Streetwise (5 page)

Terry Street was sitting at his usual table in Belles, near the back and off to the side where he could see everything that was going on. He was staring at the girls, but he wasn’t really seeing them. After a while, one half-naked body looked much the same as another. Tits and bums, tits and bums. He felt no lust for them, no desire. The only thing that brought him any pleasure these days was the booze.

He reached for his glass and drank some of the whisky. When he put the glass down, he frowned. He’d been mulling over something, but now he couldn’t remember what it was. It had been happening to him a lot recently, this weird disconnection halfway through a train of thought. And he kept putting things down and forgetting where he’d put them. Age creeping up, he supposed, although he was only in his sixties.

Terry picked up his glass again. He glanced across at the bar and saw Chris standing there, chatting to a group of banker types. Once Terry would have been the one to do the schmoozing, but lately he couldn’t be bothered. It was too much of an effort and basically he didn’t give a toss about the customers. So long as they paid their money, drank the champagne and kept away from him, he was happy.

Terry knew that he was becoming anti-social. The truth was that most people bored him these days. The younger generation didn’t know the meaning of a proper conversation; it was mobile phones and texting, Facebook and all the rest of that crap. Even the villains were bland. Back in his time, there had been real characters, men with personalities. Now you were lucky to find someone who could string more than a couple of sentences together.

He looked hard at Chris. Both of his boys, in different ways, had been a disappointment to him. Neither of them had what it took to be a real success. Chris was smart enough but he lacked the killer instinct. If he could avoid trouble, he would – and everybody knew it. He had some charm but not enough to make up for his deficiencies. Danny, on the other hand, had a fuckin’ screw loose. It was a tough thing to admit about your own son, but there it was. Danny was a bleeding liability and that was never going to change.

Only Liam, his eldest son, his long-dead son, had had the potential to really go places. Liam could have stepped into his shoes if he’d been given the opportunity. Instead, he’d got half his head blown off when he was only seventeen. Terry felt a sudden searing pain in his heart, the symptom of a grief that never diminished no matter how many years passed by.

He knocked back the whisky and caught the eye of one of the waitresses. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She came and took his glass and went over to the bar. A minute later, Chris came back with the drink.

‘Here,’ he said, placing the glass on the table. ‘I need a word.’

Terry gestured ungraciously towards the chair in front of him. He would have preferred to be alone with his whisky and his thoughts. ‘Just tell me this ain’t about the Fox again.’

‘We need to talk about it.’

‘We’ve already done that.’

Chris frowned. ‘Have we? The way I remember it is that I suggested buying it and you said forget it. Not what I’d call a conversation. You want to tell me why we shouldn’t?’

Terry glared at him. There was a time when Chris wouldn’t have questioned a decision he had made, a time when his word would have been law. But there was no respect any more. A father couldn’t even expect it from his son. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you why not.’ He counted out the reasons on his fingers. ‘For one, Maggie McConnell ain’t going to sell it to us. For two, even if she did we’d never get a fuckin’ licence. For three, we ain’t got that kind of spare cash lying around. And for four, I don’t
want
to own the fuckin’ place again.’

‘We could find the money,’ Chris said. ‘That place is a goldmine. We’d soon be raking it in. And we’ve already got a licence for the Hope so why should getting one for the Fox be a problem?’

‘It ain’t the same.’

‘No, it ain’t the same. The Fox is a damn sight more profitable.’

Terry shrugged his shoulders. Although all the reasons he had given were perfectly valid, there was one that he hadn’t mentioned and wasn’t about to. Years ago, when he’d been a young man, he’d murdered Joe Quinn outside the cellar door to the Fox. Bludgeoned him to death with a baseball bat – and got away with it too. Quinn had owned the pub back then, had owned half the East End in fact, and Terry had wanted it all.

‘At least give it some thought.’

‘Sure,’ Terry said, eager to be rid of him. ‘Now piss off and leave me in peace.’

Chris got to his feet and then leaned back down and said, ‘And we need to sort out Wilder too.’

‘Who?’

‘Wilder,’ Chris repeated.

For a moment, Terry couldn’t place the name. Who the fuck was Wilder? As he struggled to find a path through the fog in his brain, he was aware of his son waiting impatiently. ‘What about him?’ he asked, playing for time.

