by Paul Slatter
By the time he’d left school, Rann had blacked out with rage four times and blackmailed three people. The first was at the age of eleven, when he and a friend hit up his brother for smoking. Then, a year after his parents’ car crash, the pair had followed their religious education teacher into the school’s carpark and asked the man if he could help them, as they’d found porn stashed away in amongst the Bibles in the teacher’s cupboard and were both in need of a new bicycle. After six months had passed, Rann’s grandfather began to wonder why he had not returned the new bicycle he had said he’d borrowed from a friend, and asked him about it. As Rann sat crying, confessing all, and worrying he’d lose his Raleigh 10 speed, he’d heard his grandfather say, “It is okay Rann—you were helping this man, you were sent on a course from God to save him.”
And the truth was, he had saved him—saved his job, saved his marriage, saved his life.
“You have saved him because the man has changed his ways,” Rann’s grandfather had carried on saying, “and he has paid you for this, just as the priest himself would be paid for helping and saving a man’s soul.”
The third came just as he was about to set foot out into the wide world looking to put his life and soul into something to gain some sense of fulfilment from his own hard work, and what he found came easily to him. It was simple—for every ten hardworking family men doing what they could in life to better themselves within the ever growing Indian and Pakistani communities, where benefit fraud was already rife, there was always one who was really trying to beat the system.
He'd answered the door one morning to a slightly officious government employee who was looking for the whereabouts of the man who rented the spare room upstairs, but never slept there. The strange man only ever showed up once a week, usually on Fridays, wearing what Rann thought looked like pajamas. And, waiting for the occasional plane to pass, Rann answered the government employee’s questions as honestly as possible.
Yes, he knew this man. Yes, he lived here. Yes, he rented the small room upstairs. “No, you can't see the room, it's not my place to show you, sorry sir. No, the gentleman is not working, but I know he is looking for work every day. He is a good man, a God-fearing man.”
And on and on he went.
On the following Friday when the man’s check arrived, popping through the door all the way from the department of social services, Rann opened it to see he was receiving 200 pounds a week and a quick calculation told him the gentleman had pulled in over 10,000 from this address alone. When the man arrived that afternoon to get his post and pretended to pray, he’d found the check in the envelope gone and the benefit fraud officer’s card in its place along with a note, which simply read,
God has called upon me to help you. He fears you will end up in prison. Please send me 2000 pounds upfront and then 100 a week from then on so as I can continue to carry out work for Him within our community.
All proceeds were to be delivered to a Post office account.
And the man had paid, but not with the 2000 pounds or the 100 a week thereafter. He'd paid by giving the details of ten other fraud players working the system—with a one-thousand-pound sweetener on top.
Of these, two paid, two disappeared, and a fifth had a visit from the government fraud officer as a warning to the other five who were dragging their heels.
And that's how it all started for Rann Singh, the kid destined to follow in his parents’ footsteps and become a doctor, until one fateful day his life was changed by a man asleep at the wheel, waking from a dream—just as his Ugandan-Indian parents’ lives had been changed when their destiny was turned upside down by a ruthless dictator who, asleep at the wheel of his nation, woke up from a dream.
Taking his beloved grandfather’s misguided advice, Rann found his own path in this world and set out upon it, slowly learning a trade which fed off people's fears and indiscretions, with little care for the hurt and suffering his actions caused the people caught in his web—and who, usually, were no worse than him—because in his grandfather’s eyes, and so his too, he was helping them on their path to salvation.
Chapter Three
Patrick De’Sendro, voted the most reliable realtor in Vancouver for the fifth year running by a committee he owned and operated himself, slipped his cock back into his pants and put down the telescope, listening to the man with the London accent speaking quietly into the phone. He had been waiting with baited breath all day for a call to come in from Hong Kong about the decision on a penthouse condo. He’d also been waiting all day for the blonde across the way to come home and strip down like she did every evening before she took a shower. And when she had and he’d pulled it out, the phone had rung—typical. The call hadn’t been from overseas, but the guy on the other end clearly was, though he hadn’t said the words Patrick had been expecting.
