John Maynard pulled up in the Aurora’s car park, his face screwing up with a mixture of contempt and amusement. His eyes tracked across the façade of the dilapidated building, which was in dire need of emergency repointing work. It looked like the bricks were held together by gravity alone.
His gazed moved to the large garish neon sign:
THE AURORA
That would have undoubtedly cost a few quid, even though it was bloody hideous. Whoever was trying their luck with this shit-hole should have prioritised that the building stayed upright before ploughing money into a sign.
Despite his bad mood, a chuckle escaped John’s mouth. By God, this place really was a dump. If it was as bad inside as it was out, then he didn’t need to go in to draw an opinion of it.
He reluctantly got out of the car. He’d promised Len he’d check the place out – covertly, of course. Even though the Orchid had no worries about losing its clientele to this place, they still needed to confirm if this was the gaff behind the attempts to muscle in on their patches.
When he took over the reins of the Reynold’s firm, he wouldn’t pussy-foot around with stuff like this. He’d simply raze any competition, relevant or not, to the ground. And as for Samantha… she would be having sod all to do with it. No say, no nothing.
His irritation at being dragged into dining with the Reynolds to yet again pander over Samantha’s sensitivities gradually subsided. Christ, his whole life he’d put up with Len Reynold’s devout dedication to that idiotic girl as well as the equally simpleton wife, plus he’d kept what he knew under wraps all this time… And that hadn’t been for nothing…
Had Len not immediately made it known to him after Samantha’s birthday announcement the other night that his intentions were still set to follow what he’d always promised, then he certainly wouldn’t be entertaining any of this crap. He’d have just made the decision to do things his way instead. Thankfully, Len had enough sense to know Samantha wouldn’t cope overseeing the firm. Even so, having to do this was another example of needless time-wasting.
It was bad enough he had to take it up the backside that the Orchid and the Reynold empire would, on the surface, be under Samantha’s control, but that wouldn’t last long. All he had to do was keep Len on side for now.
John smiled. After all the work he and his father had put into the firm, it was his right to inherit the lot. Darling Samantha and his bloody thick as shit Aunt Gloria would never see a penny. That would be taken care of at the first given opportunity.
He walked across the car park, cursing under his breath as his foot went in a large pothole, painfully bending his ankle. Outside lighting and a new surface for the car park was another recommendation.
Nearing what he presumed to be the entrance, although the wooden door was shut, John stared at a propped-up bicycle and two young men, wearing dark hooded tops and ripped jeans, huddled against the side wall.
He squinted against the gloom of the night. Mmm, classy… Not even attempting to hide their drug deals.
Clearing his throat, John walked up the stone steps to the door and looked about him. How did anyone get into this dump? Was it even open? He glanced at one of the many front windows. It was impossible to tell if there were any lights on behind the thick curtains and wooden shutters.
‘You have to bang the door, mate,’ one of the hooded men shouted.
Nodding his thanks, John banged on the wooden door, surprised it didn’t fall off. Receiving no response, he was about to turn on his heels and retreat to his car when the door was opened by a large man wearing an over-tight shirt and a leather jacket.
‘Yeah?’ The man looked John over with interest. ‘You here for the women or the casino?’
Another laugh bubbled at the back of John’s throat. They were marketing this gaff as a casino? Were these people insane? ‘Not sure,’ he muttered. ‘I thought I’d see what’s on offer.’
The man jerked his oversized head, which John took to mean he’d been granted admission and stepped over the threshold, the door closing loudly behind him.
‘Sign in, will ya? The guest book is over there.’ The man pointed to a blue camping table in the dark hallway.
John quickly scrawled a random name in the spiral-bound notebook with the BIC biro attached to it with a piece of string. Like someone was going to nick that?
Did he really have to do this? Surely he’d seen enough?
Morbid curiosity getting the better of him, he followed the hallway down to where he could hear music, loud talking and swearing. Approaching a large room at the rear, as dimly lit as the rest of the place, John stood in the doorway and stared.
Several tables overlaid with horrible green tablecloths housed a collection of unmatching chairs around them. Cards were being played on the tables, the men clearly the worse for wear, no doubt aided by the scantily clad women leaning over in what he presumed was meant to be a tantalising fashion to top up the drinks with whatever cheap but potent spirit was contained inside the large bottles they clutched.
Feeling an arm snake around his waist, John spun around, finding a young, rather tired-looking Chinese woman.
‘You want play cards, sir, or want girls first?’
‘Cards, I think,’ John muttered, extracting himself from the woman draping over him like a cheap suit. ‘Any particular table I should join?’
The woman stared at him vacantly with a fixed smile. English was clearly not her strong point, but looking at her, John wasn’t sure whether she had any strong points whatsoever. ‘I’ll join this one,’ he said, moving towards the nearest table.
