Hearts of Stone (11 page)

‘Does that mean a fuck's not out of the question, then?'

She was right. It wasn't.

25

I
woke up in the middle of a dream that I was a British POW digging my way to freedom, when the roof of the tunnel collapsed, trapping me under a ton of earth. I couldn't move my arms or legs and I could hardly breathe. When I opened my eyes, Kylie was sprawled on top of me, her face two inches from mine. I couldn't move my arms or legs and I could hardly breathe. I lay there for a second, trying to remember where I was, who she was, and who I was. Suddenly it all came back in a reassuring flood, and I managed to get some purchase on the sheet with one elbow and pushed her off me. As she moved away she opened one eye and looked at me.

‘Morning,' I said.

‘Hello there,' she replied. She looked a mess. Her thick blonde hair was tangled, and she hadn't removed her make-up when we'd come to bed, and the remains of it was smeared all over her face. ‘I must look a mess.'

‘No,' I said. ‘You look great.' I lied about the former, but not the latter. She did look great. Tangled hair and smudged make-up, or no tangled hair and smudged make-up.

‘I've got to pee. I'm bursting,' she said. Pushing back the bed clothes, she found a towelling robe on the dressing-table stool, pulled it on and left the room. As she went, I saw enough bed-warm, slightly damp, pneumatic flesh jiggling around to get me interested. More than interested in fact. I looked at the clock on the table by the bed. Eight-o'five it read. I rolled out of bed myself, and pulled back the curtain at the window just enough to check what was going on outside, but not enough for anyone to see in. I didn't want to get done for indecent exposure, after all. And I certainly was. Indecent, that is.

Two storeys below me, Brewer Street was thronged with fresh-faced citizens heading for work. I scratched the stubble on my chin and went back to bed.

Kylie returned a minute or so later, shrugged out of the robe, and joined me. ‘Coffee's on.' And slid her hand down to my groin. ‘Interesting,' she said when she'd found what she was looking for. ‘You should get up.'

‘I've been up,' I replied. ‘I didn't like it.'

She took my hand with her other hand, and put it between her legs. It was hot and sticky down there. ‘I meant up me, silly.' And she climbed on top of me again, and manipulated me inside her, and started to rub herself up and down. By that time I was so horny that I only lasted a minute or so, but it was worth it.

When it was all over, she said, ‘There's nothing like a quick one in the morning. And that was a
very
quick one indeed.'

‘Are you casting aspersions on my staying power, or what?' I asked. ‘Because if you are, too bad. I think the earth moved for me that time.'

‘Me too, darling,' she said and kissed me. ‘I'm not complaining. At least I know I turn you on.'

‘You do,' I said. ‘Now, did someone mention coffee or was I mistaken?'

‘Oh Christ, it'll be ready.' She was off me, out of bed again, into her robe and out the bedroom in a second. I got up after her, pulled on my shorts and T-shirt, and went to the loo. The living room smelled deliciously of fresh coffee. When I got back, she stuck a cup under my nose.

‘Thanks,' I said.

‘So what are you doing today?' she asked.

‘Working. I'm due to open the bar at half-ten. I'd better get going soon.'

‘Shame.'

‘I know.'

‘Will you drop me off?'

‘Where?'

‘The Embankment. I'm going to the gym. There's a session at nine-thirty.'

‘Christ,' I said. ‘Didn't you get enough exercise last night?'

‘No… well, yes. But I wasn't working on the right muscles.'

‘All right,' I said. ‘It's your funeral. But I warn you I'm going as soon as I'm dressed.'

‘I love a masterful man. Don't worry. It'll only take me a second to get ready.'

‘I've heard that one before.'

We finished our coffee and went back into the bedroom. Whilst I put on the rest of last night's clothes, she put on a pink leotard over black lycra leggings, a sweat-suit, towelling socks and trainers, pulled a sports bag out of the cupboard and put in a towel and a bottle of shampoo, and picked up her handbag.

‘Ready,' she said.

‘Let's go, then.'

‘Just a minute,' she said, and rooted round for a pen and a piece of paper. She scribbled something on it and gave it to me. ‘My number here,' she said.

