At twenty-two Cathy was beautiful, poised, and thanks to Desrae, happier than she had ever been.
Joey and Desrae were like the parents she’d never had; they both loved and looked out for her. Desrae fussed over her like a mother hen and everyone in Soho joked about his little girl.
The only thing that upset him was the fact that Cathy would have nothing to do with boys of her own age, preferring always to be with him and his cronies. She was too much of a loner for her own good.
Joey’s businesses were doing well. He had bought the club primarily to keep Desrae happy, knowing that he would make a go of it. The kind of club he was running was needed in Soho, the only place homosexuals could really meet in peace. Soho was home to vice, prostitution, and all aspects of the sex industry - from books to films to trading in actual real live people. In fact, the concept of young men for sale was always big business. But Desrae, having been on the receiving end of rough trade in his life, didn’t want anything to do with it. He looked down his nose at people who dealt in kiddy flesh.
As far as he was concerned, his club catered for grown men, and the people who worked there were grown men. ‘Over twenty-one, legal and looking good’, was his motto.
The small office they used above the sex shop was a riot of Desrae colours and Cathy, used to his Haut Bordello style by now, saw nothing unusual about the bright pink flock wallpaper. It looked OK to her. Joey had once walked into the office in sunglasses for a joke and Desrae had been mortally offended. Since then no one had made any jokes on the subject of his decorating tastes.
The club was all navy blue velvet and grey, with pink accents throughout in the carpeting and seating. The navy blue drapes had grey swags that made the place look almost respectable. All the people who worked at or used the club loved the feel and the look of the place, so Desrae felt he must have got something right.
The small bar area was his pride and joy - a single piece of oak carved with figures of men in all sorts of positions, sexual or otherwise. By the bar were high pink stools with chrome backs and legs. All in all, the place looked what it was: an expensive gay club. The clientele reflected this. They had everyone on their books and the membership fee of £150 per annum kept out what Desrae called the riff-raff.
One week into its opening they were already taking over £300 a night. Between £500 and £700 on Saturdays. It was small, select and lucrative. From politicians to businessmen, from actors to policemen, the place was full to the rafters every night. They all knew it wasn’t just because the club was new; they were aware they had filled a gap in the market and as such were guaranteed to make their money back.
Cathy sipped her coffee and looked nervously at Desrae as he glanced over the idea she had written out and presented to him. It was the first time she had ever tried anything like this and she was anxious to know what he thought of her scheme.
‘This is a terrific idea, love,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘but where are we going to stage these things?’
Cathy sat forward eagerly, her hair tumbling over her face. ‘The strippers in the hostess clubs do their acts in much smaller spaces. Our acts can just move out into the centre of the room and perform. I know it’ll be tight but I think it’ll work, Des. After all, the music is piped from the back anyway and most of the girls will be miming, won’t they?’
He nodded - Cathy could see his mind ticking over. She carried on selling her idea.
‘A lot of the men we employ are natural-born artistes. I mean, look at Alfie when he dresses like Doris Day. Him singing along to
Move Over Darling
is hilarious. I’ve seen him do it in the dressing room before now and the other girls loved it. And Georgina’s Diana Ross is fantastic, he looks so much like her—’
Desrae interrupted scathingly, ‘Oh, yeah, if poor old Diana was fourteen stone!’
Cathy grinned. ‘That’s not the point here, is it? A resemblance to the person is enough. Your Marilyn Monroe is brilliant and you know it is.’
Desrae laughed now, pleased with the compliment. ‘No way am I gonna sing in public.’
‘You just need to dress up and tend the place. We can have the girls all dressed up as the women they want to be. I mean, it’s a thought, isn’t it? Having your drink served by Carmen Miranda or Elizabeth Taylor has got to be better than by just any old drag queen, hasn’t it? It’ll give us the edge over the other clubs. The one in Greek Street is seedy and badly in need of a good clean and a decent clientele. We’re going for the better end of the market and as such we need to offer something the other clubs haven’t thought of.
