She took them over to a table in a roped-off section with a clear view of both dancing podiums. Fullerton ordered Dom Perignon and Sabrina swung her hips gamely as she tottered off to get it.
"See anything you like, Den?" Fullerton asked, gesturing at the dancing girls.
Donovan checked out the dancers. Two brunettes, two blondes, an Oriental and a black girl. The blondes could have been sisters: they were both tall with long hair almost down to their waists, full breasts and tiny waists. Real-life Barbie dolls. They had the same vacant eyes and fake smiles as the dolls, though they were both good dancers.
Fullerton grinned.
"You like blondes, huh?"
"I like women, Jamie, but yeah, they're stunning."
"Been there, have you? I'd hate to have sloppy seconds." Fullerton chuckled and nodded at the Oriental girl, who was on her hands and knees in front of a balding guy in a too-tight suit, taking a twenty-pound note from him with her teeth.
"Mimi's my dish of the day and she's the jealous type," he said.
"Yeah, looks it," said Donovan. Mimi took the banknote and tucked it into her g-string, then stood up and started to make love to one of the silver poles.
"Thai, yeah?"
"Vietnamese," Fullerton.
"Came over here as a boat person when she was six."
"Doesn't look much older now, truth be told," said Donovan.
"Get away, she's twenty-two," said Fullerton.
"And she knows stuff that'll make your eyes water."
Mimi caught sight of Fullerton, waved girlishly and then climbed down off the podium and rushed over to him. She knelt on the sofa and hugged him tightly, giggling like a schoolgirl.
"Where've you been, Fullerton?" she asked in an East End accent.
"You said you'd be here last night."
"Busy, busy, busy," said Jamie.
"Miss me, did you?"
She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a smear of red as if he'd just been slapped.
"Let me dance, yeah?" she said.
"That twat over there's got more money than sense. He's given me two hundred already, thinks he's on a promise."
"Wonder how he got that idea," said Fullerton, leering at her ample cleavage.
"Go on, but you're coming home with me, remember?"
Mimi hurried back to her podium. Sabrina returned with their champagne in an ice bucket. She poured the Dom Perignon, winked at Fullerton, then left them to it.
Fullerton sighed and settled back. He put his feet up on the table in front of them and sipped his champagne.
"What's the story with the Srnurfs?" he asked.
Donovan looked at him sideways.
"What do you mean?"
"The Rembrandt. You said you got the money from the Smurfs."
Donovan laughed.
"Nah, you don't get money from Smurfs. You give them money and they clean it for you."
"Now I'm confused."
Donovan leaned over.
"Say you've got five hundred grand and it's iffy. You can't take it into the bank and deposit it. Anything over ten grand and you've got to be able to prove it's not ill-gotten gains, right?"
Fullerton nodded.
"You can take it overseas, but flying out with a case of cash is going to guarantee you a pull. So you call in the Smurfs."
Fullerton was as confused as ever.
"You get half a dozen Smurfs, and you get them to open five bank and building society accounts each. That's thirty bank accounts. Then every day you give them ten grand each and they put between one and three grand into their accounts. It's well below the ten grand limit so they don't get reported. Every day the Smurfs deposit sixty grand. In two weeks the whole five hundred grand is in the system. Then you can transfer the money to wherever you want."
"And where do you find the Smurfs?"
"Druggies, mainly," said Donovan.
"Don't they ever run off with the money?"
"Not if they know what's good for them."
Fullerton giggled.
"What?"
Fullerton waved him away.
"Just the thought of all the Smurfs traipsing around London with carrier bags full of cash, singing "Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go". Sort of puts the whole thing in perspective, you know."
"That's dwarves, not Smurfs," said Donovan, refilling their glasses.
"But, yeah, it's a crazy fucking world all the same."
Fullerton sipped his champagne.
"Do you want a lap-dance?" he asked.
"You're not really my type, Jamie, but thanks."
"You know what I mean," said Fullerton. He waved at the girls on the podiums.
"My treat."
"Maybe later," said Donovan. He frowned as he saw someone he recognised walking into the club. Ricky Jordan. Jordan waved and walked over. He was with a short stocky man with close-cropped grey hair.
"Den, didn't know this was one of your haunts, "Jordan said. Donovan stood up and the two men hugged. Donovan introduced him to Fullerton. They shook hands. Jordan introduced the other man as Kim Fletcher. Donovan had met Fletcher before, he was one of Terry Greene's crew.
Fletcher patted Jordan on the back and said that he had business to take care of in the office. Before he left he motioned for Sabrina to bring over another bottle of champagne.
"On the house," he said.
"How did it go with Jesus?" Ask Donovan "Sweet," said Jordan.
"Seems like a sharp guy."
"Be careful, Ricky. He's a vicious bastard."
"It's only business, Den. We've got the cash and the gear's on the way. Volkswagen Beetles, huh? Whose idea was that?" He slapped Donovan on the back.
"Jesus's uncle. Carlos."
"Fucking brilliant. Beetles. This one could run and run, Den."
"Yeah," said Donovan.
Sabrina arrived with champagne and a glass for Jordan.
"What was your problem with him, Den?"
"Water under the bridge, Ricky. Forget it."
"Takes me and Charlie to the next level."
"Yeah, well, just remember who helped you on the way, yeah?"
Jordan leaned over and clinked his glass against Donovan's.
"Cheers, mate."
"Yeah," said Donovan ruefully.
"Cheers."
Fullerton banged his glass against Donovan's.
"Down the hatch," he said.
"What's this about VWs? If you want a car, I can get you a deal on a Porsche."
Jordan threw back his head and laughed.
"Bloody hell, Den. Where did you get him from?"
"We're not buying VWs, Jamie," said Donovan.
"Bloody right, we're not," said Jordan.
"I'm confused," said Fullerton.
"Good, let's keep it that way," said Donovan. He threw a warning glance at Jordan. Fullerton had done a great job selling Donovan's paintings, but he still wasn't sure how much he could be trusted.
"How's it going, boys?"
The three men looked up. It was one of the pneumatic blondes. Jordan leered up at her.
"Getting better by the minute," he said.
"You're new, aren't you?"
"I'm twenty-two," she said. She shook her platinum-blonde hair, which reached almost to her waist. A small gold stud pierced her belly button.
"I meant.. Jordan started, but then he grinned.
"Forget it," he said.
"Go on, then, darling, do your stuff."
The other blonde who'd been dancing on the podium walked over, swinging her hips and flashing Donovan a beaming smile.
"I'm Angie," she said. She slipped her arm around the other girl's waist.
"She's Kris."
"With a K," said Kris.
Fullerton leaned over the table.
"I know you, don't I?" he asked Kris.
Kris put her head on one side and pouted as she looked at him.
"Don't think so."
"How long have you worked here?"
Kris frowned as if he'd asked her to solve a difficult mathematical equation.
"A week. I was at one of Terry's other clubs. He asked me to move here for a bit."