‘I'm honoured.'

‘You should be. Use it.'

‘I will. I promise.' I put the piece of paper carefully in my pocket. ‘Come on, then,' I said. ‘Otherwise you'll miss your torture session.'

She smiled and kissed me. It could have got steamy again, but we both had other things to do. Pity.

We went downstairs to the street, unlocking and re-locking the doors as we went, walked the couple of hundred yards to the car park and found the Cosworth.

‘Nice car,' she said appreciatively, and started opening and closing the glove compartment, fiddling with the seat and playing with the electric windows. ‘Will you take me out for a drive soon?'

‘Sure,' I said as I drove down the ramps from level to level towards the exit. I paid the overnight fee, negotiated my way through Soho, round Piccadilly Circus and down to the Embankment. The gym faced the gardens next to the Houses of Parliament. I pulled up at the kerb opposite.

‘Thanks for the ride, Nick,' she said.

‘I think it's me who should be thanking you, if my memories of last night are correct.'

‘You're such a disgusting man, I don't know why I like you so much. But I do. When am I going to see you?'

‘I'll call you,' I said. ‘Before the weekend. We'll get together.'

‘Make sure you do. I'm looking forward to it already.' And she leaned over and kissed me, grabbed her bags and jumped out of the car. The last I saw of her she was dodging the traffic to get over the road.

26

I
drove home, got changed and went to work. The phone in the bar rang around two. I answered it. ‘Nick. Brady.'

‘Hello, Brady,' I said. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘I need to see you.'

‘When?'

‘Tonight.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I say so.'

‘Give me a clue.'

‘Not on the phone.'

Paranoia strikes deep. I sighed. ‘I'm through at six-thirty,' I said.

‘We'll go out for a drink, right?'

‘Why not?'

‘I'll pick you up at your place at nine.'

‘You're the boss.'

‘You said it.'

‘How could I forget.'

‘That's what I like to hear. Nine o'clock then. Be ready. Dress smart.' And he hung up in my ear.

At the appointed hour, I was standing at my flat window with the curtains open and the light out, smoking a cigarette and watching the street, when Brady's car roared up and squealed to a halt outside. I went downstairs and met him on the doorstep. In the light from the hall I saw that he was dressed in a dark suit, shirt and tie. It was the first time I'd seen him without his leather jacket. I'd put on my old standby navy Armani, a pale blue Paul Smith baggy shirt, and a dark blue silk tie with a predominantly mustard-yellow Paisley pattern, and highly-polished, black Bass Weejuns.

‘Am I smart enough for you?' I asked.

‘Very nice.'

‘I'm so glad you approve. So, where are we going that I need sartorial advice from you?'

‘The Dealing Floor. Know it?'

Course I knew it. A couple of years before, it had been
the
club. The hottest ticket in town for every city whizz-kid determined to make a splash and his fortune and retire before the age of thirty. Without a membership card you were scum. With one, you were king. But that was then, and this is now.

‘I thought it had closed down,' I said.

‘No, it's still there. It's not what it used to be, but then what is? You ever been there?'

‘No. Not my scene.'

‘Well, you're going tonight.'

‘Why?'

‘I thought I'd show you where the money you'll be giving Hughes and Seeley will end up.'

‘Come again?'

‘I'll tell you later. Come on, let's go.'

We got into his car and headed towards the city. We crossed Tower Bridge and turned east, and followed the river to Venice Wharf and the Venice Tower, one of the tallest buildings in London. It was lit up like a birthday cake, burning enough energy to supply a small town. It loomed above the adjoining cityscape like a pink and white and yellow colossus, and was visible ten minutes before we got there.

The Dealing Floor was on the top floor of the tower, forty storeys above London. The other thirty-nine floors belonged to a merchant bank whose head office was registered in Liechtenstein, and which had subsidiaries in Luxembourg, the Cayman Islands and Delaware. Interest on deposits was a couple of percentage points over base rate. A fine investment. But you shouldn't blink too often or you might just find your life savings floating offshore somewhere with a school of silk-suited sharks taking tasty chunks out of the old pension fund.

