Dolly stood there with her hands on her hips. ‘Yes. Me, you fool. Did you see anything out there?’
‘Nope. Maybe he saw us and pissed off.’
‘Yeah, I think you’re right, but we’ll keep her upstairs with Angela. Then we can sort out the weapons.’
Ester drove into the underground car park of the Club Cabar. She’d been to three and this was her last hope. She hadn’t many options: it was Steve Rooney or back to the Grange. She locked up the Range Rover, checked her hair and make-up, pulled her black dress down a bit further to show off her shoulders and tits and changed her driving shoes for spike heels. ‘Right, gel, do the business.’
She walked casually, full of confidence, towards the private lifts to the club. The car park was used by a number of offices in the day but taken over by the club at night so they had their own small lift leading directly into their reception. As the grille slid back, a thick-set muscle-bound bouncer in an ill-fitting evening suit and crushed carnation looked over any customers entering from the car park, as it was very much a members-only club. He nodded at Ester.
She gave him a cursory waft of her hand. ‘Is Steve in?’
‘Yeah, he’s wiv someone now. I’ll tell ’im you’re ’ere.’
‘Thank you,’ she said crisply, and headed towards the main room of the club. Its small sunken dance floor was empty but you could hardly see your hand in front of your face for the blinking neon strips. At least the ornate, over-brassy bar was well lit and the row of red velvet-topped high stools had only one occupant: a swarthy, fat little man, drinking from a long glass with a profusion of fruit and paper umbrellas sticking out of it. He was surrounded by sexy blondes with tight envelope-sized mini-skirts and tied blouse tops showing a lot of cleavage. Even their high-heeled shoes were higher than Ester’s. They were giggling and whispering to each other as the poor sucker with the paper umbrella almost up his nose slurped a drink that had probably set him back a tenner. The girls would make sure he was parted from a lot more before the night was out.
Ester perched on a stool as far away from the fat man as possible. The slant-eyed barman was doing a lot of gesticulating with his martini shaker to the deafening, thudding rock music that made it impossible for anyone to have a conversation.
‘Hi, Ester, how ya doin?’ the barman lisped.
‘I’m doing fine. Gimme a Southern Comfort, lemonade, slice of lemon and crushed ice, easy on the lemonade.’ She lit a cigarette as she spoke, but he knew what she liked and was already searching through the array of bottles. He skimmed up and down the bar and then whisked out a paper napkin and a bowl of peanuts before placing her drink down with a smile.
‘On the house.’
‘Cheers.’ She sipped. He’d OD’d on the lemonade. Through the mirror and brass fittings she saw Steve Rooney talking to the crushed carnation, who gestured at the bar. Ester acknowledged Rooney, who put up his hand to indicate five minutes.
A few more punters arrived and wandered around. Ester signalled for a refill but stipulated no more lemonade, then took a handful of peanuts. It was strange. She’d been out of the business a lone time, and didn’t know any of the girls now. She shook her head and smiled. What a life! She wanted out. She hated the whole scene, which was why she’d moved to the Grange, and for a while she had been coining it. She didn’t have time for any further reminiscence as Rooney tapped her shoulder and pointed at his office. She slid off the stool, drained her glass and followed, flicking a look at the little fat man. ‘I’d get out while you’re still on top, man.’
Rooney eased himself round his fake antique desk and then perched on it. ‘So, how’s tricks, darlin’? I just hope you’re not touching me for a few quid. As you can see, we’re not exactly filling the joint and it’s Friday.’
‘It’ll pick up, always used to.’
His polished Gucci loafer tapped the side of the desk. ‘What do you want, Ester? I know you’ve schlepped round a few places tonight.’
‘Warned off me, were you?’
He smiled. His eyes were pale blue covered by tinted glasses. ‘You’re not still wheeling around in that Range Rover, are you?’
She lit a cigarette, clicking off her lighter.
‘You really are stupid, you know that, don’t you? You tried it on with the wrong kind, Ester. They got a lot of dough and they’ll use it to find you.’
‘No kidding. Doesn’t scare me.’
‘It should. That was a stupid move. They paid out a lot of cash for you, and what do you do?’
‘I did three years and I kept my mouth shut. They ripped me off.’
‘No, they didn’t. How were they to know you had a string of offences as long as both arms? They paid your taxes and your lawyer, and you come out, try to nail them for more cash, then nick the kid’s motor.’
She stubbed out the cigarette. ‘They got enough of them. What’s one little Range Rover?’
‘It wasn’t what it was, it was you doin’ it. It was stupid.’
‘Yeah, maybe, but you seem to know a lot about my business.’
Rooney sighed and picked a bit of fluff off his Armani jacket. ‘Because I supply them now, okay? I’m not gonna hide anything from you. It’s not as if I nicked your clients. You were inside.’
‘Yes, I was, and now I need a job, Rooney.’
‘Don’t look in my direction. I can’t help you and I’m not going to put myself out for you, Ester. You never gave me a leg up when I needed it.’
‘But I sent a lot of clients your way, you cheap shit.’ His face tightened and Ester would have liked to smack him. Rooney had once been a barman she had hired for special parties, back in the old days when she ran a house for two major club owners. They’d have the clients drinking and eating at their respectable joints and when they wanted a girl Ester supplied them. She kept ten good-looking tarts, and they were always busy. There were private parties for movie stars, MPs, tided perverts; in fact anyone the club owners gave membership to would at some time or other end up at the Notting Hill Gate house... until it was busted. Ester had served a few years way back then, and when she came out of prison, she had been determined that the next place would be her own, so she turned tricks solo for four years, working the main hotels until she had enough to put down on Grange Manor House. Rooney, a barman at Notting Hill Gate, had learned fast, and soon after her bust, which he was never questioned about, he had gone to work for the club owners.
It had been Rooney who had sent her the Arab clients for the manor, and he’d taken a cut. But, just like her bust at Notting Hill Gate, when it went down at the Grange Rooney’s name was never mentioned. Rooney had even suggested to her that if she played her cards right, she might even earn extra by making a couple of videos of certain clients at the manor. He had sold a few for her, just light porn stuff, but when she told him about the tape she’d made of his Arab clients’ kids, he had walked away. He told her that if she had any sense, she would as well. A couple of movie stars caught with their pants down was one thing but not the so-called flowing-robed royalty: that was asking for trouble.
‘You don’t know how to say thank you, do you?’ she said curtly.
Rooney leaned close. ‘Sweetheart, I owe you fuck all. You done nothing for me. Whatever I done, I done all by meself.’
She laughed. ‘You’re still an illiterate shit.’
‘Maybe I am, but I’m a fucking sight richer than you are and I don’t want any aggro. That’s why I’m in business and you’re nowhere.’
She was about to remind him of who gave him his first job, but there was a rap at the office door and Brian, the crushed carnation, appeared.