Chapter 39
So that was that. Annie sat alone over breakfast at the club next morning and knew that she could never again visit with Dolly and the girls over in Limehouse. The painters were in, starting early, putting the finishing touches to the walls; the stink of the paint and the rising heat of the day made her feel nauseous.
A night’s fitful sleep had done nothing to ease her turmoil. Her brain kept throwing up an image of Redmond Delaney’s face, white with fury, glaring at her as if murder was intended. She had never once seen Redmond lose it before. It had shaken her, although she would never admit that to a living soul.
He’d cut part of her life, part of her history, away with one fell swoop. She couldn’t go back to Dolly’s. Didn’t dare. But her visits there had become such an integral part of her life that she knew she would miss them like crazy.
She was drinking tea and forcing down a bit of toast when there was a knock at the flat door.
She went and answered it. It was skinny Gary Tooley with his blond hair flopping over his forehead, his blue eyes hard as they looked at her; he was leaning his lanky frame against the wall.
‘What?’ she asked.
He fished a flick knife out of his pocket and shot the blade out. Annie flinched back. He looked at her, his expression almost amused. Then he started to clean his nails with it. ‘Tony told me you wanted the dirt on that trannie Bobby Jo Hopkirk,’ he said casually.
‘You got some?’ She swallowed.
Gary nodded. ‘Some. Bobby Jo’s fucking one of the club owners,’ he said.
‘Who?’ asked Annie, her eyes on the knife. She thought of the last time she and Tony had cornered the transsexual club manager, the way he had sweated and looked evasive and asked them not to spill the beans over him and Teresa.
‘A Mrs Selma Callow. Jewish princess. Husband’s loaded and busy making the next million and she’s bored. Sunk some of the old man’s money into the club along with a few other investors, and spotted the manager, who looks okay without the skirt and the wig…it’s a story as old as time. Enter Bobby Jo for a walk on the wild side, spice up her dull little days. We’ve seen them together; she treats him to nice things, plush hotels, the works. Hubby ain’t got a clue but he’s old school. Okay for him to boff the secretary over the desk, but I’m not sure he’d take to wifey doing the same, know what I mean?’
Annie nodded. Which would explain why Bobby Jo had been so nervous when questioned; he didn’t want to rock the boat and end up losing a cushy number.
‘You know any of the other club owners?’ she asked.
‘Not yet. We’ll dig around,’ said Gary, excavating dirt from beneath a nail.
‘Constantine Barolli’s doing that too,’ said Annie, feeling the need to say it, have it out in the open.
Gary’s eyes clouded. He paused in his manicure. ‘Yeah. About that.’
‘What?’
‘Barolli.’
‘Yeah, what?’
‘What’s the deal there? You and him?’
Annie stiffened. ‘It’s none of your fucking business.’
Gary let out a laugh and closed the knife, pocketed it. ‘Yeah, but you see it
‘That ain’t true.’
‘No?’ Gary’s eyes were acute on hers.
‘No.’
‘Only the boys like to know who they’re taking orders from, that’s all.’
‘They’re taking orders from me. Tell them that. Not Constantine.
‘So long as we understand each other,’ said Gary.
‘Oh, I think we do.’
‘None of the boys would like that,’ he went on. ‘Taking orders off the Yanks. Could cause a
‘Such as?’ asked Annie, straight-faced, but she felt sick to her stomach.
‘Such as, well, Steve and me could take over the show and Constantine Barolli could go fuck himself.’
‘You want that?’ she asked.
Gary’s eyes locked on her for a long moment. Then he looked away.
‘We’re Carter boys,’ he said finally. ‘Always have been, always will be. You’re a Carter. We’re loyal to the Carters. But if
He shrugged and left the sentence hanging. Didn’t need to finish it.
She was walking a tightrope here with her connection to Constantine—but then, she had always known that.
‘Okay, Gary, I’ve got the message,’ she said, and the phone started to ring.
‘Glad to hear it. Right. See you.’ And he loped off down the stairs.
Annie closed the door and let out a shaky sigh before dashing over and snatching up the phone from the side table beside the couch. ‘Yep?’ she snapped.
‘Bad day?’ said Constantine.
‘Worse than bad.’
‘Your friend,’ he said.
‘Mira? How’s she doing?’
‘She’s asking for you. Making a bit more sense now, they say. You could visit tomorrow.’
‘Okay. Give me the address.’ She scrabbled around for pen and paper. ‘Should I phone ahead, let them know what time?’
‘That would be good,’ he said, and he gave her the address and telephone number of the safe house.
‘Thanks. Constantine?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve been getting grief off Gary Tooley about hooking up with you.’
‘Well, that was sure to happen. He’s loyal to Max. Assert your authority, stamp it out.’
‘Yeah, only he seems to think it’s
‘A woman in a man’s world,’ said Constantine.
‘Thank you Sigmund Freud.’ Annie felt a flare of anger at the injustice of it. ‘The fucking cheek. They see me as Max’s wife or your girlfriend. Not as
‘Well,
‘Easy for you to say.’ She sighed. She wanted to tell him she’d had grief off Redmond, but fuck it, she was too proud. She didn’t want to show herself up as the little woman begging for protection.
‘I’ve got three besides that one. Hold on, here it is. Colin Stringer, City financier. Evan Davies, banker. And Redmond Delaney, who I think you know?’
Annie nearly dropped the phone. ‘Holy shit. Redmond’s got a share of the club?’
‘Is that significant?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got to think about it. He was mad as hell at me crossing him over Mira.’
‘He giving you any trouble?’
She ought to tell him now. She knew it. But she couldn’t.
