'Oh leave it out, Frank,' Reg Truman said, grinding some cigarette ash into the carpet. 'The old girl who cleans hasn't been round yet. The place is usually cleaner than Mother Theresa's underwear.'
'Well something's making you lose money,' Harrison said, running his index finger down the column of figures.
'Takings are down by a grand from last week. Am I running a strip joint or a fucking charity?'
'The other places have more girls, more specialized acts. We do the best we can,' Truman protested.
'Specialized acts,' Harrison grunted. 'So, what are you telling me, if you had a tart who could pull rabbits out of her fanny you'd get more punters in here?'
Truman shrugged.
'It'd be worth a try,' he chuckled.
Harrison didn't see the joke. He owned five strip clubs in Soho and each one had been losing money for the past month or so. He'd put it down to other gangs muscling in on his manor. Well, if it was, all that would stop once the hit man got his act together. Harrison looked around him. In the harsh light of day the club looked like any other cabaret venue. A dozen or so tables, a small bar and a stage. A considerable p.a. system had been set up, through which music was played to accompany the girls in their on-stage gyrations. As Harrison sat looking at the bank of speakers they suddenly burst into life, filling the club with music loud enough to crack the walls.
`Leroy, for fuck's sake,' roared Truman. The music ceased as abruptly as it had started.
An unmistakeably Jamaican voice came floating over the p.a.
`Sorry Reg, I didn't realize it was on,' said the voice.
`Why don't you get rid of that bleeding jungle bunny? If he's playing that reggae shit, no wonder no one wants to come in.'
`He's a good worker, Frank,' Truman said.
Harrison shook his head and looked at the ledger again.
Carter stood by the door with Damien Drake. Out in the car McAuslan was sitting behind the wheel.
Tina had been left in the care of Billy Stripes for the day.
Just for a fleeting second when Harrison had first called him, Carter had wondered if the gang boss had suspected something was going on between himself and Tina but he'd reassured himself that the boss was still blissfully ignorant of their dangerous affair. If he'd any suspicions at all, Carter thought, then
he
would be floating face down in the Thames by now.
He took a long draw on his cigarette and glanced across at Drake who was scanning the photos of girls that adorned the club's entrance. The beauties in the display case had never been inside the club though, Carter knew that. He wondered how many of them looked at the photo of Joan Collins outside and went home disappointed because she hadn't turned up to do a routine.
He was still contemplating this when he saw a man approach the entrance to the club. He was well dressed, his suit immaculate. Carter guessed he was in his mid-thirties. About five ten, thickset and very powerfully built. And yet there was a delicacy to his features which belied his build. He nodded a greeting to Carter as he approached and, despite himself, the younger man found himself returning the gesture. He noticed that there was a light covering of whiskers on the man's cheeks and chin.
As the man approached, Drake stepped in front of him. 'Where are you going?' he asked.
'I'm looking for Frank Harrison,' the man said, his voice cultured but without the trappings of pretension.
'And who are you?' Drake demanded.
'My business is with him. Now, if you'd let me pass please,' said the newcomer.
Carter took a step back, watching as Drake put his arm across the doorway to block the man's passage.
'There's always one isn't there?' the man said, shaking his head.
He shot out a hand and gripped Drake by the throat, lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the door frame with a force that almost knocked him out.
Carter raised a hand to reach for his automatic but, without turning round, his hand still fastened around Drake's neck, the man spoke again.
'Leave the gun where it is,' he said softly. 'Now tell Harrison I want to see him, otherwise I'll break this half-wit's neck.'
Carter eyed him malevolently for a moment and then ducked past him into the club.
Harrison, already disturbed by the commotion outside, was on his feet, waiting.
'What the hell's going on out there?' he demanded.
Before Carter could speak, the smartly dressed man had followed him inside, leaving Drake almost unconscious by the door.
'Frank Harrison?' the man asked.
'Yeah, and who the fuck are you?'
