Chapter 14 #2
Paddy could literally get laid in the middle of a desert sandstorm.
Despite being whippet thin, with a face like a car wreck and more scars than an alley cat, his perpetual grin and shit-stirring humor somehow charm women into his bed with startling efficiency.
Our old platoon once voted him the man they would, quote, trust with your life but never your wife.
“You never told me I couldn’t have a bit of the ride while I’m on the job here,” he says in a mildly injured tone.
“You can ride whatever you want—on your own time. Just keep it in your pants at work.”
“And I haven’t even had a chance to blow shit up yet.” Paddy shakes his head. “You’re lucky I owed you a favor, Macarthur.”
His family runs an extremely lethal mob of Irish mafia in Belfast. Last year they got themselves into a war with a rival clan. I spent a few rather fun weeks helping Paddy sort it out, which is why I knew he’d come and lend a hand in London.
Well, that, and Paddy has never been able to say no to anything that looks like it might end in a fight.
“I wouldn’t count out blowing shit up just yet,” I say as the waitress returns with wine, smiling at Paddy again. I wait until she’s gone before continuing. “Ever heard of Simon Lowbridge? He’s the minister for business and trade.”
“Never heard of him.” Paddy tucks into his pie. “But with a title like that, I hate the posh prick already.”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” I open a bottle of extremely good Burgundy and pour us both a glass. “Lowbridge isn’t posh at all. He’s from a council estate in London’s East End. Single mother, deadbeat father, social security—the full catastrophe.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” he says, shrugging.
“Sure. But Lowbridge didn’t exactly leave the sewer behind.”
Paddy’s eyes narrow. “Go on.”
“He got his start running girls, drugs, and guns. He managed to turn himself legit by the time he was in his early twenties, at least on the surface. Moved into mail-order drop-shipping before it was an internet thing, then cashed in when it went digital. Expanded to a shipping company and hit the Forbes rich list. Then he managed to marry some heiress and scored himself a seat in the House of Lords, not to mention a place in Cabinet.”
“Isn’t that some kind of conflict of interest?”
“You’d think so. But Lowbridge clearly knows what he’s doing. He simply bought anyone who stood in his way.”
“Figures.” Paddy gives a philosophical shrug. “Politicians. They’re all pricks.” He looks at me. “So why do we care about this Lowbridge fucker?”
I fill our glasses up again, then finish the last of an exceptionally good steak. “I think Lowbridge is bribing someone in Zinaida’s organization for information.” I pull out my tablet and show him the Daily Truth article.
“There’s stuff in there he shouldn’t have known,” I say as he reads. “Details he could only have gotten from someone close to Zin.”
“So you think it’s this Lowbridge prick who’s been taking potshots at your lady?”
I ignore the my lady comment.
But you like hearing it, don’t you? A little too much.
I clear my throat. “I don’t know yet. But I don’t like the fact that he’s sniffing around. It might just be business, of course. He’s an ambitious guy. Might be he’s eyeing the Pigalle franchise.”
Paddy grins. “Can’t blame him for that. If I won the lottery, I’d buy the Quartier, or at least all the dancers in it.”
“Ha. But unlike you, Lowbridge can buy as many dancers as he wants, anytime he wants them. It’s the power he’s after. Apparently he’s been trying to get a membership there for years, but Zin has never let him past Pigalle’s gaming rooms.”
“And you think maybe he got tired of waiting.” He nods, handing me back the tablet. “Makes sense. But you still haven’t told me what I get to blow up.”
I grin. “I don’t know yet. But I wanted to give you the heads-up, so you’ve got eyes on him if he turns up at Pigalle. When it comes to pricks like Lowbridge, it’s only a matter of time before the bullets start flying.”
“Ah, you’re such a tease, Macarthur.” Paddy raises his glass to me.
“But at least you drink the decent stuff. And I suppose I can always keep myself occupied throwing Charlie down on a daily basis.” He raises his hands in mock surrender at my frown.
“On the mat, cock, I was talking about throwing her down on the mat.”
“Yeah, well. Keep it that way. I don’t need the headache.”
“Is that right, now?” He gives me a knowing look.
“I wouldn’t have thought it was that end of your body that was suffering, so close to the lovely Miss Melikov.
And what’s with you taking personal protection jobs?
You never take the private clients. Especially one so”—seeing my warning expression, he quickly moderates whatever he was going to say—“unique.”
Unique. That’s a word.
Smokeshow. That’s another.
Fucking torture, that would be a third. Or is that a fourth?
“Well, so.” Sitting back in his chair, Paddy stares at me with a distinct gleam in his eye. “Not your lady, is it?” He nods sardonically. “Sure, Macarthur. If you say so.”
I fix him with as steely a gaze as I can manage. “Zinaida’s a client, Paddy.”
“Aye. Grand. Sure she is.” He signals the waitress, still grinning. “Two cognacs, darling,” he says, flashing her the smile that for some reason I will never fathom seems to melt the hardest of women.
The waitress delivers our drinks. She bends down to whisper something in Paddy’s ear that makes his smile even wider.
“Am I going to get enough time to actually drink my cognac before you disappear to shag that poor girl in the cellar?” I say resignedly as she walks away.
“Drink fast, lad.” Paddy raises his glass to me with a shit-eating grin. “That waitress isn’t going to take herself home, and unlike you, blue balls really aren’t my thing.”