Little Men - The E Book (2 page)

Kyla enjoyed the good life and fancied herself as a bit of a celebrity. She had travelled the world, with rumours of her adventures filtering back to Dartford. Stories of her making and losing fortunes, sleeping with film and pop stars, contracts to do this, that and the other. Kyla had certainly gained a reputation, although mainly among the men of Dartford, fuelled by gossip and hearsay.

“Oh yeah, she was full of stories as usual, that one. Now she’s gonna be on some telly programme or somethin‘. You know, all the usual old crap. And everyone was round her like flies round shit. She’s just a waste of space if you ask me. Nothing special.”

“Er, yeah,” agreed Sam, although he didn’t really think so. He would love to date Kyla. He would be the envy of all his mates, and most of Dartford.

“Anyway boys, gotta love ya and leave ya. The missus’ll start moaning. Here’s your jimmys.”

“Thanks, Sean.” Sam handed the money over and Sean exited the car.

Sam felt pleased with the smoothness in obtaining his new acquisitions. The hard part was over. As they drove through town, Sam was thinking ahead.

“How about we go to mine now? I’ll get ready double quick, we’ll shoot over to yours, you can get ready, then we’ll jump on a train into town. It’ll be alright to leave my motor at yours, won’t it?”

“Yeah, no problem. What club we going to?” Chris was surprised in that he was actually quite up for going out tonight. He had a reputation among his friends as the ‘boring’ one, and they were quite happy to say it in front of him. He didn’t take drugs, although he’d tried most at one time or another. He enjoyed clubbing and the music, but always stuck to his argument that you didn’t need drugs to have a good time. He was easy-going and valued friendship. He was in a long-term relationship but welcomed the occasional night out with the boys, it was nice to have a break from the old routine.

“I reckon we push the boat out. How does Snake
grab you?”

Snake was the biggest nightclub in London. It had been running a few years, quietly gathering momentum with a very underground clientele, but with its success had recently established itself as one of Britain’s new ‘superclubs,’ while still maintaining an icy-cool edge.

“Okay… actually, are you sure we’ll get in? I’ve got a feeling
it’s a big one tonight, someone like… Charlie Caxton’s there. I’m sure I heard on the radio…”

“So much the better. We’re gonna have a great night then. We’ll get in, probably just have to queue for a bit, that’s all. It’s not that cold!”

Sam drove swiftly across town in the direction of his flat. He was quite proud of his little place, pleased that he didn’t live with his parents like most of his friends. He’d had the guts to step out on his own. Of course, it was far from ideal paying someone else’s mortgage for a mediocre flat in a fairly run-down part of Dartford. It was, after all,
dead money
as his stay-at-home friends were so fond of telling him. Unfortunately, options are fairly limited when you’re twenty-three, mired in student debt and taking your first tentative steps on the career ladder. Young, middle-class Britain under Tony Blair’s New Labour. Debt-ridden, over-qualified and living in ridiculously over-priced housing. Postgraduate and potless, one might say. Still, there was plenty of drink and drugs around to cheer everyone up.

Sam and Chris walked up the stairs and into the flat. Darren (Sam’s flatmate) wasn’t in, but he must’ve only just gone out. The room was still warm and there was fresh washing-up in the sink.

“Probably round Steph’s,” said Sam. Stephanie was Darren’s girlfriend. Sam preferred it when Darren went to hers than vice versa. Steph was okay, but listening to them shag through the flimsy walls was a constant reminder to Sam of his single status. Something he could do without being reminded of!

“Make yourself at home, mate.”

Sam switched the television on. Darren had insisted on buying a huge plasma screen and it dominated the room, although this wasn’t difficult as the flat was tiny. The rest of the
décor
was fairly standard for low-end rented accommodation. Walls painted white, stained carpet, furniture that didn’t match. Chris noticed a few dog-eared magazines strewn around with some air-brushed young model on the front. He immediately thought of Kyla.

“Put what you want on, mate,” said Sam, pointing to four remote controls next to his friend.

“Which one’s the telly?”

Chris fumbled with the remote until he found the correct button to change the channels. He eventually stopped on something he recognised.
Have I Got News For You.
Sam returned from the kitchen clutching cold bottles.

