Captives

TEN

In all the years he had worked for Ray Plummer, Scott had never been sure whether or not to believe the rumours that his boss wore a wig. If it was a hairpiece, whoever had made it was to be complimented. There was even a patch of thinning hair at the crown to add authenticity.

Now, as the older man entered the room, pulling a cigarette from the gold monogrammed case he'd removed from his pocket, Scott glanced quickly at the lustrous black hair that covered Plummer's head.

Toupee or not toupee, that was the question.

Scott smiled a greeting, hoping it would mask his amusement at his quip.

Watch it.

Carol stepped away from him slightly and also smiled at Plummer, who walked across the room and peered out of the window into the street below, puffing slowly on his Menthol cigarette. He hated the taste of the bloody things but his doctor had told him that if he didn't cut down from his usual forty Rothmans a day he'd be in line for lung and heart trouble before he was forty-five. And, with just seven years to go to that deadline, Plummer was taking no chances. He'd cut down on his intake of cholesterol, too. He'd even started jogging. He hadn't quite got to the stage of popping sunflower seeds but, if it made him healthier, he'd be quite prepared to start on all the organic shit, maybe even become a vegetarian. Although the thought of doing his weekly shop at a fucking garden centre instead of a supermarket made him wonder if he wanted to be that healthy.

He turned and smiled, a crooked smile exaggerated by the scar on his left cheek that reached from the corner of his mouth to the ridge of the bone.

'I was passing by,' he said. 'Thought I'd drop in and see how business was.'

Scott offered him a drink but Plummer declined.

'Got to watch the old liver, James,' he said, holding up his hands. And the heart. And the lungs.

'I'd better go,' said Carol. 'I'm due on in ten minutes.' She smiled thinly at Plummer then at Scott.

'I'll see you later,' he said softly, but she had already gone.

'Nice girl,' Plummer said. 'Lovely arse.' He blew out a stream of smoke.

'Is this a social call?' Scott said, changing the subject.

'You sound suspicious, Jim. Think I'm checking up on you?'

'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.