'My name's David Mitchell. You sent for me.'
It was as if someone had pressed the freeze-frame button on a video. The little tableau inside the strip club was momentarily motionless as all eyes turned towards Mitchell.
He stood in the doorway a moment longer before stepping forward.
The film was running again.
From behind him, Drake blundered in, clutching his throat, massaging the red marks where Mitchell's fingers had gouged into his flesh. He lunged towards the newcomer but Mitchell merely sidestepped and Drake overbalanced, crashing into a nearby table. He sprawled there for a moment glaring angrily at Mitchell who didn't even spare him a glance.
Drake reached for the pistol beneath his left armpit.
It was Harrison who stepped forward and kicked his hand away.
He dragged Drake to his feet and pushed him aside.
'You're a wise man, Mr Harrison,' said Mitchell. 'You've lost enough men already, best not to add to the total.' He glared at Drake and the other than saw the fire in Mitchell's eyes. He backed off.
Carter watched the entire scene nervously, wondering if Harrison was going to give the order to start shooting. If this newcomer was as handy with a gun as he was with his bare hands then the cleaning lady was going to need more than a vacuum cleaner.
Reg Truman looked on bewildered, his eyes flicking rapidly back and forth from Harrison to Mitchell who had now fixed the gang leader in an unblinking stare.
'Who are you?' Harrison wanted to know.
'I told you, my name's Mitchell. I understand you need my services.'
'You're a hit man?' Harrison asked, although it sounded more like a statement than a question.
Mitchell nodded.
'You weren't the geezer I spoke to last night,' Harrison insisted.
'Do you need my services or not?' Mitchell said sharply.
Harrison wasn't slow to catch the irritation in the hit man's voice.
'It depends how good you are,' he said.
'You won't find better.'
'You're sure of yourself.'
'I can afford to be.'
Harrison finally sat down. Mitchell remained where he was.
Drake continued glaring at him.
'Get us a drink,' Harrison said to Reg Truman and the strip club manager crossed to the small bar and returned with some glasses.
'This isn't a social call, Mr Harrison,' Mitchell told him, declining the offer of a drink. 'I understood that you had some work for me. I'd rather discuss that.'
Harrison sipped slowly at his whisky, regarding the newcomer over the rim of his glass.
'I suppose you want to discuss money too?' the gang boss said.
'Not yet. I'll wait until the job's done,' Mitchell told him.
'You'll be needing information then, about the blokes I want taken out.'
'All I need from you is a driver. Nothing else,' Mitchell announced.
'What about a base to work from? Weapons?'
'That's all been taken care of. Like I said, just the driver.'
Harrison looked at Carter.
‘Ray?’
Carter nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
'Let's go then,' said Mitchell, turning towards the door.
'Hold on,' Harrison called after him. 'Where do I contact you?'
'You don't. I'll call
you
, when and if it's necessary.'
'Look, Mitchell, I'm not sure I like this arrangement,’ snapped the gang boss, getting to his feet. 'You're supposed to be working for me...'
Mitchell cut him short.
'You want the job done, don't you?' he challenged.
Harrison found himself mesmerised by that icy stare.
'You keep me informed, right?' he said, although some of the bravado had gone out of his voice.
Mitchell hesitated a second longer and then walked out. Carter was about to follow him when the gang boss called him back.
'Ray, you keep your eye on that bastard,' he said angrily. 'I don't know who the fuck he thinks he is. I want to know where he's working from, get me addresses, a phone number, anything. If he farts I want to know about it. You got that?’
Carter nodded and went outside. He found Mitchell standing on the pavement by the club entrance.
'If we're going to be working together, it'd help if I knew your name,' the hit man said.
Carter introduced himself and wandered over to the waiting Volvo Estate. He slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Mitchell climbed into the back seat.
'Where to?' asked Carter, catching a glimpse of the hit man in the rear view mirror.
'Head towards Highgate.'
