Private London

Chapter 110

The Heavy walked into the pub, hands held high.

There were no customers as such. Ronnie Allen sat at his usual table with Brendan Ferres, the East Coast Mafiosi Sally Manzino and his glamorous companion.

Sitting next to Brendan Ferres was Rebecca Allen, Ronnie Allen’s daughter who was engaged to be married to the man whose baseball bat I was holding. She was every bit as large as life as I remembered her. She was dressed to kill in tight jeans, a low-cut peasant blouse, her full lips were painted blood-red and her big blue eyes sparkled beneath the mass of blonde hair that tumbled around her heart-shaped face. I think she rather liked the look of Del Rio. I was probably too much the urban sophisticate for her. She smiled and sat back to watch.

Brendan Ferres turned round to see what she was smiling at and nearly spat out the beer he was drinking. He put his pint down and pulled out a gun. He was fast, I’ll give him that much.

‘Tell the prick to drop the piece, Carter,’ he said. ‘Or I’m going to put one in you.’

I flashed a quick smile back at him. ‘I don’t think so, Brendan. You and me, we’re going to have a little dance.’

‘The fuck you talking about?’

Ronnie Allen tapped Brendan on the shoulder. ‘Give me the gun, Brendan.’

Ferres looked at him puzzled for a moment, and then shrugged. ‘Sure, boss. But shoot him in the gut – I’d like to see him wriggle a while before he dies.’

Ronnie Allen held the gun secure on the table. ‘I believe the gentleman asked you for a dance.’

Now Ferres looked really perplexed. ‘What’s going on, Ronnie?’

Rebecca Allen turned her gaze back on me. ‘Did you bring the item you mentioned on the phone?’ Her voice was low but sultry. She reminded me of the young Diana Dors. Marilyn Monroe on steroids, maybe.

I walked across to the table and tossed the DVD I had taken from the media student down in front of her.