FRANK

There was a loud bang as the wind blew the doors shut. “Good evening, Frank.”

I smiled along with a craggy reflection in the mirror and then at the young lad looking over my shoulder. “Evening, son.” I pushed a comb through black waves and noted a small area above one ear I’d missed with the dye.

            “Missed a bit, did you?” he asked. “Still, I suppose at your age you can’t see too well now, can you?” His sing-song welsh lilt trailed off into a short laugh.

            I swung around and aimed a fist at him, missing his chin on purpose. “Cheeky little sod, you should get that sorted out.” I pointed to his blonde shoulder-length hair, blown into as mess. “They’ll be calling you Shirley soon.”

            He laughed awkwardly and reached for my white Tux, removing it from the hanger and holding it open. “Here.”

            Turning, I slipped my arms into the jacket, a symbol of authority. The boys – my boys – all wore black shoes and trousers, open neck shirts and black bomber jackets. The white tux meant a lot more than an ‘I’m in charge’ badge though. Everyone knew me and anyone wanting a favor or wishing to pay respects for future favors knew exactly who to see. The club was my life and no-matter who owned it I controlled the staff, the people who paid to come in and the owner’s so called guests. I hated those free loaders and arse lickers. Thing is, they must have sensed it because they always kept out of my way - not that there was any problem between me and the owner: I always showed respect. We had what you’d call a good business arrangement. He made all the decisions and I interpreted them and carried them out my way, sometimes with a little adjustment here and there. In times of real trouble though, everyone came to me.

            “You’ll be busy tonight,” I said, taking a cigarette tin out of my trouser pocket. “The brewery didn’t deliver this morning so we had to get barrels from The Grenadier. They’ve been left in the loading bay for you.”

            I opened the tin and took a pre-rolled cigarette from it, tapped it on the lid and put it to my lips. Every night I rolled twenty and stacked them in the tin before I went to work. I didn’t think it would look right, the staff and punters watching me roll my own. It was bad enough having nicotine stains on my fingers.

            Gareth grinned. “That’s all right, Frank, it’ll warm me up. Anyway, I’m in a good mood, see. I had a winner today at Redcar.” His blue eyes lit up. “Came in at fifteen to one it did.” He grinned again. “We could have a drink later if you’ve got time, Frank.”

I liked the lad. Eighteen months ago he walked in off the street and asked if there was a job going. He had an easy manner and wasn’t backward in coming forward when it came to telling me what he could do so I took him on. He started work as the cellar-man two days later. It wasn’t until several weeks later, when we were having a drink, that he told me about running away from home at the age of twelve. Brought up by strict religious parents, he’d suffered beatings from his father, a maintenance foreman at the Abernathy colliery. When he’d finally taken enough, he ran away to Birmingham and spent four years there before traveling south to Essex. I guessed he’d also lied about his age at the time, but said nothing.

“Yeah, why not, I’ll come and have a drink with you later.” I watched him go downstairs. “Tell Sharon to brew one up, will you,” I shouted after him.

There was something not quite right with the lad. I couldn’t quite make him out. Sometimes he would be as happy as a sand boy and at other times he would retreat into a quiet somber mood; almost as if he was trying to ignore everyone around him. Whatever, I took to him and considered him one of my boys.

I checked my watch with the clock on the wall behind the counter and then walked over to the main doors. Outside, a couple of empty McDonald’s drinks cups with straws still poking through the lids rolled crazily over cigarette ends and across the pavement before joining the rest of the day’s rubbish in the gutter. 

Nearly a thousand a week used to come on a Wednesday. Now we were lucky if we saw more than five hundred. Fridays and Saturdays were getting worse, too. The kids were going elsewhere. 

The problem was Simon, the owner. There had been four owners in the last six years and none of them had known how to run a club. Every now and then Simon got greedy and upped the price of admission or scraped the free night for the girls. All the constant changing annoyed the punters. Even bringing in big stars for the cabaret at vast expense made no difference.

I got annoyed every time I thought about the situation. My reputation took a knock each time management decided to change the admission prices or the DJ. The kids always came to me complaining. They looked to me as the man who made things happen.  The battle to keep their respect was constant. If I ever lost it, I knew I’d lose the boys and the club.

I’d built up a circle of useful friends over the years that I could rely on for help. There were a few local businessmen who needed help from time to time when owed money. At the opening reception of one mate’s new car showroom, I met a magistrate. He liked adult videos, and I arranged things. Then there was an ex-mayor who couldn’t keep his hands off other men’s wives. There were also parking wardens and police officers who popped in for the odd bottle of Scotch now and again. I even got my own solicitor who acted for the boys. They all owed me. Every manor owner in South Essex knew Frank.

I knew what would happen now if the club went bust. Credibility, friendships, loyalties and, of course, back handers, would go straight down the pan. Simon needed a talking to. I couldn’t let things go on as they were.

I watched as Terry, a new doorman, appeared from the car park across the other side of the narrow one way lane that ran down the side of the club. As he reached the door, I pulled it open and greeted him.

"Evening, bit bloody cold tonight."

Terry offered his hand and we shook. Every-one offered their hand to me as they arrived for work. It was a ritual that showed their respect for the head doorman. No one knew when or where it started. They just knew it was the done thing.

"Certainly is, boss." Terry rubbed his callused hands together and gave me a toothy grin as he stood under the heaters. His head had been shaved, revealing a long thin red line that ran from just above his left ear, across the back of his head and down below his collar. As a result of the stitching, one ear sat at a different angle to the other, giving him a comical appearance when he smiled. The horrific injury, caused by a cleaver being wielded against him in a fight with a bouncer from another club in Liverpool, took thirty stitches to fix.

After leaving hospital, he had gone to visit the man who had nearly killed him. The next day he was on a train south while the police investigated an attack on a bouncer who’d lost an arm. Terry was only nineteen at the time. His smiling face, quiet manner, and soft-spoken voice hid a violent psychotic nature.