The club was not one that the tall black man would have entered from choice, but it was probably the one place where he would find what he was looking for. His questions at some of the smarter Gay bars in the city had been received with hostility by their owners and patrons alike. Only the undeniable hardness of his muscular body along with their strong distaste for physical violence had enabled him to get them to answer his persistent questions. Those reluctant answers had brought him here. Unlike the other scrupulously clean bars he had been in this one was filthy. Situated as it was right on the edge of the Liverpool dock area he would not have expected it to be glamorous, but this was the pits. It was no more than a long narrow room that ran back about forty feet from the entrance with a wooden topped bar right down one side and groups of plastic topped tables and metal chairs down the other. All had seen better days. The ceiling was an even, dark brown colour from the thousands of cigarettes that had been smoked beneath it, while the floor boasted a carpet that may have once been a deep red, if you could have seen beneath the years of drink stains and cigarette burns. The atmosphere was smoky and stale.
Khorta's entrance had attracted the attention of the only group of drinkers at the bar. Obviously dock workers or merchant seamen, there were six of them dressed mainly jeans, work shirts and casual bomber style jackets. They stared at the tall, well-dressed black man as he stood taking stock. He stared back at the group at the bar for some moments until their expressions became surly and resentful. Then he pointed a long and well-manicured finger at the barman.
“Whisky.”
He pointed at the Glenlivet bottle and then went and sat on a stool next to the group of drinkers. He turned on it and studied the man on the next stool, ignoring the glass that the barman put down in front of him. The object of his attention was a large muscular redhead who was beginning to go to fat. Somewhere in his early forties with hair that was beginning to recede up his forehead, he had compensated for this by growing it down over his shoulders and by the full bushy beard that hung down several inches below his chin. Despite the long sleeves he wore, several tattoos were visible. There was a small blue star in the middle of his forehead while several snakes were entwined between his fingers to disappear up underneath the frayed and grubby cuffs of his shirt. All his clothes had seen better days, but not any kind of cleaning agent for some time. He stared back at Khorta, obviously becoming angered by the others scrutiny, but unafraid. He finally put down the pint glass he had been drinking from and turned to face the other.
“You looking for someone, Sambo or are you looking for something?”
He gave a leer and turned his head slightly to enjoy the grins of his companions. Khorta smiled at him and nodded, equally comfortable in the situation. He leaned forward and spoke confidentially.
“Yes, Sir. I am looking for a dirty and unwashed pervert by the name of Samuel Cullings, who I am given to understand, likes nothing better than to shove his dick up another man's backside. Preferably a young, good looking man and I understand he has several convictions for doing against their objections to such practice….”
He broke off and ducked beneath the swinging right hand that Cullings brought whistling around at his head. Then, as the momentum of the man's swing brought him around on the stool to face him, brought the stiffened fingers of his own right hand stabbing forwards and upwards under the mans lower rib. The effect was immediate. The air whooshed out of Cullings and he would have pitched from the stool onto his face if Khorta had not caught him and held him there.
The barman and the others immediately backed off to a safe distance, eager to get out of range of the sudden and unexpected eruption of violence. Khorta ignored them all and supported the other until he managed to bring back some control to his breathing. Experimenting, he moved his hands from their grip on the others forearms and when he saw he was again able to support himself he sat back and picked up his whisky. He sipped it slowly while the other man made a full recovery and watched amused as the barman and the rest of the drinkers unfroze and from their new position of some three metres further away, carried on talking as if nothing had happened.
“What the hell do you want?”
Cullings voice was little more than a whisper as he sat slumped on the stool massaging his abdomen with his right hand. Khorta smiled at him.
“Believe it or not I only want to bring a little joy and some extra money into your life, my friend. Why don't we move over to one of those tables where we can't be overheard and I will tell you how you can get your hands on another twenty of these.”
He held up a fan of five, twenty-pound notes in front of Cullings face. For a moment Khorta thought the other was going to refuse take them so he took the hand that was still rubbing at the abdomen and turning it face up placed the notes in it.
“That's for the sore stomach. Don't you want to find out how to get another four hundred pounds?”
Cullings looked from him to the money with deep suspicion.
“Why did you have to start a fight with me? Why not just tell me what you want me to do without rupturing my gut?”
Khorta's expression was bleak.
“Because I wanted you to know who is in charge in this little business deal, Samuel. I didn't want you to feel you could take the money and cross me up and now I can be sure you understand that. Now do you want to hear what I want you to do or do I have to find someone else?”
Cullings looked at him with an expression of greed mixed with apprehension. Greed won.
“There's a room at the back where we can talk.” He led the way