M I C HAEL S M AL L, W RITER MONDAY, 7 FEBRUARY 2011
THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR Security is body-language. You look at human nature for self-survival, chew it over. As usual, Ron was on the door, looking for signs. Looking for the way they rocked up; looking for a slight bulge in the sock where nine tenths of knives are secreted; looking for whether they were left-handed or right as they paid their dosh to the cashier. Anything that makes you react quicker. Not anti- but pro-reaction. You’re reading them, so make eye-contact for mood – are they stoked, cranky, spoiling for a fight? When you go inside, check where they’re parked, how many together? Any fireworks, you can hit the spot real quick. If some tough guy skites he slept with your mother, just tell him to cool it and leave your mother out; don’t shirt-front. And remember to soft soap the locals, more than the regulars even, as it’s their turf, while the regs can nick off to other clubs along the drag. Most of these bouncer guys landed the gig at the Ace of Clubs because they knew someone. Sure, they’ve done their three-day basic training and they come on strong and six-pack. They can wrap their biceps round a trouble-making prick who’s off his face and they can stare as mean as a cut snake if they have to act Stallone, but they don’t need a punch-up, not inside any rate. They just want to sweet-talk the girls, screw them at night’s end if poss. But root rats don’t know how to read people or even wise up to the necessaries. Nor do they know how to speak to ratbags without riling them some more or how to keep a lid on their own boiler. Off the premises, they might throw one. Take the honchos of The Ace. They don’t want to get involved. They just want a sweet trouble-free night where they can make some moolah, pay the protection racket a divvy of the monthly take, and nudge the bar staff to water down the drinks. Doesn’t seem to bother the clubbers, guys on their Scotch and coke or Scotch and bourbon or pot of amber fluid, whereas the cats go wild for mixed drinks, like vodka and lime, voddie and orange, or tequila, which is all the rage on today’s scene. The chicks rub black pepper on their wrist, lick it and suck on a lemon. They die for it, but