Wishing and Hoping (7 page)

The brick detached bungalow he called home had its own swimming pool and an acre of garden. Little stone lions sat either side of the gates and there were gnomes in the garden. Both he and his wife had a thing about gnomes out of nostalgia for an Ireland they'd never even visited but had seen in films starring Mickey Rooney.

They didn't refer to their gnomes as gnomes; as a nod to their Irish roots, they called them leprechauns.

Paddy had just done his customary twelve lengths of the pool and was towelling himself down. Contrary to popular belief, it was one of the few occasions when
he did not wear his gloves. One of his employees, a bloke named Charlie Baxter, with a square chin and hands like shovels, handed him his robe and a pair of soft suede gloves.

It was after midday so he ordered a double whiskey without offering one to his visitor. His visitor was Timothy Hampson-Smythe, his personal brief, who took care of the more paper-orientated legal matters, like contracts and deeds.

Timothy was over six feet tall, had mousy-coloured hair and practically no chin to speak of; the term ‘chinless wonder' was made for him.

Of impeccable breeding and education, he used to work for one of the most prestigious law firms in London. Unfortunately he got caught making erotic overtures with a broom handle. He was ‘let go' without notice. The broom handle was consigned to a bonfire.

Knees held tightly together, Timothy Hampson-Smythe was sitting on a plastic chair at the side of the pool, his briefcase clasped like a shield against his chest.

Paddy could tell by the ex-Cambridge, ex-guardsman's lack of eye contact that he was not the bearer of good news.

Paddy took a sip from his glass of Bushmills best Irish. ‘Well, Timmy, will you tell me what our friend Mickey Jones has to say for himself?'

Timmy pursed his lips. He hated being referred to
as Timmy and had told Paddy so on many occasions. However, on the last occasion, he'd received a backhander for his trouble and was told in no uncertain terms that Paddy Rafferty was paying the bill so Paddy Rafferty would call him anything he damn well liked!

His eyes, as black as crude oil and as shifty as windblown sand, flickered nervously between his client and his own clasped hands. On doing so he noted that his knuckles were turning white. Relaxing wasn't easy in the presence of Paddy Rafferty.

Timothy had just returned from a visit to the Blue Genie nightclub. Michael Jones had unknowingly bought a batch of rundown real estate that had been earmarked for Rafferty. Rafferty had friends in local politics so knew where the likely development opportunities happened to be. He held off offering until the very last moment, and that, as Timothy knew only too well, was his downfall. Now he was aiming to become a business partner of the man who had bought it. The problem was that Paddy wanted to pay no more than he'd had in mind to offer the original owner. He would have made a killing if he'd paid the right price at the right time. But Michael Jones had got in there first and getting on board as a partner – a sleeping partner in fact – was proving to be difficult.

Timothy cleared his throat before saying what he had to say. ‘I'm afraid he again refused your offer, Mr Rafferty.'

Timothy Hampson-Smythe had not been keen to go along with the offer in the first place, offering as it did basically nothing. The contract was just a partnership, a system whereby Patrick Rafferty would cream off a portion of the profits until such time as the place came up for redevelopment. He had it on good authority that the place would become the subject of a compulsory purchase order of which he would take a portion when the time came. He would also get in on the development package and on top of that would provide cheap Irish labour for the job. In turn the Irish labour, who out of the goodness of his heart he would bring over from Ireland, would pay him that portion of their wages which was rightly due to the Inland Revenue.

‘Heads I win, tails I win,' he'd said gleefully to his wife.

She'd barely looked up from the magazine she was reading, but did say, ‘Yes dear.' As though she'd been listening!

To all intents and purposes it was a protection racket, though unlike most protection rackets, Patrick was in it for the long haul. Not that he didn't have a few straightforward ‘pay up or get beat up' types of arrangement which were based on a weekly or monthly collection of funds.

Michael Jones' operation was more upmarket and bound to last for the long term and was therefore
special. Paddy viewed future development prospects as something of a pension plan for himself and Millicent when they were old and grey and fancied the sun on their bones. They were considering the South of France though Spain was a possibility once Generalissimo Franco was dead and buried. A pound went a long way when exchanged for pesetas. In the meantime they were setting down the seeds of a very nice pension plan.