‘Did you see that politician the other night? Guess who was with him? Susan P, that’s who. She wanted to have a look see. Told me that our place was the best she’d been in, and she’d recommend it to clients any day. Now what better accolade can we have than that? Susan’s the biggest and best madam in London and she’s branched out into using boys, as you know. Young men are big business and she said she would send people here and even supply us with men she thought would work better in a club atmosphere. She’d still take her cut from them, of course. But the point is, we can really make this place into a big business. Open other clubs, theme them . . .’
Desrae held up one perfectly manicured hand and said breathily: ‘Hold on, love, we’ve only just opened this place and already you’ve got us having a chain.’
Cathy looked at her friend and said seriously, ‘And why not - all over the country! There’s a deep-seated need for them, and why shouldn’t we be the ones to do it? Someone’s going to sooner or later. The laws against homosexuality are being relaxed all the time. I want a club where gays and straights can come and enjoy themselves. We could even open a restaurant eventually . . .’
Desrae sat back in his Dayglo pink velour chair and shook his head in wonderment. ‘You have given this a lot of thought, haven’t you? A club where everyone can go and enjoy themselves? Now I’ve heard everything!’
Cathy had her argument ready. ‘Look at the Valbonne, Desrae. Many people go there to watch the TVs. You and I both know that. People-watching is a big thing these days, whether it’s the punks at Tower Hill and Carnaby Street or the hippies in Camden Market. My generation want to experience everything. Gays are accepted now more than at any time previously. Now they’re part and parcel of our everyday life. Let’s cash in on it. This club we’ve got here is a contact club, which strictly speaking is illegal. But the next one we open doesn’t have to be, does it?’
‘All right, love. I’ll talk to Joey, see what he thinks.’
Cathy smiled, knowing she was halfway there if Desrae was going to discuss it with his man. ‘Where is Joey anyway?’
Desrae shrugged. ‘He’s got a load of hag at the moment with his bookies. He nearly bit my head off this morning when I rang to see if he fancied a bit of lunch.’
Cathy was surprised. ‘That’s not like him. Normally he’s full of the joys of spring.’
Desrae smiled sadly. ‘I think there’s a lot more going on than he’s saying, to be honest. Even his boy Tommy is out of sorts.’
‘Tommy’s always out of sorts these days.’
Desrae didn’t answer. He knew that Tommy was obsessed with Cathy and found it hard to deal with the fact that she didn’t want to know. He was more used to girls falling all over him.
‘He’s after a date, love. Why don’t you put him out of his misery, eh, and go out with him?’
She shook her head. ‘No way, Desrae. I don’t want to go out with him, or anyone else for that matter. I’m happy as I am.’
Desrae didn’t push the issue, but he wished he could make Cathy see that not all men were out for what they could get sexually. And anyway, sex could be a wonderful expression of love between two people. Even when they were of the same gender.
He looked over Cathy’s carefully formulated plans once more and then the two of them were back on an even keel.
Joey sat in his house and stared at the walls, trying to find a way through his problems. Somewhere in the background his wife Martha, already drunk, was berating their housekeeper. He tried to put the ranting voice out of his mind and concentrate on the best course of action to take.
A small tight-knit crew of villains had recently come to the West End from Liverpool and they were trying to take the place over. Ordinarily Joey wouldn’t have been too worried about that fact, but these were not the usual scallies. Far from it. They were a disciplined community with Irish connections and a love of unnecessary violence.
Joey was having trouble admitting that he was getting too old for it all. That was why he wanted the club with Desrae to work out. He wanted to retire and pass everything over to his young son Tommy who was a natural villain.
But that was easier said than done.
The head of the gang was a man called Derrick O’Hare - a huge Liverpool Irishman with a thick shock of sandy hair and deep-set blue eyes. He was built like a navvy and he spoke like one too. He had none of the finesse needed to be a boss in the West End. If he won power there would soon be anarchy. The West End had settled down happily over the last ten years and everyone involved was making money. Including the police.
Now it was all falling out of bed, and fast. Even Richard Gates was sniffing around and that in itself told Joey just how far this had all gone.