Chris gazed at his father and gave a light despairing shake of his head. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel, you can open your own bleedin’ post from now on. I’m not handling any more dead rats that were meant for you.’

It was then that the name finally slotted into place. Wilder. Christ, Guy Wilder. Lizzie’s boy. How could he have forgotten that? Quickly, Terry tried to cover his confusion. ‘He ain’t worth the bother. You really gonna let that scrote get to you?’

Chris threw him a dirty look. ‘For God’s sake, he sent you a filthy rotting rodent. Since when did you let that bastard walk all over you?’

Terry gave a shrug. ‘The only person he’s walking over is you. That’s if you let him. He’s a worthless piece of shite. Just forget about it, huh?’

‘Right, so forget about the rat, forget about the Fox. Anything else you want me to forget about?’ Chris turned on his heel and strode back towards the bar.

‘Fuckin’ kids,’ Terry muttered under his breath. He wasn’t going to buy the bloody pub and that was that. All this recent talk of the Fox had stirred up old memories. He could be walking down the road, sitting in the office or lying in bed trying to get some shut-eye, when suddenly an image of Joe Quinn would rise up in his mind. He would see him sitting in Connolly’s, expertly rolling his skinny cigarettes. He would see him holding court at the Fox, supping on his pint and snarling out orders. He would see him climbing into the rusty old van at the start of the last journey he would ever make.

Terry took a large gulp of whisky. On the whole, he didn’t hold much truck with the concept of karma, with the idea that what goes around comes around, but these constant reminders of Joe had begun to unnerve him. Why couldn’t the bastard leave him alone? What was done was done and nothing could change it. And okay, it was true that he’d let Joe’s two sons go down for a murder they hadn’t committed, but innocence was relative – completely relative in this instance – and he didn’t regret what he’d done. Dog eat dog, the survival of the fittest – those were the rules of the criminal world. There was no room for finer feelings.

Terry felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He turned his head but no one was paying him any attention. All eyes were firmly fixed on the glistening bodies of the tarts on stage. But still the feeling continued as if somewhere, in the shadows, he was being watched. Although it was the last thing he wanted, he suddenly found himself thinking about Lizzie. The bitch might be six foot under, but she still continued to haunt him.

He scowled as he buried his face in his glass. Lizzie was the only person he had ever told about the murder of Joe Quinn. He had done it in that first flush of passion when they had shared everything. He had thought then that Lizzie was the love of his life, but as the years passed by she had become his greatest enemy. Had she told anyone else? He didn’t think so, but there was no knowing for sure.

Terry was still dwelling on this when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

‘Boss?’

He turned to look up at the tall black man called Solomon Vale. ‘Yeah? What is it? What do you want?’

Vale bent his head and said softly, ‘Vic Delaney’s out front. Says he wants to talk to you. I told him I wasn’t sure if you were here or not, said I’d check. You want me to let him in? You want to see him?’

Terry didn’t want to see him, but he couldn’t put it off forever. He’d been expecting a visit for the past few weeks. Now that he was here, might as well get it over and done with. ‘Yeah, show him in.’

‘Will do, boss.’

Terry watched as Vale strode back towards the door. Solomon, although tough and reliable, was a man of few words. He’d been with the firm for years, but Terry still didn’t know him that well. He was always polite, always respectful, but he was Chris’s right-hand man and it was with Chris, ultimately, that his loyalty lay. Terry wasn’t sure who he could trust any more. There was no one left of the old firm, the men he’d inherited from Quinn. They were all dead now. And although Terry hadn’t had any problems in recruiting new members, he had always been wary of them. Just as he’d betrayed Joe Quinn, he knew that one of them might do the same to him.

Now, of course, the firm was a quarter of the size it had once been. Nothing was the same. The East End wasn’t the same. He missed the old days when people had looked up to him, when he’d wielded the kind of power that other villains could only dream about. Those had been the glory days and nothing could compare to them.

Terry was still absorbed in the past when Vale returned with Vic Delaney in tow. Delaney was a fat man, almost as wide as he was tall. He had an ugly pug face, multiple chins, and a pair of piggy eyes peering out from between creamy folds of flesh. It didn’t do, however, to underestimate him. Delaney was one tough guy and those who crossed him usually lived to regret it.

