THE CLUB SMELLS EXACTLY the way it always does; a cross between the inside of a plastic wallet and the inside of a disposable Hoover bag. I press the button to the Penthouse lift and the perfume is intensified in spades. I am delivered to my destination and cross the windowless hall which is occupied only by Terry Malloy. Seated in the reproduction Hepplewhite, he speaks, but does not rise, which would of course be asking too much.
“They’re in,” he says.
I nod, not caring to put too fine a point on it.
“Go through,” says Terry. “They’re in there.”
I nod again, and press the button to Aladdin’s cave. The scene before me is as a thousand times before. Breakfast trays littering the Swedish surfaces, Gerald looking scruffy in his two-hundred-quid’s-worth, Les looking immaculate in his.
I don’t have to wait long to judge the tenor of the interview.
“Well, Jack,” says Gerald, “you done well, then, didn’t you? You really done well for us this time.”
“Thanks,” I say to him.
“I mean, don’t matter we can’t never go back there again. That don’t matter, do it? Eighty thousand irretrievable quids’ worth of property, that’s fuck all, is it Jack?”
“No,” says Les, “not compared to the squaring money both to their filth and ours.”
“Of course,” I say to him, “no squaring money due to me, of course.”
“You what?” Gerald says.
“Did I hear right?” asks Les.
“Yes,” I tell him. “You heard very right.”
Gerald and Les look at each other. Gerald is smiling. Les is not.
“Come on,” says Gerald. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
Les shakes his head.
“No, he’s not joking,” he says. “The cunt is serious.”
I nod my head.
“That’s right,” I say. “For once I agree with you, Les. Too right I’m serious. You dropped me in it and I’d no idea, and you wouldn’t even do that to Sammy the doorman without even discussing the possible outcome.”
“You’re paid,” Gerald says. “You want Sammy’s wages and piece of mind, or do you want what you’re getting for what you’re doing?”
“What I don’t like,” I tell them, “is the manner it was done. You don’t have a pair of bollocks between you, so you drop me in the Balearics and leave it to the minor characters to fill me in.”
“I wish we had,” says Les. “I really wish we had.”
“Well,” I say to him, “chance would be a fine thing. The upshot is, come what may, I am, as of this moment, freelance. In other words, available for weddings and funerals, open to offers, say, like from the Colemans, as for an instance.”
“Only if you can get as far as the nearest phone,” Les tells me.
“Hang on,” says Gerald, “hang about.”
He lights up the remaining inch of one of his disgusting cigars, then addresses himself to me.
“You serious, Jack?” he asks.
I don’t say anything. And neither do they. The silence continues until, behind me, the door of the Penthouse opens, revealing Audrey, looking for all the world as if she’s had a nice quiet few days in Ibiza.
“Hello,” she says. “Everybody all right, are they?”
There is another long silence, which is broken by Les about to speak, which is cut short by Gerald jumping in before Les can get the words out.
“Well now,” says Gerald. “This is nice. All girls together once again.”
He stands up and walks over to where the drinks are.
“Nice,” he says. “I’ll get us all a drink and we can all discuss ‘What we did in the Holidays’. I’m sure it’ll be interesting, but not interesting enough to affect a tried and trusted business partnership, eh, Les?”
Les remains silent.
“That’s what I thought,” says Gerald, poised by the drinks. “Jack, what you going to have? The usual?”