The Last Card (10 page)

Still wearing just his towel H entered what used to be his and Beverley’s bedroom. The furnishing now consisted of a futon mattress on the floor, a blanket box against the wall and a clothes line strung across the room. On the blanket box H had set up his silver boxing trophies. A number of them were statuettes of boxers on top of tall, Grecian columns; three more were large medals, set in crushed velvet, wooden boxes; he had five separate, cut glass
statuettes
of boxers; and nine smaller medals with the image of a boxer on each. H had set up the blanket box as a kind of shrine to his prowess as a warrior. These were the trophies of his youth, the last
tangible reminders of what he had been. He would have defended them to the death. In H’s imagination this shrine was set up in the living room, in a cabinet with swirling, flashing lights, designed and built specifically to show off the trophies. Soft music would have played and sticks of sweet-smelling incense would have been constantly burning around his trophies. But Beverley had put her foot down and insisted that the decor of the whole living room could not possibly be organised around these trophies. She was not going to stand for it. She admired what they stood for, apparently, but would much rather they were kept in the bedroom. Out of sight. She had made such a fuss when H had tried to explain what they meant to him that he had been forced to back down.

Aside from the trophies, hanging on the line that was strung across the room was H’s lucky suit. He took it down, laid it out on the mattress and dropped his towel. Fuck it. If Beverley was going to just move out like that – and take Cyrus with her! – he might as well do what he always did when the going became too tough.

The G-spot was an intimate jazz hang out. At the front there was a tiny bar and a small performance area. Although it was cramped for the punters it made for a good atmosphere for the jazz musicians.

Currently in residence was Tessa Souter, a British jazz chanteuse who lived in New York but was in the middle of a five-week tour of London. Just past the performance area was a short hallway and then the club opened out into a large and cavernous dinning area. H assumed this was where the G-spot made its money and what subsidised Ghadaffi’s love of jazz.

By the time H walked into the entrance, wearing a sticking plaster over his damaged ear, the front of the club was packed. Good. He wanted to forget about Beverley, forget about Alan Akers and just enjoy himself. It was only 9.30pm and already there was a buzz in the air. Tessa was in the middle of her version of John Coltrane’s ‘Wise One’ and the crystal clear tones of her voice awed the crowd.

H stood in doorway watching Tessa do her thing. He looked around him at the audience. And then, just beyond the drummer of
Tessa’s quartet, H saw what he was looking for. Smart dark suit, crisp open necked white shirt. Ghadaffi was talking to a waiter at the mouth of the dining area.

H eased himself through the scrum around the bar and moments later he was standing next to Ghadaffi. Ghadaffi glanced over at him with a scowl. He finished his conversation with the waiter and then turned to H.

‘Hi, Ghadaffi. Where’s the action?’

Ghadaffi was clearly not impressed. Not least because his name wasn’t Ghadaffi. That was just his nickname amongst the gamblers; in that circuit, people very rarely knew anyone’s real name. Ghadaffi took his time looking H up and down.

‘I see you have your lucky suit on.’

H smoothed it down. It had spent most of the afternoon crumpled on the living room floor.

‘It’s Thursday night, I’m feeling lucky.’

Ghadaffi continued to eye him.

‘What action are you talking about? There’s no action here.’

It was H’s turn to give Ghadaffi the look.

‘Forget it, Ghadaffi. It’s too late, man, your cover’s been blown.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘My father always told me I should never mix with gamblers.’

‘Bloody good advice, I’d say.’ H left it there and waited to see when – and not if – Ghadaffi would spring with the information. The pause grew longer and neither of them moved a muscle. Finally a customer was walking from the performance area through to the dinning area. Someone had to move. It was Ghadaffi, he took a step back to let the man through. Once the man had passed Ghadaffi just looked at H and gestured with his head for H to follow him.

Ghadaffi walked to the far end of the dinning area, between the tables to a door marked ‘for employees only’. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the door. They walked along a short, unfinished hallway and up some stairs, both lit with naked bulbs.

At the top of the stairs Ghadaffi opened another door and suddenly H was in a dark, smallish room where a naked black woman and a naked white man, lit from below, were dancing erotically on a small stage. A group of ten men, city types, sat at a low counter in
front of the stage, silently drinking and watching the action. H took in an eyeful as he followed Ghadaffi through the room, heading towards another door at the far end.

Ghadaffi stopped and turned so suddenly outside the door that H, still looking at the naked floor show behind him, ran into Ghadaffi’s back. The look Ghadaffi gave H suggested he thought H was some kind of country bumpkin.

‘You’re a dark horse. I didn’t know you had all this going on up here.’

‘How do you think I pay for the jazz?’ Ghadaffi was all business.

‘I thought the dining area …’

‘No. Not nearly.’