‘No, sir, you need deposit first,’ the woman cried, pointing to the corner of the room.
Squinting into the gloom, John could just about make out a man sitting alone at a table with his back to the room. All that was visible was a steady stream of cigarette smoke coming from his direction.
Ah, it was one of those set-odds sit-downs. A minimum cost of fifty or a hundred quid, along with the classic rigged tables trick, he didn’t doubt.
Making his way over, John shoved his hand in his pocket, pulling out a roll of notes. He’d have one sit-down, watch for contenders for who might be infiltrating the Orchid’s patches and then get the fuck out of this dump.
‘What’s the price to join a table?’ he growled to the back of the man’s head.
Tom Bedworth took his time before turning around to deal with the new punter. It looked better not to jump to attention – he’d learnt that a long time ago. It made him look more upmarket and important.
‘The minimum stake for poker is fifty quid, mate,’ he mumbled, taking a big mouthful of house vodka before making the effort to look at this latest loser. Loser or not, he would be losing. Everyone did, apart from him, otherwise there would be no point running the tables.
Everyone knew gambling was a mug’s game, yet they still all believed they had a chance. Silly fuckers. He smiled smugly. Yeah, he’d make a killing from this set-up.
John clenched his teeth watching the man pretend to be engrossed in his odds book and felt like chucking him off his chair. Whatever he’d promised Len, this place was full of fuckwits and this dipshit here was taking the piss. ‘You the owner?’
Tom loved it when people asked that. Nothing was more bolstering than being able to say he was a ‘club owner’. All of these years and it was finally true. He might have made a name for himself up north with his dealing and brothels, but now he’d finally got his club. And it had only just started. Soon, once he had done what was needed, he’d be well on the way to being the only person in this city worth bothering with. He’d finally get his dues in the place of his birth.
Puffing out his chest, Tom sipped slowly from his tumbler of vodka, then turned around. ‘Yeah, I’m the owner of the Aurora. First visit here I presume, Mr…?’
John had to blink several times as the man’s face became half-illuminated in the dim glow of the overhead lighting. It couldn’t be, could it?
No. He’d left years ago and was never coming back.
Andrew watched from the doorway of the warehouse as the van was unloaded. Keeping one eye on the gates to the compound, he made sure Gary directed the runners to stack the boxes in the correct place. Seb would go tits if the gear wasn’t put exactly where he’d specified.
He didn’t know why he was bothering wasting a second thought on something so trivial, but Seb had been in such a foul mood when he’d returned earlier, he didn’t want anything else setting him off. Why was it such a big deal if the other half of this order wasn’t arriving until the day after tomorrow? Personally, he’d rather that than risk the authorities sniffing around. The Irish weren’t due to collect it until after the weekend anyway, so it wasn’t like it made any difference, but then this was Seb.
Seb always had to be in control. Over everything.
Andrew’s forehead creased as he stared at his younger brother. Gary was an odd one – always moaning and on edge. It was a standing joke between the rest of them that Gary should have been a bird. The way he flapped about and worried about everything, anyone would think he was a woman. Not to mention that he’d always got an easy ride and special treatment from their parents – like he needed to be protected.
Andrew scowled. And then there was Neil… Why couldn’t Neil do stuff like this? Neil got roped into hardly anything, so why was he sent here with Gary today, leaving Neil to lounge around the Peacock, chatting up the birds as usual?
And while he was at it, Andrew didn’t like that Seb was meeting Reynold with their father tomorrow either. Okay, so as the eldest, Seb had more clout, but surely he deserved more inclusion with the stuff that went on? He did more collar than Neil or Gary put together, yet never got allotted any important jobs like Seb did, and he was getting fed up with the imbalance.
Andrew had even suggested going to the meeting too, but his father was adamant only two of the Stoker men were present. Why? Because Reynold didn’t want to feel outnumbered? He doubted it. Reynold would probably have half of his lot present. That miserable sod, Maynard would be there, and perhaps the latest surprising addition to the Reynold fleet – the daughter?
As the final box was unloaded, Andrew watched the two runners clamber back into the Transit. Nodding to the driver, he waited as the van exited the compound, then stepped back into the warehouse, pulling the heavy sliding doors closed behind him.
He walked across to where Gary fiddled around with the last remaining box and sighed. ‘What are you doing now?’
Gary glanced over his shoulder. ‘Just making sure all the labels are facing out.’
Andrew rolled his eyes. ‘Have you got OCD?’ Pulling one of the boxes from the shelf, he placed it on a worktop and yanked the lid off, humming appreciatively. ‘Decent ammo. Where did you say these came in from?’
Gary shrugged. ‘I didn’t. Seb didn’t mention it either. Put that back now, we need to get going.’
Andrew felt the familiar rush of irritation and glared at the back of his brother’s sandy-haired head, watching him fuss with the box on the racking.
