Читать книгу Dirty Game - Jessie Keane - Страница 15

Jonjo Carter was getting seriously annoyed. Not that this was anything new – anyone who knew Jonjo also knew that he had a short fuse. He was on his way out to the Shalimar. Nothing like having your own club to impress your latest lady, and this one was sweet. Blonde and cute with a rosebud mouth and big black-lashed blue eyes. A little scoop-necked white top and tight leopard skin trousers showing an ass you could stand a pint on. All bubbly and chatty, the sort he went for big-time. He’d picked her up when she was working in one of the new clip joints not far from the Starlight Club on the Richardson manor; there was never any trouble between the Richardsons and the Carters, they had a mutual respect and were always pleased to welcome each other.

Julie – or was it Julia? – was a hostess there, and she never tired of rattling off at the mouth about her working life, which was a drawback but with an ass like that, was he bothered?

‘The johns like me,’ she prattled on to him when they were in bed together and had just concluded a pleasurable session. He’d worn a French letter, of course. If he had his way he’d wear three, tart like this. Women always wanted to get you tied down with a baby, either that or they’d give you a dose of something nasty. Like the Boy Scouts, Jonjo was always Prepared.

‘They’re such mugs,’ she went on. ‘They buy me drinks all night and think I’m going to come across for them. Not that I ever would, Jonjo sweetheart, I’ve only got eyes for you,’ she added quickly when his brows drew together.

Jonjo was handsome, but not so handsome as Max. Jonjo was bulkier and she guessed he’d go to seed as he aged. His dark hair was curly, his eyes were dark too. He had a bullish look to him. But he was a Carter, and she was pleased and proud to be seen with him.

‘What else do they do?’ Jonjo grunted, not that he gave a shit or wanted to know, but he never did like the idea of dirty old men drooling over his current girl. What was his was his, no argument.

Julie or Julia shrugged and her breasts – not her best feature, he thought, too small for his taste really – jiggled nicely.

‘I arrange to meet them up the road,’ she giggled. ‘Not that I ever do.’

Which was a lie, Jonjo suspected. If a good-looking punter gave her the eye and spent enough, he reckoned she’d come across in the blink of an eye. Women were no good. They loved whoever they were with, he knew that. Hadn’t Ma told him so often enough? And she was right. The conversation was starting to irritate. He rolled over on her and she squealed with delight.

‘You talk too much,’ he said, and kissed her into silence.

So things were good. She fucked like a weasel and she fucked only him. Well, that was the case since he’d been going out with her, he knew that because he’d had his contacts watching her to make sure. Everything was nice and neat.

So a drink in The Grapes to do a bit of business on the way to the Shalimar had not seemed too big a deal. Julie, or possibly Julia, who gave a shit, was pleased to be on his arm as they strolled up to the bar. Eric, the landlord, started grovelling around, fetching her a Babycham and Jonjo a pint of his usual, waving away Jonjo’s offer of payment like he always did. Eric paid protection to the Carters, and respect was due.

‘Go and put something nice on the jukebox,’ said Jonjo, handing her some change and giving her ass (wow, that ass) an encouraging pat when he saw Kyle Fox, the man he had the meet with, come up to the bar alongside him. The place was quiet tonight, it was early. Just a couple of punters down the other end of the bar.

‘Put on some Orbison or some Frank Ifield,’ he told her.

Julie – he had decided he was going to call her Julie, what the hell – pouted at being dismissed but did as she was told, teetering off on her high heels, drink in hand.

‘Hiya Kyle,’ said Jonjo and offered his hand. ‘Let me get you a drink.’

Kyle Fox was a weedy-looking type of man, thin hair, bad teeth, a look of malnourishment about him and the pale complexion of the indoor-worker. Which was about right for a forger, really. The hand that shook Jonjo’s was limp and damp. Being polite, Jonjo didn’t wipe his hand afterwards. A tasty-looking bloke in a dark coat had come in with Kyle and was now sitting by the door, watching.

‘Hello Mr Carter,’ said Kyle, and swallowed nervously. ‘Half a shandy, please.’

Christ, what sort of man drinks halves? wondered Jonjo. ‘My brother hears you have some plates. We’d like to make an offer for them.’

‘I’ve had several offers already,’ said Kyle, starting to sweat. ‘They’re good quality, you’ll get the best possible print runs from them.’

‘Just tenners?’

‘Fivers too.’