“Right. Beer for you, and one for me. Why don’t you try and round up a few of the lads. Tell ‘em we’ve got pills. They just need to get their disco rags on and meet us at the train station.”

Leon Kennedy looked over the balcony of the VIP room at Snake and admired his work. It was absolutely heaving. The club had had to move to larger premises recently due to its staggering rise in popularity, and tonight it was clear to see why. The venue, The Theatre, was full to its 2500 capacity. There was no space on the dance floor and the bar areas were at least four-deep.

The somewhat dull and unimaginative name of the venue was a reference to its previous incarnation, and the club had retained many of the original features from its days as a theatre. The stage and wings had been converted into a main dance floor, the luxury box area was now home to the DJ booth with a stage and stairs built beneath it. This meant the DJ could see most of the club in front of him. The two-tiered stalls area had been converted into a stepped dance area that stretched back high into the building, giving the effect of a half-bowl shape a lot like the classic design of the Space terrace in Ibiza.

The dance floor was surrounded by speakers so most of the sound stayed in the middle of the club, and the high roof meant there was little vibration overhead. Perfect acoustics for high-decibel dance music.

Charlie Caxton was close to finishing his set and the crowd were going berserk. Even an old hand like Leon got a buzz out of it. It reminded of him of when he was nineteen and carefree, when the only important thing in life was having a good time.

Leon was an experienced club promoter but even he had worked his arse off to get tonight right. It was probably the biggest night Snake had ever known, its third birthday bash. Leon had started the club fairly small, but it had grown so quickly and they’d moved to the bigger venue about a year ago.

Leon had been putting on parties on and off for the last twenty years. He knew what was needed to succeed and tonight proved it. He knew that he would be the toast of clubland after this, if he wasn’t already. He was thirty-eight years old and now, with a lot of graft and a little help from his friends, he had reached the premier league of club promoting.

“Hey Leon, you cunt! How’s it going?” Leon just about heard the shout over the deafening thudding base that shook the floor. It was Simon Owen, owner of Nomiston Music & Artists
.
The pair went way back, as far as the first Ibiza days of the ’eighties.

“Simon! You turned up then. I thought it was past your bedtime.”

“Nah mate. I must say I’m impressed!” A wry smile played across Leon’s lips. Simon, with his business partner, Tony, ran a DJ and musician booking agency and was a hugely successful record producer in his own right. He was a millionaire, and had some huge underground (and overground) acts on his books, including one of the world’s biggest DJs, Charlie Caxton.

Leon was always slightly in awe of Simon, recognising him as a shrewd and at times ruthless businessman. But Simon always had time for his mates and was more than happy to help them out if necessary. Simon had a
slight
hand in making tonight what it was, but Leon had done the hard work, putting in the hours over the last three years, and Simon knew it. He understood the determination and slog it took to make a night like tonight go off. Leon deserved congratulations.

“I brought a case of Cristal over in case you ran out. Call it a birthday present.”

“Cheers mate, but there’s not much chance of that. The bar’s stocked up. Then again, look at all these people…” It amazed Leon how many people had made it into his VIP room. It was always the same, no matter how strict he tried to keep the guest list. But then he admired blaggers, he was one himself. Tonight he wanted everyone to have a good time, sharing his success.
His
night.

Simon surveyed his surroundings. There were the obligatory stick-thin high-cheek-boned women, impossibly stunning, champagne glasses in hand, looking down their noses at anyone who walked past. As usual they seemed thoroughly bored but tonight this was
the
party to be at and the VIP room was
the only
place to be seen.

There were a few record industry bods scattered around, some he knew well, most he at least recognised. A few journalists hovered around, beer in hand. He had encountered many over the years. They usually wanted to speak to Charlie Caxton, but were useful to know when a track or an album was coming out.

Leon’s head of security, Derek Butler, stood close by, radio in one hand, drink in the other. If Del felt relaxed enough to have a drink, then things must be going okay.
He’s even smiling! Almost,
thought Leon. He was about to go over and chat to Del, when his attention was diverted to the stairway leading up to the VIP room. He could see security men clearing a path for a figure to slowly inch his way up the steps through the crowds of people. A small group followed behind the man, carrying boxes. Their path was treacherous due to the crowds of clubbers vying to catch a glimpse of their hero. And booze and drugs made them fearless.

