I looked in the mirror, threw back my shoulders and smiled. Ready for battle.
Flynn met me outside the club and ushered me in. About thirty staff were congregated on one of the corner sofas, smoking, drinking and chatting. He banged on the bar as I stood in the background surveying the crowd.
‘Attention, please. As you all know, we have been waiting for a replacement manager to join us from Shanghai. I’m glad to say that she’s finally arrived.’
He turned to beckon me forward.
‘Miss Carly Cooper.’
They all looked up with mild curiosity. Except Mr Adonis. He visibly groaned, then put his head in his hands. I struggled to suppress a grin.
I went round the room, letting each one of them introduce themselves. I learned that Mr Adonis was Sam Morton, London born and bred, ex-army, twenty-seven and couldn’t look me in the eye. I gave them all the ‘I’m glad to be here and I’m sure we’ll make a great team’ speech. Sam Morton’s rueful grimace suggested that he wasn’t too confident about that.
I spent the night exploring every area of the club, familiarising myself with the operation. In the office that was more suited to the role of cupboard, I dug deeper into the financial books, stock records, personnel files and cash systems.
I checked out the cellars, stores and back-of-house areas, before spending a couple of hours serving behind the bar to assess the layout and set up. Finally, I moved to the door for the busy period, watching the entering clientele and the cash desk. I avoided conversation with any of the staff, other than to ask questions relevant to their role or duties. Still no eye contact from Mr Adonis.
For the last couple of hours, I just stood in a corner of the DJ booth from where I could see every corner of the room. The DJ was a tall, breathtakingly handsome black guy with gleaming dreadlocks called ‘G’. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans and was the epitome of cool.
‘What does “G” stand for?’ I asked.
‘Gorgeous and Great in bed,’ he replied, with a cheeky grin.
I laughed. ‘And there’s me thinking it was Gerald or Gene.’
It should have stood for ‘Genius on a mixing desk’ as he hyped up the crowd, always knowing exactly what record to play next to keep the atmosphere just right. It was a classic combination of old Motown, seventies soul, R&B and hip-hop.
I surveyed the scene. The gigolo bouncers were at it again, spending more time chatting up girls than actually working. The bar staff were still doing their bit for organised crime and systematically draining the stock that they weren’t selling, and I was glad I’d asked Peter for several new members of staff for the next day. It had been the right call. I was satisfied that I had a fairly good handle on the situation. Nothing here was incurable; after a couple of areas of minor treatment – nothing even close to the massive changes I’d made in previous clubs – it could be a fairly healthy specimen. The essentials were there – a busy crowd spending buckets of money, a great music policy, classy venue and other than the few undesirables, the rest of the employees were doing a decent job.
At the end of the evening, I asked the staff to wait behind and allowed them all a drink. They congregated again on the corner sofas and I sat at the bar on the opposite side of the room, in view, but out of earshot of normal conversation. I summoned the three fiddling bar staff first. They walked over, the weight of the cash in their pockets slowing them down. I handed each of them an envelope containing a week’s wages, more than generous considering they’d probably scammed twice that amount tonight alone. When I informed them that their services were no longer required, one started to protest loudly. I stopped him, mid-yell.
‘See that flashing light in the corner?’ I pointed to the smoke detector in the ceiling at the end of the bar. ‘That’s a camera and we’ve got your whole performance tonight on tape. You pocketed at least 25 per cent of the cash you took and you underpoured half your drinks, I’m assuming to try to balance the stock levels. Now, you can either leave quietly or I call in the police and let them view the film. So, what’s it to be?’
They were out before I’d finished the sentence, which was a good thing, because I was lying through my teeth about the camera.
Next were the two alcohol guzzlers. They staggered over, trying and failing miserably to walk in a straight line. I repeated the camera story, giving them their wages and the telephone number of Alcoholics Anonymous.
I called over the Viagra twins.
‘Lads, if you want to chat up women all night, then I suggest you join a singles club.’
They looked shocked, then recovered admirably.
‘C’mon, babe. It’s all part of the attraction of this place. We’ve got the ladies flocking in. Tell you what, why don’t you let us take you out for the night and show you our credentials,’ one suggested leeringly.
‘Interesting offer, but I’ll pass. Now, why don’t you take your credentials outside and stick to using them to pee out of.’
It took them a moment to process the refusal. I don’t think they’d ever been rejected before.
It was ironic, I mused. Here I was, Miss In Control, Calm and Collected at work, yet the minute I had to deal with my personal life, all control and calm went out of the window.
I was contemplating how to get off the bar stool without breaking my neck,
