Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [116]
She put the sneakers into a black silk bag and slung it across her shoulder. She was dressed all in black, from her Prada culottes to the low‐cut Hamnett halter and the leather jacket by Ladysmith. She felt good in her new clothes but she couldn’t help admiring Creed for still wearing the same battered denim jacket and khaki trousers he’d set off in. ‘There’s plenty of things I’m scared of, but a dress code isn’t one of them,’ he said. ‘At the restaurant they’ll probably assume I’m too rich to give a shit.’ He looked at Justine as they strolled along St James’s Street. ‘Especially if I’m with you.’
Dewer’s Restaurant consisted of a large open floor with a semicircular bar spanning one wall and a raised podium with an eight‐piece jazz band seated on it in the middle of the floor. Before they started playing, the musicians wandered around the tables shaking hands with the diners. It was a custom which had originated out of a need to prove that the band wasn’t just a hologram.
Their waitress was a beautiful redhead who hadn’t bothered having her freckles surgically erased. She told them that the King wasn’t in this evening. But the restaurant was just a short drive from the palace and he usually dined there on Thursdays. Some nights he arrived in an armoured limousine with a motorcade. Other times he turned up driving himself in an anonymous car with just one aide.
Creed ordered champagne and the lights dimmed as the band began to play. ‘“Take the A-Train”,’ said Creed.
‘Duke Ellington,’ said Justine.
‘Billy Strayhorn, actually,’ said Creed. ‘Not that you need to know who wrote it to enjoy it.’
‘Do you know a lot about jazz?’
‘That’s how come I’ve heard of this place. It’s famous throughout the world.’
A spotlight flashed off a saxophone then meandered through the darkened restaurant, highlighting a group at a table then moving onto another. It settled for a moment on a cluster of tables where a group of well‐dressed men and women were listening with great attention to a small man with a thin moustache. He wore a dark suit, a red tie and a red flower in his lapel. Something in the tension of their bodies suggested that they were very eager not to displease the small man.
Justine leaned closer to Creed. ‘Our waitress was wrong. The King is in tonight.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s Paulie Keaton. The King of Crime. They say he runs all the gangs in London.’
The small man finished telling his story and everyone at the surrounding tables laughed loudly and promptly. The spotlight moved on.
‘You sound like you know him.’
‘Almost. He once lived in a squat on the same estate as me, when he was just a kid. He started out selling joints and swiping car stereos.’
‘He seems to have done pretty well since then.’
‘Even in those days people were scared of him. When another kid started working on his patch, breaking into cars, Paulie almost whipped him to death with a radio aerial. He’d do anything to get what he wanted.’
‘These overachievers always mystify me,’ said Creed.
The spotlight wandered back to the podium where the piano player started a solo. The red‐haired waitress brought the champagne and Creed said he’d open it himself. She stood waiting by the table in case of disaster but Creed stripped the foil off the bottle and neatly popped the cork with his thumbs. The waitress clapped and retreated politely. Creed grinned and poured a glass. He handed it to Justine.
‘No thanks.’
‘Oh, come on, what’s wrong with a little champagne?’
‘It passes across the placenta.’
Creed set the bottle down and looked at her carefully. ‘Really?’
‘I’m in my third month. Pretty soon I’ll swell up like a balloon. You’d better put that bottle back in the ice bucket before it gets warm.’
They went to the kitchen to watch the chef select the ingredients for their meal. Then the beautiful redhead escorted them back to the table with a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres. The band was playing a Yusef Lateef tune