The Make

The guys are all downstairs waiting, come on.’

Harry followed her across the room. It tickled him to think that regular people, respectable people, executives and bankers and stuff, would come here in their lunch hour, pull on the old plastic suit, fasten the nipple clamps and zip up the bondage boots, and rave it up. Well, who was he to judge?

Rosie was going down a flight of steep stairs, Harry close at her heels. They came out into a room that looked . . . well, there were red-painted walls, and there were chains and manacles on two of them. There were two men there, big bruisers like the ones on the door. Harry had a momentary stab of unease and he took a step back, towards the stairs.

The two men eyed him like they were about to eat him and spit out the bits.

Harry looked at Rosie. ‘What is this?’ he asked, half smiling, wondering if it was a prank, some sort of a set- up; maybe George was playing a practical joke. But . . . this one didn’t look very funny.

Rosie didn’t answer. She was stepping back, flattening herself against the wall where the chains dangled. Her gaze was downcast; she was looking anywhere but at Harry’s face.

‘Rosie?’ he asked faintly.

There was someone else coming down the stairs with a heavy tread. A big man emerged and stood there smiling at Harry. He was bulky, almost spherical. He had a bald, highly polished head, cold black beads for eyes and a neat little goatee beard. He was wearing a camel-hair coat with a brown velvet collar. He looked at Rosie.

‘You done good, girl,’ he said. ‘I seen you here, ain’t I? In the club? What’s your name?’

To Harry it looked as if Rosie was going to sink back into the wall until it opened and swallowed her up. She glanced up at the huge man and instantly looked away. ‘Mona,’ she whispered.

Mona?

Now Harry knew this was a set-up. Another man came down the stairs; a tall skinny black man with a greyish pallor, wearing a long black leather coat. He was breathing hard, like an asthmatic. He looked at Harry and started to grin. All these people, smiling at him. Harry knew this was not good news.

‘I won’t forget this, girl,’ said the big man and, with one last glance at Harry, ‘Rosie’ scuttled away up the stairs.

‘This is his brother, Deano,’ the black man was saying to the big one. ‘This is Harry Doyle.’

Shit, George, what you been up to now? Were these money-lenders? Fences? Drug dealers? What?

‘I don’t know what this is all about,’ said Harry, feeling his whole body tense, his heart speeding up. ‘But I’m sure we can discuss it.’

‘Oh, you’re sure, are you?’ Deano gave a laugh, and the three men with him snickered like the well-trained dummies they were. Then Deano’s smile dropped from his face like a mask. He looked at the two heavies. ‘Hold him,’ he said, and he came at Harry with both fists swinging.

Harry felt himself being grabbed. He struggled, but couldn’t move an inch before Deano ploughed into him. He felt a horrific pain in his jaw, felt a hideous series of sharp jabs to his stomach as Deano’s fists pummelled him. He sagged between the two men, groaning, retching, while Deano came in again and again, kicking, hitting, shouting obscenities at him – that he was scum, that he’d pay, they’d all pay, all the Doyle bastards.

It seemed to go on forever, but it was minutes, just minutes. They let him fall to the floor where he lay, vomiting weakly, his body a heaving sea of agony.

‘Let’s get him out to the car,’ said Deano, and he was lifted, dragged up the stairs and out through a door into an alley.

They let him fall on to the freezing, snow-covered cobbles, his blood dripping down and staining the white snow to crimson. At that point, mercifully, Harry passed out.

Chapter 51

Hours later, Harry was in hell. Lefty was in the bar in the rocketing heat and noise of the club. He finished his drink, pleased with himself. Deano had a Doyle scum to take his temper out on, and that was good. Not the Doyle, not George Doyle, but close enough for jazz. Deano had George’s address now; it was just a matter of time.

He sat there and watched the rubber-suited freaks and chained-up sex slaves. He gave a nod to Mona, who quickly looked away, trying to pretend she hadn’t seen him. One of the boys gave him the nod that Deano was back and wanted to see him, so he went over to the door of the back office. He gave the knock, and then Deano was there, filling the doorway.

‘Lefty my boy,’ he said. He glanced behind him, seemed to come to some sort of decision, and ushered Lefty inside.

Then Deano shut the door. The office was quiet, the noise from the club muted. It was cooler, too, but Lefty was aware that he was sweating with nerves. He always did when he was around Deano. Deano was a maniac. You never knew what this fucker was going to do.

There was a boy, the same dark-haired boy Lefty had seen in here last time he called, lying with his eyes closed on the couch. The boy’s face was as smooth and unlined as an alabaster sculpture, his eyelids tinged with a delicate tracery of blue veins. The long sweep of his dark lashes was almost heart-rendingly beautiful. Did Deano want to discuss business in front of his latest pash? Lefty looked uncertainly between the sleeping boy and his employer.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Deano with a dismissive wave of a hand. He went over to the desk and went round behind it, sat down heavily. He looked up at Lefty with expectation. ‘So. You got my boy?’

Lefty gulped and gave Deano his full attention. ‘Yeah. I found him, Deano.’

Deano nodded his huge head and looked around with theatrical care. ‘Then where is he, Lefty?’

‘Don’t you worry, I got him in my sights. I’ll get him tonight.’

‘So where is he? Right now?’

‘He’s got a job in the casino. When he comes off his shift, I’ll get him.’

‘You sure about that?’ Deano eyed Lefty dubiously.

‘Yeah, Deano. It’s as good as done.’

‘No, it ain’t as good as done. Because it ain’t done. Suppose Alfie gets wind of it and takes off before you can get too near?’

‘He can’t do that, Deano. He don’t know a thing.’

‘Well, let’s hope so.’

Lefty thought he was doing good. He thought a little praise for all his efforts wouldn’t have gone amiss right now, but he didn’t say so.

‘The boys picked up George Doyle, right?’ Lefty asked, subtly reminding his employer that he, Lefty, had nailed George’s arse through his contacts.

‘Sadly no,’ said Deano. He spread his hands wide. ‘They couldn’t find him at the flat. Went to his old lady’s. And there he was, being loaded into the back of an ambulance.’

‘What the fuck?’

‘That’s what I said. Seems like that bastard’s upset someone else too. But no matter.’ Deano gave a chilling little smile. ‘I’ll catch up with him later. If he’s around to catch up with, which the boys said looks kind of doubtful. You’re sure you’ve got Alfie staked out?’

Lefty nodded, but he wasn’t sure at all now. If George had been hospitalized – shit, what had happened there? – and Harry was off the scene, would Alfie now be hanging around to find out what was going on?

‘It’s in the bag, Deano. I swear.’ Now Lefty was really sweating. He was telling Deano it was all fine, all okay, but Deano was doubting him, he could see Deano was doubting him big time.

‘Only, it was all in the bag once before, you remember that?’ Deano mused, smiling all the while at Lefty. ‘I