CHAPTER 17
Back at the Peacock and before Ritchie could make his move, he heard On flip-flopping back up the spiral stairs with her tray. “Innovate on the go” had been Mark Dobson’s message during his indoctrination. Never be caught without a Plan B and a Plan C.
“Cold cold,” On said setting the tray down and pouring the drinks. “You like?”
“I like,” Ritchie said. “Cold beer, hot lady.”
She smiled sweetly. “Where you stay, Micky?”
It was always an early question if things were looking good but Richie needed to innovate on the go. Ritchie’s Plan B was just a simple modification of Plan A and so he leaned over and sniffed her neck. Perhaps she thought he was getting intimate because she giggled and wriggled and moved her chair closer. “Nice perfume,” Ritchie said. “Don’t tell me. I’m an expert. It’s called….” He sniffed her again, innovating. “Pansy. Am I right?”
On giggled from six inches away. “I not know Pansy.”
Ritchie didn’t either. He only knew the names of three flowers. Pansies were one, daffodils didn’t sound right and neither did dandelions It didn’t matter. “Peng, peng,” he said,” Rich girl. huh?”
On looked shy for the first time. “Ooh, no, not so rich.”
“It’s my business,” Ritchie said proudly, lowering the dark glasses over his eyes to present an even cooler vision. “I give you present.” And he bent down to the backpack and withdrew a small pink box. He laid it on the table next to his beer and opened it. “My perfume,” he announced proudly.
And there it sat for a moment, a fancy shaped bottle filled with a golden liquid Mark Dobson had bought in a shop on Edgware Road and fitted with a new and fancy label created by Colin Asher on one of his printing machines. It was called ‘Eau de Toilette by Ritchie of London.’
On seemed to like the look of it so Ritchie unscrewed the lid, dabbed some on the back of his hand, rubbed it in with a finger and held it to On’s nose. “Nice, huh?”
“Ooh. Velly nice. Hom hom.”
Ritchie decided that a couple of bottles of that could secure his short-term future but, he reminded himself again, he was on duty. “For you,” he said like a man offering a long-term girl-friend an engagement ring. And he smeared a little on her neck as she waited, head raised like a purring cat having its throat stroked.
“Hom hom.”
“You think Om would buy a bottle?” he said pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.
“Maybe,” On said giggling as if she thought he might share the profits with her.
“Let’s try, shall we?”
Ritchie picked up his bag and went over to the corner table where Denim Wedgie had just returned with more beers. “Evenin’ gents,” he said. “I’m just testing out my new perfume. Free samples. Care for a sniff?” He offered the back of his hand to Om’s nose.
“Ooh. Velly nice. Hom hom. How much?”
He showed the bottle to the big, fair haired Russian and unscrewed the lid. “You sir, you look like a man who knows a good perfume, if I may so. Care to check this out?” He undid the lid and tried putting it to the nose of the Russian but the man was not amused. “Ty che blyad!” he grunted and raised a big hand to ward off the unwelcome intrusion.
But one of the others sitting next to him, a shorter, slimmer man who Ritchie thought was English seemed more interested. “Where the fuck did this come from?” And Ritchie, who had an actor’s ear for accents, recognised not an Englishman but a Dutchman. As well as his boat trip to Dublin, Ritchie had also been to Amsterdam, once.
“My very own, mate. ‘Eau de Toilette by Ritchie of London’. Original flavours and smells to suit your every need. Give the girlfriend a drop. Unscrew the lid and end up getting screwed yourself. Ha Ha.”
That seemed to break the ice and so Ritchie beckoned On to come over and join them because she looked lonely sat on her own. She held onto his arm in case he ran away whilst everyone took their turn to sniff the bottle until it ended up with the big, fair-haired Russian again.
“You sir, waddya fink? Nice huh? You in business? Could get a container load shipped to Moscow end of this week if you want? You are Russian ain’t you mate? Thought so. I got a good mate called Yuri back in Tottenham. Bloody Watford supporter would you believe it?”
“Sit down.” It was a command, made more forceful by a thick, pointed finger. “Who’s this guy, Ritchie?”
Ritchie was already prepared for that. “You think ‘Eau de Toilette by Mick’ sounds like it might sell a million bottles? Give me credit for an ounce of commercial know-how, mate. I’m Micky but Ritchie sounds real cool.”
As that put an immediate stop to that line of questioning, Ritchie pulled up two chairs, one for himself and one for On who was now hanging around his neck, and they started talking, drinking, laughing and dabbing the perfume on each other. Everything was going brilliantly and even more beers were being offered.
It was twenty minutes later that Ritchie’s phone rang. It made him jump, after all this was only the second time it had rung since he’d uploaded the ring tone. He untangled himself from On.