Carter nodded and pulled out into the traffic. His passenger, he found, wasn't very talkative but seemed content to gaze unseeing out of the car windows. It was as if his mind was elsewhere.
'You been in this game long?' Carter asked finally, tiring of the silence.
'Long enough,' Mitchell told him, non-committally.
'You're not from around here, are you?'
'Very astute,' the hit man answered, the merest hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Carter glanced at him again in the rear view mirror. There was something about this man which made him feel uneasy. It wasn't just his offhand manner. There was something else which was indefinable. A coldness, an indifference which Carter presumed went with the job. Maybe all hit men were like this. He didn't know. He didn't really want to know.
'Do you carry a gun?' Mitchell asked.
'Yes, a 9mm automatic Smith,' the driver replied, both surprised and relieved that his passenger was finally making some attempts at conversation, perfunctory or not.
'It's a good weapon. I prefer a Browning myself. It takes a thirteen shot clip and it's powerful.'
'What about up close?'
'I rarely get close.'
Carter swung the car around a corner, narrowly avoiding the back of a van which had braked sharply.
'Stop here,' snapped Mitchell.
But we're in the middle of the bloody road,' Carter protested.
Mitchell was unimpressed by the cars and other vehicles that drove around them, some sounding their hooters.
'Give me a number where I can reach you,' the hit man said sharply. 'I'll get in touch with you. Tell you where to pick me up and when.'
Carter scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to his passenger. Mitchell was out of the car immediately, sprinting across the busy street before disappearing down the entrance to an underground station. Carter watched the dark-suited man descend the stairs out of sight before he put the car in gear and drove on. What the hell was he going to tell Harrison now?
'That's him. The one in the middle.'
Carter nodded in the direction of the three men who had just emerged from the pub called 'The Galleon'.
David Mitchell looked on impassively, his eyes never leaving the overweight, swarthy man Carter had indicated.
Lou Barbieri walked to the edge of the pavement and turned, looking back at the pub.
From where they sat, Mitchell and Carter could see him pointing at various things on the building, occasionally looking at one of his companions. 'The Galleon' was one of several pubs owned by Barbieri in and around the Finsbury Park area and he was considering having it re-decorated. Neither he or the men with him paid any attention to the Volvo Estate parked about thirty yards further up the street, or to its occupants who watched them so intently.
Carter glanced back at his companion.
'You ready?' he said quietly.
Mitchell didn't answer. He merely pulled a black case on to his lap and unsnapped the two clasps. He pulled out the HK33 and the Spas. Within the confines of the car the shotgun in particular looked huge, the muzzle yawning ominously at Carter.
'When I tell you,' said Mitchell, slamming a forty round magazine into the HK33. 'Drive past them slowly.'
'Slowly?' the driver said.
'Just do it,' Mitchell told him. He took four shells from his jacket pocket and pushed them into the Spas, working the pump action to chamber a round. Then, as Carter watched, the hit man pulled a final piece of equipment from his pocket.
The driver looked aghast as he saw Mitchell snap on the headphones of a Walkman. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a tape which he pushed into the machine, pushing the volume up to maximum.
'Music while you work,' murmured Carter.
The second the scream of guitars began to fill Mitchell's ears he smiled broadly and nodded at Carter.
'Go,' he bellowed.
The car moved off, building up speed gradually, drawing nearer to the three men who stood on the pavement.
'Welcome to the Jungle,
' roared the singer, the second reverberating inside Mitchell's head.
'We've got fun and
games...
'
The car drew nearer.
'We got everything you want, honey we know the names ...
'
Mitchell wound down the rear window and steadied the HK33 against his shoulder.
'
We are the people that can find, whatever you may need ...
'
Barbieri turned and saw the Volvo bearing down on them.
'
If you got the money, honey, we got your disease ...
'
Carter saw the look of horror and surprise on the gang leader's face as he caught sight of the rifle aimed at him.