‘Shows you how much I know about business.’

‘You said it.’ He jerked his thumb at the door. ‘They’re in there. And you’re the last.’ Without a second look, Ghadaffi walked back past the stage and down the stairs.

H stepped through the door. On the other side there were ten people playing stud poker. H made his way quietly into the room and headed for a side cabinet laden with bottles. He searched among the spirits and mixers for his usual, Jack Daniels. H poured himself a large one, took a hit and refilled the glass. As long as the juice was flowing free, no need to be stingy. With the jolt of alcohol seeping into his blood stream H turned to check out who was in the house tonight.

As H looked around the plush gambling room he realised that he had learnt more about Ghadaffi in the last five minutes than he had in the previous three years that he had known him. Ghadaffi’s set up was sweet! He not only had Jazz, the bar, the dinning area and the erotic floor show, he also had this upmarket gambling room, with the air of a West End gentlemen’s club. The room was plushly set up with two old, brown leather, Chesterfield sofas; a thick red carpet; lush red and cream wallpaper; a chandelier and soft, subtle wall lights at various points around the room. Jesus Christ! As he looked around H realised that he had badly misjudged Ghadaffi. H had always looked down on him, in a way that he himself was unaware of until now, because Ghadaffi wasn’t a particularly good gambler, though he was always at Blackie’s throwing his money around. Or perhaps, H thought to himself, it was just that H had a superiority complex; he wasn’t addicted to gambling like the others, he had a life.

In the centre of the room was a large, eight-seater gambling table. At one end of it was Shampa, handling the cards like the professional that she was. Behind her stood Blackie, one hand resting gently on her shoulder. Not for the first time H marvelled at the blackness of Blackie’s skin. It was so dark it seemed to be sucking light from the room. Sitting at the table on one side were a collection of
professional
, low-life gamblers that H was mostly familiar with: Boo, Sharon, Sammy, and another guy he only vaguely knew. On the other side of the table were four wealthy-looking businessmen.

As H took in the number of professionals who had descended on the game he now knew why Ghadaffi was unimpressed with his arrival: word had spread through the West End about the session here. While there were large piles of money and chips in front of the businessmen, in front of the West End professionals the piles of cash and chips were significantly smaller. And knowing West End professionals, this was not the pleasant evening of social gambling the businessmen expected. The West End boys had come here to work – to earn money from four unsuspecting fish. They had not come to have fun, they had not come to make friends and they had certainly not come here to lose money. That didn’t mean they were going to cheat, they were just going to play such a tight, joyless game, leaving nothing to chance, that over the course of the session they couldn’t lose.

H stood there in his crumpled, shiny suit, taking this all in, the truth of his situation hitting him with force. Everything he thought about the West End gamblers and hustlers was equally true for him.

H dipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out his talisman. His fingers caressed its smooth edges. Blackie quietly left Shampa’s side and approached him.

‘Wha’ appen, man, you look sick?’

W
ha Gwan watched Meena stare blankly at the steaming rice, gunga beans and chicken stew in front of her. Not even a cup of the peanut punch that she loved so much could brighten her mood.

‘Come on, Meena, you have to talk to me.’

As Dipak Chadda’s only daughter raised her head a tear brimmed from her left eye and slowly tracked its way down her cheek. Sighing, Meena lifted her head and stared at Wha Gwan. Wha Gwan watched the tear as it hung ponderously from the end of her chin. He waited for it to fall. When it didn’t he reached out, gently lifted it with his finger and wiped it on the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Meena wore her hair short like a boy. Despite being large hipped, she was not really overweight, she was just short - five feet three inches - and pear-shaped. She was by no means a classic beauty. But as Wha Gwan stared at her dark eyes and sunken cheeks he had to swallow deeply to stop the love he felt for her welling up from his stomach and pouring out of him in a howl of – what? rage? fear? vulnerability? Wha Gwan felt all of those things. Everything he’d ever felt for Meena in those two years that he had been seeing her poured up from his stomach and jammed his throat.

‘Let it …’He coughed to cover the emotion that caused his eyes to water. ‘Let it out, Meena, you’ll feel better.’

But Meena wouldn’t let it out. She merely lowered her head as the tears flowed freely, miserably, down her cheeks. Wha Gwan rose and scooted round the table. He slid a comforting arm around her shoulders.

Joseph, the Roti Shack’s Trinidadian chef, glanced over at the two of them from behind the counter and shook his head.

‘If dere’s anyt’ing I can do you know de two a you only have to ask. You know dat, don’t you?’

Wha Gwan acknowledged the kindness with a wave. He then leant into Meena and spoke softly.

‘Your father’s gone but your mother’s still here. And your brothers. They need you to be strong. Especially your mum, Meena, you know she’s going to struggle.’

