© “You had better go down and get ready for the rush,” I joked.
Terry slapped me on the back and left.
I lent on the counter and watched Johnny the cashier polishing his glasses. “It doesn’t look as though you’re going to be busy tonight.”
Johnny sighed. “Another nail in our coffin, mate. Have you heard the latest?” The DJ has to play Paula’s record every hour. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. And let some girls in for free tonight to make the numbers up.”
I sniffed and took a handkerchief out of my pocket. “For Christ’s sake, what’s the matter with Simon? Has he lost it, or what? I mean, is he really all there? He must have spent thousands on Paula and what’s he got for his money? Half a dozen press-ups and a plastic record.”
We both laughed.
“You know my brother, Frank. He’s a natural when it comes to making money and a bloody genius when it comes to spending it. He’s always been like that.”
I remembered Johnny telling me they lived in Poplar and had a decorating business. They were only in their teens and before long had several London Borough Council contracts as well as private work. The trouble was, as fast as they earned it Simon spent it, although I was sure Johnny had his share.
Johnny turned the cuffs of his shirt up and then straightened his tie. “Those were the days, Frank.”
They were indeed. I remembered stealing clothes and food at the age of ten. By the time I was thirteen, my needs became more ambitious. I stole alcohol, cigarettes, transistor radios, and Winkle Picker Italian shoes. I watched the slow decline of my father’s health and eventual death from kidney failure but I never mourned his passing - nor missed a mother I had hardly known. She left me and dad when I was five. It was not until I was sixteen and past the nineteen-fifties depression that I moved upwards and into the company of a new generation of crooks and thieves. The affluent sixties had arrived. Britain was on the mend and people had money in their pockets. It was their money that I was very eager to transfer to my own pocket.
Arrested eventually for stealing a coat from a shop in Brick Lane, my police file was so thick that the magistrate just flicked through the probation officer’s report. There were no favorable remarks in it anyway. I was in borstal, just outside Leeds, for the next two years. The emphasis was on reforming the adolescent criminal mind. That was what the governor told me. In actual fact, my capacity to learn all things criminal earned me more admiration from my fellow inmates than from the teachers. By the time I returned to the outside world, I had learned how to open a car door lock, circumnavigate the wiring on most burglar alarms, and a lot about loopholes in the legal system.
“Long time ago, Johnny, long time ago,” I said, smiling.
The door opened and Cyril the bar manager walked in. I walked behind the counter and sat on a stool. I could not stand gay men and Cyril especially because he wound me up at every opportunity.
Dressed immaculate from head to foot in black trousers and waistcoat, crisp white shirt and bow tie, he showed no signs of effeminacy until he opened his mouth. He was in his thirties, with prematurely balding but well-manicured blonde hair. A quick wit and wicked sense of humor had endeared him to most of the staff, except for a couple of the boys and me.
I picked up my mug of cold tea and ignored Cyril as he advanced towards us. He took his coat off and swung it over his shoulder theatrically.
Shaking hands with me, he said, “Hello, Action Man, I see your dream soccer team did well last night?”
“It’s about time they had a result,” I replied. “Another defeat and they’d have been kissing goodbye to the first division.”
“Talking of which.” Cyril looked at me with pursed lips. “Shall we kiss or shake something, Frank?” He laughed that silly girlish laugh of his and disappeared downstairs.
I ignored him and turned to Johnny while we were alone. One of the boys had heard a rumor and I needed to warn Johnny we might get a visit from the local nick, just across the road. “Someone dealing and it’s rumored he’s a heavyweight from up North,” I said. “Don’t know who yet but let’s keep this away from Simon until we know more.”
Johnny nodded and frowned. The least Simon knew the better.
The music started playing downstairs. Johnny began switching the panic lights off on the box behind him as the DJ tested them. A buzzer accompanied each light. As he turned the last one off, he remembered something. “I forgot to tell you, Frank. Jeff Donaldson is downstairs in Simon’s office.”
“That prick.” I detested the man.
The local Environmental Health and Safety Officers assistant, Donaldson, had discovered by accident that Simon had received a report on the air conditioning system for the club. The engineer, one of my friends that I did business with, who wrote it, claimed that everything had passed rigorous tests. Successful tests, along with various other reports, ensured that the local council renewed our club license to operate. Of course things needed fixing. Water dripped onto the dance floor and a couple of the thermostats did not work. Two hundred pounds had made the expensive problem go away.
Donaldson let Simon know that unless sweeteners came his way, life would become difficult. Rather than run any risks, Simon paid each week.
This arrangement was mutually beneficial for Simon and Donaldson, but not for me. Donaldson was a low life, someone who showed no respect for the order of things at the club. Even Simon had not spoken to me about the man. He knew not to.
“I’ll put paid to his bloody game before the boss gets here.” I gulped the rest of the tea down looked toward the stairs as one of my boys came halfway up and looked through the railings.
“Bars are ready, boss.”
“Cheers, Rog.” I took the metal ground bolts out of the doors and placed them behind the flap at the end of the counter. I cheered up and clapped my hands together. “Well, another day, another dollar.”
The two of us stood there for a couple of minutes, studying the girl on page three of the Sun before the punters started arriving.
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