Hustle, p.23
Hustle, page 23
Those left behind had shed tears.
There had been nobody to weep for Vincent.
They’d stood at the edge of the hole cut from the frozen earth of Putney Vale Cemetery as the coffin was lowered into the grave. Just the five of them – him, Luke, Felix, Mark Douglas and a kindred spirit of Finnegan’s from another battle: Bridie O’Shea, taking time away from playing cards and drinking port and lemon in Kilburn and making more money than most of the outfits in London put together.
Not much to show for a life. Ritchie’s own funeral would be no better. Luke had invited him to dinner with the family in the evening at the club. He’d told him he’d try to get along; they both knew he wouldn’t. Ritchie scanned the pub looking for a face he recognised – ghosts from the past stalking him. God knew there were enough of them – and saw none.
Old habits died hard, right enough.
The thought reminded him of Felix’s unresolved problem in the East End and George hoped Thomas Timpson’s mother was enjoying her last Christmas with her son, because tomorrow it would be his turn.
TT sat at the head of the table holding a knife in one hand, a fork in the other, waiting for his mother to bring the food from the kitchen. Jet said, ‘Shouldn’t you offer to help her?’
Helping hadn’t occurred to him and he dismissed the suggestion. ‘She likes doing it, makes her feel useful. You help her if you feel bad about it. I won’t stop you.’
He put down the fork and fingered the notes in his pocket – his Christmas present. ‘When we eat this, I’m back to bed for an hour so I’ll be fresh for tonight.’
Jet said, ‘I’m going home tomorrow. Can’t be here forever.’
‘True, but you’ve made a bloody good stab at it, haven’t you?’ He smiled. ‘We’ll get a few down our necks tonight and you can say ta-ta to my old mum in the morning. I won’t lie, not hearing you snore half the night isn’t something I’ll miss. Never outstay a welcome, mate, know what I mean?’
‘When will we contact Glass?’
‘Soon, Jethro, very soon.’
33
Dinner in the club on Christmas night should’ve been an opportunity for us to behave like a ‘normal’ family instead of individuals thrown together by a regrettable genetic accident we’d spent our lives trying to escape. Easier said. Charley saw a chance to sweep in like the final day of the Henley Regatta and light the place up. George Ritchie’s response to the invite had been typically low-key, thanking me for including him, although we both knew he wouldn’t be there. Ritchie was a loner who rarely showed up to any social occasions. He’d broken whatever rule he had to attend Vincent Finnegan’s funeral, swelling the number of mourners to a pitiful five.
I’d gone to Nina’s house in Denmark Hill the day after the hellish scene in Walthamstow. It hadn’t exactly been a success: I wasn’t welcome. She was my sister, keeping secrets from her was almost impossible, and she’d known what I’d do to the boy the moment her car was out of sight.
I’d expected her to be in bed recuperating but this was Nina – as tough as old boots and twice as loud. She was in an armchair by the fire, drinking amber from a glass. I went to her. Silently, she turned away from me. Mark Douglas understood we needed space and made himself scarce.
When he left, I knelt beside her and took her hand, ready to put a positive spin on the whole sorry mess. The flames of the fire danced in her eyes as she cut through my bullshit before I got started. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Henry’s dead.’
Denying it would’ve risked losing her.
‘Yes.’
‘Why? He wasn’t one of them. He was good.’
My defence was doomed but it was all I had. ‘He knew too much, Nina. He could’ve brought us down.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘I asked you to leave him alone.’
‘It had to be done.’
Her fingers went to her injured breast. ‘Since I was a kid, I’ve told myself you weren’t Danny, that you were different. It’s not true. You’re the same. So am I. We’re all the same and I hate it. I hate this family.’
‘Nina—’
‘Don’t. Just don’t. I could’ve taken him with me. I could’ve saved him and I didn’t. That boy didn’t deserve to die. You killed him anyway.’
‘To protect you.’
‘Liar, you were protecting yourself!’
‘You’re wrong.’
Her mocking laughter stung. ‘Some upper-class idiots out of their heads on coke have the nerve to abduct Luke Glass’ sister and almost get away with it. Imagine what it would do to your reputation.’
