Kingsman: Statesman Meets Challenger

Chapter 3

* * *

It was ten minutes to seven when Jack reached the Cathedral Club, and there was a line forming at the door that he didn't have the slightest intention of dealing with, so flowers in hand, he jogged up the steps to see if he could talk his way past security. As it turned out, he didn't need to. The biggest bouncer at the door was one of the guys who took custody of the asshole who caused all that trouble last night, and he recognized Jack immediately.

"Heya, cowboy," he said casually, unhooking the velvet rope blocking the door and waving him through. Broad, burly, and with the unmistakable stamp of Maori heritage on his features, he loomed over Jack by almost a foot, but his smile was friendly and his manner welcoming. "The major gave us our marchin' orders 'bout you at shift start, g'wan in. Try the choir loft, the boss closes up her office when we open."

Surprised and pleased in equal amounts, Jack tipped his hat genially at him on the way by. "Thank ya kindly, partner."

"Anytime," the Maori mountain answered, hooking the rope closed again behind Jack. "And cowboy?"

Jack paused. "Yeah?"

The bouncer straightened up to his full height and met Jack's eyes squarely. "We all heard 'bout what happened at the parking garage last night. We're real fond of our boss lady here, and we're real grateful for what you did. We won't forget it."

To Jack's astonishment, both the other bouncers at the door and the three hostesses at the maître d's station all stopped what they were doing, met his eyes and nodded solemnly. The display of solidarity was both heartwarming and to be honest, just a tad intimidating. But Jack didn't intimidate easily, and knowing his sugarplum's people were looking out for her was actually damn reassuring to someone in his profession.

"It was my absolute pleasure," Jack said sincerely, tipping his hat again at the three hostesses.

"So we heard," one of the other bouncers, a brother nearly as big as the Maori, black as the ace of spades and sporting a meticulously maintained set of cornrows that fell to his shoulders. "A whip, bro? Didn't that kinda thing go out with Indiana Jones?"

"Not for an old cowboy like me," Jack quipped, and winking at them all made his escape, leaving them snickering in his wake.

* * *

The club's main floor was still mostly empty, but the bus boys were setting the last of the tables as waitresses skimmed around behind them armed with long stick-lighters, lighting the Tiffany candle-lights in their section, and tweaking a napkin swan or piece of silverware here and there into perfect alignment. The bartenders were briskly moving around behind the bar, topping up garnishes in the bar caddies while the band tuned up on the bandstand. The Swing Ninjas were back, Jack noticed, but the Speakeasy Three weren't, which was a shame. That was a trio of ladies with a set of pipes! Everyone was moving briskly and with purpose, but there was a low murmur of friendly chatter as the staff got ready for the night, and the overall atmosphere was one of relaxed anticipation.

Jack's admiration for his sugarplum increased, running a place this big this well as a damn good trick. But the choir loft was empty, so Jack ran an experienced eye over the staff and quickly spotted a tall Englishman graying at the temples with the unmistakable stamp of an RAF officer giving a briefing to what Jack quickly deduced was the floor manager, wine steward, head hostess, head waiter, head bartender, security second-in-command and someone whose job he was vaguely surprised he couldn't suss out. A real high-class money type, definitely in charge- house accountant, maybe?