Since his return, he had begun digging and had come up with a name. Asherson Group Incorporated—AGI— was a conglomerate of wealthy American investors funding technological study into medical and physiological research. The company had more staff with H-1B visas than the next three largest research companies combined.
He understood that the H-1B visa is a non-immigrant visa that allows US companies to employ graduate level workers with theoretical and/or technical expertise in specialised fields. There were powerful lobbyists in Washington calling for a review of the visa policy arguing it stifled American innovation. The number of accepted applicants into AGI had reached way into the five figures. Crowder had wondered why AGI company’s name had been kept out of the political storm regarding the issue. As he dug deeper, tales of financial kickbacks and corruption began to emerge.
Now he was busy writing to his editor, outlining his findings and suspicions, to request the time and funds to pursue the story further. His inbox chimed, and he saw that it was from Professor Vargas’s address.
It had three attachments at the bottom, a picture, a file and a video. It said; ‘This is what happened to Professor Lee Vargas for running his mouth. And if you persist in any investigation, it will happen to your daughter Marie Crowder.’
Crowder’s heart pounded as he opened the picture. He gasped in horror. A torso with the limbs and head severed lay in a pool of blood on a rubber sheet. The legs and arms had somehow been forced into the opening where the head once was. The head beside the macabre arrangement belonged to Professor Vargas. Below the picture was the caption ‘This is known as a Colombian vase’.
In a state of shock, Crowder opened the next file revealing an in-depth report on his daughter: her age, school, address, place and date of birth, her horse riding achievements and medical reports dating back seven years.
Crowder remained rooted in his seat as his finger shakily clicked the video. After thirty seconds he had thrown up on the floor, unable to watch any more of Professor Vargas’s transformation into a ‘Colombian vase’. In his fit of retching, he missed the entire e-mail deleting itself upon completion.
Connor ignored his opponent’s eyeballing of him. He never saw the point in engaging in a ‘stare down’ with someone who he was soon going to be punching anyway.
Tom hadn’t been lying in his assessment, that the shaven-headed opponent—a Jake ‘The Ghost’ Shaw—was ‘ripped to fuck’. He stood around six feet and was just as broad as Connor. However, Connor was comforted looking at Shaw’s nose—it resembled a piece of putty, presumably due to the amount of breaks it had received—and the scar tissue around the eyes. To the average person, these facial badges of battle hinted at the owner’s fighting prowess. To Connor, they said—not difficult to hit. Not that he didn’t take heed of other visual signs; cauliflower ears told of hours on the mat grappling—that or they had been punched or kicked,—scarred knuckles hinted at a man not scared of throwing the first punch into the jaw but catching the teeth, and a sharp jawline indicated a lack of surplus body fat.
The ring announcer had already informed the crowd of Brad Jackson’s pull out, and that a replacement had been found. Luckily for his cousin Tom, the majority of the bout’s fans had been on Shaw’s side, and there were no disturbances.
Tom’s reticence in him taking the match had surprised Connor. Then he realised that Tom didn’t know that it had been only three years ago that Connor had been the Combined Services Open class champion at light-middleweight. As Shaw banged his gloves together loudly in a show of aggression, Connor smiled to himself—I am going to fucking splatter this cunt.
The announcer’s voice reverberated, and Shaw walked up to the curtain giving Connor one last look before making the slashing gesture across his throat. Connor laughed, and the anger splashed across the larger man’s face.
“Ladies and Gentleman, welcome Jake ‘The Ghost’ Shaw!” sang out the announcer, and the cheers rained down.
“Why is he called ‘The Ghost’? He doesn’t look the elusive-type in the ring.”
“Nah he isn’t,” replied Tom. “It’s because he’s left his opponents as white as a sheet.”
“You could have lied to me.”
Tom smiled. He would be Connor’s cornerman, along with Luke. He was two years younger than Connor with bright blond hair. Despite murmurings in the family that Luke wasn’t his Uncle Lee’s biological son, Connor loved him just as fiercely as the rest of his cousins, perhaps even more so. Luke had followed Connor into the same boxing club when they were lads and—unlike Tom— knew just how good his cousin was.
