Tonight, Patrick had to entertain everyone in his world, and make sure that they enjoyed themselves. It was part and parcel of being the main man; every person he had invited into his home was not only grateful to be a part of his celebration, but the invitation conveyed the message that they were doing a good job. Patrick had always understood the need to make everyone on his payroll feel that they were appreciated. Declan might be who they dealt with on a daily basis, but Patrick made sure that everyone in the firm knew that he was aware of them and what they did. It was important to remind people that they were valued.
He poured himself a large brandy from the bar in the room he’d commandeered as his hideaway. It was the only room in the house that his wife had not been allowed to decorate. It was a man’s room. The walls still had the original wood panelling and the flooring was a dark oak. He liked wood – it was honest, uncomplicated. He had two chairs – one on either side of the original Adam fireplace – both battered looking. They were as old as the hills, but the antique leather had cost a small fortune. The only other piece of furniture was a large bookcase he had picked up at an auction, which doubled as a bar, and there was a set of French doors that led out to the garden. He had no photographs or knick-knacks, nothing of a personal nature, but he liked it like that.
He settled himself into a chair, waiting for Michael and Declan to arrive; they needed to talk before the party got into full swing.
Declan arrived first; he was dressed to impress, and Patrick could not help laughing at him. He was wearing a bespoke suit, dark-blue with a pale silver pinstripe, a deep blue shirt, and hand-made shoes. For the first time ever, Declan actually looked smart.
‘Look at you!’
Declan grinned, but he was clearly embarrassed. ‘I know! I went to see the bloke that Michael uses. He is a fucking magician I’m telling you, bruv.’ His big head was bright red, even his ears were flushed. Patrick felt a rush of affection for his brother. He was pleased to see him looking so good.
‘I can see that. I have never seen you look so smart! Fuck me, I never thought I would see the day!’
Declan went to the bookcase and busied himself by pouring a drink. ‘I see Michael has already started on a new earn. He has a real knack for sniffing out the money shots. I only heard about it through one of my blokes. He mentioned that he had seen Michael over in Ladbroke Grove. He was drinking with that Winston Oates – he’s the main man where drugs are concerned, as you know yourself. I assume he is making a point to the Barber brothers as that’s their turf, so to speak.’
Patrick was startled; he had heard nothing about Michael having a new earn. He had always prided himself on knowing everything about everyone around him – even his brother Declan was not immune. He had always believed in the adage that knowledge is power. Now he was wondering if he was getting lax in his old age, if his affection for Michael was clouding his judgement. He had not even asked about the boy’s movements recently; he had trusted him implicitly. Patrick had always been in possession of a healthy but suspicious nature – it was something he had always prided himself on. He trusted no one, and that was why the Costello brothers were so successful. But it seemed that Michael Flynn had achieved the impossible. For the first time ever, Patrick had not thought to have one of his main earners watched. He couldn’t believe that he had been so remiss. He trusted Michael – of course he did – but large amounts of money could be a terrible temptation to even the most loyal of men. History was filled with examples of how money – second only to a seriously good shag – could turn the most level of heads.
Declan observed his brother’s reaction and couldn’t help feeling a small twinge of satisfaction; it was very rare that he knew something of interest before his older brother. He had only found out about Michael’s meeting by accident but, unlike Patrick, who had a pathological fear of taking anyone on face value, he really did believe that Michael Flynn was as straight as a die. He hoped that he had not caused the boy any unnecessary aggro – he knew from bitter experience that Patrick could turn on a coin if he felt that he was being mugged off in any way. He was dangerous was Patrick, especially if he felt he had been overlooked in some way. He always had to be the fucking main man. He decided to backtrack.
‘Listen, Pat, I might have that all wrong, mate. I heard it from Cecil Thompson and, let’s be fair, he was never the sharpest knife in the fucking drawer, was he? His wife had more cocks than a geriatric chicken, and he never had a fucking clue – it was only when his youngest came out blacker than Nookie’s knockers that he suspected there might be skulduggery afoot!’
Patrick laughed and the tension eased. He knew that Declan was trying to smooth it over, sorry that he mentioned Michael. He sussed out that Declan enjoyed telling him something that he was not aware of – it was a rare enough occurrence and, for Declan, it was like winning the pools. Still, he was on his guard now.
‘Michael will be here soon. Let’s just see what he has to say, shall we?’
Chapter Eighteen