‘Very classy,’ I said, which clearly pleased him.
‘We live in vulgar times, Kenny.’
‘Do you own the club?’ I asked.
‘Used to be my old man’s. He passed a few years ago. Spent a bleedin’ fortune having the place done up.’ Frank looked around approvingly, as though the job had only recently been completed. ‘I’m told you’ve had bar experience.’
‘I’ve been working at the Top Deck snooker club.’
‘Before then?’
‘Mostly temporary stuff.’
‘Qualifications?’
‘Eight O levels and three A levels.’
‘Not interested in university?’
I shook my head. Frank mulled this over.
‘To be honest, I’m looking for someone with a bit more experience,’ he said. ‘It’s not just about pulling pints and emptying ashtrays. Phil’s the bloke in charge but he’s not always gonna have time to hold your hand.’
‘I don’t need hand-holding.’
‘So you say. But working at the Top Deck don’t prove much.’
‘You’ll need to change your Jameson’s and your Gilbey’s pretty soon,’ I said. ‘There’s only a couple of shots left in them. You’re okay for ginger ale but you’re running low on tonic and you either don’t stock bitter lemon or you’ve run out completely. Oh, and there’s only five maraschino cherries left in the bottle. Phil ought to open a new one, what with it getting close to Christmas.’
Frank’s eyes widened slightly and he peered over my shoulder.
‘Or it might be six,’ I added.
‘What kinda vodka we stock?’ he asked.
‘Smirnoff on the optic; Finlandia on the shelf. You’re okay for both.’
Frank chuckled. ‘Your memory work like that on everything or just booze?’
‘Pretty much everything.’
‘That’s all well and good,’ he said, ‘but sometimes it’s about forgetting stuff if you’re working in here.’
‘I know how to be discreet, if that’s what you mean.’
Frank nodded as though it was exactly what he’d meant. ‘That your only whistle?’ he asked, after consulting his watch.
‘Er, yeah,’ I said, not wanting to admit the suit was borrowed.
‘You’ll need a new one.’
‘Actually, I’m a bit . . .’
‘Go to Manny Mohan in Kingly Street. Tell him I sent you. You can pay me back a bit at a time out of your wages.’
‘The job’s mine?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘It’s just that . . . most of my interviews have tended to be a bit longer.’
Frank crushed out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. ‘Something you’ll find out about me, Kenny, is that I make my mind up quickly about people.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’ I asked.
‘Then I take action accordingly,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Galaxy.’
The club’s members were an eclectic bunch. Most nights there were a couple of Chelsea players in, and at least one representative of the constabulary drinking in the bar. Frank was keen to curry favour with the Met and even more delighted to see a politician signing the book. They weren’t exactly arriving in squadrons, but occasionally a shadow cabinet minister would pop in after lunch in the Gay Hussar.
And so, for the next few months, I poured and mixed for gangsters, coppers, footballers, politicians and the occasional pop star. Frank had an office at the top of the building and was in most days. His dad had run a couple of dirty bookshops and this was the part of the business that interested him most. Not the shops so much as the printing of the magazines they sold. The Galaxy was just a place where he could meet potential business partners and keep his ear to the ground for opportunities or trouble.
The only person I didn’t get on with was Farrelly. None of the other staff members knew much about the Galaxy’s head doorman, although there was no shortage of rumours. One had it that he had been dishonourably discharged from the paras after beating an IRA member to death, another that he’d skipped bail after being charged with football hooliganism. I could have believed them both.
I’d been on the payroll for a few months when Frank asked to see me at the end of my shift. The refurb job he’d conducted after his father died hadn’t extended to his office. Its walls were whitewashed and the floorboards bare. Furniture was confined to a knackered sofa and a rickety desk strewn with papers.
Frank held a finger up to signify that he wouldn’t be long. He crunched another entry on the machine before swivelling in his seat and checking his watch. ‘Blimey, that the time already?’
‘D’you want me to come back?’ I asked.
‘Course not,’ he said. ‘I can leave this bollocks ’til tomorrow. Fancy a Scotch?’
I nodded and Frank pulled out a bottle of Bowmore from one of the desk drawers. Into each of a pair of glasses went a decent shot.
‘You’ve been here a while now, Kenny,’ he said, handing one to me. ‘Enjoying it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Which probably means you make a fair few quid on tips.’
‘I do okay,’ I said, cautiously.
‘Still, I bet you could always do with a bit extra.’ Frank pulled five tenners from a money clip and held them out. ‘Take your bird out on me.’
‘Frank, I can’t . . .’
‘Course you can.’
‘It’s too much.’
He leant over and tucked the notes into the breast pocket of my jacket. ‘D’you know what money’s for, Kenny?’
‘Spending?’
‘It’s for keeping score. Every April I tot up how much I’ve got and that tells me how well I’ve played the game that year. People get too emotionally attached to cash. Makes ’em scared to try anything new.’ Frank took a hit on his drink. ‘What d’you want, Kenny?’ he asked.
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Out of life. What’s your goal?’
‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘Have a few laughs, I suppose.’
‘I meant longer-term.’
‘I wouldn’t mind writing a novel one day.’
‘About what?’ he asked. Nothing sprang to mind, nor would it for the next thirty-eight years. ‘You know what Peter Channing does?’ he continued.
‘He’s the ma?tre d’.’
‘D’you think he’s any good at it?’
‘Excellent.’
‘I agree. Trouble is he’s leaving next month, which means I’ll need a replacement.’ Frank knocked back his drink. ‘What d’you reckon?’
‘To what?’
‘The job. Do you wanna do it?’
I laughed. Frank didn’t.
‘Seriously?’ He nodded. ‘No offence, Frank, but most of the members are old enough to be my dad.’
‘So what? Young blokes like it when older blokes give them the oil; older blokes like it the other way round. Makes them think they’re still with it.’
‘Yeah, but even still . . .’
‘And it’s not about how old you are, Kenny, it’s about how you make people feel. Everyone in the club thinks you’re his best mate.’
‘Apart from Farrelly.’
‘Farrelly don’t count.’
‘Won’t they think it’s a bit weird I was working behind the bar last week?’