Pat had more or less told him that he was still on the firm but not in the capacity he had been before. Now he was on the payroll, on a wage, and he knew he had to swallow that. The fact he had even contemplated trying to force his way into Patrick's and Spider's business arrangement was enough to see him six-feet under so he was more than aware that he had been given a second chance.
He was not going to blow that. At least he had learned that valuable lesson and he had learned it well. Now he had to talk his brother down, and he was not relishing that at all.
Dave lit a cigarette and pulled on it for long moments, breathing the smoke deep into his lungs. The shaking of his hands was evident, even to him, and he willed himself to relax, but he had no idea what Dennis was going to be like when he walked through the door. With Dennis, the unexpected was the norm.
He heard a car pull up and stopped himself from leaping out of the chair and looking out of the window. He wanted Dennis to see him calm and controlled; it was important that he took the lead in the conversation and tried to salvage not only his brother's love and friendship, but also his position as head of the family. Dennis was strong enough to take that from him and he knew that better than anyone.
Vince had not forgotten, although he had forgiven. Dave had apologised profusely to him more than once and he was also on a promise to Patrick and Spider to keep Dennis on the straight and narrow for the foreseeable future. This first meeting was important inasmuch as he had to make Dennis understand that he was living on borrowed time until he could prove that he was not going to try to muscle in on anyone else's business.
He was aware that Dennis had not spoken to the police, who had questioned him in a perfunctory manner. Like him, they felt he had got his comeuppance at last and they would have known exactly what had gone down. They would have visited him because they had to, not because they wanted to solve any kind of crime. Dennis was hated by everyone in his orbit in one way or another.
Dennis had been the driving force behind every failed deal they had invested in, he had been the instigator, the front man, and he had been the one who had blamed everyone else around him when it had all gone tits up. Everyone, that is, except himself. He had been the same all his life; everything was always someone else's fault and he had always got away with it.
All their big dreams and it had come down to this. They were skint, humiliated and back where they started; on a weekly wage and having to prove themselves worthy of future advancement. His younger brothers had been cleaned out financially and he knew he should have put a stop to it long before it had got this far. Dave knew they had placed their trust in him and he was aware that they knew Dennis had been allowed to call the shots and that he had more or less taken over the family business and finances. And he had allowed it all to happen. He had listened to his brother's big talk and believed him when he insisted that they were shrewd enough and respected enough to overlook Brodie's and Spider's involvement in the drugs trade.
He could only put it down to madness on his part. He had no excuse for his behaviour except greed. If it was anyone else in this position he would have found it laughable; somehow he didn't find any of this amusing in the least. Especially since he could hear Dennis cursing and shouting as he got out of the car and limped slowly up the gravel path.
This was, without a doubt, the hardest thing Dave had ever had to do, and he had done some harsh things in his time.
Dennis came into the room and, even though he had lost weight in the hospital, he was still larger than the average Williams brother. His face was harder than Dave remembered and his shaved head showed the scars where the scalp had been sewn back together. Dennis looked like someone who had been in a plane crash and Dave had to remind himself that he had inflicted all the damage: the deep head wounds and the swollen bruises around his eyes and face.
And the worst thing of all was that, if he was really honest with himself, he had enjoyed every second of it. In a strange way, he wished that he had finished the job; it would have made his life a lot easier. His nervousness had suddenly gone and he looked at his brother with a rueful grin and said quietly, 'All right, bruv?'
Patrick was in his club, it was early evening and the girls were getting ready for the night's excitement. They were like a flock of chattering birds, their heavy make-up and skimpy clothes belying the stormy weather outside.
Patrick Brodie loved the West End when the days started to draw in. The tourists were long gone and even though the takings dropped off, he loved the feel of the real Soho. On nights like tonight he loved the clubs; when the girls were getting on with each other and not fighting over the least little thing. This club was the biggest of them all and he had bought it for a song, taking it as payment for a large gambling debt incurred by a man called Pierre Lamboutin. The French name had been an alias. Why he had chosen such a mouthful Patrick had no idea; aliases were supposed to be plain and dowdy, not something that drew attention to the person involved. But as Pierre was now as dead as a dodo and the club was his and, unofficially, the best earner in Soho, Patrick didn't give a fuck. Keeping on top of the game was no mean feat, considering all the competition that was opening up around him. But he had taken Lil's advice and as he treated the girls relatively well they were loyal brasses and he knew they made a point of not tucking anyone up on the premises.
The club was situated in Frith Street, busy enough for passing trade, but not so busy it attracted the walkabouts, otherwise known as the weekend warriors or window shoppers. Patrick only wanted clients who could spend a few quid and would not tear the arse out of one drink while they watched the strippers all night and felt up a hostess in between acts. He made the men pay a stiff membership fee on the door, guaranteed to separate the men from the boys. It also guaranteed the punters a modicum of respectability; it was a real club with real membership and their credit cards said as much, if their wives got their hands on them. Lord's Gentlemen's Club was a byword in the West End and Patrick was proud of its reputation and glamorous decor. It was about as prestigious as a girlie club could be.
As Patrick sipped a brandy at the bar he saw one of the new girls walk into the foyer. She was a stunner: tall and slim with long shapely legs. But it was her hair that set her apart from the other girls. It was a deep, natural auburn and, hanging down her back, it was thick and glossy like something from a shampoo advert on TV She smiled at him and he frowned. The only flaw was her teeth; they were crooked at the front and even though they were white, it marred the illusion of perfection. She had pale-blue eyes and heavily arched eyebrows that made her look like a film star. Patrick also happened to know that she could drink like a sailor and fuck like a train.
For the first time in years, Patrick was seeing someone on a regular basis and he knew that he was dicing with death because Lil might swallow a flier every now and then, but an actual bird would cause ructions. She would walk, he knew that. She would never allow him to disrespect her with a serious bird, a contender to her throne. Like most women, her biggest fear would be a child arriving, a son or daughter of his that would also be related to her own brood. It was unthinkable and he saw her point of view.
Every time he saw Laura Doyle he told himself it would be the last time and then he found himself making arrangements to see her again. The thing was, she had no real interest in him and he knew that; he was like a punter to her. Why he found her so fascinating he had no idea, but he did. He had even put her up in one of his better flats so he could have her whenever the fancy took him, secure in the knowledge that she would not have any other men there.