Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama (7 page)

‘Your lad’s going to have to be clever if he’s going to work for me,’ John announced once the rubbish was dragged by his bollocks from the room.

Chris hesitated, trying to find the right words so as not to give offence. He wasn’t a hard man, being the admin and paper man end of the operation, but he knew John’s business interests inside out, and was the only person John really trusted. He’d met the boss when they were both banged up in Brixton ten years ago. He’d been in for doing naughty things with other people’s plastic; he never figured out what John was in for, and he’d never asked. He simply remembered that he’d been as grateful as shit when John had prevented him getting the beating of his life, when he busted the bollocks of a crew of three guys who had cornered Chris inside the workroom.

It hadn’t taken John long to twig that Chris was a man who understood business and numbers. But Chris was always slightly nervous around his boss. ‘Well . . . I don’t know about that, John. I was hoping my boy would be a doctor or a lawyer or something. You know?’

John looked grim. ‘We were all hoping to be upstanding members of society once upon a time, mate. Then real life kicks in and you have to get serious. People like us don’t get to do things like that.’

‘Well, I’m hoping . . .’ Chris tailed off. He didn’t want a barney with the boss.

John got down to business. He was proper para about being bugged by the cops or rivals and so he often spoke in code: ‘Alright, what’s happening with that circus equipment we’re sending to the Middle East?’

‘It’s all sorted. We’ve got a boat booked and we’re shipping next week. I met Javid at the Ritz earlier and he’s taking care of things at their end. The consignment’s stored in garages out at the usual place. Javid’s going to arrange for the payment to be made to one of the new banks in Eastern Europe that don’t ask too many questions, then I’ll ask our accounts people to bring it back here after a few months. We’ll rinse it through the club as private parties for celebrities.’

‘I don’t think private parties cost that much, do they?’

‘You’d be surprised. Catering, champagne, class A extras – it all mounts up.’

John nodded. ‘What about the paperwork?’

‘Our mutual friend – the one from the East End – has organised a girl to look after it for us. He says she’s totally reliable.’

‘And is she?’

‘I don’t know; I haven’t met her.’

John looked doubtful. ‘She’d better be or I’ll have his knackers and hers as well. Alright, you’d better run along and see your kid. Tell him Uncle John will be popping by this weekend and he’s got a prezzie for him.’

It always squeezed Chris’s heart that the boss took such an interest in Nicky, especially since his child had never known the love of a mother.

‘He’ll really appreciate that John. By the way, our mutual friend from the East End says he wants to meet up as he’s got some projects he wants to run past you.’

John laughed. ‘Yeah, tell him to fuck off. I don’t deal with small timers like him.’

There was a knock at the door. John dropped the lock with a switch and one of his bar staff poked her head around the corner. ‘Mister Black, you’d better come downstairs. We’ve got a problem. One of the waitresses – black bird – is kicking off.’

Jen and Bex stood with their arms folded, freezing their privates off on the corner of Old Compton Street in Soho, waiting for Nuts. Nuts? Jen rolled her eyes. She was the one who was nuts waiting for him and his so-called motor. He’d insisted on giving them a lift home in his car, which he claimed was parked nearby. Well nearby must be a hell of a way because he’d already been gone ten minutes and there was no sign of him or his drive. She should’ve known that under all that glitzy gear and charm was moonshine and coke. He was probably trying to unchain his bike to offer them a backy. She’d give him a couple more minutes and then they were off.

Where they stood, they were badly exposed to passers-by. They’d already had a crew of lads from the suburbs, out for a night on the lash, drunk out of their boxes giving them the ‘You alright babe, fancy a bevy’ routine, which had soon turned into, ‘Think you’re too good for us? Slappers!’ when neither woman had given them the time of day. One had even given them a bare bum salute.

Bex looked at her watch and sighed, ‘Come on, let’s go. He’s not coming back, is he?’

Jen shook her head. ‘Give him a chance, give him a chance.’

Now it was Bex’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘You were right; the guy’s a B.S. merchant. Come on, let’s go before we get mistaken for a couple of toms.’

