Jeffrey Palmer knew that he had just made a major fuck-up. He had listened to his friend’s spiel and, as he had been promised a much bigger margin on what he was shifting on a weekly basis, it had seemed a far more lucrative venture for all concerned. He had foolishly assumed that Michael Flynn would bite his fucking hand off. But now he understood that he had not only discussed his dealings with an outsider but, to compound his offence, he had been willing to step over the man that Michael Flynn had introduced him to, who he had offered him a partnership with. A partnership he had accepted, and he had been so grateful for the opportunity. He was earning a fucking fortune, more money than he had ever earned in his life, and he was throwing it back in Michael Flynn’s face. That was not a good move. He could see the disgust on Michael’s face, and felt physically ill.
‘I am a bit miffed, Jeffrey. To be brutally honest, I can only assume that you have discussed our arrangements with your fucking “friend” from Benidorm, and told him all our business – times, dates and, more importantly, weights. That’s all private business, as far as I am concerned. I thought you understood the importance of loyalty and secrecy. I can’t see any reason to discuss our business with anyone outside of our little circle. But from what you just said, you have obviously told your mate, Mr fucking Benidorm, everything about us, from delivery to distribution. Otherwise, how would he have known he could undercut us?’
Michael was absolutely fuming. Of all the people on his payroll, Jeffrey Palmer was the last person he would have believed capable of something like this. He sat back in his chair, concealing his fury, and smiled amiably at the men around him. The waitresses here were stunning-looking girls, and they were waiting for the dessert orders. The girls who waited on them knew they were guaranteed a big tip. The bigger the tits, the bigger the tips – it was another reason why they got such wonderful service.
‘I think some cheeses for me, and a nice glass of vintage port. I’m not a dessert man, as you all know.’ Michael was laughing and joking as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Jeffrey Palmer was devastated. He had ruined, in less than a few minutes, a reputation that had taken him years to build. He waited a moment, watching the men at the table laughing and drinking, before leaning towards Michael, seizing his opportunity for another private word.
‘Look, Michael, I am so sorry. I just saw the money, I didn’t think it through properly. My mate is a straight arrow, though – safe as houses. He did a sixteen. You probably know him – Charlie Carter? Out of Notting Hill?’
Michael shrugged his annoyance. ‘Like I’d fucking care about all that. I couldn’t care if he was Saint John the fucking Baptist. He still had no right to be told my business.’ Bending forward once more, he looked into Jeffrey Palmer’s face, searching it as if he was looking for another weakness.
‘Look, Jeffrey, I am so fucking outraged, I can’t believe what you said to me. It’s not just the fucking disregard for everyone you are working with – me included – it’s the knowledge that you felt comfortable telling a stranger how we all work. That is almost like grassing. Telling someone else about our business practices. You are a fucking liability. Can’t you see that? I brought you in, trusted you, and paired you up with a man I have worked beside for fucking years. You were my replacement, for fuck’s sake. You seem to have overlooked not just me, and what I gave you, but also the reaction of the people you have been dealing with on my behalf.’
All around, the men were telling jokes, and Michael sat back in his chair ready to join in. He had given Palmer enough of his time. He wasn’t going to let him have another say now. As far as he was concerned he could go fuck himself.
Garry England, a young up-and-coming money launderer, was holding court. He was a really funny man – he could tell a joke like a professional comedian. Michael ignored his cheese board. He had lost his appetite. He busied himself lighting a cigar instead. He gestured to the ma?tre d’, and the man brought a bottle of Remy XO to the table, returning to place a brandy snifter in front of each of the men. The ma?tre d’ knew that the brandy that this lot would drink would cost more than the food. With the good wines and the aperitifs, this would be a serious bill. Michael Flynn was a valued customer in more ways than one. It gave them status to have Michael Flynn dine there on a regular basis. He was a good tipper, always made sure that everyone who waited on him got a decent wedge at the end of the night. He also made sure that none of his guests ever caused any disturbances, no matter how much they might have drunk.