The Make

Chapter 14

‘Lefty in?’ Stew asked Gordon, who was policing the door of Deano Drax’s fetish club in Soho. Stew had nipped over from the strip joint over the road. They were both doormen, and they had become pals, so they often stood out in the alley beside the industrial-sized wheelie bins and had a smoke and a chat.

The immaculately attired Gordon ushered in a few more punters, stopping a couple, giving them a quick frisk. Perversions were all very well, but weapons were a no-no inside Shakers. Satisfied, he motioned the punters through into the dark, pulsing body of the club.

Gordon gestured for another of the bouncers to take over the door. He moved to one side, taking Stew Baker with him. Stew was a solid man, in build and in character, one of the best, a good mate to Gordon – and to the hapless Lefty, too.

‘You mean you ain’t heard about Lefty?’ asked Gordon over the roar of the club’s huge sound system.

‘Heard what?’

Gordon shook his head. ‘Man, you missed out on a treat.’ He explained about Lefty’s miscalculation with Deano’s latest young squeeze. ‘He is deep in the manure, I’m telling you. Deano is very taken with that boy and he’s spitting blood over this. You know Deano – he just loves to terrorize anybody smaller than he is. And, let’s face it, nearly everybody is smaller than Deano – including these boys he likes, and Lefty.’

Stew said nothing. He felt pity for Lefty’s predicament, but then if you mixed with shit one thing was certain – sooner or later, it was going to stick to your skin. He had no time for nonces, and Deano Drax was a bad one. He looked back into the club’s dark, gaping maw. Sometimes he thought it was like the mouth of hell in there. He’d looked inside it once, and there were dingy back rooms for orgies; dungeons too. He was glad he worked over the road in a nice straightforward strip club and not here. A few tits and bums never hurt anyone. He didn’t mind that, or the lap-dancing places – hell, live and let live. But people crawling around on dog chains, being pissed on or beaten and tied up for entertainment? Nah, he drew the line right there. He thought that Shakers told you everything you wanted to know about its owner’s mind-set.

‘Go through to the bar, see Chippy, he’ll sort you out with a drink,’ offered Gordon. Things were getting busy on the door and Gordon had to get back to work. People were queuing up now, weirdos wearing skin-tight plastic and fetish boots with heels so amazingly high they could barely stagger along. Which was the whole point, of course. If you couldn’t walk, you could be caught. You were easy meat.

‘Nah, that’s okay,’ said Stew hastily. ‘Got to get back. Catch ya later, Gord.’

Stew left the club and was halfway over the road when he saw Deano Drax’s big motor with its black-tinted windows pull into the alley at the side of the fetish club. He kept walking, tried not to stare but, despite himself, he couldn’t resist a look. Deano, massive and bear-like, was getting out of the back of the car. Huge bald head; neat goatee beard. Stew’s face wrinkled with disgust. That fat smarmy-faced nonce made you feel sick just to see him, swaggering about the place like he owned the whole damned world. In the shadows of the alley it was hard to make out much, but Stew was sure there were others with him, two smaller figures. Maybe kids, maybe not.

Stew shuddered and averted his eyes. He thought of Lefty, who was out looking right now for Deano’s grand amour. He didn’t think Lefty was a bad bloke at heart. Actually, he’d been fine until he started on the hash and the E and – worse – on the butane, and after that . . . well, now his brains were screwed, his lungs were black lace and he was Deano’s own personal lapdog, bought and paid for. Deano said jump, Lefty said how high? That being the case, Stew hoped, no he prayed, that the golden-haired boy he’d seen hanging round Drax a month or so ago, sometimes staggering a little like a crippled foal, sometimes staring around with drugged and bewildered eyes, Stew prayed that the boy was long gone, back home where he’d be safe, or that someone kind and good was helping him right now.

Kid needs a guardian angel, he thought. I just hope to fuck he’s got one.

Chapter 15

George sat in his local cafe, across the table from Alfie, the morning after their run-in with Lefty Umbabwe. George had a big smile pasted across his face. He couldn’t help it. The kid had devoured a plate of Full English in record time, knocked back two teas and two rounds of toast, and clearly wasn’t about to throw in the towel yet.

‘More toast?’ offered George.

Alfie nodded. He still hadn’t spoken much, apart from to give his name. That bothered George. He looked even younger in daylight, and that bothered George too. To think of a kid like this wandering about on the streets. And what had been going on between Alfie and that bastard waving the knife around?

George lifted a finger to Bert the cafe owner. ‘Can we get some more toast over here, when you’re ready. And two more teas?’ He had no trouble making himself heard over the hubbub of noise in here. George had a voice like a foghorn – and a laugh like a bronze gong.

While Bert got busy with the toaster, George thought back and tried to recall what the man in the long black leather coat had been yelling at Alfie before George had decided he was crazy enough to intervene. Something about ‘the man’. That was what the man wanted . . .? It was driving George nuts. He’d drunk hardly a thing that night, but still he couldn’t remember fuck-all. Mostly because he’d been scared right out of his brains.

‘Alfie?’ he said.

There were other patrons in the cafe; it was a good place, one George and Harry often frequented. It was busy, bustling with life. Outside it was cold, but in here it was hot, everyone talking and laughing and eating, the windows steamed up, the coffee machine hissing and frothing; it felt cosy.

Alfie looked up at George’s face.

‘How old are you, Alfie?’

This was a point that really bothered George. The boy looked very young. He must be a minor. He shouldn’t be out on his own like this. Shit, anyone could have picked him up, and what George really ought to do was take him to the nearest cop shop, see about getting him home. He had said as much to Alfie earlier this morning, and had been alarmed to find Alfie halfway down the stairs half an hour later. George had caught up with him. ‘No police!’ Alfie had shouted. ‘No police!’ Five minutes more, and the kid would have been out on the streets again, prey for any loitering monster. It made George’s blood run to ice, the thought of that.

So – no police. Not yet, anyway. That was cool with George. He didn’t want involvement with the filth if he could avoid it, anyway; he’d done dodgy deals around town a few times, fly-pitching and ripping off a few tourists, minor stuff, but it was best to keep a low profile. Alfie was just staring back at George with those big baby-blues that seemed to hold so many secrets. He said nothing.

‘Come on, Alf. Straight up, how old are you?’ George persisted.

‘Fourteen,’ said Alfie with a quick grin.

‘Holy shit.’

‘Kidding,’ said Alfie with a roll of his eyes at George’s gullibility.

George tipped his head to one side and looked Alfie in the eye. George played a mean hand of cards. The Doyle poker gene had not passed him by. He was ace at reading people’s reactions, but angel-faced young Alfie flummoxed him. He could read his accent, no problem. Well-bred. Nicely rounded vowels. From a good background, that much was obvious. So what had he been doing, wandering around the dangerous night streets with someone waving a knife in his face?

‘Which is it then?’ he asked. ‘Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? What?’

‘Seventeen. That’s the God’s honest, George.’

George stared across at Alfie. ‘You going to tell me what happened with that guy, Alf? The one in the