Chapter 38
GILCHRIST FROZE. NANCE stood as stiff as a puppet.
It felt as if the world was waiting for Topley to lower his hand. Even the music seemed silenced, the dancers stilled.
“Tell the heavies to vanish,” Gilchrist said. He felt his muscles tense and wondered if Nance would take out the man to her side, or if she would expect him to do that. Or maybe both of them would be frog-marched from the Club and deposited into Drury Street.
Then, as if kick-started, Topley’s head jerked with a drunken nod and the man called Ray pushed himself to his feet. Gilchrist sensed the space behind him clear. A gang of five men in suits as dark as their slicked-back hair trundled to the bar where they eyed Topley’s table like a pack of dogs just itching to crunch their teeth through meat and bone.
Gilchrist took Ray’s seat. It felt warm.
Nance pulled up the chair beside him.
Topley tried a smile, but some part of his nervous system was not working the way it should. On the stage by Topley’s left shoulder a blonde in a thong, with breasts the colour of milked coffee, stretched into a backward crab and rolled onto the floor. A group of men at the table to Gilchrist’s left huddled in conversation, oblivious to the torsioned nudity by their side. Another group seated to his right ordered drinks. The blonde skipped to the middle of the stage, breasts bouncing like water-filled balloons.
“You’re a persistent bitch,” Topley said to Nance.
“Nasty’s my middle name.”
Topley gave a gold-tooth grin then shoved the notes over to her. “Go on, take it,” he said. “You can owe me a blow-job.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Not yet.” Topley grinned. “Maybe later?”
Gilchrist felt his eyebrows lift as Nance picked up the money. Then he smiled as she tapped the notes together like a pack of cards, ripped them in two, then again, and let the pieces flutter from her fingers onto the table.
Topley chuckled. But Gilchrist worried that some part of the man’s psyche was about to crack and the bouncers would be called with the flicker of an irritated eyebrow. He tried to distract Topley’s annoyance by leaning forward.
“You never told me your mother was Wee Kenny’s aunt,” Gilchrist said.
Topley turned dead eyes Gilchrist’s way. In the shifting light, colours danced in time with the music, casting shadows that made Topley’s face look as beaten as a boxer’s. “So?”
“So you want to get even with Jimmy?” It was Nance.
“What’s it to you?” Topley snarled.
“Tell us,” she said.
“Tell you what, darling?”
“How to fuck Bully.”
Topley pulled himself forward, pressed his chest against the table. “You don’t look like you need a lesson in fucking anyone, darling.”
Like a referee, Gilchrist stepped in. “We know you’re getting ready to take on a big shipment,” he said to Topley.
Topley turned the full heat of his leaden glare onto Gilchrist. Half-shut eyelids narrowed. Fingers balled into bruised-knuckle fists. If anything was going to happen, it would happen in the next few seconds.
“What the fuck’re you talking about?”
“Drugs,” Gilchrist said. “Isn’t that what you do?”
Topley glanced over Gilchrist’s shoulder. Had he just called his team over? Gilchrist readied himself for the thump of muscled hands.
“You’re walking on thin ice, Mr. Gilchrist. You’re talking about things that people like you do not talk to people like me about.”
Gilchrist sensed it was now only a matter of time until Topley’s bodyguards threw them out. “I’m not interested in your grubby little empire,” he snarled, “or how you make your money. I only want to find my daughter.”
Topley’s half-shut eyes almost opened. “Well, Mr. Gilchrist, this may come as a surprise to you and your pretty sidekick with the big tits.” He reached forward, gathered in the torn notes, then held them up. “But I am interested in making money. Lots of it.” He balled his hand, crushed the notes, and deposited them into his pocket.
Gilchrist waited.
Topley sat back. “What’s in it for me?”
“I won’t press charges.”
Topley guffawed, head back, eyes to the ceiling.
A waitress arrived, carrying a tray on which stood a bottle of champagne and three crystal flutes. She placed a glass in front of each of them and without a word topped them with fizzing champagne. Topley palmed her a single note as she left the table. Another hundred, Gilchrist thought.
“Charge me with what?” Topley said.
“Why don’t you just cough up or shut up?” Nance said. She lifted her crystal glass and took a sip. “Not bad.”
“Dom Perignon,” Topley purred.
“I prefer Moët.”
“I’ll have a crate sent to your home, darling. All I need is your address.”
“And if I give it to you?”
“Two crates of Moet would be delivered to your doorstep.” Topley placed his hand to his chest. “With all my love.”
“Who would do the delivering?”
“Whoever you want, darling.”
“And would the delivery boy stay and help me polish off a bottle or two?”
Topley leaned forward, puzzled by the change in Nance’s attitude. Gilchrist’s ears were perked, too. “Whatever you like, darling, could be arranged.” Topley reached across the table, and Nance took hold of his hand.
“Someone once told me,” she said, “that men with money make the best lovers, because they can have all the toys they want, but can’t buy a woman’s love.” She squeezed Topley’s hand. “So, tell me, Chris. Just how much money do you have?”
“More than enough.”
“More than enough to keep a girl happy?”
“More than enough to keep a girl very happy.”
“Even someone who’s difficult to please?”
“Especially someone who’s difficult to please.”
Nance leaned lower. Her breasts swelled against the table. “I’ll make a deal.”
Topley seemed to hold his breath. Nance had his full attention. Gilchrist’s too.
“Do you have a good memory?” she asked.
“Why?”
She released his hand, then lifted her champagne to her lips. Over the rim, her eyes seemed to glitter with cheekiness. “I’ll say my address once,” she said, “and it’ll be up to you to remember it.”
Topley’s lips twisted in a smirk of victory.
“But first.” She took a sip, then said, “You have to answer some questions.”
“How can I trust you?”
This time Nance smirked. “You can’t.”
Topley frowned and smiled at the same time, and Gilchrist caught the street cruelty of the man. Here was a man who could kick another man to death then hand his widow money at the funeral. Topley downed his champagne with barely a breath, then snapped his fingers over his head. Within seconds a bouncer as large as a lock forward stood at his side.
“Another bottle of this stuff,” Topley ordered.
The bouncer retreated.
“Right, darling. You were saying?” Topley reclined in his chair, as if settling in for the evening. On the stage behind him, a dancer pirouetted like an ice skater, her arms almost clipping his shoulder, her body close enough for Gilchrist to smell her perfume.
Nance returned her glass to the table. “You spent eighteen months in Barlinnie.”
“Don’t tell me you hold that against me.”
“And you shared a cell with Bully.”
“Had to share with someone, darling. Bully’s better than some. He’s not into plugging holes, if you get my meaning.”
“Bully mentioned Maureen’s name.”
Topley paused, as if trying to work out if she was telling or asking, and if giving the wrong answer would blow any chance of being given her address. Gilchrist realised with a spurt of disbelief that the man’s brain was too far gone on drink and drugs to see Nance’s scheming for what it was. He really thought he had a chance to get a leg over. Amazing.