Shaun Hutson - Captives

'I only asked.'

'Like I said, I was in the area, thought I'd pop in and -see how business was.'

'It's good. We took over two grand last night. Mostly on drink, of course.'

Plummer smiled.

'Of course,' he echoed. 'I wish all my bloody joints were doing as well as this one. Old Benny, you know Benny Fox runs one of my places over in Dean Street, he's lucky if he sees two grand in a fucking week.' Plummer shook his head. 'It's the quality of the girls, you know. I mean, some of them in the other places, they're not top quality, if you know what I mean. There's one bird over at Benny's I swear to Christ he got her from Smithfield. Arse like a fifty-dollar cow. Face to match.' He shook his head. 'We need more girls like that Carol. She's tasty.'

Scott eyed his boss warily for a moment, anxious to change the subject again.

Plummer sat down at Scott's desk and glanced at the remains of the pizza.

'Not exactly haute cuisine, is it?' he said, wrinkling his nose.

'If I had as much money as you, Ray, I'd eat better,' Scott told his boss.

'Perhaps you could do with a raise. I can afford it. Most of the shops and clubs turned a profit last year and my other business concerns are ticking over nicely.' He took a final puff on the cigarette, then ground it out in the middle of the pizza. He smiled that crooked smile again.

Plummer owned six clubs in Soho, most of them providing live sex shows. Four also showed imported films and sold a range of soft and hardcore magazines. The shop upstairs at 'Loveshow' dealt in that kind of literature. It came in on containers three times a month, carried in by lorry drivers paid to smuggle the banned material in the cabs of their trucks. He also owned a couple of gaming clubs in Kensington (the more respectable side of his business) and he had just bought into a syndicate responsible for opening a large outdoor sports arena in Fulham. With an annual profit of over ten million pounds, Plummer was one of the underworld's wealthier barons. He disliked being compared to a criminal gang boss, though. He had men working for him, some of them armed, but he wouldn't have called them a gang. Associates was a word he preferred. He didn't own clip joints, he operated adult entertainment emporia. To Plummer this wasn't a lie. He saw himself as a businessman, not a crook. There were those on the other side of the law who would disagree.

He had a criminal record, but the most he'd ever been charged with was possession of cannabis. That had been ten years ago. Now he made sure he went nowhere near the cocaine and heroin that had formed the bedrock of his little 'empire'. The passage of time had made him wiser, more cautious. More manipulative. Ray Plummer, in his own eyes, was an upstanding member of the community. For Christ's sake, he even had a firearms certificate for the Beretta automatic he carried in his car. It wasn't wise to cross the law.

Besides, it cost too much to pay the bastards off.

He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing down a piece that was sticking up.

Be careful or you'll have the whole lot in your lap, thought Scott.

Plummer got to his feet.

'I've got to go, Jim,' he said. 'Other calls to make.' He shook hands with the younger man. A firm grip.

'I'll walk out with you,' Scott said.

'No problem; you stay here, finish your work. I might, have a look at the show on the way out.' He smiled. 'Maybe that Carol, or whatever her name is, will be on.' He winked and was gone.

Scott glared at the closed door, then pulled the bottle of Southern Comfort towards him and poured a large measure. He downed it in one, bringing the glass down so hard on the table it almost cracked.

Beyond the closed door the thud of the music continued.

ELEVEN

Zena Murray pulled off her stockings and balled them up, tossing them into the waste bin nearby. Then she took off her basque and G-string and sat naked in front of the mirror, taking her make-up off. Beside her, Carol Jackson was busy applying hers. The two women sat in front of the mirror which stretched the length of the wall in the dressing room. The term was rather grand for what was little more than an enlarged cupboard with lights and a mirror. Clothes were hung on hangers and suspended from hooks on the peeling walls. The lightbulbs which surrounded the mirror were flickering in places; some had blown completely. A drawer beneath the dressing table contained the girls' props, a selection of vibrators and dildos. There was a pay phone on the wall. One of the other girls had stuck a postcard of Mel Gibson on the side of it. There were other pictures sellotaped to the wall by the phone, cut from magazines. One of Jon Bon Jovi, another of Mickey Rourke.

'I'll be glad to get home tonight,' said Zena, wiping eyeshadow from her top lid with a cotton ball. 'Did you hear what happened with that bastard earlier on? Ruined my stockings, then didn't want to pay.'

'I heard,' Carol affirmed.

'Scotty gave me the money for another pair. He's a nice bloke.'

Carol smiled into the mirror. The gesture looked strained, artificial.

'Are you still seeing him?' Zena wanted to know.

'Sort of,' Carol said, applying the thick red lipstick she always wore when she worked.

'Either you are or you aren't. You've been going out with him for a while now, haven't you?'

Too long.

'It's not like it used to be between us, but I don't think Jim realises that,' said Carol.

'Then don't you think you ought to tell him?' Zena said, looking at her companion in the mirror.

'Tell him what? That I don't want to see him any more? It's going to be a bit difficult while we're working together.'

'So you're going to keep the poor bastard hanging on? Thinking that you still feel something for him, just because it's not convenient for you to split up with him. Is that it?'

'It's not as simple as that, Zena. I like him. He's a nice guy. But he's going nowhere and he doesn't even realise it.'

'And where are you going, Carol?' She looked at her companion. 'Out in front of another audience, just like you do most nights. Just like you will be doing until your tits sag and your bum drops and you get fat and no one wants to come and see you any more. Then you'll probably start working the hotels and the streets full-time. Just like the rest of us.'

'Are you telling me I'm wrong to want more out' of life?' Carol snapped. 'Do you honestly enjoy what you do here, Zena?'

'No, but it pays the rent, and that's all that matters to me at the moment. Look, Carol, it might not be much of a life but it's all we've got.'

'That's shit, there's more to it than that. There has to be.'

Zena wiped some foundation from her cheeks with a moist tissue.

'So, Scotty's only crime is that he's going nowhere. Is that it?' she said.

'I don't know how to tell him it's over. I don't know how he'll react. I know he thinks a lot of me. He's told me he loves me. I don't want to hurt him, Zena.'

'Well, you're going to hurt him a fucking sight more the longer you leave it,' Zena snapped. She got to her feet and started to dress, pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, stepping into a pair of ankle boots.

'Am I wrong to want more out of life?' Carol asked the other girl again.

'No, but I think you're dreaming, Carol. I'm not sure there is that much more. And if there is, it wasn't meant for the likes of you and me.' She smiled thinly, then opened the door of the dressing room. The sound of the music was suddenly louder as Zena paused there.

'… skin tight leather on satin sheets…'

'Don't hurt him, Carol. He doesn't deserve it,' Zena said, smiling.

'… Now she's got me surrounded…'

Zena said goodbye and closed the door, shutting out the music once more.