couple of weeks in Aspen, London penthouse for a break, whatever the boss and the trophy wife are doing. You cook macrobiotic crud for her, steak for him, dinner party once a fortnight and you're done. How hard can it be? You're looking at filthy money. I mean a right filthy pile.'
'You could definitely do that?' said Gabe.
The general manager levelled him with his demolition stare. 'Are you in? Can I welcome you into the fold?'
For a moment Gabe was back in Blantwistle, ten years old, poking shepherd's pie round his plate while his mother started the washingup and his father pushed back from the table and cracked his fingers as he always did before the sermon began. Never pick on a lad smaller than yerself. He would stroke the table firmly, as though to smooth out the cloth. He was built like a whippet but his hands were large and strong. Nimble too. At the mill the legend was that Ted Lightfoot could knot on faster than any machine. Never pick on a lass neither. There must have been a time, not that Gabe could remember it, when he was six or seven, maybe, when he had looked up to his dad. It was stupid the way he sat there after dinner like he was Moses, bringing down the law. Never, ever, shake hands with a man and then go back on your word.
Gabriel got up and shook hands with his new employer. It was an empty gesture and they both knew it. It was how the game was played.
At the Penguin Club Charlie was singing ' ' Taint Nobody's Bizness If I Do'.
She wore her silver sequin dress and jade choker. Her heels were sharper than boning knives. The pianist kept his nose close to the keyboard, collapsing under the weight of the blues.
Charlie put her hand on her hip and rolled her shoulder; her way of waving at Gabe.
Gabe bought a beer and sat at the bar, watching the punters watching his girl.
The room was dark with fake wood panelling and padded booths along one wall.
The round tables in the middle had crushed velvet tablecloths and little art deco lamps that lit up the punters' chins. Some had their girlfriends or mistresses with them, fingering necklaces and earrings; some sat in twos or threes, clinking glasses and sometimes words; most just sat with their cigarettes, inhaling and exhaling and thickening the air.
Charlie and the pianist shared a small stage, elevated a mere six inches above the floor. The song did not suit Charlie's voice, which was too light for it, too teasing. She lowered her eyelids and pressed her lips to the microphone as though it were the object of her every desire. A bald man at a table close to the stage rose to his feet and saluted her with his tumbler. He swayed for a moment and then sat down.
'You like her, then, do you?' The punter at the bar had a heavy gold watch and heavy, hairy wrists.
'Yes,' said Gabe. 'She looks good to me.'
The stranger drained his glass. He slid closer to Gabe. He wore a good suit, silk t ie. 'Listen,' he said, 'I can judge a character. In my business, if you can't do that, might as well cut your own throat. If you're interested ...' He cocked two fingers in Charlie's direction and fired them like a gun. 'I could tell you the SP.'
Gabe laughed. 'Go on,' he said. 'Get me off the blocks. Give me the starting price on her.'
The man leaned against the bar. He squinted and burped and Gabe suddenly saw how drunk he was. 'Three Campari and sodas or one dry martini. Tha'sall you gotta do. She'll suck the tongue from your head, fuck like a rabbit and if you're lucky only steal the cash from your wallet, leave the bloody cards.'
If he had laughed Gabe would have punched him but the man was quiet now and looked sad. They both looked at Charl ie. She was singing a love song, a Burt Bacharach number, loading every word with heavy irony; that was the way it sounded to Gabe.
For a moment he wondered if she had slept with this man.
'Well,' said the punter, 'best of British.' He tried to drain his glass but discovered he had already done that. 'I'd have a go myself but
'You could definitely do that?' said Gabe.
The general manager levelled him with his demolition stare. 'Are you in? Can I welcome you into the fold?'
For a moment Gabe was back in Blantwistle, ten years old, poking shepherd's pie round his plate while his mother started the washingup and his father pushed back from the table and cracked his fingers as he always did before the sermon began. Never pick on a lad smaller than yerself. He would stroke the table firmly, as though to smooth out the cloth. He was built like a whippet but his hands were large and strong. Nimble too. At the mill the legend was that Ted Lightfoot could knot on faster than any machine. Never pick on a lass neither. There must have been a time, not that Gabe could remember it, when he was six or seven, maybe, when he had looked up to his dad. It was stupid the way he sat there after dinner like he was Moses, bringing down the law. Never, ever, shake hands with a man and then go back on your word.
Gabriel got up and shook hands with his new employer. It was an empty gesture and they both knew it. It was how the game was played.
At the Penguin Club Charlie was singing ' ' Taint Nobody's Bizness If I Do'.
She wore her silver sequin dress and jade choker. Her heels were sharper than boning knives. The pianist kept his nose close to the keyboard, collapsing under the weight of the blues.
Charlie put her hand on her hip and rolled her shoulder; her way of waving at Gabe.
Gabe bought a beer and sat at the bar, watching the punters watching his girl.
The room was dark with fake wood panelling and padded booths along one wall.
The round tables in the middle had crushed velvet tablecloths and little art deco lamps that lit up the punters' chins. Some had their girlfriends or mistresses with them, fingering necklaces and earrings; some sat in twos or threes, clinking glasses and sometimes words; most just sat with their cigarettes, inhaling and exhaling and thickening the air.
Charlie and the pianist shared a small stage, elevated a mere six inches above the floor. The song did not suit Charlie's voice, which was too light for it, too teasing. She lowered her eyelids and pressed her lips to the microphone as though it were the object of her every desire. A bald man at a table close to the stage rose to his feet and saluted her with his tumbler. He swayed for a moment and then sat down.
'You like her, then, do you?' The punter at the bar had a heavy gold watch and heavy, hairy wrists.
'Yes,' said Gabe. 'She looks good to me.'
The stranger drained his glass. He slid closer to Gabe. He wore a good suit, silk t ie. 'Listen,' he said, 'I can judge a character. In my business, if you can't do that, might as well cut your own throat. If you're interested ...' He cocked two fingers in Charlie's direction and fired them like a gun. 'I could tell you the SP.'
Gabe laughed. 'Go on,' he said. 'Get me off the blocks. Give me the starting price on her.'
The man leaned against the bar. He squinted and burped and Gabe suddenly saw how drunk he was. 'Three Campari and sodas or one dry martini. Tha'sall you gotta do. She'll suck the tongue from your head, fuck like a rabbit and if you're lucky only steal the cash from your wallet, leave the bloody cards.'
If he had laughed Gabe would have punched him but the man was quiet now and looked sad. They both looked at Charl ie. She was singing a love song, a Burt Bacharach number, loading every word with heavy irony; that was the way it sounded to Gabe.
For a moment he wondered if she had slept with this man.
'Well,' said the punter, 'best of British.' He tried to drain his glass but discovered he had already done that. 'I'd have a go myself but
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