Authors: Derek Farrell
Chapter Twenty-Seven
What could I do? Ali insisted she was innocent and I believed her.
And yet...
“Maybe she did take the money,” I sighed.
Caz and I were in the filth-encrusted kitchen.
I’d had no intention of opening tonight and had told Ali as much, which had only added to her paranoia. “It’s not cos of you,” I insisted. “It’s cos – Christ, Ali, Lyra’s dead. A woman died here, less than twenty-four hours ago. How can we open a boozer after that?”
“Listen,” Ali fixed me with a desperate looking stare, “I didn’t take a penny from that safe. I don’t know who did, but I know it wasn’t me. And I tell you something else I know: if you don’t open this pub tonight, you’ll be passing up your best chance ever to get back some of what was pinched.”
“Ali, who’s gonna want to have a fun night out in a room below the one where a woman was strangled?”
“Oh, you have
no idea,
” she said. “Open it up and I guarantee that you’ll be beating them off with a stick.”
So I told her to refill the shelves with whatever she could find, get the twins in and shout if she needed me.
Then Caz and I had set to cleaning the filthy
cuisine,
more as a way of taking my mind off everything and providing me with an excuse for
not
going into the bar than anything else.
Caz flipped her fringe out of her eyes, sighed and stopped sweeping the floor. “If she did steal it, why would she come back?”
“She’s not stupid, Caz: she knows its Chopper’s money and when he finds out who stole from him, they’re gonna be fitted up for concrete UGGs.”
“So, what? A double bluff? She comes back to prove her innocence? By that logic, maybe Chopper took it himself.”
“Why would he do that?”
“This way, instead of a share, he gets all of the takings.”
I shook my head. “If Chopper had taken the cash, he’d, well he wouldn’t exactly
tell
me, but he’d enjoy dangling it in front of me. No: something else happened here. And when I figure it out...”
“What?”
“Well, I’m gonna get the cash back and pass it on to Chopper.”
“And till then?”
There was a cough from the doorway. I looked up and Ali was stood there. How long had she been there and how much had she heard? “I think you’re needed out front,” she said simply, before turning and vanishing back towards the bar.
I stepped into the hallway and could already hear the thudthudthud of a disco track cranked up on the stereo. As I walked towards the bar, a high pitched laugh drowned out whichever current diva was singing her heart out over the beat.
My mobile rang. I pulled it from my pocket, glanced at the words
Unknown number
and flipped it open.
“Hello,” I said, as the sound of two scaffolders practicing who could bellow the word
cunt
loudest echoed from the bar.
The line went dead.
I shrugged and stepped into the bar and there were Christie, the underage tart he’d had with him the previous night and a selection of broken noses, chipped teeth, protruding jaws and wide brows, all overhanging a clutch of already half-emptied pint glasses gripped in a series of fat and/or tattooed knuckles.
The place reeked of expensive cologne and testosterone.
“Ah!
Mein host
!” It was three pm and the whole group already seemed to be lively. Christie gestured expansively at me, finished the gesture with a deliberate limp wrist, squeezed the girl round the waist with his other arm and winked at me lasciviously. “Thought some mates might enjoy your hospitality, know what I mean?”
“Jimmy,” I nodded and glanced towards the left end of the bar where two or three paying customers were being served by one of the twins.
“
Mr Christie
,” his eyes glinted menacingly, “but you’re right; let’s not stand on ceremony. You can call me Jimmy and I can call you Dan, I’m sure.”
“It’s Danny,” I stepped forward, realising I was less afraid every time I met this worthless tub of lard. “What can I do for you?”
Ali appeared at my shoulder. “He wants champagne,” she murmured
sotto voce
.
The door opened. Another customer entered and made his way to the right end of the bar. I glanced in his direction, frowned, wondering why he appeared familiar and turned my attention back to the mob before me. I was glad Ali had called me rather than just opening the bubbly; I had exactly four magnums in the cellar, all of which had been obtained on “Sale or return,” with the intent to display them, pour cava into champagne flutes and return, untouched, the vastly overpriced champagne.
And now, here was Christie demanding the most expensive booze I’d hoped never to serve in the place.
Like I say; I was glad she’d called me, but sorry I had to be the one to work this mess out.
“That’ll be a hundred and thirty quid, please,” I said
Christie smirked. “Danny.
Dannydannydanny
. You know: you lot are so funny.
Shut that door
and all that. Love it. I! Fucking! Love it!” He roared, attracting disapproving glances from the small group at the left side of the bar.
I smiled. “How many glasses?” I asked.
“Tha’s better,” he smirked, counting the mob with a fat, nicotined finger, “Seven, eight, nine. Nine. Make it ten; have a drop yerself, mate.”
“I won’t,” I smiled back at him, with just as much hatred as his smile to me had contained, “If you don’t mind; but I will have the cash: one-thirty. Please.”
“Yeah. ‘Bout that,” Christie slipped off his barstool, tilted his head almost imperceptibly to the right end of the bar and slid a little towards where the newcomer was stood flipping idly through a free newspaper. I followed him a little out of the hearing range of the tribe.
“Listen, you stupid little queer,” he had the look of a rabid terrier now, his beady little eyes shining wetly, his teeth – tiny, sharp and almost unnaturally white – exposed behind drawn back lips, “open the fucking ‘poo or this little lot will tear this fucking place to pieces.”
“Go fuck yourself, Christie.”
He paused, his mouth opened, his face set in a shocked look and then snorted; his approximation, I supposed, of a laugh.
