He says he needs to do something in the cloakroom.
It’s awkward. If Ross sees me letting anyone in with the coats I’ll be sacked; I won’t be given a second chance. But this is the great Eric Murphy asking a favour. What am I supposed to do?
Leroy winks at me as yet more expensive coats brush past him into the club. He loves the rich and trendy customers; he thinks their presence reflects on him. Me, I’m just glad punters are coming to hear Murphy play.
It’s a filthy night and the cloakroom stinks like a pack of wet dogs. The shabbiest coats are the wettest; they belong to musicians. I put the expensive ones at the back to avoid contamination.
The cloakroom is between the pay-desk and the main area of the club. First there’s Leroy with his gold tooth and snappy suit at the entrance, then Margo with her pneumatic breasts at the paydesk, then me with the wet dogs. There’s no door or counter to the cloakroom, just a doorway to the narrow room with 249 hooks on the walls and a bit of an a…