Anna-Lou Weatherley - Wicked Wives

‘Sure, I’ll just put him on,’ the girl purred in her best telephone voice. ‘Hey bud,’ she held out his cell. ‘Like, I think it might be for you.’

Tom laughed. He liked her. She had a sense of humour. Rarer than rocking-horse shit in LA.

‘Tom Black,’ he pressed the loudspeaker button, careful to keep his hands on the wheel of the ridiculously expensive car that he didn’t own.

‘Don’t tell me,’ the voice said, deadpan, ‘you got yourself another new PA?’

‘I found her on the sidewalk,’ Tom winked playfully at the girl and she collapsed into more giggles. She sensed they were gonna have some fun together. And having just been sacked from yet another dead-end waitressing job, fun was just what she was looking for.

‘Yeah? Guess it’s her lucky day,’ the deadpan voice retorted, breaking into a violent coughing fit. It was Jack, Tom’s oldest friend and business partner.

‘Jesus my friend, you sound like shit.’

‘Have you taken that dough to the bank yet?’ Jack immediately shot back, letting Tom instantly know that this wasn’t going to be a friendly, chew-the-fat kind of conversation. ‘I want that money safe, Tom. We need to make sure we got our shit in order if we’re gonna win that goddamn auction …’

‘Auction?’

‘Christ Tom, I told you , don’t you listen to a goddamn word I say?’ The irritation in his voice was clearly audible now, ‘that fucker Constantini is refusing to do a deal so we’re gonna have to take it to bids like everyone else, so unless we’ve got the cold hard cash we can forget about it. The dream will be over before it’s even begun.’ Jack was already beginning to regret entrusting Tom with such a large sum of money. He’d been laid up in bed for five days with some evil Asian flu bug thing and had become seriously twitchy about having that much green lying around in his apartment, which was why he’d instructed his oldest friend to do him a favour and take it straight to the bank that morning, all three million dollars of it.

‘Whatever the fuck you do, Tom,’ a red-eyed Jack had said with real gravitas, handing his friend the heavy Louis Vuitton holdall, ‘don’t lose it; everything I got is in that bag. So I want you to go straight to the bank, OK ? No diversions, no detour via a casino … you got me?’

‘I’m on my way boss,’ Tom replied with such jovial nonchalance that it had caused Jack to see red, prompting a further, more violent coughing fit this time.

‘I’m fucking serious, Tom!’ he struggled to breathe. ‘If anything should happen to it …’

‘I’m almost at the bank right now,’ Tom replied breezily. He put his foot down harder on the accelerator and the girl squealed again. He imagined she was probably a screamer in the sack too. He looked forward to finding out.

‘Yeah, well hear me loud and clear, bro,’ Jack’s hacking cough sounded like machine gunfire, ‘I need to know all’s cool your end of the deal, that you’ll bank the cash and get your share of the green – we fly out to London in three weeks.’

Tom and Jack had been in the ‘entertainment’ business for the past fifteen years, with varying degrees of success. The story was usually the same; Jack would initially stump up the cash, generally prised from his exasperated but wealthy father, and together they would attempt to turn some rundown old gin joint on the wrong side of town into a hot, happening new hang-out for the young, beautiful and rich. And sometimes it had even worked; at least until either Jack lost interest or Tom gambled away the profits, both of which had been the case on more than one occasion. Now, however, it was time to get serious. This latest acquisition was to be their defining moment, a transitional leap from small fry to legitimate players, and having exhausted New York, Vegas and LA, from a business perspective at least, it was time to cast the net a little wider.

‘Jeez man, I thought you’d be pleased,’ Jack had responded to the lukewarm reception Tom had given him upon informing him about the ‘near-as-damnit perfect’ venue he’d found for them in the heart of London’s West End. With a dense population of young, affluent, and fashion-conscious prospective clientele, it seemed like an appealing prospect, especially for the particular concept they had in mind – a hybrid mix of a lavish premier super club and casino, combined with fine dining and themed table dancing. ‘London is the epicentre of cool right now, man. It’s hot to trot.’ Jack had insisted.

Tom had reluctantly acquiesced. London was his birthplace but it had long ago ceased to be his home. Besides, the city held bittersweet memories for him and he had made a promise never to return again. But then, Tom had never been much good at keeping promises …

Now all that was standing in the way of their dream was the auction for the rundown but ultimately perfect old warehouse in Soho; that, and the small matter of six million dollars, three of which were sitting in a Louis Vuitton case in the back seat of the Lamborghini.

‘No stress, bud,’ Tom smiled. ‘I got everything in hand on that front.’

There was a pause on the line as Jack digested this information, his chest wheezing like an old boiler on its last knockings. If this deal came off they’d make their money back ten-fold within twelve months. But they were still a little shy of three mill of the recommended auction price, which was where Tom came into the equation. Jack was relying on him to make up the shortfall, which was a little like relying on a politician to come good on his promises; hit and miss.

‘You’re telling me you already got your hand on three big ones? And you didn’t care to mention that small fact to me this morning?’

The girl’s ears pricked up. Three million bucks ! Jeez !

‘Just trust me, OK?’ Tom winked at his passenger and she grinned in return, uncrossing her long, slim legs in a consciously provocative move.

‘Yeah right! Look what happened the last time I did that?’

Jack Goldstein was the closest thing Tom Black had left to family. They had been friends since his early Vegas days, bonding instantly by their shared interests of making money and chasing pussy. Ultimately though, ups and downs aside, theirs was a friendship that had been built on the essential elements of trust and respect, and as a result, it had stood the test of time.

‘Well then, just chill out. We’ll go to the auction; we’ll get our casino. We’ll make our millions. Simple.’

Jack sighed. Tom was being evasive.

‘I’m serious, Tom,’ he said earnestly, between short, violent bursts of deep chesty coughs that made him sound like a sea-lion attempting to mate. ‘I don’t plan to return back to the States without that venue.’

‘Jesus Jack, stop breaking my balls will you?’ Tom suddenly snapped, causing the girl to look over at him. ‘I’m pulling up outside the bank right now … and we’re gonna get our casino, OK?’

Jack was unfazed by his friend’s sharp outburst. He’d heard it all a million times over.

‘We’ve got a couple of weeks’ grace to get our shit sorted then it’s all systems go,’ he said, pausing to sneeze three times in succession.

‘Jeez bud, you need to get yourself to a doctor.’

‘Get that bread banked and I won’t need to,’ he snapped back, although he knew he was right; Jack couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt this goddamn awful and it was worrying him. But he hated quacks. Quacks were wack as far as he was concerned – messengers of doom. His late grandfather had been the same. First doctor he ever saw in almost seven decades told him he had less than six weeks left. Jeez. You were better off not knowing that kind of shit. ‘And don’t let me down, Tom,’ he added seriously, ‘I’m counting on you. Three million and counting …’ Jack said flatly, blowing his nose loudly before hanging up.