Up ahead, another gorilla in a dinner jacket was stationed by a set of doors that led into the club’s interior, ensuring that only the entitled got in. They never got that far, though, because the giant suddenly veered off to his left and keyed open a heavy wooden door marked “Private – staff only”.
‘The manager’s office is the third door on your right,’ he informed Livingstone, impatiently waving him on as he paused to close and re-lock the door that they had both just passed through. ‘Wait in there.’
Livingstone did as he was bid.
The manager’s office was a good size, well-lit and comfortably furnished. The walls were bare, but the magnolia paintwork looked clean, and the grey carpet was thick underfoot. Directly in front of him, a big mahogany desk dominated the room’s centre. Apart from two telephones it was devoid of clutter. A regal looking gold framed King-Throne chair, complete with ornate carvings and a plush covering of red velvet, stood behind it, while three cheap looking Wing-Back chairs with dark blue plastic upholstery had been arranged in a semi-circle at the front of the desk.
Behind the desk was a solitary window; it was barred, making the room feel more like a prison cell than an office.
There was an informal seating area to Livingstone’s right, which consisted of a three-seater leather sofa and two matching armchairs arranged around a large glass-topped coffee table. Beyond this was a long, granite-topped, bar with three padded swivel stools in front of it. A floor to ceiling cabinet, full of expensive looking bottles and an array of different shaped glasses, was secured to the wall immediately behind the bar.
The room’s left-hand wall was home to several banks of CCTV monitors, each providing different internal and external views of the club. Beneath these, a steel table had been bolted to the wall, and this housed a large hard drive and the various toggle like controls for moving the cameras around and zooming them in or out. It was an impressive set up, allowing the manager to monitor everything that happened inside the club without ever having to leave his office.
Various feeds – some colour, some infrared – were currently showing. Livingstone could see live-time images of people gyrating under the strobe lighting of the packed dance floor; groups of animated guests standing around on the mezzanine level above them, cocktails in hand; the different themed bars within the club, all of which looked to be doing a roaring trade; the main foyer, where some of the people he’d seen outside were now paying to get in; the VIP reception and lounge he’d entered the club through; the staff only corridor he had just been shown along; both the VIP and regular customer entrances, still respectively manned by the Eastern Europeans and the Africans, and the car park at the rear, which contained several parked cars, all of which looked to be high end models.
The final camera showed what appeared to be a large empty basement, and Livingstone found himself wondering why anyone would need to have a live CCTV feed from there. Perhaps it was in case the club was burgled out of hours, or to deter light-fingered staff from helping themselves to stock on delivery days?
Suddenly feeling in need of a stiff drink, Livingstone crossed to the bar to see what it had to offer. He was just pouring himself a large glass of eighteen-year-old Macallan whisky when the door opened and the black giant from earlier entered the room. Strutting over to the desk like he owned the place, he flopped down in the throne and hoisted his size fifteen feet onto the desk, setting them down with a loud thud.
‘Ah, I see you found the drinks cabinet, Mr Livingstone. Good, good. Now, please have a seat and let’s get down to business.’
Livingstone chose the middle of the three chairs facing the desk. Sitting down slowly, he crossed his legs, tugged at a small crease that had appeared in his trousers, and took a sip of his drink, savouring the full-bodied taste. ‘My compliments to the owner, bruv,’ he commented, raising the glass appreciatively. ‘He has good taste in whisky.’
The giant grinned broadly, revealing gold capped canines that made him look like a gangsta vampire. ‘I agree, but then again I would – I am the owner.’
‘Is that right?’ Livingstone said, sounding totally uninterested. ‘No offence, blood, but my time’s precious, and my business is of a sensitive nature. The middleman I went through told me I would be able to speak directly to Goliath. When will I be able to do this?’
The giant grinned again. ‘Fam, I am Goliath. Surely my size gave you an inkling?’
Livingstone studied him dispassionately. For all he knew, the moniker had nothing to do with physical size. ‘Can you prove it?’ Livingstone asked. ‘I apologise if the question seems rude, bruv,’ he added hastily, ‘but a person in my position has to be extremely careful.’
Far from being offended, Goliath – if that was indeed who he really was – seemed to approve of the other man’s caution.
‘You’re quite right to ask me,’ he said, nodding vigorously, ‘I would do exactly the same in your position. So, let me clear that up. You were pointed in my direction by a broker called Clive Middleton. He told you to come to the VIP entrance this evening and ask for Goliath. You were told my fees, which you said were exorbitant. He assured you that I was worth every penny, which I am by the way. You wanted to pay half up front, and the rest on completion. He said that I would expect the full amount to be paid up front, and that this was non-negotiable. Is that right?’
Livingstone gave a satisfied nod. That was pretty much how the conversation had gone down.
‘I’m very much looking forward to being of service to you,’ Goliath said. ‘However, I am half-way through dealing with a little
