Peter and Daniel Bailey had opened this club and watched as the money rolled in; for with the clubs came the drugs, both of which were earning them fortunes. Peter was happy for Daniel to run this side of the business. Personally, he didn’t like it, but he was sensible enough to know it was a necessary evil. Peter prided himself on providing the best that could be procured, from the DJs to the live music. And so, despite his dislike of them, he also insisted on the best quality of narcotic. Peter believed that if you offered the best, you would have the edge over the rest.

As he walked into The House, he saw the bouncers on the door searching two young men, and he nodded at them, pleased. No one dealt in here, unless they had the permission of the head doorman. It was not just so that they were the only game in town – it was to make sure that no one was sold anything that could kill. So much of the speed that was sold around and about was cut with everything from Ajax, a kitchen cleaner, to strychnine, a bona fide poison. Peter accepted they had to sell the stuff – along with the LSD, the marijuana: the home grown, sinsemilla, Afghan Black. That was without the Valium, the Mogadon, the uppers and the downers that went hand-in-hand with the stimulants that were in such high demand.

Oh, they were like a fucking pharmacy, but Peter had made peace with that. As Daniel said, if they didn’t provide the drugs, somebody else would. The money to be made was too quick and too easy to overlook, and he knew the truth of that statement.

As he walked through the downstairs bar, Peter wondered at the money that would change hands in here this night. He pushed his way through the crush of bodies, looking around him, as always, still watching for the errant knife, the lone gunman. He knew that to survive you could never get complacent. Especially with Daniel pissing more people off by the day. Well, Daniel was a fucking idiot as far as he was concerned. He admired his brother’s confidence, in a way. But Peter was a man who believed that the worst could happen, and frequently did. Therefore he was always on the lookout for the nearest escape route, the hidden assassin or the fucking drunk trying to prove themselves.