An account of Jeeves' trip to Las Vegas latterly in the service of Mr tikay.

England.

We arrived back in Blighty Saturday lunchtime after a slightly delayed journey where tikay managed to convince his travelling neighbour Victoria Coren that he had a tattoo of "Sky Poker" in the form of a fish and a pound sign on his buttock. Apparently tikay reckoned that when this was printed in her book sequel he'd "make a lot of money Jeeves. Silly girl".

I loaded tikay's bags into the back of his sparkling Beemer at Gatwick Airport and our brief conversation went as follows

"Right Jeeves, I am going straight to DTD, then to see Angell, then on Sunday to Luton. See you Monday night at the Days Inn, Heathrow then?"

"You still require my services sir, only you hadn't said until now?"

"Well Jeeves, we need to talk about it. However not now, DTD awaits. See me Monday night in the lobby. I'll have done a first full day back at Sky Poker in Feltham, where fish are fish and the Wardrobe lady has a crush on me".

I hesitated, not sure whether to press the point. Just as I was about to do so he spoke again

"Thanks for the last fortnight in Vegas Jeeves. Let's not speak of the calling pants shorts and trousers pants incident at reception again though, please?"

Of course I demurred and we went on our seperate ways.

This of course left me hanging. The Restis family were expecting my decision but I felt it only fair to wait to see what my current employer had in mind. Knowing him, not a lot more than Poker, twitter and RED-DOG, but one could hope that on Monday night things would be different, just for once.

I was on the Gatwick Express back up to town when my mobile rang

"Jeeves? Restis. My gaffe, 7pm. Meeting about my son" and the phone abruptly went down.

A change of plans then.

I changed trains at London Bridge and headed for leafy Dulwich. I found the address and was slightly taken aback to discover a Mock-Tudor Mansion behind locked gates and a high wall.

I introduced myself on the intercom and the gates opened. On either side of the 80 foot drive were Marble statues of Greek figures minus any accroutrements. I began to realise why the son might have some personality issues, and difficulty in attracting girls.

To the front door and the doorbell rang, to the tune of "Stan" by Eminem. The door opened and there stood a young lady. An Emo-Goth cross, late teens. All attitude.

"Yeah. your name is? your name is? your name is? Yeah yeah" she intoned

I found the repetition slightly offputting and replied, entering into what I thought was the spirit of the occasion

"Slim Shady Miss"

Tumbleweed sped across the front of the house as the young lady looked me up and down

"Yeah right. Well ya wouldn't be Slim Shady maybe Fat Shady. Who are ya really? Not the Pigs again are ya? I told ya I dun nuffink wrong"

I stiffened my back, and replied with verisimilitude

"Jeeves. Here to see your father. About your brother"

She laughed uproariously. Followed by a girlish giggle and a shortness of breath that almost had me considering the Heimlrich Manoevure

"Here to see Dad about Cos? Roll on the Fucking floor laughing mate, Roll on the Fucking floor. One sec"

I knew not why my question had stirred such a reaction but eventually a lady I took to be the Lady of the house came along and showed me to a chair outside what I was assuming to be a study

Ten minutes passed, time I used gainfully to study the wall photo portraits of a young bespectacled man through his school years from mullet to acne and back.

Eventually the door opened and I was beckoned in by a swarthy man holding a Siamese cat and dressed in a Velvet smoking jacket. Not at all what I expected.

It was a massive room. At the far end was a large Oak table, flanked by what I assumed to be two bodyguards. Shaven heads, poured into ill fitting suits and clearly, though I felt guilty for noticing, packing a punch in more ways than one.

"Come in man. Sit"

This was clearly a man in charge of his domain. A powerful man.

His opening gambit was as far removed from my expectations as it was possible to be

"Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars, Jeeves?"

Non-plussed would not begin to describe my reaction. My mouth opened but I couldn't think of the right words to say. Was this some kind of test?

Eventually he rescued me, all the while stroking his cat whilst the bodyguards stood impassively by his side.

"Hayley Williams, mate. I discovered her, was a girl in my clubs Jeeves. Proceeds of that single help fund my empire Jeeves. Biggest empire in South Laaandon mate. You name a pie, my finger's in it mate. Problem is I'm not getting any younger. I need my son to take over. Learn the ropes first. Only he's fucking useless Jeeves. Too interested in some fella called Mantis on some two bit poker site. Too interested in this new fella Sid Harris. Obsessed with Evil Pies, not my fucking Pies. Got BipkinBopkin and his fucking furniture on his brain. Comprende?"

I sort of comprende-d, but was feeling uneasy. I decided to venture a question or two

"So the aim is not to help your son mature, find a partner and give you grandchildren then?"

"Roll on the fucking floor laughing Jeeves. Couldn't give a stuff if he had the mental age of EvilPie in a stripclub. I need him to grow a pair, Jeeves. When the Pigs come knocking and the Yardies come onto our turf I need him to stand up and fight for what I have built. At the moment he has as much spine as a pissed Eel Jeeves."

My second question had been pre-occupying me since I had first met him

"On the phone you spoke in a pronounced Mediterranean accent, only in real life you sound like Mike Reid on Runaround"

"Protection mechainsm Jeeves" he replied "I do the Greek thing until I'm ready to let my guard down then when I can the real me comes out. Sarf Laandan born and bred mate"

I asked if I could meet the son, to see the scale of the task awaiting me should I decide to jump tikay's ship onto the Restis flotilla. The reply was weary

"Sorry Jeeves. He's out playing 25p-50p Razz at the Empire tonight. Again. Probably lending more of my money to people like Barrington fucking Nicholas which I will never see again unless I break his kneecaps like the last fella that didn't pay back. Stay overnight and you can meet him in the morning"

I agreed, and was shown to a spare bedroom. In there were the telltale signs of a former boy's playroom. An old Chelsea strip, a Dennis Wise life sized cut out figure. A cork board with a photo of a teenager with thick glasses standing next to Jet from Gladiators. I could well see that turning this young man into the future boss of the criminal underworld would be quite a task, but a task that would no doubt remunerate well.

As to the meeting with the fuckwit himself, that is the subject of my next post.