But it was because she knew she was right that Jen didn’t want to go. She enjoyed being proved right. It was true that Nuts dressed well, knew an underground club in Soho and seemed to have plenty of dosh, but that could all be faked. A car could be faked too, of course; he could always have hired it for the weekend to impress the more impressionable type of girl. If he drove a kosher motor it might be evidence that he was a genuine geezer. But Jen didn’t think it was true, which is why she was smiling to herself, even though it meant she’d have to navigate her way home to Mile End past the drunks and the weirdos, and walk at the other end (because no cab was going to drive on The Devil at what the locals called, ‘the witching hour’).

A seedy-looking old fella stopped in front of them, looked furtively around and then whispered, ‘Are you two girls working the perimeter? I’ve got the cash-in-hand for a threesome. Got somewhere we could go or do I have to book us a room?’

Bex was speechless so Jen took over. ‘Sure, we’re doing business. Can’t we go back to your place?’

His eyes darted around like he was thinking about the possibility. ‘Well, we could, but I don’t think my wife would be very happy.’

Jen cosied up a touch closer to him. ‘No problem, we can sort somewhere out for you. We cost ten grand an hour. Each.’

He sputtered, ‘Ten thousand? Are you taking the piss?’

Jen got right into his badly wrinkled face. ‘No, you’re taking the piss. Now knob off, you creepy, dirty sod.’

The man couldn’t get away from them fast enough. This incident was the end for Bex. ‘I’m going to get the tube; you stay and wait for lover boy if you want to.’ She walked away but then stopped, ‘Oh, and Jen, next time, please leave Tiffany at home will you? I know she’s your sister, and you have to look out for her and everything, but she’s a total muck-up artist.’

Jen watched her best mate getting smaller in the distance and straight away wished she’d gone off with her. She’d proved her point and there was nothing left to stay for. But as she did so, she was forced to step backwards in a hurry as a car’s horn blared. A flash, red, sports Mercedes pulled up on the pavement in front of her. Jen scrambled a few paces back and then stopped in gob-smacking awe when she saw who was at the wheel.

‘Alright, Cinderella? Your carriage awaits,’ Nuts proclaimed dramatically, a large grin spreading across his chops.

The automatic lock on the passenger side door clicked. When Jen climbed in Nuts put his arm around her shoulder and said, ‘You must really fancy me to have waited this long.’

Eight

On the dance floor at the Alley Club, there was a stand-off. The security detail couldn’t get the waitress to listen to reason. An attempt to nab her had gone wrong when the three heavies had unwisely tried to manhandle her. One had received a kick to the family jewels, which put him out of the fight; a second was nursing a one-inch stab wound to his arm that she’d inflicted with a small knife, drawn in a single action from her kitten heels. Now the woman was backed into a corner of the dance floor, short blade in one hand, a broken beer bottle in the other, and it was clear she was happy to use either or both. The three security guys stood well back debating what to do next.

The music had stopped; some punters had slipped away while others had gathered close – like they were at a movie premiere – to see what happened next. There was a buzz and hum against the backdrop of silence. And one person seemed to be loving up the mayhem: the waitress in the scarlet cat suit.

The security boys were uncertain. The boss had a strict rule – no aggro and anyone who had the front to cause it was to be dumped outside. But he had another strict rule: he didn’t want any violence doled out to the idiot. That way there was never a need for an ambulance or the Bill to come calling. Dust-ups were bad for business. If word got out that you weren’t safe, the showbiz luvvies stopped coming; they were a bit delicate when it came to anything that might mess up their good looks. John chose his staff to reflect his policy. All his men were six foot plus and looked like adverts for the upmarket gay gyms in the area.

They all knew that they were in a tricky situation. Even in her heels, the silly cow wasn’t much more than five-eight – tall for a woman, but still small compared to the six plus of all the security staff – and apart from her hips, legs and tits, there didn’t seem to be much flesh on her. It was pretty obvious what John was going to make of their failure to deal with her; bottle or no bottle, blade or no blade.

‘Come on, love,’ the head of security said, ‘You don’t want to be pissing the boss off.’ She raised the jagged-edged broken bottle, kissed her teeth long and hard, and pointed it at him. ‘I’ve got a brighter idea. Why don’t you tell the DJ to switch the music back on; you and your pussy boys go for a walk and then I’ll leave when I’m good and ready. How about that?’

The guy was about to start at her again but shrank back when he realised that the boss had made an appearance. John wore an expensive dark suit, an open-necked shirt and stacked heels which still left him shorter than the woman with the knife. He pushed his way through the bouncers. ‘What the hell’s going on? Why’s the music stopped?’ He noticed the man clutching his arm. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Just a scratch boss. We’ve had some trouble.’

