A few ghostly traces of mist clung to the Tottenham Marshes. Soon, the blazing sun would vanquish all the freshness of morning. Shaun left the main road and drove into the trading estate. He guided his Merc to the last unit in the cul-de-sac, a low, brown brick oblong surrounded by a car park. A sign below the eaves proclaimed AKD TRADING in bright yellow capitals. They were illuminated at night. The initials held no meaning for Shaun; he had simply chosen a bland, commercial-sounding name.
Shaun parked outside the front door in a space labelled ‘Reserved for Directors’. Smoked glass windows revealed a man and woman sitting behind a reception desk, certificates framed on the wall behind them. Shaun pressed the buzzer.
“Come in, Mr Halloran.”
The door clicked open, and he entered, wiping his shoes carefully before treading on the grey striped carpet tiles. With its light wood furniture, cheese plant and muted colours, the reception area had the appearance of a nondescript commercial premises. That was the whole point.
The twenty-something woman, her obviously augmented breasts straining within a trim black trouser suit, smiled. “Your big day today,” she said, her voice betraying origins not far from Shaun’s birthplace in Barking.
“Indeed. We’ll be busy, Kelly,” Shaun said. His excitement was rising. He had spread the word about his speakeasy within both his own milieu and the more broadminded end of the traditional business community.
Kelly made the place look even more like a conventional establishment, but she couldn’t man the reception desk alone. Shaun needed a heavy, a man to spot trouble as it came through the door, and deter it with his bulk.
That man was Jeb, at least for now. While he was too valuable to be spared for long, Shaun wanted him there for the first week. Jeb knew everyone in the East End, and everyone knew him. His presence sent the right message to visitors.
“All right, boss?” Jeb said.
Shaun gave him a curt nod and allowed Kelly to buzz him through a door to the left of a certificate for the Queen’s Award for Exports. Shaun enjoyed the irony. His business affairs were more geared towards imports, and the only award Her Majesty might be inclined to grant him would be detention at her pleasure.
A casual visitor would have anticipated a factory or warehouse beyond that door. Nothing could have been further from the sight that greeted Shaun, and his heart swelled with pride as he surveyed it. The cavernous space was lined with red velvet drapes. Backlit shelves held bottles of spirits above a carved wood bar, which had disappeared from an East End boozer closed for refurbishment. That pub, owned by a man who had borrowed from Shaun and refused to repay him, had unaccountably burned down.
Although the bar was surrounded by leather chesterfields, as if several sets of lounge furniture had clustered together, it was the gaming tables that took centre stage. Roulette, blackjack and poker were all on offer. Like a flock of butterflies, buxom young women in filmy dresses stood by, awaiting the gamblers who would appear within the hour.
Shaun clapped his hands to gain their attention. “Good morning. We officially open at twelve, and then I hope we never close!” He scanned the young, brightly made-up faces and leered approvingly at the croupiers’ skimpy dresses. There was no uniform as such; this was more hedonistic than Diamonds and the stuffy casinos of the West End. He’d just told them to look appealing. “Don’t forget. It’s your job to keep the punters gambling, drinking and smoking. When they stop, get them to gamble, drink and smoke some more! Who cares what they do, as long as they’re spending money. If they want to shag you, be my guest. There’s a room out the back for that. Just stick to the house rules when you do it: it’s half for me, half for you. Cash goes to Vince at the bar. At the slightest hint that you’re ripping me off, Jeb will search you. Understood?” That was threat enough for anyone; Jeb wasn’t renowned for being gentle. Shaun paused as the girls nodded. “Good. Have fun.”
He relaxed on one of the chesterfields. “Vince, get me an Old Fashioned.”
The mixologist, a young, ginger-haired man sporting a leather waistcoat and extravagant sideburns, used tiny tongs to pick up a sugar lump. Placing it in a whisky glass, he sloshed in Angostura bitters with a flourish. Nothing in his delicate manner indicated he’d recently been released from a stretch for GBH.
