“And not an Arab in sight,” Mordecai said.
“They’re keeping their heads down,” Maurice told him. “What with the Gulf business.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Flood grinned. “Come on, let’s go and eat.”
He had his own booth in a corner to one side of the band, overlooking the floor. He ordered smoked salmon and scrambled eggs and more Perrier water. He took a Camel cigarette from an old silver case. English cigarettes were something he’d never been able to come to terms with. Mordecai gave him a light and leaned against the wall. Flood sat there, brooding, surveying the scene, experiencing one of those dark moments when you wondered what life was all about and Charlie Salter came down the steps from the entrance and hurried through the tables.
“Jack Harvey and Myra-just in,” he said.
Harvey was fifty years of age, of medium height and overweight, a fact that the navy blue Barathea suit failed to hide, in spite of having been cut in Savile Row. He was balding, hardly any hair there at all, and he had the fleshy, decadent face of the wrong sort of Roman emperor.
His niece, Myra, was thirty and looked younger, her jet-black hair caught up in a bun and held in place by a diamond comb. There was little makeup on her face except for the lips and they were blood red. She wore a sequined jacket and black miniskirt by Gianni Versace and very high-heeled black shoes, for she was only a little over five feet tall. She looked immensely attractive, men turning to stare at her. She was also her uncle’s right hand, had a degree in business studies from London University and was just as ruthless and unscrupulous as he was.
Flood didn’t get up, just sat there waiting. “Harry, my old son,” Harvey said and sat down. “Don’t mind if we join you, do you?”
Myra leaned down and kissed Flood on the cheek. “Like my new perfume, Harry? Cost a fortune, but Jack says it’s like an aphrodisiac, the smell’s so good.”
“That’s a big word for you, isn’t it?” Flood said.
She sat on his other side and Harvey took out a cigar. He clipped it and looked up at Mordecai. “Come on, where’s your bleeding lighter, then?”
Mordecai took out his lighter and flicked it without a change of expression, and Myra said, “Any chance of a drink? We know you don’t, Harry, but think about the rest of us poor sods.”
Her voice had a slight cockney accent, not too much, and it had its own attraction. She put a hand on his knee and Flood said, “Champagne cocktail, isn’t that what you like?”
“It’ll do to be going on with.”
“Not me, can’t drink that kind of piss,” Harvey said. “Scotch and water. A big one.”
Maurice, who had been hovering, spoke to a waiter, then whispered in Flood’s ear, “Your scrambled eggs, Mr. Flood.”
“I’ll have them now,” Flood told him.
Maurice turned away and a moment later a waiter appeared with a silver salver. He removed the dome and put the plate in front of Flood, who got to work straight away.
Harvey said, “I’ve never seen you eat a decent meal yet, Harry. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, really,” Flood told him. “Food doesn’t mean much to me, Jack. When I was a kid in Vietnam, the Vietcong had me prisoner for a while. I learned you could get by on very little. Later on I was shot in the gut. Lost eighteen inches of my intestines.”
“You’ll have to show me your scar sometime,” Myra said.
“There’s always a silver lining. If I hadn’t been shot, the Marine Corps wouldn’t have posted me to that nice soft job as a guard at the London Embassy.”
“And you wouldn’t have met Jean,” Harvey said. “I remember the year you married her, Harry, the year her old dad died. Sam Dark.” He shook his head. “He was like an uncrowned king in the East End after the Krays got put inside. And Jean.” He shook his head again. “What a goer. The boys were queuing up for her. There was even a Guards officer, a lord.” He turned to Myra. “Straight up.”
“And instead she married me,” Flood said.
“Could have done worse, Harry. I mean, you helped her keep things going a treat, especially after her mum died, we all know that.”
Flood pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Compliments night is it, Jack? Now what have you really come for?”
“You know what I want, Harry, I want in. The casinos, four of them now, and how many clubs, Myra?”
“Six,” she said.
“And all this development on the river,” Harvey went on. “You’ve got to share the cake.”
“There’s only one trouble with that, Jack,” Flood told him. “I’m a legitimate businessman, have been for a long time, whereas you…” He shook his head. “Once a crook, always a crook.”
“You Yank bastard,” Harvey said. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I just did, Jack.”
“We’re in, Harry, whether you like it or not.”
“Try me,” Flood said.
Salter had drifted across the room and leaned against the wall beside Mordecai. The big man whispered to him and Salter moved away.
Myra said, “He means it, Harry, so be reasonable. All we’re asking for is a piece of the action.”
“You come in with me, you’re into computers, building development, clubs and gambling,” Flood told her. “Which means I’m in with you into pimps, whores, drugs and protection. I shower three times a day, sweetness, and it still wouldn’t make me feel clean.”
“You Yank bastard!” She raised her hand and he grabbed her wrist.
Harvey stood up. “Let it go, Myra, let it go. Come on. I’ll be seeing you, Harry.”
“I hope not,” Flood told him.
They went out and Mordecai leaned down. “He’s a disgusting piece of slime. Always turned my stomach, him and his boyfriends.”
“Takes all sorts,” Flood said. “Don’t let your prejudices show, Mordecai, and get me a cup of coffee.”
“The swine,” Jack Harvey said as he and Myra walked along the pavement toward the car park. “I’ll see him in hell, talking to me that way.”
“I told you we were wasting our time,” she said.
“Right.” He eased his gloves over his big hands. “Have to show him we mean business then, won’t we?”
A dark van was parked at the end of the street. As they approached, the side lights were turned on. The young man who leaned out from behind the wheel was about twenty-five, hard and dangerous-looking in a black leather bomber jacket and flat cap.
“Mr. Harvey,” he said.
“Good boy, Billy, right on time.” Harvey turned to his niece. “I don’t think you’ve met Billy Watson, Myra.”
“No, I don’t think I have,” she said looking him over.
“How many have you got in the back?” Harvey demanded.
“Four, Mr. Harvey. I heard this Mordecai Fletcher was a bit of an animal.” He picked up a baseball bat. “This should cool him.”
“No shooters, like I told you?”
“Yes, Mr. Harvey.”
“Flesh on flesh, that’s all it needs, and maybe a couple of broken legs. Get on with it. He’ll have to come out sooner or later.”
Harvey and Myra continued along the pavement. “Five?” she said. “You think that’s enough?”
“Enough?” he laughed harshly. “Who does he think he is, Sam Dark? Now he was a man, but this bloody Yank… They’ll cripple him. Put him on sticks for six months. They’re hard boys, Myra.”
“Really?” she said.
“Now come on and let’s get out of this bleeding cold,” and he turned into the car park.
It was an hour later that Harry Flood got ready to leave. As the cloakroom girl helped him on with his coat, he