The announcer’s voice reverberated through the nightclub, alerting Connor to make his ring walk. “Ladies and Gentlemen, coming in on short notice, Connor Ryder!”
Connor shook his head at his cousin—Tom must have told the announcer to use the ‘family’ name. The two torches spewed fire into the air as he walked between them, and then the sound of ‘The Ghostbusters’ theme tune began to a chorus of laughter from the crowd.
“Nice touch,” said Tom.
“Always time for a funny,” replied Connor.
They set off towards the ring. Connor caught his concerned looking Aunt Jenny’s eye and winked. He climbed into the ring to cheers, and the announcer went through the usual introductions. Connor felt a nervous energy throughout his body and reminded himself—if he rushes you then cover up and ride it out, if he backs away then don’t rush in. As they came together, Connor knew the snarling Shaw was going to rush him.
Connor sprinted to the centre of the ring, then simultaneously rolled and pivoted to his right avoiding Shaw’s full force right fist. Connor unleashed a straight left-right-left catching Shaw on the head and neck before he could right himself. Shaw rushed him a jab, partially stuffing the countering right. He corralled Connor into the ropes and threw a barrage of hard, and wild punches.
Connor covered up and kept ducking and rolling. He avoided some, rode others and caught the rest on his gloves—they were fast and hard. As he expected, after around a minute, Shaw’s pace slowed, and Connor took his chance. He fired a scudding left hook to the body, a left to head as Shaw dropped a protecting elbow to his ribs. A short right caught Shaw to the head as Connor slid away.
Shaw followed after him taking a deep breath before pouncing again as Connor lay on the ropes. Connor rode out another frenetic storm of punches before firing back. This time, the hook to the pit of Shaw’s stomach made him visibly wince and back off. A left, right, left hook combination slammed into the larger man’s face before the bell went.
Connor returned to the corner, sucking in as much oxygen as possible.
“Fuck me mate, you almost had him,” said Tom.
“He doesn’t like those body shots cuz,” said Luke.
“I am going to let him go into the last before stopping him, the cheeky staring cunt,” said Connor, still irked.
In the second, Shaw’s forward momentum hadn’t been quite so forceful. Towards the end of the third, Connor had backed him up against the ropes before firing a succession of left hooks—head, body and head. Shaw span to the floor. He got to his hands and knees, looked up and resignedly got to his feet. The bell went.
As he walked past Connor said, “Don’t you even think of not coming out for the next round you bullying prick.”
Shaw slunk away to his corner.
“Mate, you stop him, and you’re PRB boxing champion of Yorkshire,” said Tom.
“What the fuck is that when it’s at home?” asked Connor between mouthfuls of water.
“Doesn’t matter mate, you get a belt to wear for your Instagram posing.”
“I don’t have Instagram.”
The bell sounded, and his opponent made a rush forward swinging. Connor knew this was Shaw’s last hurrah even if he didn’t. Connor’s piston-like jab began knocking back the head as if it was on an elastic band. The body shots started scything in before a blockbusting right hand tipped Shaw onto his back.
He got onto his hands and knees, but as he pushed off to stand he listed sideways into the ropes. The referee waved his hands above his head to declare the fight over. Jenny’s screams rose above the general din. He looked over and saw Ciara shaking her head, as Tom and Luke hoisted him aloft.
She had a smile on her face though, as did his entire family. Everyone, except his uncle, Derek.
35
Tris never enjoyed visiting his brother in prison. It wasn’t guilt, his brother Adam was three years older and had been trouble since childhood. At nineteen, his elder brother had permanently disabled his supplier of the cocaine he sold on, by bludgeoning his head with a rolling pin, after the gangster caught Adam having sex with his wife in the kitchen. The wife would, in time, become Adam’s wife, and his legend began from there.