‘That isn’t—’
She rolled over me and kept going. ‘Except, you did imagine it, didn’t you? And a boy died to keep it from happening. Get out of my house! Get out and don’t come back!’
At that moment she despised me for what I’d allowed in Walthamstow. But she was making a mistake, the same mistake I’d made with Danny: judging without appreciating what it meant to be head of the Glass family. And yeah, there might have been another way to deal with Henry. I hadn’t reached for it.
Given the chance, I still wouldn’t. Because this is what I know: reputations are hard won and easily lost. Without the fear of brutal retribution every ambitious ne’er-do-well would try their luck. We’d be fighting them off all over London. I couldn’t have that and if Nina was standing in my shoes, neither would she.
What she felt for me was beyond anger. Trying to convince her was a waste of time. ‘Pray you never have to make that kind of decision, because you’d understand how fucking hard it is to order a hit on a man who doesn’t deserve it.’
She sneered. ‘As usual, you’re missing the point, brother. If it was as hard as you make out, you’d be hurting. You aren’t. You’re absolutely okay with it.’
I hadn’t expected her to roll out the red carpet for saving her life, though the intensity of her bitterness shocked me and I defended myself. ‘Listen, you liked the boy, he’s gone, you’re upset. I get it. Henry sealed his fate the minute he got involved with his brother and the other two. Everything after that was inevitable. I’m “okay with it” because it was necessary.’
She tried to interrupt. I didn’t let her.
‘Danny was a crazy bastard. We agree on that much. Doesn’t mean he was always wrong, Nina. Anybody or anything that threatens us can’t be allowed to exist. The first principle is to protect the family. Always. Danny understood that. So do I. And if you tell yourself the truth, so do you.’
I slipped the gun out of my pocket – a Walther PPK I’d had George Ritchie source – small, easy to carry, perfect. A famous firearm well capable of getting the job done: James Bond used one; Elvis Presley had a silver-finish PPK with the inscription ‘TCB’ – taking care of business; less well known is that Adolf Hitler killed himself in the bunker in Berlin with his. Nina could rant and rave and order me out of her house. Some things weren’t negotiable and whether she liked it or not she was joining the list of illustrious owners.
If it kept her alive, I’d be satisfied. I held it out until she reluctantly took it.
‘From now on, where you go it goes. Are we clear?’
She started to object and changed her mind. Good decision, sister.
If I’d been a betting man, I’d have lost my money because at five minutes to ten, Nina arrived on Douglas’s arm, dressed to the nines. I suspected he’d had more than a little to do with getting her to come. Charley saw them and ran to her. They threw their arms round each other and embraced. They’d been rivals rather than sisters and I hoped they’d turned that page. Physically, Nina seemed better than when she’d thrown me out of her house, recovered enough to hug everybody, except me. Forgiving and forgetting wasn’t a Glass trait. Whatever else had changed, how she felt about me hadn’t. But for better or worse we were together at Christmas and I’d settle for it.
TT was drunker than Jet had ever known him, spouting arrogant booze-fuelled talk. ‘We’ve kept our heads down long enough, Jethro, it’s time to pay Luke Glass a visit. Find out what he’s saying to it.’
Jet wasn’t convinced that was a goer. ‘It’s risky, TT. I mean, we torched his shop and killed his guy. He’s hardly going to welcome us with open arms, is he?’
TT disagreed. ‘What we did was retaliate, showed the bastard we weren’t prepared to be shoved around. Spoke to Glass in the language he understands. He’ll respect that.’
Jet humoured him. ‘Maybe, but if you’re wrong—’
‘I’m not wrong. He’s king of the castle now, that wasn’t where he started. I heard him and his brother were a couple of young dickheads who started their careers stealing fags from shops. I’m guessing he’ll look at us and see a younger version of himself. But, if it’s too rich for your blood and you want out, it’s okay. Just don’t come back expecting to get in when it’s sorted. I won’t lie. Boz was better than you. Take him any day of the week. You’ve always been a bit out of your depth for this lark. I reckon reading the tea leaves in some old dear’s cup is nearer your level. Prove me wrong.’
