John Maynard tried really hard not to let the resentment seep out of his brain onto his face. He didn’t know why he was even bothering passing the message on because Len wouldn’t be interested. Not today, anyway. Nothing could ever take precedence over his cousin Samantha’s birthday. It never had done and never would. Even if the world was on fire, it would have to wait until her birthday was over.
He looked at Len and scowled inwardly, seeing his concentration fixed through the one-way glass panel of the office overlooking the main casino area below, no doubt on his daughter. ‘I thought I should let you know straight away, even if you decide it’s not worth considering.’
Len reluctantly pulled his eyes away from Samantha and slapped John on the shoulder. ‘No, you were right to tell me. I was just thinking…’
John pursed his lips. Thinking about whether Samantha’s champagne was chilled enough? That would be the first thing he would do when he finally got the reins to this place. No more birthday bashes for Samantha Reynold. Ever.
Len eyed John sadly. ‘I’m also aware that as well as Sam’s birthday, it’s the anniversary of the day your father was taken. I don’t know whether I’ve ever told you, or whether you’d guessed, but that’s partly the reason I keep these birthday bashes going.’
John swallowed hard. He hadn’t expected that, and an unexpected lump formed in his throat. ‘I…’
‘Let’s have a toast!’ Len walked to the drinks cabinet and poured out two shots of whisky, handing one to John. ‘Here’s to Jimmy’s memory – my best pal – and to my girl, Sam.’
‘Cheers,’ John muttered, chucking the whisky down his throat.
Len placed his now empty glass on his desk. ‘Now, tell me more about this message from Stoker.’
‘There wasn’t a lot said. The eldest son came in,’ John sniffed. ‘The aloof bastard – you know the one? He said Mal wants a meet ASAP. Something to do with the Aurora?’
Len frowned. ‘The what?’
‘That casino, doss house – whatever it is that’s opened down the arse end of the Hagley Road.’
Len raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, I heard something about that. What the hell have they got to do with anything? They’re hardly encroaching on our doorstep, and from what I’ve heard, aren’t likely to either.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t think we need to worry that any of our customers will favour there instead of here, do you?’
John shrugged. ‘No, I don’t, but it seems they’re getting fly by sending out scouts to tout their business on our patches, as well as on the Stokers’. Word is they’ve been threatening runners.’
Len’s eyes narrowed. ‘Our runners?’ No one threatened people on his payroll apart from him and then only with good reason. His staff from the bottom to the top were equally important to him and always had been.
John shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know, but I’m planning on finding out.’
Len nodded. ‘I’ll put in a call to arrange the meet with Stoker.’ He glanced back down over the casino. ‘We’ll keep this to ourselves for now. I don’t want anything spoiling Sam’s night.’
John nodded resentfully. Of course, nothing could be allowed to spoil anything for Samantha… Besides, it was hardly likely anything would be mentioned to her anyway. She had fuck all to do with this place and never would.
Still looking down over the main casino, Len frowned. ‘Is that him? The Stoker boy?’
John walked over to the glass and peered down, seeing Sebastian Stoker leaning against the bar like he owned it. ‘Yeah, that’s him. Arrogant bastard. I told him to take a drink, though. Thought it only right.’
Len nodded. ‘Yes, good. It never hurts to have manners and he had the decency to bring the message. Right, I’d best get back down there before Gloria strings me up for disappearing on Sam’s birthday.’
Tom laughed loudly, Jock’s joke about the monkey tickling him no end. He slugged down most of his latest pint in one go, some escaping his mouth and spraying over his open packet of pork scratchings.
Finally catching his breath, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Fuck me, Jock. That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.’
Jock Sawyer grinned. The joke wasn’t even funny, but it didn’t take much to make Tom laugh – not when he was in this state. But then Tom’s unexpected return to Birmingham was a bit of good luck. After recently having his hours cut from the Rover factory in Longbridge, it had been a godsend when Tom offered to recoup his diminished wages with a few nice little earners.
It was just like the old days, except this time around Tom had gone up in the world with his gaff on the Hagley Road. All Jock had to do, apart from test-ride women – which was never a hardship – was filch some business from the pushers in certain patches.
He’d been surprised at the cut Tom was offering – it was a decent wedge. Easy money. That was until he’d cottoned on to whose patches were required. But it made little difference to him as long as he didn’t get dragged into it.
Jock eyed Tom, unsure how much of this the man would remember. ‘Getting back to business, we’ve made headway with two of the patches you wanted.’
Tom signalled to the barman for another pint, then, closing one eye to reduce the three copies of the ashtray swimming around his blurred vision, stubbed his cigarette out. He smiled, pleased to hit the target. ‘That’s good to hear, Jock, good to hear. Keep on with it and ramp up the pressure. This is just the start.’
Jock’s face grew concerned. ‘The firms know we’re treading on their toes. Word is they’re putting the feelers out. Their runners must have reported back our threats.’
Tom flapped his hand. ‘You mean, your threats? Ah, but I know you won’t let any of that old bollocks bother you.’ He made to slap Jock on the shoulder, but his drunkenness caused him to miss and instead whack Jock in the chest. ‘Hard as nails you are, Jocky boy!’
Jock grinned. That much was true. He wasn’t a soft touch and doubly good with his fists and, come to mention it, any other weapon that came to hand, but there was a limit. ‘You’re stepping on the Reynolds’ and Stokers’ toes here, Tom,’ he said cautiously, his voice guarded.
‘Fuck Stoker and Reynold!’ Tom yelled, his hand veering his pint in the air, lager slopping on both the table as well as Jock’s arm.
Jock glanced around uncomfortably. Was Tom trying to get them both killed? ‘Keep your voice down, mate,’ he hissed. ‘We don’t want any undue attention.’
‘They’re not all that, you know,’ Tom slurred, his voice still full volume. ‘I could tell you a few things about them fuckers that would make your hair curl.’
Jock tried to smile, but failed. There weren’t many people around here that didn’t know exactly what either of those firms would dish out when needed. ‘Shall we make tracks?’ he suggested. ‘We can discuss this another time.’
‘Nah, I wanna stay here. I’ve got a new pint on the way.’ Tom swung his head around to face the bar. ‘Come the fuck on, Dave! Where’s my bloody drink?’ He groped around the table for his cigarette packet. With fumbling fingers, he took out another cigarette and lit it. ‘Yeah, them lot… Fucking phonies, that’s what they are.’
Jock stiffened. ‘Tom, I really don’t think y…’
‘Cuckoos!’ Tom roared, grinning widely as his fresh pint was deposited on the table.
‘What are you talking about?’ Jock frowned.
Finally Tom found the sense to lower his voice. ‘One of them lot isn’t one of them lot, if you get my drift?’
Jock sighed, getting frustrated. ‘Tom, I haven’t got a clue what you’re going on about.’
Tom grabbed Jock’s shirt. ‘Mention that next time you put the pressure on the runners. Their bosses won’t want folk to know that one of their kids isn’t their own.’
Jock sat back astounded. ‘Which? Who?’
Tom grinned, a trail of dribble hanging from his mouth. ‘Never you mind, but just let it be known that everyone will learn of it if we don’t get what we need.’
Jock sat back. Tom really was far too pissed. ‘How the fuck do you know this?’
Tom cocked one eyebrow and smiled slowly. ‘Because, my man, one of those fuckers bought my kid and a shit price they paid for it too.’