'Sixty,' he hissed, a glint in his eye visible even in the dull light of the room.
'I haven't got it,' said the man, swallowing hard.
Scared, eh?
'Well, fucking find it,' hissed Scott through clenched teeth.
The man tried to push past him again.
Scott pressed a large hand into the man's chest and shoved him back.
'You find that fucking money now. Sixty quid.'
He could see the fear on the man's face. Flabby white face, glasses. Suit, tie. A respectable type.
'You think you can walk in here and do what you fucking tyke.' Scott was breathing heavily now, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbing angrily. 'Get your money out.'
'Don't hurt me. Please.'
Scott almost smiled.
There was the fear again. Christ, he was beginning to enjoy this.
The balding man tried once more to get past.
'I told you not to push me,' Scott snapped.
'I didn't push you.'
His voice was wavering. He looked as if he was ready to burst into tears.
'Sixty quid or I'll push your fucking teeth so far down your throat you'll have to eat through your arsehole.'
The man fumbled for his wallet, pulled out three twenties and shoved them into Scott's hand. This time, when he tried to pass, the younger man let him. The man made for the narrow flight of stairs that would take him up out of the viewing area. As he was leaving another man was about to take a seat. The balding man muttered something to him and glared at Zena. She immediately scurried across and aimed a kick at the back of his legs.
'Fuck off,' she yelled at him as he disappeared up the steps.
Scott shoved the sixty into his pocket and headed back to the door marked STAFF ONLY.
'What about my stockings?' Zena said. He dug in his trousers and found a couple of pound coins. He tossed them to her. She caught them and smiled at him.
'You're a real charmer, Scotty,' she said.
He made his way back to the office, his breathing gradually slowing down. The sort of incident with the balding man wasn't unusual in clip joints like 'Loveshow' but Scott didn't think it was his job to deal with them. He'd done enough of that when he worked as a bouncer. Eight years ago. Ten. It seemed like an eternity. The scar on his left forearm was a reminder of it. At a disco one night he'd been ejecting a couple of piss-heads when one of them had cut him with a sharpened steel comb, opening his arm almost to the bone with the razor-sharp prongs; Scott had broken his jaw and three of his ribs before tossing him into the street.
Now he closed the door of his office, relegating the music behind him once again to nothing but a dull thud. He walked across to the window and peered out again into the street. It was raining heavily now; the street and pavements were wet. The sparkling neon reflected up off the slick concrete. It looked as if someone had spilled fluorescent paint on the thoroughfare. Across the street, in the doorway of an empty shop, a man was sitting, wrapped in a dirty 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 duty?'
He nodded.
'Do you want a drink?' Scott asked.
'I should go and get changed, I…'
'A quick one,' he insisted, smiling.
She agreed and he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of Southern Comfort and two glasses. She watched as he poured.
'Don't you ever get sick of this job, Jim?' she wanted to know.
Scott handed her the drink, looking bemused.
'It's a living,' he told her.