All eyes turned towards the woman and John followed their gaze until he realised who the argy-bargy was coming from. He’d seen her around; what man wouldn’t notice such a stunning piece of womanhood? He looked at his boys and then gestured towards her with his hand, as if to say, ‘What her? A waitress? She’s the trouble? Give me a bloody break.’

He called out to the DJ, ‘Oi – get spinning some tunes.’ Then to the guests, ‘Come on, start dancing, drinking and copping off. It’s Saturday night!’ And then to his security, ‘Right, you lot, hop it; I’ll deal with you later . . .’

The lights dimmed, DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince’s ‘Boom! Shake The Room’ blasted across the dance floor and the fight’s audience drifted away. John walked up to the woman who was still clutching her weapons. As he approached she hitched the bottle level with his face. He raised his hands and smiled. ‘OK, OK, there’s no need to jump out of your pram. I don’t usually appreciate my waitresses behaving like they own the place, but I suspect something’s gone on here that I need to know about. So why don’t you put that down and let me get you a glass of something sparkling and sweet, and then you can tell me what’s twisted you all out of shape.’

She didn’t put down the bottle, but said, ‘I know I shouldn’t have done it, Mister Black, but I don’t turn up for work to be dissed. You get me?’

‘What’s your name, love?’

For a few moments the woman kept up her fighter’s glare before it melted into a smile that switched her face from murderous to a hundred watt glow. ‘Dee.’

As she put the bottle on a table and slipped the knife back into her kitten boot, John wondered out loud, ‘Really? Is Dee short for Demon, or Devil?’

‘That’s for me to know and you . . .’ She teasingly raised her sleek, black eyebrows.

He led her across to the bar, which was now returning to normal, while she explained how the rumble had kicked off. They passed her victim, sprawled on a sofa with a hanky clasped across his nose, getting some first aid from his mates. As Dee finished her story about the backside fondling, John nodded and took prompt action. He walked over to where the guy was lying. ‘Fuck off out of my club. I won’t have people touching up ladies in my place, especially ladies who work for me. If I ever see you here again, you’ll have more than a busted hooter to worry about.’

When he rejoined Dee, he told her, ‘That must have been some slap you gave that bloke. A very nice job; I’m impressed. How did you cut his face?’

‘With these.’ Dee waved her four, large, chunky rings. ‘I never leave home without them.’

Smart girl, John thought. Rings could do a lethal bit of damage to a face and there was no law against wearing them. His security crew could take a lesson or two from her. She was a bit of alright this black girl and he wasn’t talking about her street smarts. He could well understand why the guy she’d decked had wanted to cop a feel of her rear end. He led Dee to the VIP lounge, ordered her his most expensive champagne and they got chatting.

While John gave it the big ‘I Am’ about his club, twenty-one-year-old Dee sized him up instead of listening. Despite the receding hairline and wrinkles around his eyes, she almost licked her lips; umm, yes, she liked what she saw. She lived in a cramped flat overlooking the murky water of Limehouse Basin in East London, which didn’t belong to her; she was minding it for a mate who was enjoying a few years at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. In that flat was her prized possession – her magazine collection. She had copies of
Country Life
from which she’d chosen the beautiful house she wanted to live in. She had copies of
Vogue
from which she’d chosen the clobber she wanted to wear. And she had various motoring mags from which she’d chosen the car she wanted to drive.

At school her teachers had told her that if you wanted to succeed in life you had to put the work in. But Dee knew that just didn’t float, not in the world she came from. She’d seen plenty of boys and girls from her gates graft away, day in, day out and end up on a road going nowhere, especially when they were her colour. She decided what she needed was a man who could provide for her instead, and she was ready to pay for the service. Dee knew all about John Black – well, as much as anyone was willing to tell her – and the only thing that needed knowing was he ran his own successful outfit and was unattached. So she set out finding a way to get close to him. But if you asked her if she had anything to do with the Alley Club waitress who had fallen over the stool and sprained her wrist, she’d tell you no. If you asked her if that waitress had fallen because Dee had stuck her foot out, her answer would be the same. How was she to know there’d be a vacancy when she turned up asking for a waiting job at the club the very next day?