Paddy's nose twitched and his lower lip sagged. Having someone upset his best-laid plans was tantamount to throwing a dog's turd in his face. Paddy was not pleased. His watery eyes seemed to solidify behind his crisp golden lashes. His lips pursed once he'd gulped back the rest of his drink and he immediately ordered another.

‘A double,' he said to Baxter, shoving the glass against the big man's chest. His eyes narrowed. His face froze. He whipped round to face Hampson-Smythe.

‘What reason did the bastard give?'

‘Well, basically, what he said was that he couldn't really see his way to taking you on as a partner. He didn't need one. It wasn't until I was examining the paperwork that I found out that he was lying and he already has a partner.'

‘Partner?' Paddy's bushy eyebrows shot upwards like a pair of flying caterpillars.

This was the first time Paddy had heard anything about a partner. He'd done his research, or rather he'd had someone do the research for him. It always paid to have someone on the inside and Tony Brooks had a big mouth once there was plenty of booze flowing over his tongue. Tony had a bad habit of telling people things that to his mind seemed totally innocent. Most of the time he was boasting about how successful the club was; the schmuck even divulged how much the takings shot up on a Friday or Saturday night. Was the man mad? But even he hadn't mentioned a partner.

No. Not mad. Just drunk. A bit of a loose cannon that Michael Jones would do well to watch. Not that Paddy wanted Michael to watch his father-in-law too closely.

Tony had told him a lot, such as that Michael Jones had parted on bad terms with his father and set up on his own. If Camilleri were behind the clubs then he wouldn't touch him. He dare not.

‘What partner?' he asked, his expression reflecting the consternation he was feeling.

Hampson-Smythe licked his bottom lip again before continuing. ‘Well,' he began.

‘Well, what?' Paddy couldn't resist the urge to hurry his lawyer along. It was obvious the man was scared of him. Paddy was pleased about that; he liked people to be scared of him.

Hampson-Smythe explained. ‘I've heard nothing word of mouth. It wasn't until I examined the legal documentation that it came to me. It seems that his wife is his business partner, besides being his marriage partner, of course, though he keeps it quiet. I understand they're very close, inseparable in fact.'

Paddy frowned and began pacing up and down like a man possessed. ‘His wife? What sort of outfit is he running?'

‘I tried to reason with him, Mr Rafferty, but I am afraid he showed me the door and was quite belligerent . . .'

The pacing stopped. Paddy flung the whiskey glass over his shoulder and grabbed his brief by the throat.

‘Belligerent? Speak fucking English, man! Does that mean he was taking the piss?'

‘Not . . . quite . . . Mr Rafferty.' The words were choked out between struggles for breath. ‘Aggressive. After that he was more, as you say, mocking in his reference to you.'

‘Mocking?' Rafferty's eyes were glaring into those of Timothy Hampson-Smythe. ‘What did he say?' he asked, his voice sinking into a low growl. ‘What did he say about me?'

Timothy was gagging for air. ‘I . . . can't . . . breathe . . .'

Paddy, seeing the other man turning red in the
face loosened his grip. ‘Tell me,' he yelled, shaking the lawyer like a terrier might shake a rat, despite the fact that Hampson-Smythe towered above him.

The lawyer drew in a deep breath before he could answer. ‘He said that his wife rated above a pseudo Irishman with poxy hands and a taste for garden gnomes.'

Paddy's face had turned bright red. His eyes were like ping-pong balls on which someone had crayoned in a pair of staring pupils.

Hampson-Smythe regarded him fearfully. He'd seen his client explode before, sending a chair crashing through a window. Rafferty was always the smouldering volcano waiting to erupt, beating up on anyone within hitting distance even if they were in no way responsible for his ire. He was almost tempted to sigh with relief when nothing immediately happened. His relief was short-lived.

‘Bastard!' bellowed Rafferty.

Poor Timothy Hampson-Smythe found himself lifted into the air. His feet left the ground and he was flying straight from Paddy Rafferty's hands and up into the air.

