Michael was pleased to see Jeffrey Palmer and his crew making their way across the dance floor. He felt himself relaxing. He knew that, by the end of the night, everyone who was anyone would make their way over to him, and he would give them free drinks, and listen patiently to their life stories. It would guarantee the club’s success, and he would have done his bit for public relations.
The music was loud, the place was packed out, and his expert eye was making sure the bouncers were all where they should be, and the bar staff were fast and efficient. It was second nature to him now, making sure everything was running smoothly, looking out for flaws, and working out a solution to any problems he might encounter. Patrick Costello had taught him well, and as he listened to yet another tale of derring-do from a wannabe Face intent on impressing him, he realised just how much he actually missed him.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Jermaine O’Shay was a very large Jamaican – he was into body building, and he spent at least two hours a day in the gym. He was not a handsome man, but he was imposing, standing at over six feet tall and naturally big-boned. He was a man who looked dangerous. His size guaranteed that, as did his bald head, along with his permanent scowl. Women, however, loved him. He was a man who knew the power he wielded, and who used it to his advantage. In reality, although he was capable of great violence should the situation merit it, he was actually a nice guy. Like Michael Flynn, he understood the need to exude a persona. And, like Michael Flynn, he ruled his little empire with a mixture of fear tempered with kindness. He surrounded himself with people he trusted, who he could relax and be himself with. Patrick Costello had offered him a partnership, and that had been a defining moment in his life. He had known how to import drugs, and he had made a good living from that. Patrick Costello had then entered his life, and shown him how, not only to utilise his contacts, but how to maximise his return. With Patrick Costello’s backing, he had become a big player almost overnight.
Now, though, he was in a quandary. Michael Flynn was a perfect replacement for Patrick Costello, he could never refute that. Nothing had changed – it was as if Patrick Costello was still alive. Jermaine had dealt with Michael Flynn, as per usual, and everything had been fine. But now, Michael suddenly wanted him to deal with Jeffrey Palmer, and he wasn’t sure about that. He liked the way things were – he wasn’t a man who relished change.
He was sitting in the bar of his private club, nursing a rum and Coke. His club was just off the Railton Road, and only accessible to certain people. It was small, but his clientele liked that. It was a place where people could relax without worrying about what they might say or who they said it to. He catered for people like himself, who needed to keep a degree of privacy, and who were also willing to pay for that.
He heard Michael before he saw him. He was greeting the doorman as usual and, as he walked down the stairway into the bar, he was laughing. Jermaine stood up, and Michael shook his hand firmly. He then stood aside and Jermaine found himself shaking Jeffrey Palmer’s outstretched hand.
There wasn’t anyone tending the bar so early in the day, so Jermaine walked behind the counter himself. ‘What can I get you?’
Michael Flynn sat down on the banquette in the corner. It was newly re-covered in gold and green brocade. Jeffrey Palmer sat beside him, looking around him with interest. Jermaine was glad he had upgraded the place. He had a sneaky feeling that this wasn’t Jeffrey Palmer’s usual kind of drinking establishment.
‘A couple of whiskies, mate, and not any of that fucking knock-off either! I nearly lost the enamel off my teeth last time.’
Jermaine laughed. ‘I told you, man, if you’re putting Coca-Cola in it, you don’t deserve the good stuff. My old dad would turn in his grave if I allowed a decent Scotch to be diluted with that shit.’
Michael nodded. ‘He has a point, in all fairness, Jeffrey. But, when I come down here, I have to put something in the drinks – otherwise I would be flat out in no time.’
Jermaine grinned. ‘Call yourself a fucking Irishman?’
Jeffrey laughed with them. ‘Was your dad Irish then, Jermaine? I mean, with your name being O’Shay? It don’t get more Irish than that, does it?’
Jermaine brought the drinks to the table and, sitting down beside them, he answered, ‘My great-granddad was Irish, but it’s been all black since then.’
Jeffrey wasn’t sure how to react, and Jermaine could see that. He liked that he didn’t want to offend in any way. That showed him the man wasn’t racist – not outwardly anyway. Only time would tell.
‘If you go to Jamaica, everyone has some Irish in them somewhere. Some even have blue eyes. It’s fucking surreal. There are Patricks and Seans everywhere. We also like the Guinness – my mum used to call us the sunburnt Irishmen.’