Free Bouncers and Bodyguards by Robin Barratt Page B

patch starting to show through his thin blond locks. He was a good manager – he was realistic and understood the fact that the door staff occasionally had to do what they had to do in order to get the job done and would back them up 98 per cent of the time.
    It was 7.25 p.m. when the last member of the door team finally graced the squad with her presence – her boyfriend, who was also in the security game, as well as being a part-time DJ, had insisted on dropping her off. In true West Indian style, he ran late for everything, but as far as I was concerned – especially in the muscle game – the only thing you should run late for is your own funeral. I told her that if her boyfriend couldn’t get her to the venue at least 15 minutes before the start of her shift, she should perhaps work at a different venue. From the following night onwards, Allison drove herself to and from work.
    With all the door team together, I gave a brief talk on the history of the area and what the management wanted to happen with the club. I pointed out that trouble was expected for at least the first month or so, so everyone had to be on their toes and give full back-up. Although everyone nodded in agreement, I still had very little faith in some of the new faces and made a mental note to make phone calls the following day in order to get a few more reliable people to make up the crew.
    The locals were alerted to the opening of Pals by a highly organised invite system. Danny had done his homework on the surrounding community, and he targeted people who lived in certain streets based on house prices, as well as business owners who had a specific turnover. He then sent personal invites to all those who matched the criteria and let their bragging at being selected act as word of mouth. By 9 p.m. the place had reached capacity, and the atmosphere was a happy one, helped by the fact that Danny had laid on free drinks for the first two hours. He had special gold cards printed and was issuing them out to a select few. The card allowed for priority entry to Pals if a queue had formed outside or if the door was running on a one-out, one-in system, and it also gave the holder entry to the upstairs VIP club. The gold card soon became a highly sought-after acquisition.
    The night was running smoothly until some old faces turned up to reclaim their drinking haunt. There were eight of them in the group – all roughnecks who were up for a row at the drop of a hat. Kevin stopped them at the door and in his politest voice explained that tonight was invitation only and they would not be able to gain entry. In addition – as he pointed to the youngest-looking members of the group – it was strictly over 21s, so some ID would be required.
    They did not like the polite knock-back and started to argue their case. I then stepped in, redirecting their attention towards me and giving Kevin some manoeuvring space. Three of them were definitely underage and two had trainers on, but the remaining three were OK, and I was willing to let them in. I put the ball in their court and asked them what they wanted to do. The group huddled together and thrashed out their views. They decided that the three youngsters could go off and spend their evening in Kingston town centre, leaving the older ones free to enter. As the three youths begrudgingly walked off towards the town, one of the remaining three asked if the two who had trainers on could go home, change and come back to join them. Kevin told them that would not be a problem, so off they went.
    Divide and conquer was the name of the game. Neither Kevin nor I had any real trust in the door team to handle this fight-hungry crew, so dividing them into more manageable numbers seemed a much better plan.
    The three guys walked into the club with smug looks on their faces, thinking that they were the dons of East Moseley or something. As soon as they entered, I radioed the Professor and got him to target them. He was to leave it