Meena finally responded to Wha Gwan’s words by leaning into his chest and burrowing her face into his padded coat. When she finally spoke, she aimed the words at the ‘J’ in ‘Jersey’ on Wha Gwan’s coat.

‘He was always a fucking bastard; a selfish, mean, irritable bastard.’ Meena stopped and gasped as though the effort of finally formulating words had tired her out. ‘But he was our bastard; my bastard. And now he’s gone.’

Meena burrowed her face deeper into the ‘J’ of Jersey and clung to Wha Gwan as though he was everything she had in the whole world. Wha Gwan looked down at the top of her head, smelt the slightly garlicky funk coming from her hair, then looked up and out on to
Shepherds
Bush. Life ebbed and flowed in front of the Roti Shack, but Wha Gwan saw none of it. No. His thoughts were filled with revenge. Whoever had killed Meena’s father was going to pay. If it was the last thing Wha Gwan ever did, Dipak’s killer was going to pay.

A
de stared out, concerned, as the black Wrangler Jeep turned off Brentford High Street and into North Road. Dunstan drove slowly down the quiet road and turned the Jeep left into a small car park, pulling up at the edge of the estate. Through the darkness Ade could see four tower blocks, but only one of them was of interest. Its name was on its side in big letters; Maudsley House. Perfect.

Ade and Dunstan were still in West London but as far as Ade was concerned they might as well have been in the Cotswolds. This was about as far west that you could go and still call it London. Ade didn’t like it at all and it showed on his face, but this was something that had to be done if honour was to be restored. If it meant coming out to ‘country’ then so be it. Ade was nothing if not professional. Dunstan abruptly turned off the in-car entertainment and the sounds of the ludicrously-named P. Diddy died with the engine. Ade looked over at his friend but Dunstan kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

‘Back in five.’

Dunstan nodded but said nothing. Ade opened up the hidden compartment in the passenger-side door by pressing the
pressure-release
point. The compartment clicked and sagged open. Nestling inside was a small bag of salted cashew nuts underneath which was an Israeli-built, black and shiny, semi-automatic, Desert Eagle. Although the weapon was Ade’s, it was kept in Dunstan’s car because Ade refused to keep it in his. He pulled it out and tucked it under his jacket. He folded his long body out of the Jeep with
difficulty
. This is a nice ride, he thought, but too small for a man, you know? A Wrangler Jeep was a car for a boy. That’s why he drove a
Range Rover. Top of the range, racing green. And whenever Babylon came with their foolishness, pulling him over for no reason, he always had his papers ready. In the glove compartment.

As Ade climbed out of the jacked-up Jeep he stepped straight into a puddle, splat! You see, Ade thought, that’s what happens when you drive a car like this. He slammed the door shut behind him and,
stepping
on to the kerb, he shook the rainwater off his buckskin,
tan-coloured
Timberland boot. The trouser leg of the olive-green Armani suit that he wore was also wet. He looked back at Dunstan with a scowl, but Dunstan just silently shooed him on his way.

With one wet trouser leg Ade set off, heading towards the tower block on the Green Dragon Lane estate. The Desert Eagle was a big weapon made bigger by the silencer screwed tight to the gun’s muzzle. Ade liked it because it was big and flashy and when people saw it pointing at them it frightened them. He liked that. He had it nestled under his jacket, tucked into the top of his trousers. He kept it in place with one arm held close to his side. It was a good job he had on his good suit, the new one. Coming all this way out to country where you didn’t see too many black people, he didn’t want to look too conspicuous. Ade was barely twenty-one and the suit had cost him over £3,000 pounds. The trousers were so baggy the bottom of the legs trailed over and under his sixteen-hole Timberlands. The jacket was so roomy a family of badgers could have moved in. The look was topped with a black, high-neck John Smedley and a close cropped hair cut, a number one. No fade, no markings, no bullshit.

Ade didn’t roll with the high step that Dunstan employed but he was equally bad. Nobody messed with Ade. Ade had always been big for his age and from as early as he could remember he had been aware that he was a Nigerian, from the Yoruba tribe. Yoruba were warriors according to his father and that’s what he had told the boys he had grown up with in East London.

But it was only when he’d begun hanging out with Dunstan, two years ago, that his reputation really began to pay dividends. Dunstan was in the recreation business, dealing recreational drugs. Dunstan needed a man to roll with when he went about controlling his growing empire. He and Ade had first become partners and then become friends. The two were now almost inseparable. Ade and Dunstan moved together and people didn’t mess with either of them.

By now Ade was at the foot of Maudsley House. He and Dunstan had done their homework. Eric Griffin lived on the fifteenth floor, flat 15G. Ade approached the entrance of the block and indiscriminately slapped about six or seven buzzers. Amongst a flurry of ‘Hellos’ ‘Who is it?’ and ‘Oi! Stop —’, one of the block’s tenants kindly buzzed back, releasing the door. Ade quickly pulled the security door open and slipped inside.

