Free Dirty Game by Jessie Keane

understood and rage engulfed her.
    ‘Who are you telling to piss off, you old bastard?’ demanded Annie.
    She knew what was going on. She knew damned well that Bert paid for protection. She’d seen Billy in here, collecting. Blushing when she spoke to him, the stupid git.
    ‘This is Max Carter, isn’t it,’ she said in bitter realization.
    ‘Look, I told you nicely, I don’t want to see you here again. Clear off,’ said Bert, and stormed off into the stock room.
    So that was that. Annie left the shop and started walking back to Celia’s. Now her job was gone and she’d be lucky to get another one, she knew that. Certainly not on Max’s manor or in the areas controlled by most of the other gangs, gangs who were friendly with Max and would be only too pleased to do him a favour by making sure she stayed out in the cold. The bastard!
    For the first time in her life she was on the Delaney patch. She’d lived all her life on Carter territory, seeing Max and Jonjo passing by in their big black cars, seeing them treated like royalty, people bowing and scraping. Consequently she’d grown up with the firm notion that the Delaneys were mad, dirty, red-haired Irish tinkers. The Delaneys were the enemy. But now it seemed that the Delaney manor was the only place she could breathe around here. Talk about a turnaround. But she’d brought all this on herself. She’d been a silly cow. She knew it.
    And now here she was, dossing down in her disreputable aunt’s knocking shop, on dirty Delaney soil, with a brass wanting girly chats. She was not in the mood.
    ‘I said – don’t I know you?’ said Aretha, her dark brown eyes challenging.
    ‘I doubt it,’ said Annie, and got back to her mag.
    ‘Only you look kind of familiar.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    This was bad news. If this tart recognized her from somewhere as Ruthie Carter’s sister, then the shit would hit the fan and she would possibly have to move on. And where to? She hadn’t a clue. She was already jobless. She didn’t want to be homeless again. She comforted herself with the fact that the Carters and the Delaneys were at loggerheads. This was Delaney turf. But still she didn’t feel safe.
    Annie took a look at the girl. Aretha was beautiful, tall, muscular in the way that black women often were, no spare padding at all. A big powder puff of black curls, big earrings. A tiny pink top pulled tight across small breasts. A black belted PVC miniskirt. Thigh-high black boots. How could anyone look that good and be a brass? Or a masseuse , Annie corrected herself. The girls here gave massages to a surprisingly diverse range of men. She’d spotted dockers and navvies coming and going, but she’d also seen one or two well- known actors, an MP, and a high-ranking police officer. All here to be ministered to by Celia’s three masseuses and one masseur , who by the way also gave blow jobs, hand jobs and a good shag at an additional fee, thank you, your honour.
    ‘She really your Aunt Celia?’ asked Aretha.
    ‘She really is.’
    ‘Some aunt.’
    Annie shrugged.
    ‘You a working girl too?’
    Annie slapped her magazine shut. ‘No,’ she said, and got up and shut the door in Aretha’s face.
    Aretha knocked on the door.
    Annie flung it open. ‘Okay, what?’
    ‘Don’t go shuttin’ the door in my face, baby doll. Or you’ll be sorry.’
    ‘I want some privacy. Is that a crime?’
    ‘Ain’t no need to go puttin’ on airs just because you’re related to Madam down there, always sippin’ her tea with her little finger stuck out and paintin’ her nails and smoking that friggin’ fancy cigarette thing and tellin’ us to be sure to get ’em to wash their winkles before we get started on any little extras.’
    ‘You got something against Celia? Take it up with Celia,’ said Annie.
    ‘I got no beef with her. But she makin’ a good chunk o’ money out of us eager beavers.’
    ‘Oh really,’ said Annie.
    ‘Yeah, really. So how come you not