Girlfriends, wives, all being brought along by their partners to join in the voyeuristic fantasies.
The lap dancers were tall, lithe women in their twenties. Good-looking girls who wanted to earn extra money, rather than the girls in the clip joints and peep clubs who needed to earn extra money. They gyrated expertly to the music in front of the clients, moving seductively, grinding their semi-naked bodies against the men’s laps; tempting them to pay for another dance.
Nicky liked it. But he wasn’t really interested in it. Not the drinking nor the women interested him, although he knew most of the girls by name. He wasn’t even really interested in the music. What he was interested in was the top-grade powder he could score.
He’d driven his father’s car back home, then taken the stuff Gary had given him on tick. Now he wanted more; needed more. He hoped Gary would be as obliging as he had been earlier.
Nicky smiled and spoke to the topless blonde Croatian woman sitting in the corner on her break. He raised his voice to be heard over the heavy beat of the music.
‘Have you seen Gary?’
She looked up at Nicky and grinned; a stoned glazed grin.
‘He’s in the back. Oh, Maggie came in; she seemed desperate to see you.’
Maggie. He’d forgotten she was coming home. Shit. He’d wanted to explain to her what had happened before other people started talking. He certainly didn’t want her to speak to Gina; that might ruin everything.
He was tempted to go and find Maggie and just hope she hadn’t seen Gina. Except the draw of getting some powder was too strong, and the grip on Nicky’s arm a moment later by the tall wiry black man was even stronger. He was going nowhere.
Gary Levitt was sitting in the back room of the Swag club smoking a cigar. He couldn’t abide the taste of them but he thought it looked good and added to his image. He wanted people to see him as sophisticated; not just some toerag dealer from Bermondsey. He glanced up from preening his manicured nails as Nicky Donaldson was marched into the room.
‘Nick-Nick. I’ve been wondering where you’d gone. I wanted to know where my money was.’
Nicky blanched. A look of confusion crossed his face. He’d only seen Gary a few hours ago. He’d told him he’d got a couple of weeks to straighten everything out, but here he was with a cigar longer than his dick hanging out of his mouth, demanding his cash.
‘I … I … I haven’t got it.’
‘Don’t stutter Nicky man, it makes me think of Porky Pig and I always fucking hated that cartoon.’
Nicky could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead, partly because he needed to score, but mainly because he was eyeing up the cosh that the goon standing behind Gary was holding in his hand.
‘I thought I had two weeks, Gary. You said two weeks.’
‘Yeah, you’re right I did. Now I’ve changed my mind, a man’s entitled.’
‘Listen, I can get you some of the money in the next couple of days, not a problem.’
‘But it is, Nicky. It’s very much a problem. I don’t want it in two days; I want it now. I suppose I could always ask your Dad for it. I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t want to hear you’re in any trouble.’
He chuckled at the deepened fear showing on Nicky’s face. Gary could no more approach Max for money than he could the Pope; he wasn’t stupid. As much as he knew Max probably wouldn’t give a shit about Gary putting the squeeze on his son, he was still as scared as the next man was of Max Donaldson. Though one thing was clear – by the expression on Nicky’s face, Gary clearly wasn’t as scared of Max as his son was.
It amused Gary to play games with Nicky who was soft by nature. The man had so many beatings and took so much gear that even the changing wind seemed to frighten him.
‘Fine Nicky; I’ll give you a couple of days to bring me some money, but I don’t want you to forget.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
‘I’m sure you won’t, but I want to leave you with a little reminder, a little memo.’
Gary Levitt nodded to one of his henchmen and leaned back in his chair, too uninterested to watch as Nicky’s face came into contact with the cosh.
Maggie sat deflated on the steps of the walk-up in Greek Street, waiting for Gina and watching the crowds of people go by. It was getting late and the last of the summer sunshine had disappeared.
She’d been all over Soho looking for Nicky and after making her way round all the bars she’d finally decided to give up, guessing he was probably crashed out in some dive or drug den sleeping off the night before. She’d then taken herself off to Gina’s flat in Robert Street on the other side of Euston Road, bracing herself for trouble, but like everywhere she’d gone, there’d been no one in. The frustration of getting no answer had brought her to tears. The second time she’d cried that day. Even though she’d been on her own, she’d quickly wiped them away, feeling embarrassed.
Her next stop had been the sauna on Brewer Street. An old haunt of Gina’s, a place Maggie knew she still liked to hang out in. Although Gina’s mouth was clamped shut like a good Catholic girl’s legs when it came to providing any information about her own business, Gina Daniels did enjoy listening to other people’s gossip, especially if it involved their downfall; and in the sauna on Brewer Street gossip overflowed like a blocked toilet.
Another reason Maggie knew Gina enjoyed visiting the sauna was to get herself a bargain from the junkies who went in on a daily basis with their stolen goods, hoping to get enough money to score some brown or a bit of crack.
Perfumes, make-up, watches, even expensive lingerie, made its way to Sonya’s Sauna in Brewer Street. All sold for next to nothing – for the price of a hit.
‘Hello Maggie love, it’s good to see you. Gina ain’t here. I saw her earlier though with a big fucking smile on her face. Jammy cow got herself a pair of Gucci shades for twenty quid. She’s probably gone to see Joanie in the walk-up on Greek Street to gloat. If I see her I’ll tell her you’re looking for her shall I?’
Maggie had looked at the Tom behind the reception in the sauna and smiled. She’d known her for years; the last thing she wanted though was Gina to know she was looking for her.
‘No, don’t say anything. I want to surprise her.’
That’d been at half past six. It was now nearly half past eight. She wasn’t sure Gina was even going to turn up at the walk-up, but watching Soho life go by was better than going back home and worrying.
In the two hours she’d been sitting on the stone steps, she’d only had to shuffle over to make way for three punters, eager to make their way up the bare wooden staircase and along the unpainted corridor to be ‘serviced’ for twenty quid by Joanie. Business was clearly down.
As Maggie saw it, Soho was divided into three different levels and it was down to the individual to see what they wanted to see. The first level was for the tourists, who gazed about with excitement, soaking up the sounds and the smells of the cramped one square mile. Feeling a part of the magic but not getting close enough for it to cast a deadly spell on them.
The second level was the mix of communities; real people trying to live in harmony amongst different cultural and social backgrounds, all attempting to be sympathetic to one another’s beliefs. Most of the time everybody managed to be tolerant, but occasionally it kicked off. Then the air would be heavy with tension until the community leaders sorted it out.
And finally there was the deepest level of Soho. The darker level which Maggie had been born into, and doubted she’d ever escape from. The protection