Max went all contemplative again as he ruminated over the figures. Then he said, ‘£20K.’

‘Fuckin’ hell! That’s a bit steep, innit?’

‘The club’s worth over £200K, easily. And that’s not just for the business. I own the building as well, and it’s a bleedin’ goldmine, as you know.’

‘Yeah, but don’t forget,’ said Peter, ‘I’ll be adding value. Once you take care of the aggro, the classy punters will be flocking in. Then you can put your prices up… Tell you what, cut the price in half and I’ll put a couple of my men inside as well. How’s that sound?’

‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ said Max. ‘I’d be making a big loss.’

‘OK,’ said Peter, getting up from his seat. ‘Forget it, business as usual then. So when I send my men round, you’d better fuckin’ have what you owe me.’

‘Hang on,’ said Max, putting out his free hand while still gripping his glass tightly with the other. ‘Let’s not be hasty. Maybe there’s a bit of room for manoeuvre.’

‘Alright, tell you what,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll let you have a little think about it. But don’t take too long. Oh, and I’ll want an option to extend my share in the future whenever you choose to retire altogether. You’ve got till next Tuesday; otherwise we’ll be here for your protection money.’

Then Peter paused momentarily and scrutinised Max’s black eye as well as the empty glass in front of him, before adding, ‘And, if you decide not to go in with me, I’ll be doubling the fee, seeing as how the place has become a bit of a liability now under your sole ownership.’

Peter walked to the door and pulled it open with a confident swing. He now had his back to Max, but he could picture him visibly squirming in his seat, and he suppressed a smile.

Before Max had chance to say anything further, Peter made his way along the corridor and down the stairs, then sauntered out of the place. He knew it wouldn’t be long until Max came grovelling back to him, anxious to cut a deal that would work in Peter’s favour.

While Peter was joining his men at the door, he heard the barman mutter under his breath, ‘Thank God for that.’

But Peter didn’t say anything to him. He didn’t have to; he’d sort the barman out in his own good time. He chuckled to himself as he pictured the barman’s face once he had given him his marching orders. Don’t worry, sunshine, he thought. Your days are fuckin’ numbered.

*