Tiger Men by Judy Nunn Page B

in such a way?’
    ‘She was having a bit of fun, that’s all.’ Ma’s tone was still short: she wasn’t about to be mollified that easily. ‘There’s business and there’s fun. You’re no good for business, so she flirted with you for fun. But Red doesn’t fuck for fun, I can tell you that here and now.’
    Mick was taken aback. ‘So she’s a whore then?’ He didn’t know why, but the notion came as a mild shock. He’d gathered that Red was no gentlewoman, but he’d thought perhaps she was a wealthy man’s mistress or . . . Or what? he wondered. Upon reflection, he realised he hadn’t actually thought what Red might be at all: he’d been far too intrigued by the woman herself.
    ‘Course she is.’ Ma’s attitude softened. Sharp as young Mick was, he could be downright naive at times. ‘Not your run-of-the-mill whore though. Our Red’s for select use only. She works at Trafalgar.’
    Of course, Mick thought. That explained everything. Trafalgar would be right up Red’s alley.
    ‘Trafalgar’ was an impressive two-storey stone townhouse in Barrack Street. Built as a personal residence for a rich English merchant who had since returned to Britain, it had been purchased by a fast-thinking entrepreneur who had retained the name of the building but not its residential status. Now a haven for the wealthy, Trafalgar was a gentlemen’s club where the term ‘exclusive’ had genuine meaning. Catering to the rich and powerful, the club boasted a fine bill of fare, a plush lounge and bar, and the requisite green-felt gaming room. Indeed, Trafalgar offered everything an elite gentlemen’s club was expected to offer, and something else besides. The exotic hostesses who entertained the members as they dined and drank were known for their beauty and also for the fact they could be bought. Should a club member wish, he could, for a substantial price, be provided with further entertainment upstairs in one of the well-appointed apartments, and he could do so without fear of damage to his reputation, for at Trafalgar ‘exclusive’ was another term for discreet.
    ‘I take it you’ve heard of Trafalgar.’ Ma’s remark was heavily laced with irony, but Mick didn’t pick up on it.
    ‘Yes, I’ve heard the place mentioned.’ Of course he had. Several of the men at Farrington’s spoke of little else. They’d been trying to inveigle him into joining them for some time, but he was not interested in the offerings of a high-class bordello, and the club as a facility was beyond his means.
    ‘I thought you might,’ Ma said, ‘given the circles you move in.’
    This time he registered an innuendo, although its meaning escaped him.
    ‘I see a lot from up here, Mick.’ Ma gestured to the window that looked down over the laneway. ‘I see you leaving all decked out in your finery. And what I don’t see the girls report to me anyway. I see and hear everything. Nothing escapes me. I know what you’re about, lad.’
    ‘Oh, is that so? And what is it I’m about?’ There had been no accusation in Ma’s words, but Mick felt a surge of anger. How dare they spy on him? How dare they talk about him behind his back? ‘I like fine clothes, is that a crime? I’ve never hidden the fact. And what exactly is wrong with fine clothes, may I ask?’
    ‘Nothing, nothing at all; no-one’s saying there is. The girls love seeing you in your fancy clobber. They think you look downright handsome and they can’t wait to tell me. Don’t get yourself wound up over nothing, Mick.’ She picked up his mug and held it out as a peace offering. ‘Here, have a swig of rum and calm down; no offence was intended.’
    Mick knew he’d overreacted, and he felt rather stupid. The girls always gave him whistles and cat-calls when they saw him dressed up – of course they would talk about him to Ma. He accepted the mug and sipped his rum.
    ‘There’s a good lad.’ Ma poured herself another. ‘It’s not the clothes, Mick, it’s what they