The club might not be the most salubrious of establishments but it was obviously very popular. A slow-moving line of between forty and fifty people hugged the wall to the left of the building, laughing and joking as they queued good naturedly to get in. Quite a few of them looked like they were already half-pissed.
The punters were being vetted at the entrance by three Eastern European looking bouncers who were checking to see that they met the age restriction and token dress code. All three men, Albanians or Romanians from the look of them, were big lumps, over six-foot tall, with shaven domes, facial scars and broken noses. One had a tattoo of a snake curling around a dagger running from the back of his ear all the way down the right side of his neck. Working in silent unison, they reminding Livingstone of a well-trained pack of attack dogs.
A nightclub wouldn’t have been Livingstone’s first choice for such an important meeting, but for some unfathomable reason the man whose particular skill set he’d driven all the way from London to hire had been adamant that they met there.
A flickering neon sign above the club’s main entrance proclaimed its name was ‘Crosby’s,’ but two of the bulbs at the top of the O had shorted out, making the letter look like a U.
Two man-mountains in ill-fitting penguin suits were guarding the door to the VIP entrance on the opposite side of the building, and they watched Livingstone with undisguised suspicion as he approached them.
Attired as he was in an Armani suit of virgin wool worn over a purple Givenchy silk shirt, it must have been clear that Livingstone was minted, but as he reached the entrance the two doormen sidled up to each other, blocking his path. They regarded the well-dressed man as though he were a vagrant begging for scraps. ‘This is a VIP only entrance,’ the one on the left said.
‘Yeah, VIPs only,’ the one on the right echoed.
There was an air of lazy aggression about them. The one on the left made a point of sucking his teeth disrespectfully, while the man on the left repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared menacingly at the visitor.
Livingstone was unmoved. He had been born in a London slum thirty-five-years ago, and had grown up immersed in the unforgiving violence of gang culture. These pussies didn’t frighten him.
Both doormen were of African descent. They had chubby faces and pronounced foreheads that loomed over eyes bereft of intelligence or initiative.
‘Do you know a man called Goliath, bruv?’ Livingstone asked, unperturbed by their open hostility.
‘Who wants to know?’ the one on the left demanded, jutting his head forward aggressively.
‘Yeah, who wants to know?’ the one on the right parroted.
Livingstone sighed impatiently. He hated dealing with lackeys. ‘Look, I’m here to meet with someone, his name is Goliath. I was told that if I mentioned his name at the VIP door someone would come out and collect me.’
The two bouncers looked at each other, looked at Livingstone, shrugged. ‘Never heard of him,’ they said in tandem.
Anger flared. ‘Let me speak to your boss,’ Livingstone told them, allowing an edge to creep into his voice.
The doormen, identical twins called Isaac and Andre Kalu, were used to drunken punters who got stroppy when they didn’t get their own way. The ones with money, like the man in front of them, were normally the worst behaved.
The twins shared another glance. They were both more than happy to thump anyone who overstepped the line – or anyone that didn’t for that matter – but there was something about the coldness of the man’s stare that made them hesitate.
A clipboard magically appeared in the hand of Isaac, the doorman on the left. ‘Show me your name on this list,’ he demanded, belligerently thrusting it out towards Livingstone.
‘My name’s not on your stupid list,’ Livingstone said, waving the clipboard away impatiently.
That drew a scowl. ‘Then who should we say is calling?’ Isaac demanded sullenly.
‘Yeah, who should we say –’
‘My name’s not important,’ Livingstone snapped, cutting Andre off. ‘Just tell Goliath that the man who wants to hire him is outside, but won’t be for much longer if he’s not shown some FUCKING RESPECT.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Isaac clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth in agitation and then lumbered over to a concealed panel in the wall beside the door. Flipping it open, he snatched out a red telephone on a long cord and dialled an extension inside the club. Shaking with anger, all he could think about was decking the flash wanker who’d just given him attitude. If it hadn’t been for the possibility that he might actually be a client of Goliath’s, he would have done so.
When Isaac returned, Livingstone noticed the bouncer’s attitude had undergone a subtle change and he seemed marginally less truculent than before, which seemed to confuse Andre. ‘If you go and wait by the door, someone will be out to collect you shortly,’ he told Livingstone, indicating for his brother to move aside and let the smaller man go past.
A few moments later, the VIP door opened inward and, as the sound of music escaped, he found himself staring into the chest of a bald-headed black giant who was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. The giant didn’t bother Livingstone with pointless questions about who he was or why he was here. ‘Follow me,’ he simply said, and immediately headed back into the club without waiting for a response.
Livingstone followed the man through the VIP reception area, which was bigger and plusher than he’d expected it to be.
His guide, who appeared to be in a hurry, led him past a cloakroom staffed by a smiling attendant, a couple of fancy looking restrooms, and several plush sofas where well-dressed guests nursing their drinks sat chatting. The further into the club they went, the louder
