Authors: Mark Dawson
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 present. 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?”
Joseph spoke quietly. “Jack Spot and three of his gypsies turned over the spieler on Manette Street. And then they shot Lennie. He’s dead.”
George’s face flickered from fury to confusion and then back to fury again. “Why? He wants a war with us?” He slammed his fist into the wall. The confusion and the frustration stayed, and for a moment he looked like a baffled toddler. He appealed to his sister, “Violet––what do we do?”
“What did he say?” she asked.
“That we’re finished in Soho. That we should clear out. He says he’s the new guv’nor.”
“And?”
“That’s it. He stole anything worth having and cleared off.”
Violet stared at the unlit cigarette but said nothing. She lit the cigarette slowly and carefully. Edward realised that she was as confused as George, but that she was better skilled at masking it. Joseph, too, did not know how to react. Edward had decided when they made their way into the club that he would keep his own counsel, regardless of what Joseph said. He had ideas but he did not want to speak out of turn in case they thought he was being presumptuous. But, watching them flounder, he realised that, in their own ways, they were all paralysed by confusion and doubt. They needed him. He saw the chance and he took it.
“He doesn’t want a war,” he offered carefully.
“Really?” Violet said acerbically.
“No. He’s weighed this up. It might have looked it, but wasn’t a spur of the moment thing. He thinks that shooting your friend is all it’s going to take to get what he wants. He was going to do that all along, it didn’t matter what he did or didn’t say. He thinks you’re weak. He thinks you’ll give up and step away.”
“Weak?” In a sudden movement, George was onto Edward, taking him by the lapels and shoving him against the whitewashed brick wall. He was prodigiously strong. “You don’t know him and you don’t know us,” he said, his face so close to Edward that he could see the bubbles of spittle forming on his bottom lip. “I’ve had people cut into little pieces for saying less than that to me.”
“Uncle,” Joseph said, his tone calm and even. “He didn’t mean it like that.”
“Let him go, George,” Violet instructed.
George pressed harder for a moment and Edward felt the points of his knuckles burying themselves deeper into the soft flesh beneath his shoulders. He released his grip. “Alright,” he said, taking a step back. “Go on then, explain, but watch what you say.”
Edward did his best not to patronise them. “Rational people don’t want to fight, not if they don’t have to. It’s messy and no-one ever ends up with everything they want. Spot is sending you a message that it’s not in your interests to take him on. There was no need to do what he did––Lennie wasn’t doing anything to provoke him and shooting him was gratuitous. That was the message he wanted to deliver––he’s saying that he’s dangerous and unpredictable, that he’ll do anything to get what he wants and if you want to fight him, you’ll have to fight on the same level. And he doesn’t think you’ll be prepared to do that.”
George folded his huge arms, his porcine eyes staring dead straight at Edward. “He’s wrong,” he said. “What a load of old bollocks.” Edward could see that it was just bluster.
Violet lit her cigarette, put the holder to her lips and drew in a sharp breath. “Fine,” she said, exhaling. “If you think you know what he’s doing, why don’t you tell us what we should do about it?”
“Start to close your Soho businesses down.”
“Shut them down?” George laughed harshly.
“And move out.”
“Run away?”
“Let him think he’s getting what he wants. Persuade him you’ve got no stomach for this, a scrap with someone who’ll shoot one of your men for no reason. Prove him right––make it look like you
are
weak.”
Because you are, Edward thought. Weak and lazy and ripe for the picking.
“And then?” Violet asked.
“And then you plan your next move. All warfare is based on deception. He needs to think that you can’t or you won’t attack him. You sit down. Plan the correct response. And then carry it out ruthlessly.”
“What a load of old bollocks, Violet,” George said dismissively. “We start to move out and every Tom, Dick and Harry will be onto us. They’re like damn sharks. They smell weakness––real or not––and you’re done for. They’d tear us to shreds. Sorry, Joseph, but your mate ain’t clever. He’s naïve. Wouldn’t last five minutes here.”
He knew that he did not have to persuade George. When it came down to it, he would do as he was told. It was Violet, shrew-like and wily, whom he had to persuade. She did not speak. She drew down again on her cigarette, her eyes on Edward and yet distant, as if calculating or toying with a difficult problem. She exhaled smoke up into the vaulted ceiling.