The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [92]
‘It’ll make good cover.’ Mark was discovering a certain logic to the idea. ‘They’d never suspect anything if the two of us were out together.’
But how would he square it with Randall and Quinn? Why, when he had been so at ease with the masquerade, had Mark suddenly called on Ben for support? He made light of his decision with a joke.
‘It’s actually a lap-dancing place in Finchley Road. You might enjoy yourself.’
‘Or find something out,’ Ben added quickly. ‘Maybe stumble on some useful information…’
‘Well, that’s right. The important thing is not to say anything to anyone, not to let on that you know. And don’t mention what we’ve talked about to Alice, and certainly not to Jock.’
‘Fuck Jock,’ Ben said, with authority.
‘Forget everything until we talk. I’ll give you the address of the place when I’ve got it. Until then keep your mouth shut. We’ll sort everything out tomorrow.’
38
It was a cold night and Ben walked at pace along Finchley Road, searching for the entrance to the club. He hoped to discover Macklin and Mark waiting for him in the foyer, or just pulling up in a cab, because what if somebody he knew - a friend, perhaps, maybe even a gallery owner - spotted him as he walked inside alone? How would that look? A married man of thirty-two using lap-dancers for kicks?
Moving north into residential Hampstead, he noticed red rope cutting off a section of pavement and a chunky, stubbled bouncer breathing clouds of air into thickleather gloves. A blue neon sign hung over the door and two skinny office boys wearing chinos and polo necks had just mustered the courage to go inside.
‘Evening, sir.’
The bouncer was built like a bag of cement. With a single, murderous flick of his eyes he analysed Ben’s shoes, trousers, jacket and tie, and then waved him past the rope. Ben moved towards a small booth inside the door and paid an entrance fee of fifteen pounds. The girl who tookthe money had a copy of OK magazine hidden beneath the counter.
‘Just head down the stairs, love,’ she said, music thumping from below. ‘Somebody’ll take care of you in the lounge.’
Ben was struckby how smart the club appeared; somehow he had been expecting condoms on the floor, lurid pinklights and posters of models wearing plastic swimwear. At the foot of the staircase he was greeted by a middle-aged waiter wearing blacktie and ferocious aftershave. Beyond him, through double doors, he could see girls in next to nothing drifting past the glass.
‘Good evening, sir.’ The waiter had a southern European accent, possibly Greek. ‘I show you to a table?’
‘Actually I’m meeting some people,’ Ben told him.
‘My brother, Mark Keen. One of his colleagues, Thomas Macklin. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them. They’re with some Russians…’
‘Oh yes.’ The waiter seemed to know all about them. ‘The party from Libra,’ he said, leading Ben through the double doors. ‘They haven’t arrived yet. But I can show you to their table. Mr Macklin has made a reservation with us.’
It was like the Savoy all over again, deference and respect if you could pay for it. Two girls, both blonde and staggeringly tall, looked up and caught Ben’s eye as he walked the floor. He smiled back, aware of bikinis and high heels, of other women scoping him from near by. Maybe he should do this more often. The club was comparatively small, a low-ceilinged room no bigger than a decent-sized swimming pool, decked out with expensive mirrors and dimmed lights.
Ben had been expecting something on the scale of Libra, perhaps three or four floors with room to move, but this was an intimate space, with a seating area of just ten or fifteen tables and a tiny spotlit stage skewered by a chrome pole.
He passed the office boys - already sitting down and drinking beers - and was shown to a long table flush against the far wall. Ben sat at the top end, facing the stage, his backtucked into a corner.
The waiter asked if he wanted a drink.
‘That would be great.’ He was making himself feel more comfortable, shuffling