Death Sentence by Sheryl Browne Page A

perched on stools at a table one of the pole-dancer’s was performing on.
    Patrick looked across approvingly as the girl writhed and gyrated, as if making love to her pole, finally squatting to give Hayes an abundant eyeful. Thank God some of them knew what the punters wanted. Considerably relieved that the man had been adequately entertained while he waited, Patrick walked across to him, attempting to keep his stride purposeful, despite his distinctly shaky legs.
    ‘Tony.’ He fixed his smile in place and extended a hand. ‘How’s business?’
    Ignoring the hand Patrick offered him, Hayes, a short, stocky, heavy-jowled man, gave him a cursory glance, and then turned his attention back to the girl.
    ‘Nice,’ he observed, looking her appreciatively over.
    Patrick did likewise, more than happy to distract Hayes from business with pleasure. She wasn’t bad, he had to admit: lithe and tanned, blonde hair down to her bum. The ankle bracelets were a nice touch. He took in the sequined ankle bands she was wearing along with her black sequined thong. It was the stilettos that did if for Patrick though: six inch heels on long shapely legs. You could keep the rest as far as Patrick was concerned.
    Rewarding the girl with two crisp twenty pound notes, folded and appropriately placed, Hayes reached for his whisky and took a leisurely sip.
    ‘I like what you’ve done with the place.’ He glanced around, taking in the vintage plum coloured walls, rich mahogany woodwork and gilt-edged mirrors, French, nineteenth century, Louis XVI style , which had set Patrick back a bob or two. But then, needs must if you wanted to attract the right clientele. The place looked like a sleaze-pit in his old man’s day. Even Patrick couldn’t blame the town council for trying to shut them down.
    ‘Another drink, Tony?’ Patrick offered. Desperate to keep him sweet, he nodded at a passing waitress, indicating the man’s glass needed topping up. Hayes was here for information, but Patrick was guessing it wasn’t the name of his interior decorator he came for.
    Hayes, though, didn’t want another drink, it seemed. Placing his hand over his glass as the waitress attempted to pour, he pushed himself away from the table and got to his feet, the two heavies at his side immediately shadowing him. ‘I have a prior engagement,’ he said, turning to face Patrick.
    Standing a good few inches taller than Patrick’s five-eight, both of his henchmen looked like pro wrestlers who would enjoy taking him apart, limb from limb. Patrick gulped back a knot in his throat, and hoped the perspiration popping out on his forehead wasn’t too obvious.
    ‘You have news for me, I hope?’ Hayes’ tone was impassive, his expression bland, belying the ruthless bastard he was underneath.
    Patrick felt perspiration now wetting his armpits.
    ‘I’m working on it, Tony,’ he assured him shakily. ‘I have an idea who was involved and I—’
    ‘Ideas don’t pay the bills, Patrick, do they?’ Hayes interrupted flatly. ‘I’ll give you another week,’ he said, and smiled, the look in his arctic blue eyes deceptively amiable.
    His throat suddenly too parched to speak, Patrick gulped again, hard.
    ‘After that, we start seizing goods to recoup our losses,’ Hayes casually examined his well-manicured nails, before looking pointedly back at him, ‘starting with your balls.’
    Sickening apprehension immediately squeezed his pelvis in that particular area, and Patrick searched for a way to stall but came up with nothing.
    ‘I, er, think I might need a little more time than a week, Tony,’ he tried, wishing he’d taken the conversation through to the office, where his humiliation wouldn’t be witnessed. ‘I’ve got people on it as we speak, but—’
    ‘Seven days, Sullivan.’ Hayes stepped past him, his two heavies moving simultaneously with him, both of whom would think nothing of taking Patrick outside and biting his ears off by way of subtle indication