The ledge running around the pool was narrow. The pool was fairly large. Hampson-Smythe, complete with his trusty briefcase, made a big splash.

While Baxter found the net they used to clean debris from the water to scoop him out, Paddy Rafferty
went back to pacing the pool from one end to the other. With each pace he pondered on how best to pay Michael Jones back for his insults – and his refusal to enter a partnership.

He focused on the fact that Michael had chosen to have his wife as his business partner. What a crap idea that was! No woman could cope with that type of business. It was a man's world. He certainly wouldn't have his wife as a business partner – even a sleeping partner. Millicent wouldn't have a bloody clue. Bed and kitchen and shopping: that was all wives were fit for plus wheeling out when in respectable and legit company. But this! How smug could a man get? They were close! Fucking close!

Men like him didn't take insults lying down. Getting even niggled in his mind. What could he do to get back at Michael Jones and his perfect marriage? And was it perfect? Was it really perfect?

He stopped in his pacing as a wicked thought came to him. So Michael presumed his marriage was strong enough for business. His wife trusted him to be out night after night taking care of things. What if he sowed doubt in her mind? They were obviously close, but what if events could be orchestrated so that a few cracks might appear?

Smiling to himself, he shouted at Baxter to fetch him another whiskey. Leaving Hampson-Smythe dripping like a piece of garbage on the edge of the
pool, Baxter went to the corner bar to pour his boss another Bushmills.

Paddy was feeling pleased with himself. Sorting Jones out might still not get him a partnership – though it might. On the other hand it would give him great satisfaction to pay back the little upstart for being so outspoken and for preferring his wife as a partner. Well, the pair of them wouldn't be so close by the time Paddy Rafferty had finished with them. Too bloody right they wouldn't! In fact, he thought, if he had a mind to, he'd separate them for good. Now how bloody clever was that?

BARRY MASTERS – STAGE
name Latoya La Monde – was being fitted for a sparkling backless number. Pink ostrich feathers floated out around his ankles fishtail style and he was preening himself in front of the full-length mirror.

‘You look a hoot!' remarked Sally.

‘I look good! Soooo gooood!'

Barry had a voice like a foghorn. On stage he wore a blonde wig and did a Marlene Dietrich kind of act. Today he'd left the wig at home and he looked strange standing there in a pink dress, his bald head catching the light and rivalling the sequins for brightness.

Barry was a regular customer, possibly the busiest drag queen in London nightclubs, though he kept a low profile outside the profession. It didn't do to betray any kind of inclination to dress in women's clothes, the cops and the ‘queer laws' being what they were.

Besides making this dress, Marcie had copied the original
Blue Angel
outfit Dietrich had worn when she'd sang ‘Falling in Love Again'. It had to be
admitted that Barry certainly had the voice for it. He had the figure too – slinky and slim from the bosom down with a square shoulderline up top, just like Dietrich.

Marcie was on her hands and knees with Renee, her seamstress, pinning the feathers in such a way as to hide Barry's rather large feet. Most drag queens and transvestites had to have their shoes made for them. Shoes made for women might, if he was lucky, just about go up to his size but were usually a killer on width.

‘So how's your love life, Barry?' asked Sally, who did a bit around the place during the day, which mostly consisted of making the tea and looking after the kids when Marcie was busy.

‘You know how it is in our game, sweetie,' he replied in a smooth voice. ‘We work unsociable hours so loving consists of snatched moments between shows and taking in the milk bottles.'

Both Marcie and Sally made sympathetic noises; they both knew that the hard-working nightclub turns usually got home at the same time as the milkman was trundling around in his electric milk float. When they got home they picked up the freshly delivered milk and went to bed.

Due to the nature of the items made in the sewing room, there was no shop window display and prospective clients made an appointment to come along and
discuss their requirements. Marcie's clients appreciated how discreet everything was.

Each costume she made was a one-off. The only time she made more than one of any outfit was for the Taylor Twins – two fat women who were something of a legend on the burlesque circuit – and the odd chorus line, which didn't happen that much anyway. Most of the girls – or would-be girls – were solo artistes.