaster ankle and tiny, expensive shoes. Her eyelids were indigo and her lashes were luxuriously long. “You’re a good-looking fellow.”
Edward smiled at the girl. Yes, this was a life that he could easily get used to, he thought. He allowed her to settle beside him, her fingers playing up and down his arm, her expensive scent filling his nostrils. Justified morally by the luxurious surroundings and the money in his jacket pocket and fortified by the excellent whisky, he felt his mood become reflective. He tried to take an objective look at the past few years. His time in the army had been a waste, a seven year interval during which he had put himself in harm’s way, and yet it had been necessary. The funds he had siphoned during his long sojourn through Europe had gradually dissipated. Most had been remitted to Jimmy to look after his father, and then there had been the regular bribes to ensure that his postings were away from the more perilous spots. It was demoralising to watch the reducing balance and know that there was nothing that he could do to replenish it or even staunch the flow. Eventually, it had all been used up.
The men of his battalion were dull philistines for the most part, and he had taken up with them in order not to be lonely and because they could offer him something for a while: conversation, such as it was, and the security of someone to look out for him. There had been moments of joy––watching sun rise above the golden dome of the Shwedagon Pagoda, the freshness of the jungle after the monsoon––but those had been fleeting. It had been a depressing time with his memories the only succour.
Long and tedious marches through the jungle were relieved somewhat by the vivid recollection of his European tour. A trek through France and Italy in search of art and culture, with the nearly unlimited funds of his companion and the benefit of her extensive connections, he perfected his language skills and mingled with the upper class of the continent. They had started in Paris, then moved on to Geneva, then took a trip across the Alps into northern Italy where they visited Turin and Milan. There was a month spent amid the wonderful atmosphere of Florence, a trip to Pisa and then on to Padua, Bologna and Venice. He remembered the sights and sounds of Rome, the masterpieces of painting and sculpture from the Renaissance and Baroque periods, the fabulous architecture. They diverted to Naples to sample Herculaneum and Pompeii, ascended Vesuvius and then, finally, hired a yacht and crossed to Greece before they returned north to Sicily. That was where Edward had made the error that had forced him to abandon the life he had grown to love. He had returned home and accepted his banishment to the Far East.
His reverie was disturbed by muffled shouting from the floor below. There was the sound of a scuffle followed by the unmistakeable retort of a shotgun.
“Old Bill!” Billy shouted, knocking over his chair as he stumbled upright.
The door to the spieler crashed open and a tall, well-built man came through. He was armed with a shotgun, cradling the weapon comfortably in both hands, the smoking barrel held level and aimed into the room.
“Don’t do anything stupid, lads,” he warned. His voice was deep and sonorous, yet unmistakeably threatening. He glanced around, pitiless eyes beneath a strong brow. Edward looked down. He was afraid of his eyes.
No-one moved. Another three men, these armed with revolvers, fanned around the room. The men were good, first checking that no-one was hiding and then ensuring that everyone was within their arc of fire. It was a routine that Edward had learnt and practised when clearing villages from laggard Tojo soldiers in Burma. These men were smooth and thorough, not a word passing between them.
Lennie Masters did not appear to be afraid. He held his ground and said, “This is a stupid move, Spot, even for you.”
“Alright, Lennie. Just take it easy.” He toted the shotgun. “No need for me to use this, is there?”
Joseph got to his feet. “Do you know who I am?” he said.
“I don’t, lad. Afraid you have my advantage.”
“Joseph Costello.”
Spot smiled, the corners of his thick lips angling upwards, his white teeth flashing. “The prodigal son,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You’ve been in Burma, fighting the nips. Good for you, lad, good for you. I’m Jack Spot. I expect you’ve heard a lot about me, too.”
“I’ve heard you’re a dead man.”
Spot’s laugh was deep and almost attractive, despite his oversized and discoloured teeth. “I see you have your old man’s temper. Pleased to meet you, lad. I’m the new guv’nor around here.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Jack,” Lennie said.
“Like I say, Lennie, don’t do anything stupid. Let’s keep things nice and cordial, shall we? No-one needs get hurt.”
