The Jade Garden (The Barrington Patch Book 2) by Emmy Ellis (reading diary txt) 📗

people know he was around, could walk in any minute and catch them doing something they shouldn’t. It kept them on their toes, didn’t it, reinforced the fact he was their leader and they’d fare well if they obeyed him.

Joe Wilson came back from the loo, Lenny’s best mate and someone he trusted, so much so their families got together for meals in fine restaurants—a far cry from before, when a chippy tea was the order of the evening, washed down with mugs of Tetley. One day, when Lenny owned a big house, he’d have them over there instead, and they’d sit around a big dining table full of the best crockery and whatnot. He had the money for a new pad, but nowt had caught his fancy yet. He wanted to stay on the Barrington, and there weren’t many decent gaffs there.

Maybe he’d buy some land on the outskirts and build one. Failing that, he could purchase a couple of the better properties and knock them into one.

Their girls, Cassie and Jess, were the same age—two and a half—and loved playing together. Sometimes, Francis and Lou met up in the park while Lenny was busy with his flourishing side business, although it was fast becoming the main. Grafton’s Meat Factory was a front these days. Joe managed that for him, Lenny running the Barrington. Joe, when he had spare time, helped his old man on Handel Farm, where he mucked out the pigs and did the jobs his father was getting too old and ill to do.

One day, the farm would become Joe’s, and Lenny would be minus a decent factory manager, but until then, they’d continue as normal. He’d face finding a replacement later down the line. No point crossing bridges until you had to, was there.

That reminded him. Handel Farm had a shitload of land. Joe had always mithered about having to keep it mowed, that his father hadn’t ever done owt with it. Once Joe took over, perhaps he’d sell it to Lenny, then he’d flog it on to a developer for a tidy profit and get his nice big house.

Another bridge for later.

Joe picked up his lager and took a hefty swig. “Just heard something in the men’s.”

“What’s that then?” Lenny leant across to hear better.

Geoff Davis, the landlord, had given in to the karaoke craze, and someone currently belted out I Will Survive by that Gaynor bird, doing it a massive injustice—and offending everyone’s eardrums if expressions were owt to go by. Sucking lemons came to mind.

Joe spoke by Lenny’s ear. “Some Chinese bloke, asking old Warren at the urinal if he knows whether the takeaway’s available to run. Says he hasn’t got any money but can work off the rent as he goes along.”

Lenny perked up at that. Someone with no money meant they’d be grateful if he offered them a gig. He’d recently bought the Jade Garden down the road, had done it up, and needed someone to run it. The thing was, he wanted someone who knew how to keep their gob shut, one who didn’t mind selling drugs with the food—and they had to know how to cook a banging Chinese, that was a given. Just because that bloke was Asian, didn’t mean he knew what he was up to in the kitchen, did it, but if he’d enquired about it, maybe he did. You didn’t offer to paint someone’s portrait if you weren’t an artist.

“I was thinking about that venture you mentioned,” Joe said.

Lenny grinned, nice and wide. “Yeah. Talk about fate playing a good hand, dumping this right in my lap. I’ll go in the bogs now and have a chat.” He placed his glass on the bar and moved to walk off.

Joe tapped Lenny’s arm, stopping him. “No need. He’s just there.” He jabbed a thumb to his left, towards the front of the pub.

Lenny looked over at one of the booths beside the main doors. A couple sat close together, their clothes the worse for wear, their eyes somewhat sunken in faces that showed the world they were tired as fuck and needed a break in life. Skint, too, he’d bet, no two pennies to rub together. They had the air of poor about them, the sort that meant they went hungry more often than not and couldn’t afford to keep the heating on for long, scared of a big bill. Seemed they shared a glass of lemonade, and that sight had the potential to soften Lenny’s heart if he’d let it.

He’d been boracic lint once, on the bones of his arse, and knew how it felt. That was why he’d become so intent on making money so his stomach never griped again. He’d told himself to scam and connive if he had to. And he had.

He walked over there and leant on the newel post that had bannisters between the top and bottom rails to separate this booth from the next. A hint at privacy, but anyone could listen in on your conversation if they were that way inclined. Thankfully, no one occupied it.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

The man, all five-foot-one of him, stood and held out his hand. “I am Li Jun.”

Lenny shook it, pleased the fella had manners—or did he know who Lenny was and thought he’d better behave his fucking self? People talked, and this Li Jun could have picked up who ran the estate. “Lenny.” He smiled. “Grafton.”

Li Jun’s eyes widened, but he covered his shock by guiding the woman to stand, his palm curved beneath her elbow. “This is Nuwa, my wife.”

Lenny shook her hand, too, her skin rougher than her husband’s—a skivvy’s hands—and it boiled his piss, reminding him of his old dear having to clean people’s bogs for a living back in the day. Until he’d bagged a mortgage for the meat