Jessie Keane: Scarlet Women

And how’s that for an omen? she thought with a pang of the old sadness.

There was so much to be done, so much to think about. The brewery had been in and agreed—after some hum-ing and ha-ing—that they would continue to supply liquor to the club. The drinks licence was, after all, already in place. The dance floor—which was a total fucking mess at the moment, broken up and knocked all to hell—was going to be relaid, and there were going to be strobe lights, the works.

But first the red velvet curtains, the plaster cherubs, the flock wallpaper, all that old dated tat, had to go.

Sorry Max.

She’d hired a good accountant, set out her aims. She planned that this club—and eventually the two others, the Blue Parrot and the Shalimar, which were currently standing empty—were going to earn her a good living, support her and her small daughter in some style. That was the plan, anyway.

Of course, the first thing the accountant had done when he’d seen last year’s books, peering at her over his pince-nez spectacles, was to suck in his breath.

She got this all the time. From the brewery bosses. From the builders. Now from her accountant. She was a woman in a man’s world, and all the men in it thought she couldn’t cope.

‘It would appear the business has been running at quite a loss,’ he said, giving her a pitying glance.

‘Or could it just be that the profits haven’t been finding their way into the accounts?’ she suggested.

He’d shrugged, nodded. ‘Certainly, that could be the case.’

Ha! Certainly, that was the case. He’d departed, leaving her sunk in gloom. But then she had a stern word with herself. Okay, she’d been shafted—royally worked over. But now she had to pull it all back together, even if the going was tough. Hell, she was used to tough.

She had lost her husband. She had loved gang lord Max Carter almost beyond life itself, and losing him had cut her to the heart. But she still had her daughter. She still had Layla. And that was in no small part due to American mob boss Constantine Barolli.

Annie frowned.

When they’d last spoken, Constantine had said he’d be back from his home in New York soon to see her. But three whole months had passed. Three months without a word, without a telephone call, with nothing . She felt furious, rejected, and she knew she’d made a bloody fool of herself into the bargain by asking him to call her. Because, guess what? He hadn’t.

‘Fuck it,’ she muttered, her hands clenching around the wrought-iron banister. She closed her eyes for a second and instantly she could picture him—a smooth, slickly suited Mafia don, with armour-piercing blue eyes and a commanding aura, a tan and startling silver hair.

The silver fox.

The rumour was that his hair had turned from black to silver overnight when he was in his twenties and had been told that his mother and brother were dead, victims of a deliberate hit by another Cosa Nostra family in his native Sicily. That’s what they called him on the streets of New York, the silver fox. And like a fox he’d slipped away.

Hell, she’d probably panicked the bastard, been too keen too soon. And, of course, he’d run straight for the hills. She’d blown it. Fuck it.

She went up the second flight of stairs to her office and slammed the door closed behind her. She slumped into her chair behind the desk. Once it had been her late husband’s chair; now it was hers. Now she was in charge of the East End manor that he had once ruled.

It was a very different manor now. A very different firm. Times had changed. Gone was the old respectful Kray and Carter style no-drugs-but-plenty-of-the-hard-game rule of the Sixties. Now there was an active—and often violent—drugs scene in London.

Annie had made it clear from the start that she wanted no part of that sort of trade—but she had been quick to see how the firm could profit from its impact. The Carter firm was all about legitimate security now; the firm controlled an army of enforcers working all over London and Essex, keeping order at venues.

And shit, how it paid. The money was rolling in.

Even better, it was all above board. She’d come close once to going down, and she was never going to risk it again, not with Layla to consider.

So now it was her who took payment from the halls and arcades and shops, her boys who gathered at Queenie’s—Max’s late mother’s—house, to meet with her and receive their orders.

As it turned out, everything had worked out pretty much okay. The boys had accepted her, and they had also accepted that Jimmy Bond—who had been Max’s number one back in the day—was history.

She thought about that.

Yeah, they had accepted her, but she was concerned that it wasn’t a full acceptance. It was an acceptance of her role as Max’s widow, that was all. She knew her position was tenuous. These were hard men, men who’d grown up on the wild side—out on the rob, out on the piss; they took no shit from anyone. Legitimate business had been a shock for them, but—so far—they’d swallowed it. Or had they? She was never sure.

She looked down at her thumb, where Max’s ring glinted. A square slab of royal blue lapis lazuli set upon a solid band of gold embellished with Egyptian cartouches. Yes, he was long gone, but it calmed her to look at the ring, the symbol of his power and authority.

Only now, more and more, it was reminding her of another ring, the diamond-studded one that Constantine Barolli always wore.

Ah, what’s the use?, she thought. It’s done.

He’d gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

Now she had a job to do, and that was good. She had to lose herself in getting the clubs up and running again. She was lucky to have an interest, a business that demanded so much of her time, because, if you were busy, you couldn’t think too much of how you had fucked up your chance of a great love affair by playing it all so disastrously wrong.

There was a tap at the door and Tony, her driver and her minder, poked his bald head around it. The crucifixes in his cauliflower ears glistened bright gold in the summer sunlight streaming in through the office window.

‘First of the girls is here, Boss,’ he said.

She was interviewing staff now. Bar staff, kitchen staff, cleaners, dancers. Not the dancers that had been here before, swinging their enormous naked tits about for all to see. No, these would be discreet go-go dancers, twirling and whirling in fringed white bikinis on tiny strobe-lit podiums around the new dance floor.

She didn’t want the dirty-mac brigade coming back in here. She wanted a better class of clientele, and she was going to make sure she got it.

Annie sighed. Tucked all thoughts of Constantine away.

He’s gone for good, she told herself. So forget it, okay? Move on.

She got her mirrored compact out of her handbag and dabbed away the shine from her nose. Then she applied a slick of scarlet lipstick and paused, staring at the image reflected in the mirror; the steady dark green eyes, the arched black brows and thick black lashes, the good olive-toned skin, the straight fall of thick, cocoa-brown hair, the wide, sensuous, painted mouth. It was a face that could, in fact, be called beautiful.

Then why didn’t he call?

She let out an exasperated sigh and closed the compact with a snap. Dumped it back in the bag, gave Tony a brisk smile.

‘Right. Send her up, Tone.’ She had fifteen girls to see this afternoon and opening night was just three weeks away. Best to crack on. Distract herself. Get on with it.

Annie sat at the kitchen table at the Limehouse brothel later in the day, sipping hot strong tea and looking at her friend Dolly, who was madam there—Dolly with her blonde bubble perm, her immaculate make-up and nails, wearing a neat lightweight powder-blue suit. Incredible to think that Dolly had once been the roughest brass in the place; now she was in charge and she looked the part.