Everyone else was quiet, but Joseph stared Spot right in the eye. “You’re robbing from a Costello business, you bloody idiot.”
“Less of the salty tongue, lad. You’ve been away too long––your family’s on its uppers. No-one is scared of any of you any more, see? Your old man was something once, but he’s brown bread. His name means nothing now and without that––none of you mean nothing. I’ll tell you what––you be a good lad and deliver a message to your auntie Violet and uncle George and I’ll let you and your mates out of here without touching a hair on your heads. You tell them to clear out of Soho if they know what’s good for them. I’d rather you persuaded them to go quietly, but if they need something to help focus their minds, you be sure to tell them how serious I am.”
Without another word, Spot aimed the shotgun at Lennie Masters and pulled one of the triggers. The blast took off Lennie’s arm at the elbow. He spun around, blood spraying from the frayed stub that dangled from his lacerated jacket. Spot pulled the other trigger and blew Lennie back against the windows, tearing down the old black-out curtain.
There was a moment of shocking silence and then the women started to shriek.
Joseph took a step forward but Spot spun the shotgun around quickly, the barrel pointing directly at him again. “Tut tut, lad,” he said, grinning horribly. “You don’t want to get fresh with me.”
“Like I said––you’re a dead man.”
“You ain’t the one holding the shooter, son. Do me a favour––all that money on the table there, you bag it all up for us, alright?” He threw a canvas sack at him. “And anything else––watches, jewellery, anything behind the bar. All of it, double quick.”
Joseph’s face flushed the deepest crimson. The girls were crying, trying to stop the sobs and gulping air. One of them fainted. Edward watched carefully, drawing no attention to himself but absorbing everything. Spot flicked the barrel in Joseph’s direction and covered him as he dragged the pile of notes from the table and into the mouth of the bag, then went to the bar and emptied the till.
“Chop chop,” Spot said, waving the shotgun, “and your watches and jewellery, all of it. Ladies, too.”
Edward unclipped his watch and dropped it into the mouth of the bag. The others did the same. Spot was either unaware or uncaring of the deadly looks that were aimed at him.
“There,” Joseph said, dropping the bag at the feet of one of the other men. “Done.”
“Good lad. We’ll be on our way now. No hard feelings, but if I were you I’d keep out of Soho for a while. You and your family aren’t welcome here no more. Wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to you as poor Lennie there.”
25
LENNIE MASTERS’S BODY HAD LAIN THERE, half propped against the wall, the arm missing and blood starting to clot around the horrid, vivid wounds. The proprietor said they should leave, and that he would take care of calling the police. They did not argue. There would be awkward questions asked of those who were p
resent. The place was illegal, for one thing, and there was a dead man slumped against the wall. The patrons and staff dispersed, gathering their belongings and hurrying down the flight of stairs and onto the street. No-one spoke. Billy and Jack went home. Joseph and Edward went straight to the Blue Arabian. George and Violet Costello were in one of the booths, locked in conversation with two beetle-browed heavies and a skinny man with buck teeth who was, Joseph suggested, “a big noise in America.” The room was jumping, a large crowd dancing to the Jock Salisbury Quartet, and the music and the smoke-heavy air made Edward’s head spin. They approached the booth, Edward waiting a respectful step away as Joseph waited for his uncle and aunt to acknowledge him. He dipped to George’s ear and spoke quickly. George’s expression darkened and he shared a quick word with his sister. They both made their excuses, leaving the table and hurrying towards the bar.
There was a door to a store room. George shoved it aside roughly and they followed him through: barrels of ale, bottles in crates, rows of empties. Violet looked out of place amid the detritus of the club. She looked glamorous, as always: dressed in a jacket with a high neckline, a knee-length tartan skirt and calfskin pumps with wedge heels. A tiny hat that must have cost a small fortune completed the ensemble. She took a cigarette from her case and screwed it into a holder.
“Not him,” George said roughly, pointing to Edward. “Family only.”
“He was there,” Joseph protested. “And I told you, he’s clever––he might be able to help.”
Edward stood silently, working out the angles.
“Let him stay,” Violet said.
“Fine,” George relented. “What happened?”