My own spine straightens and I move a little closer. It's not so much the intrigue. It's the fact the man I know as Carlos is nowhere to be seen. Whatever persona he's assumed, it's very convincing.
It's almost as if he's done this kind of thing before.
"But I'm getting ahead of myself," Carlos continues. "You don't know who I am."
Jason snorts. It almost disguises the fact he is a little rattled. "Some creepy old toff in a cravat."
"You can call me Mr Harris."
"I'm not calling you anything, mate. Bugger off so I can read my mag in peace."
Jason returns to his magazine but doesn't continue reading. His eyes remain rooted to a single spot on one of the pages.
Carlos says nothing for several moments. Then, "Ever heard of Bobby 'The Butcher' Barrett?"
Jason lifts his head and narrows his eyes at Carlos. "What are you going on about?"
"Bobby was an East End thug who ran the most successful cocaine supply chain that side of London has ever seen, through having a particular talent for brutality. Made the Kray brothers look like kindergarten teachers. Know why he was known as 'The Butcher'?"
Jason looks up and says sarcastically, "Because he chopped people into small bits?"
"Yes. But mostly it was because he would hang his disloyal employees and his enemies from a meat hook firstthencut bits off them. While they were alive.”
Jesus. It's utterly horrific. Judging by the slack in Jason's bottom lip, he agrees with me.
"Why are you talking to me about some sicko gangster I couldn't give two shits about?"
"The reason you haven't heard of Bobby 'The Butcher' Barrett, Mr Travers, despite the notoriety you'd think someone of his proclivities might get, is because he made an enemy ofmyemployer, Russian Sergei."
"Your employer is calledRussian Sergei? That's an even dumber name than Bobby 'The Butcher' Barrett."
Carlos smiles again. "When you make an enemy of Russian Sergei, you have signed the death warrant not only of yourself and all your progeny and their progeny, but of the people who came before you as well. Russian Sergei is so thorough with his cleansing, there's not a trace of you left. Not a hair, not a family tree." Carlos leans towards Jason and lowers his voice. "Not even your years-in-the-making, merciless reputation."
It's very good. Not even inmydark imagination could I have established the premise for this chat as effectively.
Jason is quiet. His fingers have stopped tapping at the tabletop. Eventually he says, "Why are you telling me this?"
And there it is. The invitation for the plan to proceed with full forward thrust.
Once Carlos answers, there's no going back.
Carlos pulls an enlarged photo from his case and slides it across the table towards Jason. The photo is a candid shot of Theo Pinkerton.
"This man owes my employer a lot of money."
The colour drains from Jason's face, but he quickly rallies. "So? Go and ask him for it."
"Oh, we did. He said you stole it from him."
Jason sits upright. "He can't know that." Then he catches himself and says, "I didn't steal from him. I've never seen him before."
Carlos says nothing.
"Where's your proof?"
"We don't need proof, Mr Travers. We just need one of your friends to squeal. It turns out you have at least one so-called friend who's very happy to do a passing imitation of a little piggy than protect you."
Jason's nostrils flutter out a succession of nervous flares. Then he leans back in his chair. "What are you going to do about it? You're old and look very breakable."
