Free Killer Instinct by Zoe Sharp

wheezing.
     
    I picked up one of the bottles from the latest batch. It was vodka, I think, with nearly an inch of liquid remaining in the bottom. “Hey, you got a glass on you? There's still some left in this one.”
     
    “Very funny,” he said, retrieving the bottle and ramming it back into the crate. “The bar optics don't always pick up the last dregs, and it's not worth the hassle of taking them down and pouring them by hand. Not with the amount of spirits we go through here in a week.”
     
    He hopped out and slammed the van doors shut behind him. As we walked back through into the club he caught my arm. “Listen, Charlie, do me a favour and don't mention this to Marc, will you?” he said suddenly. “Like I say, I was supposed to have all this done this morning, and the boss can get really funny if you don't do things by the book.”
     
    “No problem,” I said. “My lips are sealed.”
     
    I collected my jacket and lid, and he led me back through to the main lower dance floor. Without the heavy musical overlay, milling bodies, and the clever lighting effects, the decor just looked tacky, overblown. The smell of last night's cigarettes hung on the air like a leaking gas main.
     
    I perched on a bar stool and watched Gary work. His movements were quick, economic, as he worked his way along the line, fixing new bottles upside down onto the optics to replace the ones he'd taken away. I like watching anyone with such manual dexterity. Plasterers and pastry chefs fascinate me.
     
    There was the sound of locks being worked and a heavy door opening on the split-level above us. It threw a shaft of natural light into the club that had been missing before. I looked up and watched three shadows growing larger as they advanced.
     
    “Look, I better finish off upstairs,” Gary said hastily. “I'll see you later, Charlie.” And he scurried off.
     
    The shadows finally took solid form on the gallery above the dance floor where Clare and I had had our first view of the revamped club. It was Marc, flanked by the two doormen who'd been working that night; the bearded one, and my old mate, Len.
     
    “Charlie? You're early,” Marc said when he caught sight of me.
     
    I glanced at my watch. “No, actually I believe you're late,” I said calmly.
     
    I saw Marc's head come up at that, surprise tinged with a trace of anger. Well, tough. The job would be useful, but I didn't need it. No way did I want to be scuttering around like Gary, afraid of treading on the boss man's toes.
     
    Even from that distance, I saw Len's big hands instinctively curl round the top rail of the balustrade. You didn't have to be a psychologist to work out he'd rather have them round my neck. What's your problem, sonny? I made a mental note to be careful around him.
     
    The trio moved down the stairs to my level and Marc came across to shake hands. “Regardless of the timing, I'm glad you're here,” he said. “I believe you've already met Len and Angelo.”
     
    We nodded to each other. Angelo didn't look like he belonged to his name, but I wasn't about to point that out. Today they were both in their civvies, black bomber jackets and trousers, and vaguely police-issue rubber-soled boots.
     
    Angelo was shorter in stature, but just as broad as Len. At first glance, he looked mildly less psychotic than his partner, but that wasn't saying much. They took up station a respectful distance from their boss.
     
    Marc offered me a drink as he waved me to one of the tables. I asked for coffee. “Of course. There's a filter machine in the office. In fact, I'll have one, too,” Marc said. “Len, would you mind?” I glanced up and was surprised to see that the big man moved instantly to fulfil the request. No sullen hesitations at being asked to play waitress. Marc obviously commanded respect as well as obedience.
     
    “So, Charlie, how do you come to know so much about security?” Marc asked now, sitting back in his chair to study me, head