24 May 2012
9. Felix
Caleb follows me through the bar like the good little lap dog that I’ve trained him to be. Belle’s at the bar, sat opposite that barmaid who’s been working more hours than I think is legal recently. As I pass by a couple of tables I get hellos from some of the clients who haven’t seen me in a few weeks, the reply is what to me would clearly be a fake smile and a limp wave of my hand. The back door of the bar is open, it’s always open as a part of the fire safety regulations but there are no signs which would indicate as such, the room at the back once served as a kitchen so there’s another exit to street level up a spiral staircase, through a private courtyard which probably once housed delivery vans. The one space at the back which is eternally locked is my office, a tiny little den space which just about houses an old desk with a desktop computer, filing cabinet filled with falsified tax returns, income assessments, health and safety bullshit, as well as all the information I care to have on staff and how much they’re being paid. Three digitally locked safes are installed in the wall. Respectively each one houses; the petty cash for the tills and the week’s take, a million in cash already strapped to a body suit to pass through customs with an Italian passport that has my photo but most certainly not my name. The final safe is home to a loaded 1911 Glock .45 loaded with one spare magazine. When I bought this I realised the stupidity of having it locked in a safe, the only time I would need it would be an emergency, so this is the only safe which is never actually locked. What would be the bare brick walls have been roughly painted black, everything is illuminated by two high wattage wall lamps, the type you usually find running down fire escapes in seedy apartment buildings. Nobody has ever spent much time in here, especially me, the three drawers in the desk are empty except for a bottle of Jim Beam and its surface houses only my computer, some unopened bills and an empty glass with a small round circle of residue in the bottom. On the corner there is a plant pot with some dried up soil in it and the remnants of a long forgotten plant which has returned to the ground from whence it came.
On one side of the desk is an old leather armchair, deep and accommodating with worn crimson leather. On the side nearest the door are two smaller chairs. It reminds me of a dean’s office at college or university except never have I held a meeting of real importance in here. In fact to call it an office is really to glamorise the space beyond its actual purpose, it’s a room which houses cash and all of the music which gets played in here, and obviously sometimes I’ve used it as a supplementary bedroom. I fall into the large seat on the far side of the room and swing my legs up onto the desk as Caleb carefully sits down on the other facing me. Since I came in he’s been looking at me with a look of perplexity, like he doesn’t understand why I’d even be here, maybe he’s forgotten who really runs this place in my absence. Since I moved him up the pecking order though there have been changes, he doesn’t dress like some street tramp come gigolo anymore and has decided to opt for expensive shirts by Brookes with button down collars and trousers to boot, at least taking a bit of inspiration from yours truly. Today he’s wearing a pale blue, high collared shirt open to a tasteful two button depth that shows a small golden pendant, his trousers are part of a well ironed black suit all tied together with dark tan belt and box toe Chelsea boots which match (on purpose). This is going to be the day that I truly make him aware of the fact that he is an accessory before, during and after the fact. Something that I’m sure he’s known in his own way for a long time but now he needs to know in more detail if he’s going to help me throw this last party.
I start by picking up the dirty glass on the desk and inspect it to check that there’s not too much dust in it, a quick blow and it meets my personal standards of hygiene for me to be able to pour in some whisky. I pull out another tumbler from the drawer and pass Caleb a healthy measure for himself, when he’s sat back slightly in his seat I begin grilling him. “So you seem to have really grabbed the bull by the horns down here then.” He smiles at me, “no in all seriousness I’m impressed, it’s not like you ever saw me making sure we were making money in here is it?”
He looks at me uneasily like he’s not sure whether to agree with me or not, “I guess you must have been doing something right to keep it open though.”
