Calls from Gary.
The calls from Gary were what seemed to have brought about the change in Max. Assuming the calls were indeed from Gary, as Max claimed, and not from some grasping little tart intent on stealing him away from her. So, if Gary was calling Max – why so frequently? With Max out of reach, the only way to find out was to speak to Gary.
Tony was nowhere to be found, Chris was still out and about on some sort of business, so Annie took a cab over there. It was late afternoon, and still raining. The sky was a grey upturned bowl darkening steadily into night, the traffic was thick, swooshing through the streets, headlights cutting through the gloom, wipers running at top speed.
Fucking England, she thought.
As the cab wove its way through the traffic, she thought of Layla and Alberto, her daughter and her stepson, cruising the Caribbean; they might be fugitives but they were in love and free as birds. She couldn’t help envying them; it broke her heart to think that she and Max had been like that once – obsessed with each other, always wanting to be together. Now… Annie’s throat clenched with misery… now, he couldn’t seem to wait to get away from her. And he didn’t even do her the courtesy of being upfront about it. He just went.
When they got to the Blue Parrot she paid the driver and hurried inside. The bar staff were getting ready for the evening’s trade: polishing glasses and bringing up crates of mixers from the cellars. Like the Palermo Lounge and the Shalimar, the décor in here was dark chocolate and gold, angels and cherubs, faux tiger skin on the chairs and some of the banquettes. In fact, all three clubs looked damned near identical.
But there’s a difference, she thought as she stood there in the big room that constituted the main body of the club. At the Shalimar, Ellie’s motherly presence gave the place a warm ambience. And at the Palermo, Dolly had imbued her territory with a brassy sweetness. Here, there was only Gary and a coven of ever-changing girlfriends to run the place. The atmosphere was not cosy, not welcoming. Strictly business.
‘Shit, not you,’ said a male voice from behind her.
Annie turned around and there he was: Gary Tooley. Over six and a half feet tall, and so skinny it was as if he’d been stretched on a rack. His eyes were devoid of any humanity; she’d always thought that and clearly nothing had changed.
Gary Tooley looked like what he was: a vicious thug. His straight straw-blond hair had been restyled since she’d last seen him; he now wore it swept straight back, giving him an even more hawkish air. He was wearing a dark designer suit, a white silk shirt open at the neck. Working for Max had given him a good lifestyle; he’d come from the East End gutters, but today he looked rich and she knew that would please him, because Gary loved money – it was his god, the only thing that mattered to him.
