David’s knife was still in his hand but unconsciously so now, only loosely held, no threat in the world.
‘They fouled my brother,’ he said, ‘these foul boys. And Alfie fouled us all, he fouled the family…’
I shrugged vaguely, not interested in his justifications. I had a lock key in my hand; I gave that to David and explained how to flush Dex out through the system, how to send him away down the river.
Then I locked up and left David to it, drove away.
Next morning, when I phoned the hotel and asked for Mr Kirk, they said he’d checked out already. Given up hope of helping, they said, gone home: gone back to his happy valleys and his sudden hills.
I need a new network, new distribution; but that’s not a problem. There are always boys, and boys are always hungry.
And the word will get around, will do me good. The Crew fucked with Skip, the boys will tell each other, and they’re all dead now, the Crew, all fucked over…
That’ll keep them sweet, my new crew, when I sign them up.
Meantime the girl over the way has coughed herself to bones and nothing, she’s dead in the alley there, stiff and gone.
Wonder how long it’ll be, before they find her?
RIGHT ARM MAN by DENISE DANKS
Crew had to steady himself, keep cool. It was his man talking to him, telling him how it had gone down, telling him what the kid had done. He didn’t have to shoot the messenger. He tried to focus, to look at the dark man facing him, in the right light, the right frame of mind.
‘Tell me again Baz. Slow. Tell it slow,’ he said and the man rested his skinny gold-ringed fingers on his lead hips and began again.
‘Like I told you. The kid asked for credit.’
‘So you told him, yeh?’
‘I told him cash and he said it was too risky making three trips and bringing the money every time.’
‘So you told him that was the deal.’
‘I told him that was the deal, or nothing. I told him the terms and conditions. Told him there was an easy way and a hard way.’
‘And?’
‘He said he weren’t making the deal.’
Crew’s right leg began to tremble.
‘He have a vest on?’ he said.
Baz nodded. ‘And his ragamuffin posse all round,’ he added, the perspiration there under his arms. He ran a finger around the polo-neck of his smooth black all-cotton sweatshirt. It was seven o’clock on a midsummer’s night and too warm in the rank artificially lit room. Crew’s crack works lay on a pine table that was pushed up against a cold white radiator. If Crew had chosen to pull open the blue velvet curtains and the dull drapes of grey net, he would have looked out on a sky the colour of cinders, hanging low and heavy on the bunkered blocks of the estate and its demolition car parks, and still have found it too bright for his eyes. It was hardly worth the trouble. Below he’d see a scrubby grass verge edging a flat stretch of discoloured tarmac. Every flat opposite was the same as his, like every other one on the estate. Doors lined up along a communal landing, each grazed red with a scab of bare hardboard or wooden planks where frosted glass had been. Like his, most were reinforced steel behind with six bar locks, three up, three down. Some of the square windows were boarded too, but not his. His windows were never broken, never ever.
Even so, his wife and kids didn’t live there, nor did he any more – he’d got three storeys near the Park with a view of the lake and the biggest lushest spread of green in the city. This place was where he came to spread perforated foil tight across a whisky tumbler and smoke, and to arm himself for work.
Baz pulled back a chair and sat down at the table, flicking his long manicured fingers against Crew’s glass of rock ash,
‘He said you come near’im, he’ll shoot you, chop you up.’
‘Yeh?’
‘Yeh.’
‘Yeh? Yeh? Where were you, man?’ The words boomed as Crew stiffed his fist against his chest and brought it down on the table. Baz looked up with angry eyes.
‘Hey chill. I was there taking a message instead of doing business while you were fucking ghost-busting in here. What d’you think? I told you before the kids’re losing respect. They got money now. They’re making money out of us, cutting brown and taking fifteen hundred a night. They don’t see no reason to stand still, wait for what they want. Crew, they want a whack. A smack. You got to clean their wet noses out with your gun.’
Crew looked at him, angry still but calmer, and pulled out a chair for himself. He leaned an elbow on the table and with fluttering fingers touched the scar that troubled him on the right temple.
‘What they call him again?’
‘Roadrunner.’
And he’s fifteen.’
‘Going on thirty.’
Baz could see himself in the wide black pupils of Crew’s soulless eyes, dark as crows’ heads. He could see his brown shaven head, smooth as a nut and the fire of the diamond in his ear, could see what Crew could see, he hoped.
‘You should have done him, Baz’
‘If I thought I could have done. I would have done,’ he replied, holding the man’s junky gaze. He had to. Crew blinked and grinned.
‘You should have done him no matter what. Done him and watched the others just f.. f.. f.. fade away.’
‘If I thought I could have done, I would. All right? You shoulda been there.’
Crew’s hand was back twitching at his temple and Baz could see him sweat, smell him. There was no breeze tonight. The window was open but no air troubled the heavy curtains. Crew could feel the moisture filming over his face too, the sweat trickling down like something crawling through his hair, feeling so bad that he had to clamp his jaw together to stop himself screaming, stop himself jumping up and tearing at his scalp. Baz was right. He hadn’t been taking care of business. He’d let them think he was going soft, let them imagine that he didn’t have it in him any more. Just because he talked reasonable, they thought they could take from the pie, his pie. Take the bread from his table, the food from his children’s mouths. They worked for him but they’d forgotten that, because of the money they’d made out of him. Because of the money they could arm themselves, buy a pump with a cartridge up the spout and do a raid. That’s all he did. They’d get a car, any one they wanted, here and now, steal it, drive it fast where they wanted. They were thinking big time, starting to pester people they should be leaving alone. They were moving in on his toms and going around the manor like they were immortal. Immortal. Living free and fast because business was booming. His business.
It was summertime, that’s when the money came in, yeh? When would business boom, if not in the summer? And how could it boom-boom if not for Crew? If not for him? Crew brought it in. He did. He was the motherload. And now they were coming round him, like half-grown jackals with wet toothy grins. They smelled blood so rich and thick they couldn’t see the deep line in the sand. Jackals they were, pock marked scavengers, nipping at heels and blowing in ears, making a racket so loud the Other Firm would start to come around, cruise his streets. They’d know he wasn’t holding on here. And if he wasn’t holding on, then no one was and there would be big trouble for him, and for them. He’d lose face. Lose respect.
Respect was all. It was the stand off. These bandana posses weren’t bothered about that, about respect, they didn’t know what it meant and couldn’t care less. It was worth earning, but it took time and they couldn’t wait. There was no need they could see because there was no future better than now. Crew closed his eyes tight and then stared up at the ceiling.
‘I’m nearly thirty, Baz.’
‘Yeh?’