The ground-floor hallway gave off the familiar stench that Ade was used to from a life lived in public housing. This may have been ‘country’ but it smelt just like the inner city: piss, alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. Ade slapped at the button next to the lift. Only then did he notice the sign that read ‘Out of Order’. Shit! Ade silently cursed. His experience told him to call the job off. If he were to walk all the way to the fifteenth floor there would be much more of a chance that he would be spotted. The whole job would take that much longer. On the other hand, Akers needed to know that he couldn’t take the piss. Not with his boy Dunstan. Ade looked at the foot of the stairs. Also, if he did the job now, then he and Dunstan wouldn’t have to come back. And that was the clincher. He started walking.

Ade walked with a slow tread, a methodical pace. He didn’t want to attract any more attention to himself than he had to. He had no idea how many black people lived in this building. So his approach to Griffin’s flat was unhurried, quiet and relentless.

Ade arrived on the landing of the fifteenth floor. He peeked through the glass of the fire door that led into the hallway of flats. All was quiet. He opened the door, walked through. The first door he looked at was 15A. He kept on walking. B, C, D, E, F … G. The solid wooden door had the picture of an aggressive, barking British bulldog on it with the line ‘Say Hello To My Little Friend …’ In another context Ade might have smiled at this but not now. He was here to work. Inside the flat he could hear the television blaring and laughter from someone inside. Griffin. Ade knew it was Griffin because he was alone in the flat. Ade and Dunstan had done their homework. Ade stood squarely in front of the door, undid the top button on his jacket so that it now hung open, and pressed the door bell.

Moments later he could hear Griffin’s tread as he came to answer. When it stopped Ade knew that Griffin was looking at him through the spy hole. This was nothing to worry about because anybody who lived
in a council flat automatically looked through the spy hole before they opened the door. Ade smiled, showing his gold tooth, and waved.

Ade heard a chain being taken off and a bolt being withdrawn. The door was pulled open, a smiling Griffin standing on his welcome mat in a white vest and underpants. The vest was stained yellow round the arm holes, and had drops of what was probably curry on the front. Griffin’s underpants were bunched up round his genitals. His legs were whiter than his underwear, stork-thin and covered in thick, black hair. Lovely. Griffin was holding a foil dish of what smelt like Chicken Biryani.

Griffin was an unpleasant looking man, no doubt about it, and that made what Ade had to do next that much easier.

‘Ade, mate! What you doing round here?’ The question was not aggressive, Griffin seemingly pleased to see the man who was going to kill him. The question was asked in a spirit of friendship,
camaraderie
. Although Ade was lower down the pecking order than Griffin, Griffin was pleased to see another of Alan Akers’ employees.

‘I wanted to have a chat with you, Eric.’ Ade did not want to have a chat, he wanted to be on the inside as quickly as possible. He stepped into the hallway of Griffin’s flat, whipped out the Desert Eagle with one hand, grabbed Eric Griffin’s throat with the other. He used his boot to close the door behind him. With one arm now locked stiff in front of him, ending in Griffin’s throat, the other with the Desert Eagle pointing at Griffin’s fore head, Ade frog marched him backwards, through the hallway into the living room. Eric, of course, had no more interest in his food and promptly dropped it. His face wore an expression of shock, fear and hurt, all at the same time.

As they entered the living room Ade glanced at the television. Playing on the screen was
The Little Mermaid
. Ade turned back to Griffin.

‘You sick bastard!’ Griffin’s eyes bugged as he struggled for air. He waved thin arms about, reaching, clawing for Ade. Ade squeezed his neck that much tighter, looking at Griffin as though he were some kind of insect. Ade looked around the flat. It was a mess. The
television
– a huge one – was in one corner with an old sofa slumped
opposite
. That was it. Spread all over the floor, however, were old newspapers, beer cans, take-away food boxes, piles of clothes and other rubbish. Ade forced Griffin through the debris towards the
french doors on the far wall. As his eyes bulged, Griffin’s mouth worked, opening and shutting, gasping for air. One of the doors was ajar and Ade used Griffin’s shoulder to nudge it open.

The wall around the balcony was waist-high. They were at the back of the block, away from the road. Beneath them was the car park. Griffin was struggling furiously now, desperate to extract himself from what he had finally realised was more serious than he could imagine. But it was far too late. Ade had been prepared to use the Desert Eagle if necessary but Eric Griffin had made that null and void. With the gun pointing in Griffin’s terrified face Ade pushed him over the balcony. Over the side of the building. From the fifteenth floor.

Ade could still hear the scream as he walked quickly back through the french doors. The move against Akers had begun.