‘How much to make me the right kind of person?’
The bouncer repeated his long examination of Cook.
‘A guinea.’
‘Crikey,’ Cook said, leaning into his country-mouse tourist persona. ‘I only want to have a drink. Don’t want to buy the place.’
The bouncer shrugged.
‘You want to come in, it’s a guinea. You don’t want to pay, don’t come in. All the same to me.’
Cook produced two guineas from his pocket. A week’s work for a labourer on his farm.
‘For your trouble,’ he said, handing over his coins. His generosity earnt him a silent nod from the bouncer, who stepped backwards to let Cook past.
‘No touching the girls,’ the bouncer said. ‘Don’t matter how much you tip, you touch the girls you’re in trouble.’
‘I’m just here for the music,’ Cook said.
‘Course you are.’
Cook climbed a steep, narrow staircase. Soft, sticky stair treads sloped to the left, as if the whole building had settled on one side. Jazz music got louder as Cook neared the top.
The jazz club was gloomy. Walls and ceiling painted black. Blacked-out windows. Tables with flickering candles providing the only light. A trio of musicians played something that featured a lot of drumming and trumpeting, as far as Cook could discern. It wasn’t bad, he thought, not that he was an expert. Most of the tables were taken, and most of the patrons were facing the stage. Rather than watching the musicians, they were watching two women dancing in a state of considerable undress.
Cook stood at the bar and ordered a pint.
‘I’m looking for Ruby,’ Cook said to the barmaid. She looked confused.
‘Usually works the Empire,’ Cook explained.
But all this got him was a blank look.
A door opened at the far end of the space. Petal looked out. She caught his eye and narrowed the door. Cook left his beer on the bar and threaded his way around the tables, his eye on the door. As he approached, it closed. Not an insurmountable obstacle, all things considered, but a clear message, made even clearer by a brass plate on the door:
no admittance
staff only
Cook turned the handle and opened the door. No Petal. Just a dark passage leading to more doors, the first of which showed light.
It was a dressing room for the dancing girls. Two young women sat at a make-up table.
‘I’m looking for Ruby,’ he said. The girls turned around.
‘Staff only back here,’ one of them said. She had a posh accent, like she’d gone to the right schools.
‘Tell me where she’s gone and I’ll be on my way,’ he said.
The woman sighed.
‘Mister Jones!’ she shouted.
She waited a second, until she heard heavy footsteps.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Cook.
‘Her mum wants to know she’s all right,’ Cook said. ‘Pass the message on.’