A few years ago you couldn't have got a parking space closer than half a mile away for jammed-up Porsches, Ferraris, Mercedes and Golf GTI cabriolets; the queue at the special lift that went straight up to the club was ten deep, with paparazzi firing off flash-guns like automatic weapons; and you could have bottled the perfume the air-conditioning pulled out of the place, and sold it for forty pounds an ounce.

But as the icy fingers of the recession crept up the river, freezing it into white caps, it even left its dirty fingerprints up there, so close to the gods.

So now you could park outside, have the lift all to yourself, and get the best table in the place any time, any night of the week.

We stood in the foyer behind a twenty-foot-high sheet of plate glass that cut the volume level of the music and allowed some conversation, and looked into the disco room. That night it was empty except for two or three punters at the bar, the DJ, half a dozen waitresses wearing not much but their underwear, and a sad-looking geezer in a tuxedo. There wasn't one table taken in the restaurant section, which had once been booked solid a fortnight in advance, and where you could watch a wall full of big-screen TVs showing the share and currency prices on all the world markets any time of night or day. As the Tokyo market opened, breakfast was served, and you could check the Nikkei Dow index and work out how much loot you'd made overnight as you dug into a kipper or bacon and eggs.

I thought I'd rarely been in a more depressing place in years. ‘Slow night,' I said.

‘Every night's the same.'

‘Why don't they close down?'

‘You can't just close a place like this.'

‘Why not?'

‘The boys wouldn't appreciate it.'

‘What boys?'

‘
The
boys. The guys who opened this place as a laundry for dirty money.'

‘So you were serious. You reckon the people who own this building and this place are your drug barons we'll be dealing with?'

‘Sure I do.'

‘And you come here?'

‘I've told you a dozen times, I like to know the territory. I come here a lot. I like it.'

‘So this is what a laundry looks like?'

‘Sure.'

‘I think maybe the washing machines broke down.'

‘You said it. But they insist that the good times are coming back. Listen, you go in the quiet bar.' He pointed towards a set of smoked-glass double doors. ‘And I'll fetch the boss and introduce you.'

‘Who does he think you are?'

‘Someone with a high disposable income.'

I did as he said, and pushed through the doors. Inside it was
very
quiet, and deserted except for a barman behind a chrome-covered bar, polishing a glass as if he was trying to wear it out.

‘Evening,' I said as I entered.

‘Good evening, sir,' he replied. ‘What can I get you?'

‘How about some excitement.'

‘We're fresh out,' he replied.

‘OK. A Tom Collins will do, then.'

He reached behind him for the bottle of gin, and I sat down at an ornate, leather-upholstered captain's chair, and watched as he mixed the drink. Before he was finished, Brady came into the bar with the geezer in the tux. ‘Nick Sharman,' he said. ‘This is Derek. He runs the place.'

‘Welcome, Mr Sharman,' said Derek, and stuck out his mitten. I took it and we shook hands. ‘It's always good to see friends of Mr Brady's. Almost like old times.' He looked round the empty room. ‘Christ, but it's dead in here,' he remarked. Then, to the barman, ‘Put some music on, Mikey. Liven the place up a bit. You could store bodies in here.'

‘It
is
supposed to be the quiet bar,' said the barman petulantly.

‘But not the morgue. Put on some music. There's a good boy.'

The barman shrugged and reached down and pushed some buttons, and Anita Baker's voice oozed softly out of the speakers.

‘That's better,' said Derek. ‘Get me my usual, and…' He turned to Brady. ‘What do you want, Mr Brady?'

‘Scotch,' he replied.

‘A large scotch, and whatever Mr Sharman's having. Stick them on my tab.'

‘Thanks,' I said as the Tom Collins arrived. It was perfect. I felt it was up to me to say something. ‘Nice place.' It was all I could think of.

‘Used to be,' he said sadly. ‘Dead now.'

‘Things'll get better,' I ventured.

‘Are you serious? I keep the doors to the roof double-locked now, so many punters threatened to jump off. The city's dead, my friend. And when the city's dead, the country isn't far behind.'

‘Leave it out, Derek,' said Brady. ‘We're supposed to be here to enjoy ourselves, not top ourselves. It's Nick's first time, so why don't you show him the dance floor?'

