London Calling - James Craig [83]
‘The No Más fight,’ said Gideon, who may not even have been born when the fight actually took place.
‘No Más meaning “No more”. That’s what Duran was supposed to have said when he quit in the eighth round.’ Dom gestured at the screen with his chin. ‘Duran denies saying it, but it’s such a good story. No Más – what a great ending. No one was going to let the truth get in the way of a story like that.’
‘Interesting,’ was all Carlyle could think of to say. Other people’s passions invariably left him bemused.
‘Anyway,’ said Dom, ‘it’s nice to see you, John. You’re looking well.’
‘Thank you,’ Carlyle replied, bowing his head slightly. ‘You too.’ And it was true. Dom was one of those annoying guys who looked better in his late forties than he did in his early twenties: richer, healthier, more relaxed. Carlyle wished that he could say the same about himself. Dom’s cheeky-chappy demeanour had been long since jettisoned, replaced by a professional/academic look that was underpinned by a degree in Business and Management from Queen Mary College on the Mile End Road. Dressed in Comme des Garçons, with rimless spectacles, greying, shoulder-length hair, and some flattering lines around his eyes, he was currently on top of his game.
Finally finishing his trip down boxing’s memory lane, he gave Carlyle his full attention. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Carlyle, smiling.
‘As always.’ Dom turned to Gideon. ‘The inspector and I go back a long way.’
Gideon kept his eyes on the silent screen. ‘Uh-uh.’
‘Yes,’ Dom smiled, ‘John is one of my earliest comrades. We’ve worked together a lot over the years.’
Carlyle said nothing. Dom was right, up to a point. They had known each other for a long time and the relationship was both stable and cordial. It wasn’t complicated but it wasn’t clear either. Neither of them would necessarily have wanted to create it from scratch if it didn’t already exist, but they could both see its advantages … as well as its disadvantages.
Dominic Silver had left his old picket-line mates like Carlyle a long way behind. He had built up his business slowly, one step at a time, wherever possible avoiding conflicts and solving problems without needlessly resorting to violence. As the years turned into decades, his reputation grew. In a business where to survive two years was rare, to have survived two decades was a miracle. He had never been arrested, never mind convicted of any offence. In the last few years, he had reached his peak, settling comfortably in the third or fourth tier of the capital’s drug-related entrepreneurs. Near the top but not aiming for the top. This was not a bad place to be, reasonably comfortable and avoiding the problems facing those above him and those below him. His operation was turning over maybe low millions each year, with clients including a swathe of minor celebrities and some of the newer entries in Who’s Who. Before the recession took hold, he even had a couple of corporate clients, major City financial institutions who bought on account.
Business school had shown Dom how to build up a portfolio of assets and diversify risk. With all of his property and other investments, drugs probably now accounted for less than a third of Dom’s income. However, it wasn’t the kind of business you could easily retire from. Similarly, despite the risks, Carlyle could not easily walk away from their relationship which, after all this time, was almost as much personal as professional. Dom, like Carlyle, was a family man. He’d had the same girlfriend for more than twenty years and, as far as Carlyle knew, they enjoyed a happy, monogamous relationship, one which had been blessed with five kids. The families knew each other well, and Alice had played with the Silver kids plenty of times over the years.
Carlyle drained his glass of guava, mango and goji. Dom was right; it was good. ‘I’m in the market for some information.’
‘Obviously.’ Dom sat