He owns about ten apartments all over London. David has this scheme in case he’s ever busted. He gets a mate who has OK credit and he puts the deposit down for them to buy a flat. David pays the mortgage and when he tells them to sell they do. Nobody double-crosses David - they’re all too scared. If David was to get nicked as a dealer, any of his property could be confiscated if they could prove he gained it from powder. Since he has never worked a day in his life that would be all of it, which is why none of it is in his name. He even has the cheek to sign on.
He’s clever, doesn’t make any mistakes and he doesn’t miss a trick. He has about twenty lads aged between sixteen and twenty-five working for him. If they fucked up in any way, he’d cut them. Or worse. He rules them with fear and has an uncanny knack of making people feel as though he’s their best fucking friend. Once they are under his wing there's no getting out. I’m lucky. Apart from buying gear from him, which is the best by the way, I never take a favour so I keep the relationship on an even par. They call him David McFagin after the bastard in Oliver. Not just on account of using kids to do his work but also because he has a passion for show tunes.
It’s just my luck that when I get there he’s been up since New Year and his best mate Faggot Anthony is with him lying, looking half unconscious, on the couch next to his table. I don’t know why he’s called Faggot Anthony. David’s always called him that though I don’t even think he’s gay.
David’s off his head big time. Worse still, there’s some kid about nineteen standing on a chair in front of the desk with his trousers and pants down. The kid looks like he’s going to wet himself. David has a knife in his hand and a menacing look on his face. From that I’m guessing I might be in for a problem.
‘What’s with the kid?’ I ask, trying my best not to look freaked.
‘Just seeing if he has the balls to rip me off, the fucking little shit,’ snarls David, turning the knife in his hand.
He fetches me a beer that I didn’t ask for. I know better than not to take it. He cuts me a line that I half-heartedly snort through his gold straw.
Turns out him and Faggot Anthony went to see ‘Chicago’ on New Year’s Eve. As I said, David loves actors and show tunes. I bullshit that I know a few of the cast and trained Denise Van Outen when she was in it. I even promise to introduce him to her, which makes him smile and takes his mind off the kid for a second.
I look at the kid, his Burberry baseball hat on the floor, white shirt collar sticking out from beneath his Polo sweater, Tommy Hilfiger pants sticking out of his designer jeans which are still round his ankles. His neat wedge haircut hides his eyes and his vague attempt to grow a goatee looks as pathetic as he does right now. I can just see him the night before giving it big around the clubs, pulling the girls ’cos he has the coke, his mates looking up to him. They should see him now with his balls hanging out and his dick shrivelled to nothing ’cos he’s that scared. I feel sorry for him. He knows better than to run. David would cut his balls off as easy as look at him. He’d never make it to the door.
‘I love ‘Chicago’. What’s that tune…‘All that Jazz’? It’s brilliant,’ I blurt out, trying to get David’s mind off the kid.
‘I like ‘Cell Block Tango’ myself… He has it fucking coming,’ David says, turning back to the kid.
He asks the kid if he sings. When he tells him he does David growls ‘Fucking sing then, you little cunt.’
Tears start to run down the kid’s face, but he raises his head and bursts into the most amazing rendition of ‘All that Jazz’. I start to feel sick.
David starts to cry and stands up, walks over to the kid and helps him down from the chair.