to settle with Adams, big time. As for the tarts: ungrateful, the lot of them. He worked his backside off for them. Made sure they had decent digs. Nicely furnished apartments, most of them, where they could do what they want, entertain their clients in style. He watched their backs, beat the crap out of anyone who slapped them around. And did they appreciate it? No. Nothing but grief, thinking they could pull a fast one. Taking the odd day’s sicky, he’d tolerate, occasionally, depending on reasons why. Taking the proverbial he wouldn’t, end of.
And then they had the cheek to threaten him, Patrick Sullivan , with telling tales to the police? Detective Inspector bloody Adams, of all people, the spineless little shit, nursing a grudge that went way back. Patrick pressed his forefingers to his temple, his migraine now well on the way to being a full blown one as his mind shot back fifteen years, his old man knocking the living daylights out of him because he’d kicked Adams around a few times. Not because he gave a damn about Adams, as far as the great Michael Sullivan, big shot bullying bastard and drugs kingpin was concerned, the copper’s son could have been found floating face-down in the canal. No, what irked his old man was that Patrick had been dumb-fuck enough to cause the filth to come sniffing around.
He’d called him dumb-fuck a lot, hammered it home with each blow. Patrick was a complete eejit, a disappointment since the day he’d been born, he’d reminded him. Unlike Adams, of course, the straight A grade perfect copper’s son, whose old man bristled with pathetic pride. Every parents’ evening, Adams’ old man was there, patting his goody-two-shoes son on the back, puffing up his chest. The only time Patrick’s old man’s chest puffed up was with pure violent rage, the only physical contact with his fists. Attempting to quell the humiliation, which washed over him afresh every time Adams popped up to remind him of his past, Patrick re-straightened his tie, and tugged down his shirt cuffs.
No one dared call him stupid nowadays. Not even the old man, since it had occurred to him that Patrick was big enough to take him on. No one treated Patrick with disrespect. Not anymore. He pocketed his file, rolled his shoulders again, and stepped into the lift. His head was going to explode soon and spill his brains, he would swear. He could do without his upcoming meeting with Tony Hayes, a big bruiser and a bad loser, who definitely didn’t piss about when it came to calling in his debts. If he was going to keep his legs intact, Patrick needed to buy some more time. Find out which clever bastard had diverted the drugs supply to line their own thieving pockets when Adams had managed to put customs under surveillance, meaning the drugs drop was off. He’d have to meet Hayes, he supposed. Standing the man up wasn’t an option, if he wanted to be able to actually stand up ever again. After that, he needed to get home. Wash the grime off. Do a few lengths of his heated pool and relax. Never mix business with pleasure was Patrick’s motto. His home was sacrosanct, away from all this.
****
Dripping wet, which didn’t help his mood much, Patrick shrugged out of his overcoat as he came into the foyer of Seventh Heaven. ‘Is he here?’ he asked warily, handing the coat to one of his bouncers.
‘Watching the show.’
The bouncer knew who he meant—Tony Hayes commanding respect wherever he went— and nodded towards the main lounge area. The man was built, his dinner jacket straining across his bodybuilder chest, but his expression was one of trepidation nevertheless.
Swallowing throatily, Patrick tried not to break out in a too obvious sweat.
‘Right.’ He nodded, feeling an unpleasant queasiness gut-level. Knowing there was no avoiding the meet, though, and preferring it to be on his own turf, Patrick realigned his cuffs, braced himself, and went on through towards Hayes and his two henchmen, who were
And then they had the cheek to threaten him, Patrick Sullivan , with telling tales to the police? Detective Inspector bloody Adams, of all people, the spineless little shit, nursing a grudge that went way back. Patrick pressed his forefingers to his temple, his migraine now well on the way to being a full blown one as his mind shot back fifteen years, his old man knocking the living daylights out of him because he’d kicked Adams around a few times. Not because he gave a damn about Adams, as far as the great Michael Sullivan, big shot bullying bastard and drugs kingpin was concerned, the copper’s son could have been found floating face-down in the canal. No, what irked his old man was that Patrick had been dumb-fuck enough to cause the filth to come sniffing around.
He’d called him dumb-fuck a lot, hammered it home with each blow. Patrick was a complete eejit, a disappointment since the day he’d been born, he’d reminded him. Unlike Adams, of course, the straight A grade perfect copper’s son, whose old man bristled with pathetic pride. Every parents’ evening, Adams’ old man was there, patting his goody-two-shoes son on the back, puffing up his chest. The only time Patrick’s old man’s chest puffed up was with pure violent rage, the only physical contact with his fists. Attempting to quell the humiliation, which washed over him afresh every time Adams popped up to remind him of his past, Patrick re-straightened his tie, and tugged down his shirt cuffs.
No one dared call him stupid nowadays. Not even the old man, since it had occurred to him that Patrick was big enough to take him on. No one treated Patrick with disrespect. Not anymore. He pocketed his file, rolled his shoulders again, and stepped into the lift. His head was going to explode soon and spill his brains, he would swear. He could do without his upcoming meeting with Tony Hayes, a big bruiser and a bad loser, who definitely didn’t piss about when it came to calling in his debts. If he was going to keep his legs intact, Patrick needed to buy some more time. Find out which clever bastard had diverted the drugs supply to line their own thieving pockets when Adams had managed to put customs under surveillance, meaning the drugs drop was off. He’d have to meet Hayes, he supposed. Standing the man up wasn’t an option, if he wanted to be able to actually stand up ever again. After that, he needed to get home. Wash the grime off. Do a few lengths of his heated pool and relax. Never mix business with pleasure was Patrick’s motto. His home was sacrosanct, away from all this.
****
Dripping wet, which didn’t help his mood much, Patrick shrugged out of his overcoat as he came into the foyer of Seventh Heaven. ‘Is he here?’ he asked warily, handing the coat to one of his bouncers.
‘Watching the show.’
The bouncer knew who he meant—Tony Hayes commanding respect wherever he went— and nodded towards the main lounge area. The man was built, his dinner jacket straining across his bodybuilder chest, but his expression was one of trepidation nevertheless.
Swallowing throatily, Patrick tried not to break out in a too obvious sweat.
‘Right.’ He nodded, feeling an unpleasant queasiness gut-level. Knowing there was no avoiding the meet, though, and preferring it to be on his own turf, Patrick realigned his cuffs, braced himself, and went on through towards Hayes and his two henchmen, who were
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