“Put this in the car,” I instruct, throwing it at Antonio.
I pivot, and my shoes echo against the concrete floor, halting only when I lower myself to an old-fashioned wooden kitchen chair. The same kind Pete is sitting on.
I say nothing but eye the man. The incessantdrip, dripof a leaking pipe only adds to the gothic atmosphere.
“We’ve been here before, Pete,” I eventually begin. “Gambling when you don’t have the means to pay…” I allow my words to trail away as I shake my head. “It’s fucking astonishing.”
“I know,” Pete placates, his East End accent turning whiney. “I have no one to blame but myself, though they do say it’s a disease.”
“One that’ll cut short your life if you’re not careful.”
Pete turns the color of putty under the fluorescent light. But it’s just a bit of theater because dead people can’t pay their debts. We prefer to leverage what’s owed against other outcomes. Things my organization might find useful.
A trader on the stock market floor? How about a little inside trading in exchange for writing off your debt? A policeman? Information. Or maybe turn a blind eye to our activities. In local government? Help grease the wheels with our planning applications. A politician? The possibilities are endless.
Pete is a property developer, and this isn’t his first time in the hot seat. Last time, he was in for a hundred grand and helped us with some shady property dealings.
So many upstanding citizens. So many to bend.
“You weren’t thinking about the bigger picture, Pete. You got lost in that rush.” I don’t know why I’m wasting my time. Or my breath. “What’s wrong with your face?” I glance Luis’s way. “Why is Pete’s face twitching?”
“Nothing I do,jefe.” For a big scary fucker, Luis has a surprisingly soft voice, his Spanish accent mildly endearing.
My attention turns back to Pete, who wiggles his fingers—spirit fingers, Daisy would call them—but fingers are all he can wiggle, given his wrists are tied to the arms of his chair and his ankles to its legs.
“Itchy nose is all,” Pete explains before carrying on. “The thing is, Mr. Deveraux, I just paid my tax bill. My bank accounts are empty until the money comes down the food chain—you know how it is.”
Pete knows I know how it is. I have my fingers in many ventures, including property.
“Time and the tax man wait for nothing. The quantity surveyor is arguing with the cost plan on my last job,” he continues. “It looks like it’s heading for mediation.”
“But you knew this was coming. I’ve given you thirty days already. Come on, Pete. That’s like a regular line of credit.”
From his position leaning against a steel pole, Antonio chuckles. By contrast, Luis, standing to Pete’s left, says nothing.
“You’ve put me in a very difficult predicament, paying the tax man when you owe me.” I throw up a hand as I lounge back in the chair. “Come on, Pete. The tax man lets you pay on account.”
“Only, I still owe money from last tax year and the missus—she does the bookkeeping—doesn’t know I owe you.”
Along with my sigh this time, I drag my hand down my face.
I don’t need to sit in on these… grassroots meetings. But from time to time, I choose to. It’s a way of keeping myself grounded, remembering where I came from. It also keeps the clientele from getting complacent.
Raif Deveraux. He’s got more money than Croesus.
He’s not going to chase me for fifty Gs.
But I am.
“So what are we going to do, Pete? How will we reach a satisfactory agreement this day?”
“I dunno, Mr. Deveraux. I’ve got no idea.”
“What’s the job you’re working on now?” Pulling my cigarettes from my pocket, I silently offer them his way.
Peter shakes his head. “A new build townhouse in Kensington.”
“How much is it worth?”