Terry got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Vic. Good to see you again.’

‘Terry,’ the other man said, unsmilingly.

‘You’ll have a Scotch?’

‘Yeah.’

Terry looked at Vale. ‘Get one of the girls to bring it over.’

Solomon Vale gave a nod and walked off.

Terry and Vic Delaney sat down. Terry watched as Delaney’s gaze flew briefly to the dancers on the stage before returning again.

‘You know what this is about,’ Delaney said.

‘Sure,’ Terry said. ‘Although I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.’

Delaney leaned forward a little, placing his thick arms on the table. He was younger than Terry, although not by that much. They came from the same era and had mixed in the same circles for years. Delaney’s manor was up Chigwell way and he’d made his money from property and drugs. ‘I want you to keep your son away from my girl.’

‘And how am I supposed to do that?’

‘I don’t care how,’ Delaney said sharply. ‘Just sort it, huh?’

‘He’s a grown man. I can’t tell him who he can or can’t see.’

‘Yeah, and Silver’s just nineteen. You think it’s right for him to be hanging around with a girl half his age?’

Terry could have retorted that he’d seen Delaney with plenty of girls young enough to be his daughter, but decided not to go there. Raising the subject of double standards was only going to inflame the situation. Instead, he made a calming gesture with his hands. ‘Look, I can see where you’re coming from. For what it’s worth, I agree with you. I’d rather they weren’t together. He is too old for her. But you know what, the minute we start telling them what to do, they’ll only go and do the bloody opposite.’

The drink arrived, carried by a topless waitress with long pink hair. Delaney stared blatantly at her tits, his damp lips parting slightly.

‘Ta,’ Terry said to her.

As she waltzed off in her high heels, Delaney took the opportunity to scrutinise her backside too. He might have come to discuss the moral welfare of his daughter, but that wasn’t going to stop him grabbing an eyeful while he was here. When he’d finished leering, he turned his head back towards Terry. ‘So what are you saying?’

‘That we just leave them to it. Odds are it’ll all fizzle out in a couple of weeks. But if we start interfering… well, there’s every chance they’ll stay together just for the hell of it.’

Delaney lifted his glass and then put it down again. ‘So do nothin’, huh? That’s your plan?’

Terry gave a shrug. ‘Sometimes nothin’ is the best thing to do.’ A part of him felt sorry for Delaney. He knew what it meant to have a crazy kid, and Silver was both disturbed and disturbing. You didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to work that one out. The girl had been out of control for years, running wild. He’d heard all sorts of rumours about her, none of which he’d have willingly repeated to her father.

Delaney wasn’t won over by the suggestion. ‘It ain’t right,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t like it.’

Terry could have said that Danny didn’t do girlfriends. His son shagged the local toms and picked up the occasional bit of skirt, but never got involved in actual relationships. However, as he couldn’t see this as being an entirely reassuring piece of information, he kept it to himself.

‘We gonna fall out over this, Terry?’

Terry held Delaney’s gaze, a hardness coming into his eyes. ‘I ain’t got a problem, Vic.
You’re
the one with the problem.’

‘Your bloody son’s my problem!’

‘So take it up with him. I’m not his bleedin’ keeper.’

Delaney glared at him, his lips curling away from his teeth. ‘Then you’d better tell your boy to watch his back.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Terry said. ‘Thanks for dropping by.’

Delaney scraped back his chair and hauled up his bulk. He loomed over Terry for a moment, his huge gut stretching at the fabric of his shirt. ‘This ain’t over,’ he said. ‘It ain’t over by a long chalk.’

Terry gave a nod. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

Delaney growled, turned around and marched off. Terry followed his progress until he disappeared into the crowd. He mulled over the exchange, knowing that Vic Delaney wouldn’t let it lie. Well, he’d tip Danny the wink, but it’d make sod all difference. Danny always did exactly as he wanted.

Beside him, at a table to his right, a group of young men suddenly burst out laughing. Terry instantly got the idea that he was the subject of their amusement. An indignant rage blossomed in his chest. Did they know who he was? Did they have any idea who they were mocking? But as he glowered over at the table, he realised that none of them were looking back. And then he thought he heard another laugh, a lighter one, a female one, a familiar one. He would know that laugh anywhere. It was
hers.
It was Lizzie’s. He was sure of it.