resident gangsters dared question. He started small, buying a couple of clubs that had less life in them than the average geriatric ward. He spent enough on the interior, the music and the celebs who could be bought for a case of champagne to turn the clubs into money machines. Since when Devlin has bought up every ailing joint that’s come on the market. Now he owns half a dozen pubs, a couple of restaurants known more for their clientele than their cuisine, and four city-centre clubs.
Garibaldi’s was the latest. The building used to be a warehouse. It sat right on the canal, directly opposite the railway arches that raise Deansgate Station high above street level. When Devlin bought it, the interior was pretty bare. Devlin hired a designer who took Beaubourg as his inspiration. An inside-out Beaubourg. Big, multi- coloured drainage pipes curved and wove throughout the building, iron stairs like fire escapes led to iron galleries and walkways suspended above the dancers and drinkers. The joys of postmodernism.
I climbed up steps that vibrated to the beat of unidentifiable, repetitive dance music. At the second level, I made my way along a gallery that seemed to sway under my feet like a suspension footbridge. It was still early, so there weren’t too many people around swigging designer beers from the bottle and dabbing whizz on their tongues. At the far end of the gallery, a rectangular structure jutted out thirty feet above the dance floor. It looked like a Portakabin on cantilevers. According to Dennis, this was the ‘office’ of Denzel Williams, music promoter and, nominally, assistant manager of Garibaldi’s.
I couldn’t see much point in knocking, so I simply stuck my head round the door. I was looking at an anteroom that contained a pair of battered scarlet leather sofas and a scarred black ash dining table pushed against the wall with a couple of metal mesh chairs set at obviously accidental angles to it. The walls were papered with gig posters. In the far wall, there was another door. I let the door close behind me and instantly the noise level dropped enough for me to decide to knock on the inner door.
‘Who is it?’ I heard.
I pushed the door open. The noise of the music dropped further, and so did the temperature, thanks to an air-conditioning unit that grunted in the side wall. The man behind the cheap wood-grain desk stared at me with no great interest. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, the strong Welsh vowels immediately obvious. Call me a racist, but when it comes to the Welsh, I immediately summon my irregular verb theory of life. In this instance, it goes, ‘I have considered opinions; you are prejudiced; he/she is a raging bigot.’ And in my considered opinion, the Welsh are a humourless, clannish bunch whose contribution to the sum total of human happiness is on the negative side of the ledger. The last time I said that to a Welshman, he replied, ‘But what about Max Boyce?’ QED.
I had the feeling just by looking at him that Denzel Williams wasn’t going to redeem my opinion of his fellow countrymen. He was in his middle thirties, and none of the deep lines that scored his narrow face had been put there by laughter. His curly brown hair was fast losing the battle with his forehead and the moustache he’d carefully spread across as much of his face as possible couldn’t hide a narrow-lipped mouth that clamped meanly shut between sentences. ‘Do I know you?’ he said when I failed to reply before sitting in one of the creaky wicker chairs that faced his desk.
‘I’m a friend of Dennis O’Brien’s,’ I said. ‘He suggested I talk to you.’
He snorted. ‘Anybody could say that right now.’
‘You mean because he’s inside and it’s not easy to check me out? You’re right. So either I am a genuine friend of Dennis’s or else I’m a fake who knows enough to mention the right name. You choose.’
He looked at me uncertainly, slate-grey eyes narrowing as he weighed up the odds. If I was telling the truth and he booted me out, then when Dennis came out, Williams might be eating through a straw for a few weeks. Hedging his bets, he finally said, ‘So what is it you want? I may as well tell you now, if you’re fronting a band, you’re about ten years too old.’
I’d already had a very bad week. And if there’s one thing that really winds me up, it’s bad manners. I looked around the shabby room. The money he’d spent on that mandarin-collared linen suit would probably have bought the office furnishings three times over. The only thing that looked remotely valuable in any sense was the big tank of tropical fish facing Williams. I stood up and felt in my pocket for my Swiss Army knife. As I turned away from him and appeared to be making for the door, I flipped the big blade open, side-stepped and picked up the loose loop of flex that fed power to the tank. Without a heater and oxygenation, the fish wouldn’t last too long. Tipped on to the floor, they’d have an even shorter life span.
I turned and gave him my nastiest grin. ‘One wrong move and the fish get it,’ I snarled, loving every terrible B-movie moment of it. I saw his hand twitch towards the underside of his desk and grinned even wider. ‘Go on, punk,’ I said, all bonsai Clint Eastwood. ‘Hit the panic button. Make my day.’
Chapter 16
I wouldn’t have hurt the fish. I knew that, but Denzel Williams didn’t. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he yelled, starting up from his seat.
‘Sit down and chill out,’ I growled. ‘I only wanted to ask you a couple of questions, but you had to get smart, didn’t you?’
He subsided into his chair and scowled at me. ‘Who the fuck are you? Who sent you here?’
‘Nobody sent me. Nobody
He looked shaken but not stirred. ‘And what do you think you’re going to see here?’ he sneered.
I shook my head wonderingly. ‘I can’t believe Dennis said you were worth talking to. I’ve met coppers with better manners.’
The reminder of who had recommended Williams to me worked wonders. He swallowed his surliness and said, ‘OK, OK, ask your questions, but don’t piss about. I’ve got some people coming shortly, see?’
I saw only too well. Threatening the fish might hold Williams at bay, but it would cut no ice with his sidekicks. He’d also be very unhappy at anybody else witnessing his humiliation. Held to ransom by a midget with a Swiss Army knife. Regretfully I waved my posturing farewell and cut to the chase. ‘Flyposting,’ I said. ‘My client’s been having some problems. Obviously nobody likes admitting they’re being had over, but somebody is definitely taking liberties. All I’m trying to do is to check out whether this is a personal vendetta or if everybody in the business is feeling the same pain.’
‘Who’s your client, then?’
‘Dream on, Denzel. Just a simple yes or no. Has anybody been papering over your fly posters? Has anybody been fucking with your venues? Has anybody been screwing up gigs for your bands?’
‘What if they have?’ he demanded.
‘If they have, Denzel, you just got lucky, because you will reap the benefit of the work I’m doing without having to part with a single shilling. All I’m concerned about is finding out who is pouring sugar in the petrol tank of my client’s business, and getting them to stop. Now, level with me before I decide to have sushi for dinner. Have you been getting agg?’
‘There’s been one or two incidents,’ he grudgingly admitted.
‘Like?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, some of my posters have been papered over.’ He took a deep breath. He’d obviously decided that since he’d started talking, he might as well spill the lot. Funny how the ones that seem the hardest often turn out the gobbiest. ‘The fresh paperwork has always been promoting out-of-town bands, so I’m pretty sure it’s a stranger who doesn’t know the way things work here. We’ve had one or two problems with tickets too. Some of the agents that sell tickets for our gigs have had phone calls saying the gig’s a sellout, not to sell any more tickets. We’ve even had some scumbag pretending to be me ringing up and saying the gig was cancelled. It’s got to be somebody from out of town. Nobody else would dare to mess with me.’ His tone of voice left me in no doubt that when he got his hands on the new kid in town, the guy would be sorry he’d been born.
‘Where specifically?’
