LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘You’re up,’ he said flatly.

      ‘Isn’t that what it looks like?’ Flood asked.

      Mordecai had been his strong right arm for the best part of fifteen years, a useful heavy-weight boxer who’d had the sense to get out of the ring before his brains were scrambled. He went behind the bar, poured a Perrier water, added ice and lemon and brought it over.

      Flood took it without thanking him. ‘God, how I love this old river. Anything come up?’

      ‘Your accountant called. Some papers to sign on that market development. I told him to leave them till the morning.’

      ‘Was that all?’

      ‘Maurice was on the phone from the Embassy. He says Jack Harvey was in for a bite to eat with that bitch of a niece of his.’

      ‘Myra?’ Flood nodded. ‘Anything happen?’

      ‘Maurice said Harvey asked if you’d be in later. Said he’d come back and have a go at the tables.’ He hesitated. ‘You know what the bastard’s after, Harry, and you’ve been avoiding him.’

      ‘We aren’t selling, Mordecai, and we certainly aren’t going into partnership. Jack Harvey’s the worst hood in the East End. He makes the Kray brothers look like kindergarten stuff.’

      ‘I thought that was you, Harry.’

      ‘I never did drugs, Mordecai, didn’t run girls, you know that. Okay, I was a right villain for a few years, we both were.’ He walked into the sitting room to the desk and picked up the photo in its silver frame that always stood there. ‘When Jean was dying, for all those lousy months.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing seemed important and you know the promise she made me give her towards the end. To get out.’

      Mordecai closed the window. ‘I know, Harry. She was a woman and a half, Jean.’

      ‘That’s why I made us legitimate, and wasn’t I right? You know what the firm’s net worth is? Nearly fifty million. Fifty million.’ He grinned. ‘So let Jack Harvey and others like him keep dirtying their hands if they want.’

      ‘Yes, but to most people in the East End you’re still the governor, Harry, you’re still the Yank.’

      ‘I’m not complaining.’ Flood opened a cupboard and took out a dark overcoat. ‘There’s times when it helps a deal along, I know that. Now let’s get moving. Who’s driving tonight?’

      ‘Charlie Salter.’

      ‘Good.’

      Mordecai hesitated. ‘Shall I carry a shooter, Harry?’

      ‘For God’s sake, Mordecai, we’re legit now, I keep telling you.’

      ‘But Jack Harvey isn’t, that’s the trouble.’

      ‘Leave Jack Harvey to me.’

      They went down in the old original freight elevator to the warehouse where the black Mercedes saloon waited, Charlie Salter leaning against it reading a paper, a small, wiry man in a grey chauffeur’s uniform. He folded the paper quickly and got the rear door open.

      ‘Where to, Harry?’

      ‘The Embassy and drive carefully. A lot of frost around tonight and I’ll have the paper.’

      Salter got behind the wheel and Mordecai got in beside him and reached for the electronic door control. The warehouse doors opened and they turned on to the wharf. Flood opened the paper, leaned back and started catching up on how the Gulf War was progressing.

      The Embassy club was only half a mile away, just off Wapping High Street. It had only been open six months, another of Harry Flood’s developments of old warehouse property. The car park was up a side street at the rear and was already quite full. There was an old negro in charge who sat in a small hut.

      ‘Kept your place free, Mr Flood,’ he said, coming out.

      Flood got out of the car with Mordecai and took out his wallet as Salter went off to park. He extracted a five-pound note and gave it to the old man. ‘Don’t go crazy, Freddy.’

      ‘With this?’ The old man smiled. ‘Wouldn’t even buy me a woman at the back of the pub these days. Inflation’s a terrible thing, Mr Flood.’

      Flood and Mordecai were laughing as they went up the side street and Salter caught up with them as they turned the corner and reached the entrance. Inside it was warm and luxurious, black and white tiles on the floor, oak panelling, oil paintings. As the cloakroom girl took their coats, a small man in evening dress hurried to meet them. His accent was unmistakably French.

      ‘Ah, Mr Flood, a great pleasure. Will you be dining?’

      ‘I should think so, Maurice. We’ll just have a look round first. Any sign of Harvey?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      They went down the steps into the main dining room. The club atmosphere continued, panelled walls, paintings, table booths with leather seats. The place was almost full, waiters working busily. A trio played on a small dais in one corner and there was a dance floor, though not large.

      Maurice threaded his way through the tables by the floor and opened a door in quilted leather that led to the casino part of the premises. It was just as crowded in there people jostling each other at the roulette wheel, the chairs occupied at most of the tables.

      ‘We losing much?’ Flood asked Maurice.

      ‘Swings and roundabouts, Mr Flood. It all balances out as usual.’

      ‘Plenty of punters, anyway.’

      ‘And not an Arab in sight,’ Mordecai said.

      ‘They’re keeping their heads down,’ Maurice told him, ‘what with the Gulf business.’

      ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Flood grinned. ‘Come on, let’s go and eat.’

      He had his own booth in a corner to one side of the band overlooking the floor. He ordered smoked salmon and scrambled eggs and more Perrier water. He took a Camel cigarette from an old silver case. English cigarettes were something he’d never been able to come to terms with. Mordecai gave him a light and leant against the wall. Flood sat there, brooding, surveying the scene, experiencing one of those dark moments when you wondered what life was all about, and Charlie Salter came down the steps from the entrance and hurried through the tables.

      ‘Jack Harvey and Myra – just in,’ he said.

      Harvey was fifty years of age, of medium height and overweight, a fact that the navy-blue barathea suit failed to hide in spite of having been cut in Savile Row. He was balding, hardly any hair there at all, and he had the fleshy decadent face of the wrong sort of Roman emperor.

      His niece, Myra, was thirty and looked younger, her jet-black hair caught up in a bun and held in place by a diamond comb. There was little make-up on her face except for the lips and they were blood red. She wore a sequinned jacket and black mini-skirt by Gianni Versace and very high-heeled black shoes for she was only a little over five feet tall. She looked immensely attractive, men turning to stare at her. She was also her uncle’s right hand, had a degree in business studies from London University and was just as ruthless and unscrupulous as he was.

      Flood didn’t get up, just sat there waiting. ‘Harry, my old son,’ Harvey said and sat down. ‘Don’t mind if we join you, do you?’

      Myra leaned down and kissed Flood on the cheek. ‘Like my new perfume, Harry? Cost a fortune, but Jack says it’s like an aphrodisiac, the smell’s so good.’

      ‘That’s a big word for you, isn’t it?’ Flood said.

      She sat on his other side and Harvey took out a cigar. He clipped it and looked up at Mordecai. ‘Come on, where’s your bleeding lighter then?’

      Mordecai took out his lighter and flicked it without a change

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