Kat glided towards Shaun from one of the blackjack tables. “I take it the staff may smoke?” she said, a glint in her eye.
“Of course, on your breaks,” Shaun said. He motioned to her to sit next to him. “Join me for one.”
Kat removed a packet of Sobranie Cocktails from her pocket. She held out a long, thin lilac stick for him to light.
Shaun obliged, suddenly aware as he bent towards her that this was the closest he’d ever been to her. Smelling her scent and feeling her presence, sparky and alive, he was seized by the urge to take her to the back room. He lit a cigarette for himself and smoked it silently until the feeling passed.
Kat was wearing a long red dress which covered her completely while revealing her shape. She drew daintily on the cigarette as she said, “I didn’t think you needed to say everything you did. These girls aren’t Jeb’s professionals.”
“Oh?” Shaun tried not to show his surprise.
“He wouldn’t release them from their normal duties. That’s far more lucrative than working here. These ladies are his credit card team, the women who go shopping with stolen cards. They’re good at maths. That’s why he chose them.”
No doubt with some prompting from her, Shaun thought. Jeb would never be that smart. “You seem to know a lot about Jeb’s business,” he said.
Kat flashed a smile. “He can be indiscreet when he’s drunk. Or high.”
“And in the bedroom?” he ventured.
“I wouldn’t know.”
He’d been right, then. “These girls,” he said cautiously, “can they deal?”
“Can they do the job? Yes. I went to college for my training, but the basics don’t take long to learn. I’ll be on hand to help them until four, then I have to go back home and get changed for Diamonds.” She drew on the lilac stick. “I don’t suppose I’ll see you there again.”
“You might,” he said. “But not Jeb.”
Kat laughed lightly.
“How do you like my little speakeasy, by the way?” Shaun said, gesturing around the room.
“You really want to know?” Her green eyes looked into his.
Shaun felt an involuntary shiver sweep through him and hoped Kat hadn’t noticed. “Yes. How does it compare to Diamonds?”
“You’re aiming for a different clientele,” Kat said tactfully. She blew out a smoke ring, a technique Shaun had never been able to master. “I think you have everything you need except a woman’s touch.”
He was tempted to say she could read his mind. “What do you mean?” he asked instead.
“The ambience is laddish. Dark leather, strip lights, sports on TV, a single tiny mirror in the ladies.”
“I see,” Shaun said, adding, “My wife would have spotted all that if she was still alive. She died of breast cancer three years ago.” Of course, with Meg in his life, he wouldn’t have needed this project. His time would have been filled with family parties, picnics in the forest, football coaching for the boys. He might even be retired now, on a private beach in Marbella, watching Meg’s ample bosom burst out of a bikini.
“I’m sorry,” Kat said. She must have seen his eyes mist.
“It’s in the past,” he said, although really he was grieving for the future that had been taken away. “Anyhow, thanks for the advice.” He had no intention of following it. In his world, men controlled the purse strings; they were the stars around which women orbited.
“You’re welcome,” she said, stubbing out the cigarette. “See you around.”
“Just one thing,” Shaun said. “I’d like you back next week, in case we have any issues. Can you do that?”
“You mean I may need to train replacements?” Kat asked. “Sure. You’re wise to ask. The girls mostly have habits, and I don’t mean like these.” She pointed to the Sobranies. “You’ll need to watch the cash round here like a hawk.”
“Oh, I shall,” Shaun said grimly.
“By the way,” Kat said, “I guess you couldn’t get Snow Mountain.”
His eyes narrowed, flicking up to the pink-lit shelf where six other vodkas were on display. He had quite forgotten his laughing promise to stock the brand. Without considering why she should care, he resolved to keep his word. “I’ll see to it,” he said.
“High five,” Kat said, holding up her hand.
He slapped it, staring at his own hand afterwards and then at her retreating figure. Until he’d finished another cigarette, he wished he was twenty years younger.