It could easily have been Tris himself in the J wing of Frankland prison, with the things he had done, albeit on the ‘white collar’ side of crime. He lamented on that as he sat in a room separate to the general visiting area. His brother had something worked out with the staff there.
Adam Lloyd was two years into a seven-year stretch for his attempt at money laundering. He’d be out on parole after another year or so. Their sibling rivalry had intensified over the years before morphing into something more insidious with Adam’s incarceration. Tris was here to keep him sweet—his brother still had a lot of friends.
The door opened, and his brother walked in, a little stockier and a bit greyer than the last time Tris had seen him.
“How are things bossman?” said Adam in his thick London accent.
“Not too bad, brother. Thanks,” he replied.
“See ya toned down ya accent more. That for helping with chirpsing to the girls?”
“No brother. It’s just with moving out of London. You’re looking thickset now—in a good way,” said Tris in an attempt to steer the conversation—he was already getting riled.
“Hitting the weights is all you can do in here in’it.”
“That’s not all you can do in here,” said Tris.
“What else? Mr Expert.”
“You could read some books.”
His brother sat back and sneered. “Look at you. In your posh clothes, looking down on me for where I am, how I talk. You wouldn’t know a thing about it; you’ve never even—”
Tris’s temper hijacked him. “I’ve never been because I am not careless and greedy, I don’t spout off on the phone about how I have the authorities fooled—I heard the transcriptions. And as for the way I talk? You talk like a lil nigger from Croydon in a way that screams, ‘I am a Gangster’.”
Adam Lloyd’s eyebrows raised. “Well, well, well. My little brother Terry has it all figured out eh. Not mentioning how you wouldn’t be still drawing breath if it wasn’t for me.”
“I’ve told you not to call me that,” said Tris, “and I have more than looked after you and your family Adam.”
“So they’re ‘my’ family now? Not ‘your’ family?” said Adam disdainfully. “And I’ll tell you, one person I need you to ‘look after’ is a Louis Allen down our way. Well what used to be our way.”
Tris’s heart skipped. He studied his brother’s features—does he know my dealings with him?
“Why’s that?”
“Cos, he’s upset some friends of mine down there.”
“Why do you need me? Why can’t they handle it themselves?”
“Because we want to avoid an all-out war don’t we. We wouldn’t win a street war with the SUG—there are too many of those ‘lickle niggers’ as you say. But you have contacts in the Police, and you have money. I just want him to catch a little beating don’t I, a little lesson an’ a scare, a slice on the face. Nothing more than that.”
Dixon could sense already that this wasn’t something on which his elder brother would relent.
“I doubt he’s on his own for any length of time.”
“Everyone is on their own eventually. That’s what a surveillance team is for. Even if he does spot ‘em, he’ll think it’s the rozzers, won’t he? Not that he’ll spot ‘em, you can afford the best now little brother.”
“After this, we’re finished. No more favours. Our professional lives remain separate.”
“Please. Half of those goons on your payroll belonged to me in the beginning, and I get told things.”
“What kind of things? Enlighten me.”
“How you have a little project of lifting the homeless and providing them free medical care. Well, that’s what we’ll say it is,” said Adam with a grin and a wink. “Not sure what other people would think though.”
Tris felt his blood begin to freeze. As much as he tried to keep his face neutral, he knew his elder brother could see through it. Adam continued, “Don’t you worry brother. Your secret is safe with me. But remember, I won’t be in here forever. You can change ya name, and speak a little more posh. But family is family, end of story.”
Now showered and back in his civilian dress, Connor greeted his family back at the VIP table.
“You fuckin’ mad bastard,” exclaimed Derek giving him a bear hug. “I forgot you could box like that.”
Connor knew he hadn’t forgotten—he just hadn’t known.
“I have my moments,” said Connor.
“I knew you’d stop him,” said Luke excitedly.
“Well, we’re celebrating now,” announced Derek.
Connor knew he had to celebrate with his family now, “Could do with something to eat,” said Connor.
“Say no more lad. I have a new place in town, a Mongolian restaurant,” said Derek.