Leaving Gary to double-check the warehouse doors were locked, Andrew made his way back to his car. Starting the Rover SD1, he revved the V6 engine impatiently. ‘Come on!’ he muttered under his breath. He wanted to get back and have a few beers.
Finally climbing into the passenger seat, Gary fumbled with the seat belt. ‘Are you and Neil going to the Aurora tomorrow night or it is just you?’
Andrew pursed his lips as he roared off up the road. That was another thing. He didn’t want to dig about on a load of low-life scouts. ‘Depends on what comes off from the meeting with Reynold tomorrow. They may already have insights into who this two-bit firm trying their luck are.’
Gary nodded. ‘But would they tell us if they did?’
Andrew’s concentration fixed on navigating the Queensway at record speed, the trippy blue-tiled walls rushing past. ‘Dad seems to think working together on this will be in all of our interests, so I’m presuming the point of the meeting is to share information and tactics?’
Not that he’d bother doing that if it was up to him. None of them apart from his father felt it relevant to aid the Reynolds. It was more lucrative to point whoever was causing the issues towards the Reynolds and let them get the flack.
Taking the right lane from the Queensway tunnel, Andrew scraped through the changing traffic lights and shot up the road, turning into Broad Street, glad to be back amongst the comfortable chaos of upmarket nightlife, the gold sign of the Peacock in view up ahead.
‘I’m worried about Dad,’ Gary said suddenly.
Andrew felt like slamming Gary’s head into the window just to shut him up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He doesn’t look well. I think he should see a doctor.’
‘He’s fine,’ Andrew scoffed. ‘Extra stress makes him like that, you know what he’s like. He’ll be back to normal as soon as all this is sorted.’
‘I’d prefer it if he got checked out,’ Gary pushed.
‘I wouldn’t keep saying that in front of him if I were you. You know he can’t bear fussing.’ And you’re the worst fusspot of them all, Gary, Andrew thought.
Pulling into the underground carpark of the Royal Peacock, Andrew nodded at the security guard and impatiently drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the barrier to raise, then backed the SD1 into one of the designated spaces reserved for the Stokers.
Getting out of his motor, Andrew hurried towards the Peacock’s staff entrance, making no attempt to wait for his brother.
John eyed Tom Bedworth malevolently. ‘What have you fucked up this time?’
Tom clenched his jaw. ‘I’ve fucked up nothing.’ Apart from everything. But the first part of that recovery started here.
‘I don’t know what you think gives you the right to come in here trapping off, Maynard?’ Tom spat. ‘Let’s not forget why I left Birmingham in the first place.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll remind you, shall I? Shit information. Purposefully shit information. And we both know why that was, don’t we?’ he spat, bolstered at the flash of fear or shock – he couldn’t decide which, in Maynard’s eyes. Maynard wasn’t expecting that, was he?
And that’s why he was back. More than enough time had passed and if nothing had come back from Jimmy Maynard’s death in twelve years, then it was unlikely to now. Furthermore, he had the trump card up his sleeve and because of that, John Maynard couldn’t drop him in it without dropping himself further.
This fucker had done him up like a kipper in the hope of upping his own game, but it had backfired. But not any more.
Tom’s face cracked into a smile. If Maynard wanted to quit being such an egotistical prick, then things could work out for both of them.
He slowly poured Maynard a glass of vodka – making sure he gave him the chipped glass with something nasty that no one seemed able to get rid of, stuck in the bottom.
Tom watched John Maynard peer suspiciously into the glass of vodka. ‘Instead of acting like the big “I am”, why don’t you start by putting your cards on the table?’ An easy smile slithered across his face. Whether Maynard liked it or not, he wasn’t in a position to argue and the sooner he admitted that to himself, the better. ‘You as well as I know what the score is. You can’t afford for it to be known what you tried to engineer back in the day.’
He could almost see the rage bubbling along Maynard’s veins and the urge to laugh out loud was so strong that for a moment he didn’t think he’d be able to control himself. He took a long swig of his vodka. ‘I know what you want – it’s what you’ve always wanted, but I want my dues too, so I suggest we work together.’
John’s face contorted, making a gargoyle look attractive. ‘And why the fuck would I want to do that?’ he spat.
Tom laughed – this time, loudly. ‘Because, Maynard, you haven’t got any choice and you bloody know it! But I suggest this time you work with me properly. I have a lot of things planned and if you play the game, then we both stand a chance of getting exactly what we both want.’
Tipping the vodka into his mouth, John slammed the glass onto the table and sighed loudly, knowing that unfortunately Bedworth was right. And that was worse than the creature at the bottom of the glass he’d just emptied. ‘Get me another drink then,’ he muttered. ‘And a fucking fresh glass while you’re at it an’ all.’