The Make

Chapter 45

Noel had been slipping in a few cheeky computer lessons with a friend. He was determined to find out what Sandy was up to online, so when she went out to work he went upstairs and logged on. He got the shock of his life.

There was his woman, parading herself in a photo on Facebook with a big fat bastard with darkish hair. Looked like they were in a restaurant or some such shit. A red candle dripping wax down over one of those raffia bottle things.

He’d found Sandy’s notebook in which the silly mare kept all her various passwords. You weren’t supposed to write the sodding things down, didn’t she know that? Was she a complete fool?

Well, yeah, obviously she was. Because he had easily found her Facebook password and now he was sitting here at her computer and he could see the evidence of her betrayal with his own eyes. She’d been making a fucking fool out of him. She’d listed her status as ‘Single’.

Noel sat there and stared, enraged. He looked at the guy in the picture and thought, Man, you are so dead. He was going to have it out with her the minute she put her lying face through that door tonight. He stared and stared at the screen, at the man’s face. Not handsome, not really. The short-cut hair looked sort of dark red. There was a big shit-eating grin on the idiot’s face. What had that mare been up to? But she would pay. And so would that fat fuck in the photo. Him, most of all. He would pay in blood.

Chapter 46

Serendipity was a word that Lefty Umbabwe had never heard of, but his pal Gordon had. Serendipity was happenstance, good things just falling into your lap for no good reason. Like Felice, Gordon’s new lady. His old lady, who had divorced him two years ago, saying that he was stifling her, had departed his life with his three kids. He’d been down after that, depressed; she’d been awkward over access and hadn’t mellowed much until she found a new bloke, then it had all ironed out nicely. And then – serendipitously – he had met Felice, who was a stripper at the club opposite where he worked the door at Deano Drax’s dive in Soho.

Mindful that his first marriage had foundered, Gordon was careful to keep the magic alive in this, his second. Felice was high maintenance, and sometimes that was a pain, but she was a looker, and he was proud to be seen about with her on his well-muscled arm, so he treated her good. Took her out to dinner, out to clubs, and – as Christmas was looming and he was feeling flush – the casino.

They played a little blackjack, then had a go on the roulette tables, Felice getting all excited and leaning over the table until he was frightened her tits were going to fall right out of the high-priced dress she was wearing. Gordon had been in casinos on the Continent and in the United States where they played double zero, but he liked the English system of having only one zero. It increased the punters’ chances, raising the odds to a pretty good thirty-five to one. However, Felice soon started losing and looking put out. Determined to lift her spirits, he booked in to the adjoining restaurant to ply her with food and maybe even some of the cheap house champagne.

They were crossing the casino boulevard, heading out to the lobby to enter the restaurant – Gordon was promising himself a quick peek at the prices before they went in. Tormenting himself really, because they were for certain-sure going in – Felice was expecting a meal, bubbly, the works, after her little disappointment on the tables. What Felice wanted, Felice got – or there was hell to pay.

And that was when serendipity took a hand. Because there was Deano’s boy Alfie, crossing the boulevard, wearing the purple livery that all the staff here wore. He wasn’t a punter, so no need to make a fuss by trying to detain him. No, the little bastard worked here, and so Gordon could pass on the good news to Lefty, making sure of course that Lefty coughed up a hefty wedge first, for the information. Thus covering the cost of the evening’s entertainments.

So, everyone was happy. Felice, Gordon, and Lefty.

Not Alfie, of course, and that was a shame. Alfie had a world of hurt coming to him. Deano Drax was going to ream his arsehole good after this. But so what? That was not Gordon’s problem.

* * *

When Gordon crawled from his pit after a very satisfactory night with the well-pleased Felice next morning, he called Lefty straight away.

‘Got some news for you,’ he told Lefty, as he stood in the kitchen in his vest and boxers making a cup of tea. ‘Come on round, my son.’

Lefty was there within half an hour. Gordon had been careful to take Felice up a brew and to tell her he had company coming over and to stay upstairs for a bit.

‘Okay, lover,’ she said sweetly, and rolled over and went back to sleep. She was a lazy mare anyway – he’d found that most strippers were; they rarely rose before one o’clock – but that suited him because he liked having the mornings to himself.

If she knew it was Lefty coming, she’d only kick off anyway; she hated Lefty and wouldn’t want him through the door. Everyone knew that Lefty was on the butane and was as stable as warmed-up Semtex as a result of it. He made women nervous.

Gordon thought that Lefty looked like shit, but that was pretty much the norm. He’d had his stitches out, so he looked a little less like Frankenstein now and a little more like normal. Gordon felt a bit sad looking at the wreckage of his old friend as he ushered him into the kitchen. Once, Lefty had been fit, clear-eyed and athletic; then some tosser – Gordon suspected that twisted article Deano – had got him onto Es and grass, and it was a short hop then to the crack pipe. The butane was cheaper and so much easier to source; so it had quickly become Lefty’s preferred drug of choice.

And now look.

Lefty was bog-eyed, wheezy, sniffy and unwashed – shot away half the time. No wonder Felice wouldn’t want him indoors, Gordon was starting to get that way himself. He looked at his old friend and felt the sadness give way to disgust. What the fuck had he done to himself, the bloody fool?

‘Christ, you look a mess,’ said Gordon, as Lefty came in and slumped against the worktop.

Lefty shrugged. He didn’t care. He was already hyped, fresh from his latest fix.

Gordon decided there and then that their friendship was at an end. After this little transaction, that was it. No more cosy chats, no nothing. He was done with this whole bloody scene.

‘What news?’ asked Lefty.

‘About Deano’s little passion. His little runaway.’

‘Alfie?’ Lefty straightened; a flare of hope lit his bloodshot eyes. ‘What, you seen him?’

Gordon shrugged, deliberately casual. ‘Might have.’

Suddenly Lefty’s eyes were flat and murderous. ‘What the fuck you mean, might have? Either you have or you haven’t – you foolin’ with my mind, boy?’

‘I ain’t foolin’, Lefty,’ said Gordon with a half-smile. And you ain’t got much of a mind left, dope- head. He knew he had Lefty by the short and curlies on this. Lefty needed the info, and after last night’s blowout with Felice he needed some wedge. This was all going to work out fine. ‘I seen him.’

‘Where?’

‘Ah, now. That would be telling. Fact is, I’ve been making a big effort, trying to help you out with this.’ Like fuck. The kid had fallen right into his lap. But Lefty wasn’t to know that.

Lefty paced about. He clutched his head in agitation.

‘Man, come on. Spit it out. You seen him where?’

‘Let’s talk a deal first.’

‘A deal?’ Lefty stopped walking. ‘You’re supposed to be in tight with me. What you mean, a deal?’

‘I want paying for my efforts, Lefty. Wouldn’t you say that was fair?’

Lefty started pacing, faster now, shooting anxious looks at Gordon. Lefty had had the motherfucker of all