As the group began to file out, his Uncle Ryan sidled up beside him. Connor gave his favourite uncle a great smile, who whispered to him, “Your dad would have been well proud, it was like watching him up there.”
“Proud?.” said his Aunt Jenny loudly. “I bloody thought it was yer dad then. You boxed just like ‘im.”
As she said this, Derek turned around with a look on his face that Connor registered as anger—jealous of a dead brother?
Nevertheless, Connor felt a punt of melancholy hit his chest at his uncle’s and auntie’s words—his dad would have been proud. His Uncle Ryan and Aunt Jenny walked ahead as Ciara linked her arm inside his. “It’s going to be hard having to wait now,” she said.
“Wait for what?”
“To fuck you.”
Louis’s white shirt had the top two buttons undone revealing a little of the etched line between his thickly developed pectorals. The sleeves were rolled up to show the silver strapped Omega Speedmaster. His olive-green suit jacket lay over the back of his chair.
Pristine white clothes were covering the restaurant tables. Huge French renaissance paintings in golden frames embedded themselves into the walls between the pillars. A glass roof revealed the mixture of the blue and white sky.
He revelled in the glances of the stiffly dressed patrons. He remembered his cousin Elliot—who made big money in engineering—complaining to him about the stares he got when frequenting upper-class establishments. ‘I feel like screaming ‘I am a chartered engineer, not a drug dealer’,’ he had said.
Louis didn’t care about the looks—he was a criminal and liked it. Connor had told him about something he had read about the media coverage of Hurricane Katrina. Pictures were taken of some of the victims, both white and black who had been left to fend for themselves without access to food, water and other necessities. They were photos of the victims finding supplies in the abandoned stores in the aftermath. The caption under the pictures of the white people had been; ‘Survivors manage to find vital supplies’. The caption under the black people: ‘Looting’.
Louis stood as the woman he was meeting arrived.
Mixed race, with her glossy black hair, flecked with grey, cascading over her shoulders; Shola Aysha exuded the class and confidence expected of a partner of one of London’s most respected law firms. She wore a white suit with black lapels, and her shoes tipped her hei
ght over five-feet nine-inches. At fifty-one years old, she was nearly twenty-five years Louis’s senior.
“White suit? You sure while we’re eating?”
She smiled revealing perfectly white and aligned teeth, “I’ll be careful. I wore it on purpose as a reminder not to drink.”
They sat down after the perfunctory handshake and London air kiss. Louis ordered water with limes when the waiter came over.
“Why the limes? To improve the taste?”
“They’re an anti-inflammatory in’it.”
“I keep forgetting your personal training background,” she said.
“How could you forget with a physique like this?”
She laughed, and he said, “I wasn’t sure you’d take me up on my offer of a thank you dinner,” said Louis.
“Lunching with clients isn’t an irregular occurrence—ya feel me,” she said, gently mimicking his accent, “but you didn’t have to thank me, although it gives Saul a day off cooking.”
Saul was her husband and fellow partner in the law firm. She had told Louis that he was on a year’s sabbatical from the firm.
“Well, that’s good to know. If it hadn’t been for you, and the firm he and you built, then it would have been a long time before I could eat out like this.”
“Very kind of you, and I shall tell him. Although, I know you knew about the loophole.”
In the year previous, Louis had been caught in possession of a Mauser Model 1930. Aysha had taken the case, and managed to take advantage of the UK’s antique-gun exemption laws, arguing that it was bought as ‘an ornament’. Louis was found ‘not guilty’. She was right—Louis had been fully aware of the exemption when he purchased the weapon from a European gun fair.
“Why do you think that? he asked.
“Because your name is getting bandied around my manor. They say you’re the leader of the Southwark Union Gang.”
“We still covered by legal professional privilege?”
“If you like.”
“Then what if I am?”
“Then I’d ask why? You have assets and a legitimate business. Every charge you evade is just another charge closer to you being convicted. Why don’t you quit while you’re ahead?”
Lessons In Blood Page 20