‘How much then, Kyle?’

Kyle shrugged, trying to look indifferent, sorry bastard.

‘Make me an offer,’ he said.

Jonjo took a pull at his pint. In the mirrors behind the bar he could see Julie over at the jukebox, looking down the list of records. The men at the other end of the bar were drinking Guinness. They looked like dockers, they weren’t regulars. Big men built like brick shithouses, and talking with marked Irish accents. Probably Delaney men, he thought. Fuckers. They had some front, coming in here.

‘I dunno.’ Jonjo pretended he was thinking. He’d had a word with Max and they already knew how much they were prepared to pay. ‘Five grand?’

‘I’ve had offers of six.’

Jonjo smiled. ‘Six grand then.’

‘That just meets the offer I’ve already got on the table.’

‘So it does. That’s the offer, Kyle, and it comes with a promise.’

‘What’s that?’ Kyle’s eyes flicked sideways to where his backup sat. Some backup, thought Jonjo. I could slit Foxy here open like a pear before that twat got halfway across the floor.

‘We do the deal at six grand and you don’t get any trouble.’

Eric was keeping well out of the way polishing glasses. He didn’t want to accidentally overhear anything. The jukebox suddenly erupted into life and Kyle jumped. Ned Miller started singing. Jonjo hated it and felt annoyed. Orbison was the business, now that was class. That Australian chap Ifield was okay, too. He saw one of the Irishmen at the end of the bar turn and say something to Julie. She smiled.

‘Six grand,’ he reiterated to Kyle. ‘And nothing happens.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Kyle. Nervous sweat was rolling down his face now. He stank of fear.

Jonjo shrugged. ‘Well, let’s say for instance you don’t fall under a bus, you don’t get your legs accidentally broke, you don’t unexpectedly wake up one morning fucking dead, do you see what I mean, Kyle?’ Jonjo’s voice had lowered and now it was a growl. Kyle’s Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down like a marble on a string. ‘It could be very inconvenient, that, don’t you think?’

Kyle’s fingers were clutching the bar top so hard they were white.

‘So what do you say, Kyle? Six and we shake on it?’

‘Six,’ said Kyle. He’d anticipated a better offer. Up to ten, he’d thought. But fuck upsetting this geezer. This one had crazy eyes. Kyle had seen eyes like that when he was inside. Killer’s eyes. You didn’t push your luck with a man with eyes like that. ‘Six then.’ He held out a shaking hand.

Jonjo shook it. ‘I’ll arrange for collection and payment tomorrow.’ He smiled. ‘We know where you live, don’t we.’

‘Yeah.’ Kyle gave a horrible grimace of a smile.

‘We’ll give you a bell, Kyle. Drink up. It’s been nice doing business.’

He left Kyle and went down the other end of the bar. One of the Irish was putting a coin in the juke and saying to Julie: ‘Go on, pick out another.’ And she was giggling and sipping the drink he’d bought her and making cow eyes at the fucker.

She turned as Jonjo came up, and the Irish bloke gave him the once over.

‘You’re talking to my woman,’ said Jonjo.

‘What’s it to you?’ asked the Irish.

Jonjo snatched a glass off the bar just as the Irish started to throw a right-hander. The red mist descended and he let him have it in the face with the glass. Blood spurted and Julie screamed. The Irishman’s eye was hanging out on his cheek and he was yelling blue murder. His pal came at Jonjo and Eric came round the bar with the ice pick, but Jonjo didn’t need any help. He dropped the glass and decked the pal then grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. The Irish turned red and then blue. Eric was pounding at Jonjo’s back without effect. The landlord bent down and looked urgently into Jonjo’s eyes.

‘That’s enough, Mr Carter,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, that’s enough now. Don’t kill the bastard, not in my pub, that’s enough.’

And Jonjo heard him at last. He came to with both Irishmen on the floor, one with his face in tatters and one unconscious. He got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, tidied his coat. There was a speck of blood on the lapel and he looked at it with distaste. He looked around for Kyle and his minder, but they were gone. Julie was still howling her stupid head off.

‘You get off, Mr Carter. I’ll sort this out,’ said Eric.

‘Thanks, Eric. We’ll pay for any damage.’ Jonjo grabbed Julie’s arm and marched her out the door. She still had the Babycham in her hand, and Ned Miller was still warbling on. Fucking women, thought Jonjo. They always caused trouble.