himself from ripping the no good bastard’s heart out with his bare hands.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DOMINIC Santini was seated behind an oversize solid oak desk in his father’s office on the top floor of Rocco’s. His loafer-clad feet were up on the leather-bound blotter, ankles crossed. The room looked to be a throwback to Victorian times; dark, panelled walls that matched the desk. And opaque glass-masked wall lights, their glow a dull ivory creating soft-edged shadows that melted to black at the room’s edges.
Rocco’s was a private gambling club off Wardour Street. The haunt of high-rollers. There were suites for the serious players, for whom booze, nose candy and even female or male company was laid on gratis, should they wish to partake. Inside, the club was as lavish as many of the joints on the Strip in Vegas; a magnet to both serious players and well-heeled celebrities visiting the capital.
In the foyer – hung pride of place – was a poster-size photograph of Frank, pallying up to his namesake, Sinatra, who had played the tables for a couple of hours one evening back in the early eighties, after a gig at the New Festival Hall.
The interior of Rocco’s was done in an Italianate motif, with gilded chandeliers and ornamentation. Frank had spared no expense to impress.
“I got the cop here,” Eddie Costello said into the intercom on the outside of the office door.
Dom pressed a button on the console in front of him. Detective Inspector Victor Pender entered nervously, with Eddie behind him.
Take a load off, Vic,” Dom said, sitting up and placing his feet on the floor, nodding to the dark green upholstered chair facing him.
“I don’t like this, Dom. What if someone saw me come up here?” Vic said, lowering himself onto the edge of the seat, feeling as uncomfortable as he looked.
Dom’s smile resembled an animal’s snarl. “What you do or don’t like counts for shit, Vic. If I snap my fingers, you jump. That’s the way it is, so don’t whine.”
“Your father ¯”
“My father owns your chickenshit arse, Pender, which means I do, too.”
Vic’s head dropped and his shoulders slumped. He sighed audibly, and then waited to be told why he had been summoned.
“That’s better, Vic. You gotta get a philosophy. Realise that you reap what you sow in life,” Dom said, motioning for Eddie to get them a drink from the well-stocked corner bar.
“So what’s the problem?” Vic asked, taking the proffered Scotch from Santini junior’s goon.
“You tell me. Because I hear that the cop who survived when Lester was creamed isn’t going to leave it alone. And that the woman from next door to the safe house is also pulling through.”
Vic fidgeted, pulled at the knees of his trousers. Shuffled his feet. “There’s no sweat, Dom, believe me. The cop, Barnes, is out of the loop, and he’s hurting. He lost a kidney and can’t walk without a crutch. He got a look at a baseball cap and a gun. There’s no way he can identify the shooter.”
“And the woman?”
“She’s cabbaged. They moved her to a private clinic, but she doesn’t even know her own name. She’s a pot noodle.”
“Okay, Vic, stay on top of it. If this...Barnes saw more than you say, then he gets to lose his other kidney. So keep him out of it, or order a wreath.”
“I’m not his boss. I ¯”
“Don’t start getting fucking negative, Vic. Just use your limited initiative,” Dom said, putting his glass down and standing up to signal that the meeting was at an end. “Why don’t you go and relax...Play a little roulette? Eddie will organise a few chips to set you up. Have some fun.”
Vic went downstairs, but didn’t take Dom up on his offer. He walked through the casino, ignoring the sound of dice being thrown, the ball careering around a roulette wheel, and the non-stop metallic clunks of fruit machines being worked. The allure of all this shit was the reason he had become bought and paid for by
CHAPTER SEVEN
DOMINIC Santini was seated behind an oversize solid oak desk in his father’s office on the top floor of Rocco’s. His loafer-clad feet were up on the leather-bound blotter, ankles crossed. The room looked to be a throwback to Victorian times; dark, panelled walls that matched the desk. And opaque glass-masked wall lights, their glow a dull ivory creating soft-edged shadows that melted to black at the room’s edges.
Rocco’s was a private gambling club off Wardour Street. The haunt of high-rollers. There were suites for the serious players, for whom booze, nose candy and even female or male company was laid on gratis, should they wish to partake. Inside, the club was as lavish as many of the joints on the Strip in Vegas; a magnet to both serious players and well-heeled celebrities visiting the capital.
In the foyer – hung pride of place – was a poster-size photograph of Frank, pallying up to his namesake, Sinatra, who had played the tables for a couple of hours one evening back in the early eighties, after a gig at the New Festival Hall.
The interior of Rocco’s was done in an Italianate motif, with gilded chandeliers and ornamentation. Frank had spared no expense to impress.
“I got the cop here,” Eddie Costello said into the intercom on the outside of the office door.
Dom pressed a button on the console in front of him. Detective Inspector Victor Pender entered nervously, with Eddie behind him.
Take a load off, Vic,” Dom said, sitting up and placing his feet on the floor, nodding to the dark green upholstered chair facing him.
“I don’t like this, Dom. What if someone saw me come up here?” Vic said, lowering himself onto the edge of the seat, feeling as uncomfortable as he looked.
Dom’s smile resembled an animal’s snarl. “What you do or don’t like counts for shit, Vic. If I snap my fingers, you jump. That’s the way it is, so don’t whine.”
“Your father ¯”
“My father owns your chickenshit arse, Pender, which means I do, too.”
Vic’s head dropped and his shoulders slumped. He sighed audibly, and then waited to be told why he had been summoned.
“That’s better, Vic. You gotta get a philosophy. Realise that you reap what you sow in life,” Dom said, motioning for Eddie to get them a drink from the well-stocked corner bar.
“So what’s the problem?” Vic asked, taking the proffered Scotch from Santini junior’s goon.
“You tell me. Because I hear that the cop who survived when Lester was creamed isn’t going to leave it alone. And that the woman from next door to the safe house is also pulling through.”
Vic fidgeted, pulled at the knees of his trousers. Shuffled his feet. “There’s no sweat, Dom, believe me. The cop, Barnes, is out of the loop, and he’s hurting. He lost a kidney and can’t walk without a crutch. He got a look at a baseball cap and a gun. There’s no way he can identify the shooter.”
“And the woman?”
“She’s cabbaged. They moved her to a private clinic, but she doesn’t even know her own name. She’s a pot noodle.”
“Okay, Vic, stay on top of it. If this...Barnes saw more than you say, then he gets to lose his other kidney. So keep him out of it, or order a wreath.”
“I’m not his boss. I ¯”
“Don’t start getting fucking negative, Vic. Just use your limited initiative,” Dom said, putting his glass down and standing up to signal that the meeting was at an end. “Why don’t you go and relax...Play a little roulette? Eddie will organise a few chips to set you up. Have some fun.”
Vic went downstairs, but didn’t take Dom up on his offer. He walked through the casino, ignoring the sound of dice being thrown, the ball careering around a roulette wheel, and the non-stop metallic clunks of fruit machines being worked. The allure of all this shit was the reason he had become bought and paid for by
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