Eventually the figure made it to the roped-off entrance of the VIP room. By this time everyone knew it was Charlie Caxton. He’d finished his set and had time for a few drinks before his next gig, an after-party over in the east end somewhere.

“Hey Charlie, how’s it going?” Leon held out his hand, Charlie grabbed it and shook it warmly, still high on adrenalin from the blistering set he’d just played. Some of the clubbers
would need to be scraped off the ceiling
in the morning.

“Fucking great, mate, I need a drink!”

“Oh yeah, course, mate. Want one, Si?”

“Do you need to ask? Can you get me a beer as well?” Leon, playing host to the last detail, collected three glasses of the finest champagne from the bar, plus Simon’s extra beer. Leon knew Simon was a heavy drinker. They all were. It went with the territory. Leon soon returned.

“I think congratulations are in order,” Simon exclaimed. In a way he was glad the focus was away from him tonight. He could have a night off. He was so used to being the centre of attention. He had attended so many parties recently where any sycophantic Tom, Dick or Joe Bloggs would sidle over to him, sucking up, usually because they wanted something. Listen to this demo, go and see the other band. Simon had long realised his power came at a price, and the price was pathetic hangers-on, all wanting a piece of his action.

“This is some fucking party you’ve put on Leon, and the boy here played his usual blinder!” Praise indeed thought Leon, and allowed himself to bask in the glory. He was slightly less used to it than Simon and Charlie, and Charlie also felt relieved at grabbing a breather. As the men sipped their drinks Charlie felt his natural high start to wear off.

“Anyone got any ching?” he enquired. He needed to keep alert until at least the start of his next gig, which was a few hours away. He couldn’t allow himself to relax too much. He never took drugs during a set, and usually not for a least an hour before. He liked to keep a clear head and concentrate, people had paid money to see him play, after all. On the other hand, he wasn‘t getting any younger and needed a bit of extra oomph these days to keep the mood going. He needed to at least bridge the gap until it was time to get into the car and head to the next club.

“Del’ll sort you out,” Leon replied. Derek normally had gear on him for moments like this. He was pretty straight-laced himself, and Leon paid him well for his discretion. Leon regarded him highly, as a trusted right-hand man. You could always rely on Del for anything, and he was so well-in with the local police his desk could look like the final scene from
Scarface
and no-one would touch him.

Leon gestured to Del to come over to the group. He put down his drink and sidled over.

“Sort Charlie out with some, er… Charlie, will you?”

“No problem, here you go, mate.”

Del removed a small wrap from his pocket and handed it to Charlie. The DJ disappeared into the toilet, with the bouncer keeping a watchful eye on the door. He wouldn’t let anyone in until Charlie returned. It was this astuteness that Leon admired in Del. Although he didn’t give a toss about music, he knew that one of its biggest names was in his toilet, and even though everyone knew superstar DJs took drugs by the bucketload, it would be dangerous to the club if he was caught doing them inside. Del knew how much Leon had put into making the night work and he’d been part of it. Allowing the star act to do coke, quickly, easily and in total safety was just another spoke in the wheel of making the night go smoothly.

Del had been a real find for Leon a few years ago, and they were perfect together. Despite Leon’s vast experience, all his previous endeavours had had limited success because he’d never had someone like Del. Leon now fully understood how essential a good security man was to putting on a night of this scale.

Leon’s nights in the past had been okay, with a regular clientele and good music, but there were always problems. Problems with drugs, police and gangsters. Leon had been forced to close a number of seemingly successful nights because of the trouble.

He’d been about to call it a day, get out of club promoting for good, when he met Del. Del was an ex-policeman, and had gained a reputation as one of the hardest, cleverest coppers around, an expert at planting evidence and fitting-up. An awful lot of high-ranking bobbies in the Met owed their success to Derek Butler, and he still had many contacts within the force. He’d left a few years ago, after sailing a little too close to the wind with a case that very nearly brought down the very top brass within the force. Plus, he felt he could make better money working as a freelance security man.