“Yeh?”
Mark Dobson was siting downstairs in the open bar near the snooker tables drinking Tiger beer with a lot of ice while watching two Spanish teams kick a football around on a wide screen. “That you Micky?” he said.
“Nick, my old mate. How’s it hanging?”
“Good thanks. How’s it going?”
“Magic my son. You?”
“Watching the football downstairs, Micky.”
“You don’t say. What the fuck’s going on?”
Mark, downstairs, heard Ritchie stand up, perhaps push his chair back and probably go walk-about but within easy listening distance of the table he’d just deserted.
They’d rehearsed the next part back in London. Ritchie was to perform solo as Dobson relaxed and listened with the phone held away from his ear and watched Barcelona score the winning goal.
“Fuck,” Ritchie said. “But I’ve got customers, mate. What the fuck you playing at? Why? Bloody hell. Did he say that? Jesus. Just as we’re, you know. Bloody hell, Nick. You’re kidding me. I can’t believe you’re telling me this.”
He went on like that for a whole minute until Mark butted in. “Well done, Ritchie. I’m leaving now. Good luck.”
“Fucking hell, Nick. What a sod. I still cannot believe you’re telling me this.”
Mark Dobson then switched the phone off and returned to the Sabaidee Mansion for an early night. For the first time in his professional career he was about to enjoy the pleasures of delegating to a junior.
It was 4am when Ritchie reported in.
“Where are you?” Mark asked.
“In my room, below yours. I can hear you snoring. Want a report?”
“Go ahead.”
Ritchie was on a high through excitement and dilute Tiger beer. After the faked phone call Ritchie had turned into a sober, angry and depressed young businessman totally let down by his supplier and best mate Nick from somewhere in East London.
The bastard Nick, Micky told his new friends, was probably right then, right that minute in time, screwing Micky’s Nigerian girlfriend who’d just got a swimwear modelling contract. You couldn’t trust anyone since the last election. Bring back hanging, the stocks, the bloody rack that was standing underused in the dungeons at the Tower of London because after years of meticulous preparation Micky’s perfumes business was in tatters and plans to introduce ‘Soft & Smooth’ hand cream and ‘Cuticle Care’ by Ritchie of London were back on the drawing board and lacking the key element - a supplier.
Micky had made himself so popular with his distress that the Russian with the frontal blow wave had suggested he might like to look into some other business opportunities instead and not restrict himself to cosmetics. Micky had style. Micky had undeniable commercial talent and the big Russian was proud to admit in more hushed terms, that though he might not look important, he was, in fact, the head of a worldwide group of companies with headquarters in Moscow and always quick to recognise a talented salesman when he met one.
Humoured by something, they’d all laughed – the two other Russians, the Dutchman from Sydney, the Englishman from Phuket and the Frenchman who didn’t want to say where he came from because he didn’t want either of his wives to know. Even Denim Wedgie had joined in the hilarity although little On had quickly fallen behind and couldn’t catch up with such fast-moving events.
“Call me Igor,” the blow-waved Russian had said.
So-called Igor had started drinking Smirnoff because there was no other brand behind the bar, but, oh yes, Igor could see plenty of opportunities for an entrepreneur of Mick’s ethnic background and his many customers of a similar colour. And if, as Micky claimed, he knew many immigrants from the Sudan, Somalia, Ethiopia and Bangladesh in a place called Tower Hamlets then global markets were clearly at his fingertips.
At 1am, they’d moved to a room at the Novotel near the airport.
“Two more women turned up, Mark,” Ritchie said. “Big Russian types with. loud voices and big assets. More vodka and other stuff arrived and the Dutchman produced a box of little white pills to try.”
“But you didn’t, did you, Ritchie?” Dobson butted in. “It’s a sack-able offence according to Asher & Asher’s employment guidelines.”
“No, but I collected a pocketful if you want to try.”
“Flush them down the john, Ritchie. Now. Do as I say.”
“Yes, boss.”
“What else?”
“I’ve been invited to visit somewhere tomorrow – no, later today.”
“Did you get the name and address, Ritchie?”
“I asked. Igor said it was confidential.”
“And you’re convinced Igor is our friend Dimitri Medinski?”
“If he’s not then your description is way off.”
“Is that it, Ritchie?”
“Jesus, Mark, isn’t that enough for one night.”
“Not bad,” Dobson said although, in all honesty, he thought he’d done brilliantly. “What happened to On?” he asked.
“Sad, Mark, sad. I feel really bad. It was all coming along so nicely. I left her at the Peacock.”
“Shame. Did you give her anything?”
“I left her my bag of Eau de Toilette by Ritchie of London.”