Insults dropped from TT’s mouth like spit. This time he’d gone over the line. Jet finished his drink and stood. ‘Tell your mother thanks for giving me a bed.’
‘Where’re you going?’
‘Where I should’ve gone days ago – home, TT. I’m going home. Can’t be worse than listening to you. Do what you like about Glass, just do it without me. I’ve had enough.’
Timpson sneered. ‘You’re scared. You’re fucking terrified of him.’
Jet had been saving up his reply. ‘I wouldn’t go there. You’re forgetting I was at the hospital when Boz was in. You were like a frightened little kid, or don’t you remember? Doesn’t matter, because I do. Maybe I’ll put it about that the smell of disinfectant made the great Thomas Timpson wet his pants.’ He pushed the empty pint measure away and got up. At the door of the snug he stopped. Jet wasn’t done. He said, ‘You bought the uniform – all those crazy tattoos and the Satanic shit – because you want to frighten people. Make them think you’re a tough guy. The goat face does that, all right. Luke Glass is the real deal. Nobody needs tea leaves to predict your future, TT, you haven’t got one.’
The food was standard Christmas fare, expensive and not particularly good. Dozens of places did it cheaper and better. If we were paying money for it, I’d be having a word with the manager. As it was, I made a mental note to speak to the chef after the holiday. In just a year, LBC had become one of the most exclusive nightclubs in London. We needed to be offering better than this.
Nina was all loved up with Douglas, playing with the beard he’d grown, ignoring me. From where I was at the other end of the table, she seemed to be back to her usual self, except the concern in Mark Douglas’s eyes when she wasn’t aware he was looking at her told me it was a brave attempt to put what had happened in Hampstead behind her and move on. I’d done my part – the people who’d hurt her were in the ground. Now it was Douglas’s turn to make it right.
Charley had brought a guy, some dark-eyed Latin type called Bartolo or Battista. I’d forgotten his name and wouldn’t push myself to remember it. If form was anything to go by, he wouldn’t be around long enough for it to be important. She was supposed to be off but kept disappearing to check on her girls. It was a night for tipping big and all the hookers were working.
As predicted, George Ritchie was nothing if not consistent: he hadn’t come. At Vincent Finnegan’s funeral he’d hardly said a word and I’d understood what was going through his mind. We’d tossed dirt into the grave and were leaving the cemetery when Bridie O’Shea had fallen in step with me. I’d spoken to the old IRA firebrand a couple of times on the phone though we hadn’t met face to face in a while. There was no need. What we had in common was making each other money and that was trucking along just fine.
She’d spoken in her accent that somehow managed to make every sentence sound like the melody of a song. ‘I’m assuming you know who killed Vincent.’
‘You assume right, Bridie.’
‘And they’re still breathing?’
‘Not for much longer.’
She’d lit a cigarette and inhaled down to her boots. ‘Anything I can do to help, just shout.’
‘Appreciated. It’ll be sorted.’
‘Soon, I hope. A shipment of cash is scheduled to arrive at the club for washing on New Year’s Eve. Wouldn’t want your eye off the ball, now, would we?’
‘Is my eye ever off the ball, Bridie?’
‘No, but there’s a first time for everything.’
The suggestion had irritated me and I’d spoken more harshly than I’d intended. ‘For you, maybe, not me. And as for Vincent… we take care of our own. Always have, always will.’
She’d let my outburst pass. ‘Walthamstow. That anything to do with you?’
Without leaving the backroom of her pub this old woman was up on just about everything that went on in London. Her question wasn’t a question: Hughie had come good on the second part of the deal. I’d played along and hadn’t given her the satisfaction. ‘What’ve you heard?’
Bridie had gazed across the lines of tombstones, cigarette smoke swirling around her head. ‘You’re a helluva man, Luke Glass, and that’s the God’s truth. I wouldn’t want to be falling out with you.’
‘Then don’t.’
