Thankfully, people rarely think to check as low down as the shoes, because typically, they’re only looking for weapons. As a result, they only search your arms, legs and body.
He quickly waves it around my body, revealing nothing.
Phew…
“We’re good,” he says.
The doorman nods and puts his gun away. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“James,” I say, lying.
“Okay, James—follow me.”
He sets off up the stairs, beckoning me to follow. I walk after him, briefly looking back over my shoulder at the large twins.
“You boys not coming?” I ask with a smile.
One of them gives me the middle finger and they both sit back down on their chairs, which creak loudly under the weight.
“Huh, figured as much,” I say, just loud enough for them to hear me.
We walk up two flights of stairs in silence. The decor on each floor mirrors that of the lobby. I suspect any residents of this particular tower block aren’t overly concerned about the state of the wallpaper in the hallways…
“You know, this would be a lot more customer-friendly if you got the elevators fixed,” I observe, casually.
“We ain’t trying for no Investors In People awards, dickhead,” comes the response.
We carry on in silence until we come up on the fourth floor landing. A group of five men is loitering around outside the nearest door to the stairwell. They look like low-level heroin addicts — skinny, with their faces thin and drawn; their eyes set deep in their sockets. They stop talking and all turn to look at me, giving me a disapproving once over, but say nothing. They nod an unspoken greeting to the doorman before turning back to their own conversation.
Onward we climb, up floor after floor, until we finally reach the landing on the tenth.
The top floor looks different. It’s cleaner, for a start. There’s been more effort made with the décor — a nice carpet replaces the forty-year-old linoleum. White paint replaces the cracked, dirty, pale yellow found on the floors below us. There’s even a large plant by the wall next to the elevators.
Joseph Turner must want to make it abundantly clear to anyone who comes here that he’s in charge and they’re in his house.
We turn right and walk down the long corridor. There are fewer apartments on this floor, which I suspect means that they’re bigger inside. We walk past two doors, one on either side. Both are open. On the left, I can see a room full of muscle — at least four guys, built like bodybuilders, and armed with shotguns. There’s a woman in there too, counting money at a table. No one looks up as we walk past.
That’s not a good sign. There are a lot of people here, which means Turner has lots of protection. It’s a large-scale operation, no doubt about it.
I glance in the door on the right. From what I can see, it’s a living room of some kind. A couple of worn sofas are visible. There are three more guys in there, sitting in a cloud of smoke floating above them. I recognize the smell — a very strong and high quality marijuana. Sitting among the guys are a couple of young women — neither looks any older than twenty-one. Both are skinny and under-nourished. Addicts, I’m guessing. Both are completely naked.
Jesus. Their fathers must be so proud…
We come to the end of the corridor. The doorman knocks on the last door on the left, which has a guy either side of it armed with a shotgun. They both nod a curt greeting to him as he approaches. There’s a sound from behind the door of multiple locks unfastening and bolts sliding back, then it opens slowly, about two inches. I can just about see one eye and half a nose in the gap.
“Got a customer here to see Jo-Jo,” announces the doorman.
The door slams shut again, and a moment later, it opens fully. The doorman steps to one side and gestures me through with his gun.
“Go on,” he says.
I step past him and walk inside the apartment. The guy who opened the door stands, leaning against the wall on my left. He shuts the door behind me, and pushes me on my shoulder to signal I should go in.
The apartment is a large open-plan expanse, with four doors leading off into other rooms. I quickly glance around the room and I soon spot Joseph Turner. He’s sitting in a large armchair but quickly stands as I walk in. He has six guys in here with him, all packing Desert Eagles.
I know that because they all have them drawn and in their hands…
He must have got a bulk discount on the damn things or something!
There are also three women, looking similar to the ones I just saw down the hall, but with more clothes on. Only just, though.
The main living area has a kitchenette in the far left corner as I look. It’s small and basic, but good enough quality. Next to that in the right corner is a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. It’s easily sixty inches. It looks like a goddamn cinema.
There’s an over-sized, L-shaped sofa in the middle of the room, occupied by the three women and two of the guys. In front of me and to the right is a large, floor to ceiling window and a dining table with six chairs around it. Three of the guys are sitting around the table, which I note has a laptop open on it. The remaining guy is standing over by the TV near Turner.
Everyone turns to look at me as I enter.
Turner steps toward me. He’s wearing a yellow t-shirt, brown shorts and sandals. He also has on a beaded, wooden necklace and black sunglasses resting on top of his head. He has a couple of days’ worth of rough stubble on his face. He looks like a surfer missing his board. Not quite what you’d expect from one of the premier arms dealers on the West Coast. When he speaks, his voice is deep and gravelly, like he’s smoked forty a day for the last twenty years.
“Who are you, and what can I do for you?” he asks, looking me up and down wearily.
“My name’s James,” I say, trying to sound uncomfortable and quiet.
“James…?”
“Hetfield.”
He looks at me funny. “Your name is James Hetfield?”
I nod, trying to look like I don’t see what the big deal was.
He laughs loudly and points at me, looking around until his six hired goons, plus the one behind me, start laughing too.
“Do you know that’s a pretty famous name around these parts?” he says, as his laughter subsides.
I shrug and shake my head. “No kiddin’?” I say, acting clueless, but knowing damn well who James Hetfield is.
He has a strange smile that would be un-nerving to the average person, and an aura about him that exudes confidence and charisma. But he also has a look in his eye that screams of evil. I know I have to tread carefully.
“Listen,” I say. “I was told you could help me out. I’m looking for some hardware, and your name is top of the list of suppliers around these parts. Am I in the right place?”
“That depends,” he says, casually strolling over to counter in the kitchenette. “What do you want?”
“I need a handgun. Something light, but sturdy. I was thinking maybe a Glock?”
“Okay,” he nods. “Easy enough to supply.”
“I also need a sniper rifle for a .300 caliber round. I’m looking at a thousand meters, easy. Was thinking maybe a Remington?”
“A Remington?” he says, stroking his stubble with his hand as if deep in thought. “Interesting choice… Mind if I ask what you want it for?”
Bingo.
“My guy is gonna be covering me from a good distance. I need to make sure he has a reliable weapon, given he’s guarding my life.”