Page 45 of London's Calling: Part 1
“Incoming,” Priest warns beneath his breath two seconds before a voice comes from behind me.
“Mickey Rawlins, what a pleasure,” Ike says as he appears at the side of our table, hands splayed in greeting. He nods to Priest before giving me his attention again. “Are you being looked after? Can I get you anything?” He pats my shoulder before dropping his hand to his side and slipping it into his trouser pocket.
“We’re all good, thank you, Ike. Join us for a drink?” I offer, assuming he’ll decline.
He watches me, then scans the restaurant before shocking me and pulling a chair out. “I’d love to.” Once he’s seated, he catches the eye of our waitress, indicating for a drink. Turning back to us, he says, “I see you weren’t expecting that. Much like I wasn’t expecting to see you in my restaurant, Mickey.” He tips his head, knowingly. “I know you didn’t come here to eat my food and drink my draft lager when there are a hundred other Italian restaurants you could go to, some even better than my own.”
“I doubt that’s true, Ike.”
“Don’t blow smoke up my arse, Mickey.” Ike snaps while maintaining a smile, albeit a tight one, on his face. “We are both busy men, so tell me, why are you here?”
The waitress delivers Ike’s drink, and this time her smile is genuine with more than a hint of familiarity. As she leaves, Ike’s eyes follow her arse until she moves out of sight. When his attention returns to me, I’m smirking knowingly.
“Let’s say this is a conversation that could be mutually beneficial.”
He nods, then takes a sip of his wine, savouring it as he contemplates his next words. “I recall a time when that would have been an exciting prospect but not so much now.” He pauses, gauging my reaction. “I assume you heard about Simmonds? That’s why you’re here, right?”
The momentary creasing of my brow and flex of my jaw give way to Ike’s laughter.
“Well, that is a surprise.” He leans forward, elbow resting on the table. “You really should gather all the information before showing up on the doorstep of someone you intend to bargain with. I mean, that’s what this is, is it not?”
“And you told him not to beat around the bush,” Priest mutters.
“Touche, Mr Summers. Seems the old man took a tumble down some stairs and is currently in hospital. There are whispers he’s unlikely to recover.” He pauses momentarily, taking in my reaction. “Ah, you weren’t aware. Is your father aware you’re here, Mickey?”
I smirk. “Let’s leave my father out of this for now. I’m interested to know?—”
“I’m not interested in selling my shares, in either hotel. And certainly not to a man who didn’t offer me the time of day until I had something he was interested in.” He gets to his feet, closing down any further conversation. “Enjoy your meal.” He leans down as the waitress delivers our food. “Then, kindly, get out of my restaurant.”
I watch as he strides away, blindly thanking the waitress when a plate appears in front of me.
“That went well,” Priest states, picking up his cutlery and digging in.
“About as well as trying to carry water with a sieve.” We eat in silence after that. Priest knows it’s best to leave me to it at this point, although I’m sure he’s desperate to make another sarcastic fucking comment. Regardless of Ike’s determined response, I’m not ready to give up yet.
Ike watches us from the bar area as we leave, and I give him a salute before exiting.
“You wanna talk about it now?” Priest asks once we are back in my car.
“No, but I’m interested to find out what the fuck happened to Simmonds.” And I know just the person to ask.
I drop Priest off at his with the promise to catch up with him and Fletch later. As soon as he closes the car door, I call my father.
“Dad, hey, have you heard?”
“Mickey, are we talking about Simmonds’ accident or you and Priest eating at Ike’s?”
Shit! I should have known better than to think that would fly under his radar.
“Simmonds, Dad.”
“Hmm, we’ll put the other topic on ice for now. As for Simmonds, he’s in hospital. I don’t know more than that. And before you ask, no, I didn’t have anything to do with it. That’s not to say I wouldn’t like to shake the hand of whoever did, if they did, that is.”
I laugh, not at all surprised he feels that way. There was a time I struggled to understand how two people could go from being such close friends and business partners to loathing one another with an unending passion. But it’s not so hard to imagine when I think about what would make me turn on Priest or Fletch. I have my theories about what went down between Simmonds and my dad, why their relationship, personal and business, broke down, but they are just suspicions.
“Do you know more?” my father asks, snapping me from my thoughts.
“Not at present but give me a couple of hours and I might have an update for you.”