At the rusted-iron gates she’d said, ‘I didn’t like your brother and made no bones about it. Danny was an animal, no offence. But I like you. That’s why I’ll tell you something and hope the day doesn’t come when you discover it for yourself.’ Bridie had held up a hand to emphasise her point. ‘While there are other people in the picture – friends, lovers… sisters – you’ll always be weak. Until you only have you to look out for, you’re vulnerable. Accepting it as a fact is the only way. That or a life not worth living.’
‘Any more words of wisdom, or is that it?’
She’d smiled. ‘If you’re too bull-headed to learn, for myself I’ve found a glass or two of twelve-year-old Irish whiskey works nearly as well. Now, give my best to your sister.’
‘Which one?’
She’d walked to the waiting car that would take her back to the pub in Kilburn and her beloved cards. Over her shoulder she’d said, ‘Whichever one needs it. You’ll know that better than me, I’m thinking.’
A little after one o’clock in the morning, Nina and Mark Douglas slipped away without saying goodbye. I saw them leave, hand in hand, and guessed the evening had been good for them. Charley was canoodling with Mr Italy, smiling, oblivious to everything but the words he whispered in her ear. My sisters were happy and I was glad. Tomorrow, or rather today, it would be business as usual for the Glass family.
A waiter touched my shoulder. ‘There’s a woman in a taxi at the door asking for you.’
On another night I would’ve been interested. Now wasn’t the time. I said, ‘Tell her I’m busy, tell her you can’t find me, tell her any bloody thing.’
He caught my mood and hesitated, wondering if it was worth pushing it, deciding it was. ‘I think you’ll want to see this one. I really do.’
At the pavement the black cab purred a thin stream of blue smoke into the cold air. Behind the wheel the driver stared ahead, unconcerned with how long he had to wait; the clock was ticking on triple-time. I opened the back door and held my breath. The distinctive beige, white and gold markings of the lynx fur coat she was wearing caught the highlights in her hair as she smiled and held out her hand. ‘Merry Christmas, Luke. I’m not too late, am I?’
I didn’t answer. It was the most ridiculous question I’d ever heard.
We kissed and didn’t stop kissing until we got to Marble Arch, when we came up for air and I managed to get out a breathless, ‘I thought you were in Cairo. What’re you doing here?’
‘I wanted to surprise you.’
She’d certainly done that.
I said, ‘Can I assume the driver knows where he’s going?’
‘Yes, my place, now shut up and kiss me again.’
Her place turned out to be a fourth-floor apartment overlooking Holland Park. We fell through the door, locked at the lips. Shani broke away to turn on the lights and let me see how the other half lived. For a south London lad from a broken home on a council estate, I hadn’t exactly done badly. In fact, I was doing very well, all things considered. But ‘doing very well’ was relative. What I was looking at was genuine wealth.
She stood in the middle of the floor, smiling at me as though she had a secret and hadn’t decided whether to tell it. Her arms dropped to her sides and the coat fell away. Underneath, she was naked and I gasped a second time. Shani gently mocked me, repeating what I’d said in the taxi.
‘Can I assume the driver knows where he’s going?’
In books, people having sex are always perfect for each other. Everybody knows their role. Nobody fluffs their lines. They fit, it works, and the reader is treated to a choreographed display of desire they can’t hope to emulate. In the bedroom, I took her erect nipple in my mouth while my fingers traced the smooth, hollow contours of her thighs. Shani moaned and moved to meet them and we lay teasing and toying with each other in an unhurried journey of discovery that accelerated when she coiled her legs behind my back, crossed her slender ankles making us one, and matched me stroke for stroke. One minute she was on top, riding me, biting her lip, eyes hard; then she was kneeling with me shafting her from behind.
Eventually we fell apart, exhausted, hot sweat glistening on our sated bodies. Her explanation was unnecessary; she volunteered it anyway. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you.’
My reply was selfish and sincere. ‘Please tell me you aren’t going back too soon. You only just got here.’
Her expression was set and serious, like a child who’d been asked a difficult question and was determined to find the answer. ‘I must. I have no choice. I’m the only one left.’ She kissed me again and I sensed the sadness pass from her as quickly as it had arrived. Shani said, ‘So why are we wasting time talking?’
