'Aye, but he’s invisible.'
She gave me a disgusted look that suddenly revealed the teenager beneath the makeup.
'Bill’s upstairs chatting up the tarts.'
I guessed she was used to creeps and thought of saying something to show her I wasn’t one of them, but couldn’t come up with anything other than, 'Maybe I should go and introduce myself.'
She shrugged with a look that said she expected nothing less and pointed towards a set of swing doors.
'Changing rooms are through the bar and up the stairs.'
The bar was a larger, more dimly lit version of the foyer. A disco light bounced a coloured spectrum half- heartedly against the walls and from somewhere an eighties chart hit, that I dimly remembered from a stint I’d done at a holiday camp in Kos, was blasting across a tiny dance floor. A few men who looked too serious to consider dancing sat drinking at dimpled copper tables. I might be late, but the party wasn’t swinging. They dropped their voices and followed me with their eyes as I passed. They would be hard men to entertain, hard men full stop. I gave them a nod and they kept their gaze level, each man’s stare a mirror of his companion’s even look. I thought of a school of fish, each in tune with the other, slipping as one through a dark ocean. I wondered if Rich had meant two-fifty before or after his cut. I always forgot to ask.
At first glance Bill looked vintage doorman. Broad-shouldered, squat-nosed and tuxedoed. He was leaning against a dressing-table, arms folded, long legs crossed. The door to the room was half-closed but I could see two slim girls reflected in the mirror behind him, one Asian, the other a Jean Harlow blonde. The blonde girl was the shorter of the two, but they looked strikingly alike, monochrome sisters, hair styled into the same short curly bob, jeans and T-shirts not identical but similar enough to be interchangeable. I was no connoisseur of ballet, but I thought I might be able to tolerate watching them dance.
Bill leaned back slowly, giving me a good glimpse of his long profile, and said in a public school mockney that made me suspect he’d got his broken nose at a hunt meeting, '…
everyone has a good time’.
I banged my case against the banister to avoid hearing the rest of his instructions and he pushed open the door gently with the toe of his smart black shoe, revealing a quick flash of metal segs. The toe was slim, but I suspected it would be steel capped.
Bill’s move was smooth and unhurried but his expression flashed from smile to wary then to smile again as he spotted first me, then my equipment case with its motif of gold stars, and guessed who I was.
'Mr Magic, we were just wondering when you’d appear.'
'We thought you might come in a puff of smoke,' cut in the blonde girl.
I said, 'There’s time yet.'
And we all laughed.
Bill straightened up with the elegance of a sneak thief.
'Meet Shaz,' he put his arm around the Asian girl’s waist, 'and Jacque.' His free arm snaked around the small blonde. Bill squeezed his captives who staggered slightly on their high heels. He smiled. 'Lovely. Well I guess we should leave you ladies to powder your noses.'
He kissed them twice, continental style, then closed the door gently behind him and fished out a white hanky, absently wiping his mouth before folding it back into a perfect triangle and returning it to his breast pocket. He held his hand out to me.
'Mr Williams.'
'Wilson.' I didn’t like the way he’d wiped the feel of the girls’ flesh from his lips. I wondered if he would wash my handshake from his palm. I thought I might his.
'Mr Wilson,' he let the emphasis hang on my name as if he was amused I’d bothered to correct him. Letting me know it didn’t matter to him who I was, or perhaps that in his world one name served as well as another. 'The girls have commandeered our only dressing room, but there’s a few cubby holes on offer if you need to change or,' he paused, smiling,
'fix your makeup.'
'Are you trying to tell me my mascara’s run?' He gave me a quick sharp look, then laughed. 'I’d appreciate somewhere to go through my props.'
Bill showed me into a shabby bedroom equipped with two single beds draped with orange and brown floral covers and polyester valances that had long lost their bounce. He leant against the doorjamb. Leaning in doorways seemed to be Bill’s thing. He watched as I laid the suitcase on one of the beds and unfastened its clasp.
'You based in London, Mr Wilson?'
'Ealing.'
'Travel much?'
'When required.' Bill might just be making casual conversation or he might be looking for a travelling man to deliver a parcel or two. I set a pack of playing cards on the bed and changed the subject. 'So how’s business? Club keeping you busy?'
'Busy enough. Keeps me out of mischief. Speaking of which,' he turned to go, 'anything I can get you before I start mingling with the invited guests?'
'I could manage a white wine.' I slapped my stomach. 'I’m on a bit of a health kick.'
Bill smiled.
'I’ll have a bottle sent up.'
I turned back to my case. In truth there was nothing I needed to do to prepare, but Bill still lingered in the
