Jimmy was a young man who needed guidance, who needed someone to keep him on the straight and narrow. Brodie was going to be that person and he was going to take care of him, not only as an asset to his business but as someone he could mould, could make into a second-in-command.
Pat Brodie had to run a business and so he needed nutcases but this time, as an added bonus, he was involved with someone he liked and respected. The boy had potential and balls, the two main ingredients for their kind of life.
Jimmy had taken Dennis out with a deliberately long and completely unnecessary violence that had been tightly controlled but obviously hugely enjoyable to the man himself. Pat had been impressed and disgusted all at the same time. But this was exactly what was needed. From now on, Jimmy Brick would be a byword for hate and despair, pain and terror. His rep would stop trouble before it began because no one would want to tangle with a fuckhead like Jimmy. Those who did would then see the error of their ways quick smart. He was like a cancer, he would get you in the end. He was like a guarantee of calm because now he had started his reign of terror only a fucking lunatic would be stupid enough to take him on.
Patrick was in the market for a Jimmy Brick because Jimmy would earn his inflated wage by going down for him at some point. As long as no one could prove who ordered a beating or a murder, no one could ever knock on Pat's door, it was as simple as that. Jimmy was a good bloke but also his own personal fall guy if everything ever fell out of bed. Jimmy Brick was the new Dave Williams. Not that he would ever point that out, of course, he was too shrewd by half.
Smiling, Patrick poured himself a large brandy and, sipping it, he looked out of the grimy window at people going about their daily business in Soho.
He was pleased with himself, happy with his life and what it could bring him in the near future. He knew Jimmy had been a shrewd move on his part and he was happy to relax now and wait for him to bring in the money, the poke, the peace of mind. He had been the resident nutter for too long, it was time he took a back seat. He could relax and just make the odd appearance when it was deemed necessary. People had no idea of the war that was waged on a daily basis; of how keeping yourself on top took nearly all your time. Soho was a place where fortunes were made, and fortunes were lost on the turn of a card; or the chatter of a belligerent employee. Where people were expendable and life was of no real consequence.
'You are who you beat.' That was said by the man he had shot here so many years ago and Brodie knew that had been a lesson well learned by the both of them.
He looked out the window again, enjoying the sights and the sounds as he always had. This was his second home and when he wasn't with Lil, this was the only other place he felt comfortable, felt as if he belonged.
Nothing in Soho was ever really kosher, and no one ever admitted to anything ever. Even people's names were just pretend, like the whole place was pretend. More so even than the theatres that abounded; the stories they acted out for their audiences night after night were not a patch on the real-life stories happening on the streets outside their doors
Brodie sighed and wondered at a man like himself, someone who could see this place as anything other than a cesspool. It destroyed people on a regular basis, especially the women; their turnover was phenomenal in comparison with other places that dealt in flesh and pornography, like Shepherds Market. That was where the Soho girls were likely to end their days, or Notting Hill and, worst-case scenario, for the diseased or for the beaten and scarred, the dock areas, what was left of them anyway. But as a man this didn't really affect him so he could turn a blind eye, choose to ignore the price women paid so he could smoke his expensive cigars and pat himself on the back over his success. That was the secret of Soho and its patrons: as long as you kept your minions at arm's length and didn't dwell too much on the price that would be exacted by the punters, you could relax, relax and enjoy the spoils of a war that had never really been declared on the unsuspecting girls who saw Soho as some kind of refuge. At first, girls could lose themselves there; no one would find them if they were clever enough to keep their real identities a secret. But it was a vicious circle and, like any circle, it had no beginning and no end. The great job they had acquired, the independence they thought was so important, eventually turned out to be the worst things that could ever happen to them. It was a seductive life for young runaways. It seemed glamorous and exciting, money for old rope, money that was easily earned and easily spent because it was always going to be there the next day and the day after that and the day after that, until years had passed and they were caught in the never-ending cycle that was prostitution. Every year their punters became less well-heeled and every year their expectations were lowered. In the end they would be on the street hustling for enough money to keep them stoned and out of it enough to forget what their lives had become.
This was a dangerous game and it was an earner, but not for the women of course.
The only real winners were the men like him, the men who used the women they found on a daily basis and discarded them when they were not needed any more. Over the years the girls, at least most of them, had become like animals to him; he had no real feelings for them. How could he when they had no feelings for themselves?
It didn't do to dwell on anything for too long in his job, especially as he was long past caring these days and he made sure of that much at least. He only cared about his family; anyone else was just collateral damage, no more and no less.
He stared out of the window. Late afternoon was a favourite time for him in Soho, the streets were just getting busy with people who were expecting a good night out and who were either ignorant or uncaring about how that would eventually come about. The night drawing in also brought out all the locals. The staple of Soho evenings, the reason people congregated here night after night. It was a mixture of the young, the stupid, the used and the users. Then, of course, there were the people like him, without whom none of the former could ply their wares. Whatever anyone thought of him and his peers, they were the staple diet of Soho, they kept the place ticking over and kept the mystique that attracted the punters and the revellers.
Everyone loved a face, a villain, and everyone liked to be associated with the glamour that villainy provided for them. The rich and famous were drawn to people like him, like moths to a flame. It was how it worked and he milked it for all it was worth. What else could he do?
This was one of the reasons he needed a Jimmy Brick. The clubs were frequented by Names these days; they were the meeting ground for the great and the good, and in reality they paid enough protection, and owned enough filth to ensure that their more exotic customers got a free pass and peace of mind. Now he had to sort out the final piece of the puzzle and, once that had been obtained, he could relax with the best of them.
He watched the strippers passing each other on the street as they made their way from club to club, calling out to each other, glad to see their counterparts as it made them feel less lonely and less afraid of what the night might bring. The scouts were already at work, trying to talk the punters into the strip bars or the hostess clubs, promising the earth and delivering nothing but the empty promise of good times to be had. The air was cold enough to make all their breath visible and the scantily dressed women upped their usual pace, hurrying into the warmth of their next club.