I neck the whisky. “That’s actually what I need to talk to you about,” I say to him whilst pouring myself another drink. “Now you’re not stupid, so I know you’ve probably had a few guesses as to how I did manage to keep this place open even though I’ve treated it like my own personal liquor cabinet since the day we cut the ribbon.” Caleb’s eyebrows flicker upwards but he remains mute as if he’s unwilling to openly venture an opinion on the matter, so I continue. “Well anyway every now and then I throw something I call the Executive Night, yes sounds silly but it makes sense, Cal I’ll explain.” I stop really looking at him and start to play with the flower pot with my left hand, balancing it on its edge as I speak. “The Executive Night is a purely cash run operation, it’s a group of select individuals who all wish to remain anonymous but who want to mix and mingle and do whatever they please, there’s all the glitz and glam of the parties which you read about in the tabloids, the difference being that there are no tabloids, in fact there’s no record of anything out of the ordinary taking place at all.
“No statements, no transfers, no nothing, no paper trail to connect anyone with being here at all or to anything which they may or may not have done. This bar becomes like the Garden of Eden to them, somewhere they come and completely let loose without consequence, paradise in which nobody is and nobody needs a role model. I’ve seen people you think are happily married snorting spoonfuls of coke off of the hot little body of the latest Burberry, Gucci, Dior model, it’s all the same. I’ve seen children’s television presenters getting fucked in most of the corners of this bar, some people ask to bring their friends for the evening who will never ever get to enjoy something like this again, it’s a kind of once in a lifetime experience for once in a blue moon kind of people. All in all we offer something which is rare and dying out in London, which is the opportunity to be truly free.” Caleb is just sitting nodding along. “Now you’re looking at me like this is a bad thing, it’s not, Cal. Trust me everyone’s the same deep down, alcohol and drugs are just part of life, as is fucking shitting and pissing. The problem is that for these people getting away with that kind of thing isn’t easy anymore, freedom doesn’t really come with power, scrutiny does.” Given my own behaviour in this place I’m sure that none of this has been of particular surprise to him. “That’s why I usually get outside people to work it, so that it stays a one time thing and nobody ends up getting recognised, anyone who works assumes it was a private function for some foreign dignitary or whatever and we all go home happy. Now obviously I didn’t just bump into these people in the street though, and that’s where Carlo comes into the equation.”
Caleb nods, “I was wondering where he was going to fit into all this.”
“Carlo’s got nothing to do with running this place, he has zero input, fucking zero. His name isn’t affiliated with me in any way and that’s the way it’s going to stay whatever he likes to think.” More whisky goes into my glass. “I may have been eased along in life by some of his contacts, definitely when we first had this night a few years ago the list was made up of Carlo’s friends and friends of his friends, but I run it. Everyone who comes is a personal acquaintance of mine regardless of how we first met, some of them even own their own clubs around town, they’re just too high profile to get away with the things we do here.”
“So what does Carlo get out of this?”
“Ooh sharp as a button you! Good question, what Carlo gets out of this.” I send the next mouthful of whisky down my throat, “Well as a means of repaying my debt to him I allow Carlo to use the bar as a kind of transitional storage space sometimes.”
Caleb just frowns. “What does that mean exactly?”
I exhale long and hard, this is it, letting in someone new to my inner circle, a circle which up until now has only ever consisted of two people. “Carlo shifts coke,” Caleb just stares back dumbly, “I don’t mean he deals it, I mean he moves it by the truckload, he supplies half of England and sometimes people in Europe. It comes in through the docks up in Liverpool fresh over from somewhere across the Atlantic. They used to fly all that stuff in but airport security these days is tighter than a Japanese gnat’s snatch. Anyway then it’s driven down here and clients come here to pick it up for it to be moved all over the place. So I let him do that here and we take a percentage, always cash, we take the down payment in cash then Carlo clears up somewhere offshore.” I take a drink and wave away a burp. “Who gives a fuck what he does with it anyway? Point is that is what’s kept me afloat for years, food on my table and Armani on my ass.”
“So the executive night is just a cover for that to happen?”
“”Yes and no, it may have started as just that but now it’s just something that happens, Carlo invites his clients down, they get a night out as well as doing a little business. You’ve spoken to him, you know what he’s like, he doesn’t like drinking alone. The only reason I’m telling you this now is because this is the last ni
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