He had first learned of her gambling when Tod Michaels, the owner of Tod’s Club, a disreputable gambling place in Soho, had dropped in to see him.
“I have your wife’s IOU’s here for a thousand pounds, Sir Alec. She had a rotten run at roulette.”
Alec had been shocked. He had paid off the IOU’s and had had a confrontation with Vivian that evening. “We simply can’t afford it,” he had told her. “You’re spending more than I’m making.”
She had been very contrite. “I’m sorry, angel. Baby’s been bad.”
And she had walked over to him and put her arms around him and pressed her body against his, and he had forgotten his anger.
Alec had spent a memorable night in her bed. He was sure now that there would be no more problems.
Two weeks later Tod Michaels had come to visit Alec again. This time Vivian’s IOU’s were five thousand pounds. Alec was furious. “Why did you let her have credit?” he demanded.
“She’s your wife, Sir Alec,” Michaels had replied blandly. “How would it look if we refused her?”
“I’ll—I’ll have to get the money,” Alec had said. “I don’t have that much cash at the moment.”
“Please! Consider it a loan. Pay it back when you can.”
Alec had been greatly relieved. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Michaels.”
It was not until a month later that Alec learned that Vivian had gambled away another twenty-five thousand pounds, and that Alec was being charged interest at the rate of 10 percent a week. He was horrified. There was no way he could raise that much cash. There was nothing that he could even sell. The houses, the beautiful antiques, the cars, all belonged to Roffe and Sons. His anger frightened Vivian enough so that she promised not to gamble anymore. But it was too late. Alec found himself in the hands of loan sharks. No matter how much Alec gave them, he could not manage to pay off the debt. It kept mounting each month, instead of getting smaller, and it had been going on for almost a year.
When Tod Michaels’ hoodlums first began to press him for the money, Alec had threatened to go to the police commissioner. “I have connections in the highest quarters,” Alec had said.
The man had grinned. “I got connections in the lowest.”
Now Sir Alec found himself sitting here at White’s with this dreadful man, having to contain his pride, and beg for a little more time.
“I’ve already paid them back more than the money I borrowed. They can’t—”
Swinton replied, “That was just on the interest, Sir Alec. You still haven’t paid the principal.”
“It’s extortion,” Alec said.
Swinton’s eyes darkened. “I’ll give the boss your message.” He started to rise.
Alec said quickly, “No! Sit down. Please.”
Slowly Swinton sat down again. “Don’t use words like that,” he warned. “The last chap who talked like that had both his knees nailed to the floor.”
Alec had read about it. The Kray brothers had invented the punishment for their victims. And the people Alec was dealing with were just as bad, just as ruthless. He could feel the bile rising in his throat. “I didn’t mean that,” Alec said. “It’s just that I—I don’t have any more cash.”
Swinton flicked the ash from his cigar into Alec’s glass of wine, and said, “You have a big bundle of stock in Roffe and Sons, don’t you, Alec baby?”
“Yes,” Alec replied, “but it’s nonsalable and nontransferable. It’s no good to anyone unless Roffe and Sons goes public.”
Swinton took a puff on his cigar. “And is it going public?”
“That’s up to Sam Roffe. I’ve—I’ve been trying to persuade him.”
“Try harder.”
“Tell Mr. Michaels he’ll get his money,” Alec said. “But please stop hounding me.”
Swinton stared. “Hounding you? Why, Sir Alec, you little cocksucker, you’ll know when we start hounding you. Your fucking stables will burn down, and you’ll be eating roast horsemeat. Then your house will burn. And maybe your wife.” He smiled, and Alec wished he had not. “Have you ever eaten cooked pussy?”
Alec had turned pale. “For God’s sake—”