“That booze costs over a hundred quid and the only way you’re getting it is cash upfront.” I heard my voice and it sounded infinitely braver than my pounding heart or my trembling knees felt. “I’ve got to pay Chopper his cut out of everything that crosses the bar; so unless you want to explain why you and this fucking rabble are pouring a tonne’s worth of his profits down your greedy fucking throats, you pay up, or fuck off.”
Christie put his hand down on the bar and his opened palm contained a gun. He turned his hand over and the gun was only partially covered by his fleshy mitt. He smiled coldly.
“Do you really think Chopper gives a flying fuck about you, your mob of shit stabbers or this crappy boozer?” He demanded. “You’re already nothing more than a lesson he’s gonna have to dole out, faggott. You need friends round his gaff and I’m offering you the chance to make some mates here. Now, open the fucking booze, smile, then fuck off backstage and try not to piss me off any more than you already have.”
“You got half a bitter?” A voice asked. I glanced up and it was the newcomer and I remembered where I’d seen him before.
“Oi!” Christie slipped a copy of
QX
over his fist full of Heckler & Koch and turned his hate filled glare on the young dark haired stranger who was standing a little too close to him for his comfort. “D’you wanna back off, mate. And get your hard-on out of my back; I ain’t interested, bum boy!”
“That’s not my hard-on,” the newcomer said, reaching over Christie’s shoulder to slap an open warrant card with a bright shiny police badge onto the bar. “It’s my baton. Hope you’ve got a licence for that little toy, Jimmy,” DC Nick Fisher asked, his lips almost intimately close to the thug’s ear. “Otherwise I might have to take you out back and conduct a cavity search. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.”
Christie jerked as if a jug of boiling water had been shoved down his back. His hand left the gun where it sat and he backed fully into the young policeman, who stayed, arms surrounding the short sack of nastiness, just where he’d been.
“I’ve no idea where that came from,” Christie croaked. “Just sitting on the bar it was. Was just telling my friend here that this place has gone right downhill. Punters with shooters? Whatever next?”
“Punters who want to drink for free?” Fisher offered.
Christie swivelled and realised that, since the Detective Constable hadn’t actually moved, his back was now pressed against the bar, as the copper leered over him. From the corner of my eye, I saw one of the mob nudge the other and heard a snigger exchanged.
“Listen, mate,” Christie said, keeping his voice low, “I’m as gay friendly as the next man; but you’re a bit too close for comfort. Know what I mean?”
Ali sidled up beside me. “Everything OK?” She asked.
“Really? You’re gay friendly?” Fisher leaned in. Christie leaned back, his head clunking off the draught beer taps. “Only, so far I’ve heard you use the words
Little Queer
,
Shit Stabbers
and
Faggott
and none of them in an ironic, empowering way.”
“You forgot
Bum Boy
,” Ali offered.
Fisher nodded gratefully at her. “Thank you, madam, you’re quite right: I
did
forget
Bum Boy
. Though I bet
you
, Jimmy, have never forgotten a bum boy in your life, have you?” He smiled nastily, paused a half second and continued. “In fact,
mate
, with all those nasty negative euphemisms, I’d have put you down as a pretty gay
un
friendly type. Which sort of makes me wonder what you’re doing in South London’s leading new gay bar.”
Christie did the whole constipated pigeon thing with his bobbing head and straightened himself up. “Jus’ doin’ some business,” he muttered. “Wanna let me loose?”
Fisher stepped back, one eye remaining on the gun. “I’d suggest your business here is done,” he stated coldly.
Christie bob-gulped again, the last of his bravado restating itself. “I got a pint to finish.”
“For which you will, of course, have paid in full,” said Fisher, his eyes locked firmly onto the nasty little face before him.
I watched the back of Christie’s head and knew that I’d probably pay for this humiliation; but right now, I didn’t care, as he scuffled, in a panic, through his pockets, pulled out a fistful of cash; slapped it, without inspection, on to the bar next to the gun; hesitated a moment as though trying to decide whether to make a snatch for the piece; decided against it, barked “Boys, we’re off,” and slid over to the mob, muttering loudly about the place being
full of buggers and busies
.
The gang downed their pints, the little blonde
moued
and said something about his promising her champagne. Christie muttered something to her and shot me a filthy look. Ali slid the cash off the bar, counted it, rang up the till and informed me in a whisper that “We’ve just taken that tubby tit for ninety-three seventy-two. For six Stellas, a Pernod, and a rum and coke.”
“He can come again,” I muttered to her as the tribe lumbered – as though choreographed – to the door. Christie and the bimbette – now also shooting daggers in my direction – exited first, followed by the entire Wormwood Scrubs
corps de ballet.
A moment later, the door opened again and a gaggle of new – and quite clearly not gangster – customers entered the bar. Ali, having clapped me on the shoulder, went off to serve them.
“Have you got a bar towel?” Fisher asked, his eyes changing from olive to emerald green.
“For you, I have anything,” I responded, wondering, as I slid a
Teutonberg
towel to him, whether flirting with one of the coppers who had you down for
divacide
was advisable.
Fisher lifted the towel and using it, reached across to pick the gun up from the bar. “Unlikely to have any useful dabs,” he smiled, “but worth taking care of. You know: you really need to watch the sort of people you allow in here. That one’s not only a worthless piece of shit, but also very,
very
straight.”
“We’re very straight friendly,” I flirted back. “Bitter?”
“I try not to be,” he smiled, rolling the towel up and slipping the parcel into his coat pocket.
“You wanted bitter,” I clarified.
“I did indeed,” he replied, smiling at me. “But I wanted you more. That is,” he blushed, “I wanted to ask you something.”
I reached for a glass and began to pour a half pint of Pride into it. “Anything, my hero,” I flirted, placing the glass on the bar.
He sipped from the glass. “What are your plans tonight?”