‘What?' I said, wondering why the hell I'd be interested.

‘Good idea,' said Derek. ‘Come on, Mr Sharman. It'll give you a kick, I promise.'

I shrugged. ‘OK,' I said to Derek. ‘You coming?' to Brady.

‘I've seen it. I'll stay here with this drink and the nice barman.'

‘Sure,' I said.

I followed Derek out of the quiet bar, over the smooth carpet, and into the club proper that was still shaking to the music. I suppose another two or three people had arrived since we'd come in. But not enough to make the place look even slightly busy. The TV screens still pumped out their columns of figures, but no one even pretended to be interested.

We walked across the empty space between the bar and the DJ's booth, up a flight of four wide steps, and suddenly we were walking on thin air, or so it seemed. I was looking straight down forty storeys, and my stomach lurched. There seemed to be nothing between me and the street below. Derek grinned for the first time, and leant over and bellowed in my ear, ‘Six-inch-thick plexiglass. Clear as crystal. Strong as cement.'

The street that ran along the embankment below looked to be about half an inch wide, with its lamps like a string of fireflies. They followed the river, which resembled a piece of black mirrored glass, and on the opposite bank I could see blocks of offices and flats, and a vista of yellow light, neon and black shadows that reached to the hills of south London.

Derek beckoned me out of the disco. When we were back in the relative quiet behind the viewing window, and we could speak without shouting, he said, ‘Amazing, isn't it? People take it differently. One or two have actually been physically sick. Others just freeze and have to be carried off. Some lie down and stay there for hours, with other people stepping over them. We found one geezer flat on his back in the road outside with a pair of bins, looking up the girls' skirts. Apparently he'd been there every night for months, wanking himself silly during the slow songs.'

‘Weird,' I said.

We walked back into the quiet bar. Brady was getting into the scotch. I sat down next to him and picked up my drink. ‘That's incredible,' I said.

‘I knew you'd like it. I remember the first time I saw it.'

‘The good old days,' said Derek sadly. ‘But there's not much happens anymore. We used to hire out the place to all sorts. Arabs, Germans, Colombians – you name it. We've had orgies in here. A thousand people groping, sucking, fucking. You'd never believe it. Dogs. Pigs – you name it. We even brought a donkey up in the lift once. Shat all over the place. Donkey shit don't 'alf stink. I videotaped every one. Got them all in my office. For insurance, you know. You'd be amazed some of the people whose cocks and cunts I've got on film in there. One day I'm going to splice all the juiciest bits together and sell it. I'd make a fortune.'

‘If you live that long,' said Brady.

‘One of the reasons I haven't done it so far. We've got videos in the toilets, too. Now, that's even more interesting. Funny how many people pick their noses when they're taking a shit. And worse.'

I made a mental note to hold my water as long as possible.

‘Let's have another round,' said Brady, and the barman got to it. When we were served, Brady said, ‘You'll have to excuse us, Derek. Business, you know.'

‘Of course, Mr Brady,' said Derek. ‘I have to check the front of the house anyway, to make sure no one's dying of excitement. I'll see you gentlemen later.'

‘Later,' said Brady, and Derek left us to our fresh drinks. ‘Let's sit over there, Nick,' said Brady, and we moved to a table in the corner, furthest from the bar.

When we were comfortable, with cigarettes lit, he said, ‘The first buy is tomorrow night.'

‘Just as well I'm not working, then,' I replied.

‘Just as well, or you'd have to be sick, wouldn't you?'

I didn't answer the question. We both knew the answer anyway. ‘Where?' I asked instead.

‘I'll let you know tomorrow when I bring the cash round.'

‘Aren't you taking the secrecy aspect of this thing a little too far?' I said.

‘Two guys died because they didn't. I don't want to be another… or you, for that matter,' he said as an afterthought, which wasn't exactly reassuring. ‘Don't worry, I'll take care of everything. I'll be at your place about ten with the dough. Be ready.'

‘Am I ever anything else?'

‘That's my boy.'

‘You don't think Hughes or Seeley will pull any stunts, do you?' I asked.