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coat, sipping from a bottle of spirits. When it was empty he hurled it into the street, where it shattered in front of a passing car… The driver slammed on the brakes, leapt out and ran across to the man, kicking him twice as he shouted his annoyance.
        Scott returned to his desk and sat down, pulling the drinks inventory towards him, scanning the columns of figures.
        They bought in bottles of whisky and vodka for about three pounds each. They sold them for seventy. He had one of the menus on his desk and he flipped it open, looking at the prices.
        Five pounds for a coke. Ten pounds for a pint of lager. Then there was the list of cocktails. A screwdriver was thirty pounds. It went as high as eighty for a Tequila Sunrise.
        Beneath the list was a line which read: ALL COCKTAILS ARE DE-ALCOHOLISED.
        You didn't get drunk but you pissed a lot.
        If you chose to have the company of a hostess it cost you thirty pounds for a conversation with her. Anything beyond conversation was negotiable, but Scott knew the girls had their own price list for their services. Thirty for a hand job. Fifty for a straight fuck. Eighty for one without a rubber. One hundred quid could even get you a blow job without a rubber. Risky, these days, but then money was money, wasn't it? The entrepreneur always had to take a few risks.
        He would take a trip down to the cash-and-carry in the morning, after he'd checked his stock of drink. He'd give Don, the barman, a call in a minute. He doubted if they needed much. The vodka was three parts water, as were most of the spirits. Scott sat back in his seat for a moment, his hands clasped on his lap. At least Don was reliable; he always turned in, no matter what. Not like that fucker Rick. He should have been there tonight.
         I shouldn't have to throw punters out. It's not good for my image. The manager is here to manage, not get mixed up in rough stuff.
        When and if Rick ever came back he'd find his cards waiting for him. Cunt.
        Scott returned his attention to the inventory.
        He was about to start work when there was a knock on the office door.
        'Who is it? I'm trying to bloody work,' he called.
        The frown on his face rapidly disappeared as the door opened.
        

NINE
        
        'Sorry if I'm disturbing you, Jim,' Carol Jackson said apologetically.
        Scott got to his feet.
        'You're not,' he told her. 'Come in.' He smiled at her, relieved to see the gesture reciprocated.
        She closed the door behind her and moved towards him, pausing as she looked down at the remains of the pizza. She wrinkled her nose and smiled again.
        'Dinner,' he announced almost ashamedly. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her. Carol draped one arm around his shoulders perfunctorily and broke the kiss first. She perched on a corner of his desk and Scott looked at her appraisingly.
        She was about three years younger than him. About five-two but slim. Blonde hair framed her face and cascaded just past her shoulder blades. As she stood close to him she toyed distractedly with the ring on her right middle finger. It was gold and held a small onyx.
        One of Scott's gifts to her.
        The metal was going black in places.
        They had been seeing each other for almost fourteen months; the relationship could be called erratic. She worked at the club. Scott worked at the club. They saw each other almost every day during work. They had been seeing each other out of work for nearly as long.
        She was wearing jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, a red one. Another gift from Scott. He liked to see her wearing things he had bought her. Now he looked at her and smiled.
         You're beautiful.
        He didn't even attempt to say it.
        'I heard that Zena had a bit of trouble earlier on,' she said.
        'It was nothing,' he told her. 'I sorted it out.'
        'Manager's