He should have nipped the Liverpool bunch in the bud but he hadn’t bothered, believing as he always had that his reputation and presence in the West End would deter them from an outright bid to oust him.
It had deterred many before them, and he knew that he could still deter most people. But these Liverpool boys were a new breed. They dealt in everything and anything: weapons, drugs, sex. They sold women and boys, even children. Their sex shops were a big earner for them. They could supply the more hard-core magazines which they bragged openly came through the docks in Harwich from Germany, Holland and Sweden. They were already a force to be reckoned with up North and now they had come down South to take over the place.
They knew their market and they knew their clientele. They also knew they had to get rid of Joey Pasquale.
They had offered him money, tried to buy him out, and he had refused. Even found it amusing that they had the front to approach him. Now he realised just how dangerous they were. He knew his son would want to take them on and would even enjoy the challenge. But the more Joey heard about them, the more worried he became. Tommy would be taking on trouble the like of which he had never before encountered.
But take it on he would.
That was Tommy’s way. He was his father’s son. Twenty years earlier Joey would have stood his ground and fought. Now he just couldn’t face it. This was a new breed of villain and in his more honest moments he admitted that they scared him.
It wasn’t the violence - he had lived with that all his life - but he in common with most old-style criminals had always believed that violence had to be commensurate with the crime committed. These Liverpool lads, on the other hand, used violence all the time, even for the smaller jobs such as getting protection money. They broke limbs for just a few pounds. They were already gaining a reputation as men to fear, and Joey knew he was losing people to them every day.
Now his bookies were under threat.
He had just been approached in his own home, and warned for the final time that if he didn’t accept their cash offer, they’d take what they wanted and ruin him. He closed his eyes and filled the empty room with his sigh. Tommy would fight them. But Tommy was young, full of bravado - and full of shit.
There was no saying who would win.
Tommy sat in the bar of the Mortimer Hotel in Piccadilly and sipped at his beer. As he waited for his contact he listened to a group of French tourists chatting together about the Queen and Buckingham Palace. One of the crowd was a tiny girl with huge blue eyes and blonde hair; her resemblance to Cathy Duke was so striking he could not take his eyes from her. He knew he was making her feel uneasy and tried to concentrate on his
Daily Mirror
.
He was pleased when Dean Whiteside came into the bar and ordered himself a drink. As Dean sat down beside Tommy, he shook his head sadly. ‘Still looking at all the blondes, I see. I’m a tit man meself. Don’t give a toss what the boatrace is like as long as they have nice big knockers.’
Tommy laughed easily, knowing that Dean was joking. He had married his childhood sweetheart at eighteen, and ten years and four children later was still enamoured of her. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he didn’t feel the need to prove himself a macho man by sleeping with anything that moved. His wife Stella was more than enough for him.
‘You’re a complete nut, Whiteside.’
Dean grinned. ‘You’re blonde mad, everyone knows that. By the way, you owe me a grand. That’s what it cost to get you the info you was after.’
Tommy nodded. ‘So what’s the big news?’
Dean shook his head and sighed. ‘All bad, mate. I tell you, Tommy, you’d better watch your back because these Scallies are here for the duration. They want it all. I spoke to an old lag this morning who had his face sliced up by them because he owed his bookie thirty-five quid. Can you believe it? Thirty-five fucking sobs. I mean, it’s a joke. How the hell are they going to do business like that?’
‘They’re nutters, they don’t reason like we do. All they’re interested in is the bottom line. Who was striped up?’
Dean raised his blond eyebrows and said quietly: ‘Old Dicky Drake, the bare-knuckle boxer. Most people swallowed him because he was once a face like. He’s fucking punch drink and barely making a living these days. No respect, Tommy. These people have no respect.’
Tommy was shocked. Dicky Drake was a legend in his own lifetime,
the
bare-knuckle boxer of his day, the most famous and the best loved. Dicky had thrown money to many people when he had been on top. Now in his sixties, and punchy, people tended to look after him. Which was only fair. Seeing him striped would cause many people in the East End and the South East to look to Joey to settle the score with the Liverpudlians.