"Patrick? I'm sorry to disturb you, but are you the guy on the back of the bus, the realtor?"
Still holding his crotch, Patrick answered, "Yes, I’m here to make your dreams come true, thanks for calling—how can I help?"
Then there was silence, long and embarrassing, and as Patrick was about to ask if the man with the London accent was still there, he heard him say, "I'm glad it's you, you see, because I've just discovered something that someone was going to do to you that I think may have hurt you and your business."
And hearing these words, Patrick's heart skipped a beat as he felt the sudden rise in temperature envelope his body, sending instantaneous beads of sweat to the crown of his head. He stayed silent, his brain whirling away as a host of unscrupulous real estate deals came back to life in his head. Then the man said, "There is a girl who has found photos of you and I've managed to stop her handing them over to a friend who's in your line off work. You see, for some reason, and I don’t know why, she doesn't like you."
Oh my God, Patrick thought, it had to be the photos Alla had of him, the ones she used to like to tease him with after he’d been watching her making love to some stranger through his telescope, the ones she used to let him see, holding them in her hand as she stood dressed in sexy underwear in front of the full-length window of her luxury condo opposite his.
What was going to happen if any of the people he knew found out? What would he do? How could he sit down again in a corporate boardroom and broker a deal for a condo complex again? The silence he would receive as he walked into a room or an open house full of piranhas would be deafening, so he said, "We don't need that."
‘We’—he was bringing the guy into it now, he thought, making it like they both had a problem. The guy with the London accent replied, "No, we don't. It's the reason I'm calling. I've heard through the grapevine that you’re a great guy. You sold a property to one of my friends some time back and did ‘im’ a right favor on the deal. This is why I'm calling; I think I know a way I can stop her."
A right favor? Patrick thought, looking to the window of the apartment across the way, the girl there again, faint in the distance with her blonde hair, but the erection Patrick had had in his pants now completely gone and forgotten.
There was a couple of Brits he'd sold a place to some while back and saved them a fortune in the deal—or so they’d thought—they spoke like this guy, clipping their sentences and throwing in words he couldn't comprehend. He hadn’t liked them, the way they’d treated him like a parasite, acting as though he should be giving them the commission and working for free. So, he said, "Yes, I remember Michael and his lovely wife. They're a fantastic couple—special people. Please give them my best and tell them to give me a call."
And knowing there was no chance he’d ever meet them, Rann said, "I will, you’re right, they’re a great couple. But sadly the girl who's got the photos, she's not so nice. It's why I'm calling."
Patrick took a deep breath. He had to get Chendrill on this quickly, he thought, knowing the photos were out there now that Daltrey was sadly no longer around to keep them safe. Then he said, "I have a private investigator looking for them—I'm g
lad you called, I'll get him to pop over and see you."
Then there was silence. And the Brit said, "Yeah—but it's best we don't involve a third party or the girl. . . she'll get pissed and give those photos of you to her mate, just like that, she won't give a shit, she'll just do it. See, she said to me, she don't like you for some reason, said your teeth are too big—that’s how nasty she can be. I said, no he's alright, he saved Michael and his missus a fortune."
Then Patrick said the words Rann had been waiting to hear, "Just tell her I'll make it worth her while if she just gives them back."
And Rann knew he had him right where he wanted him to be.
******
Chendrill watched Patrick cut his lemon poppy loaf into sections and pop them into his mouth. His ribs were still hurting, sending unexpected electric shocks through his torso every time he moved or tried not to laugh, but Patrick was funny, especially now as he attempted to appear coy and innocent as he said to him a second time, "Why can't people just be nice and honest?"
Because they aren’t, Chendrill thought. If the world were like that he’d be out of a job, and he wondered how nice and honest Patrick was when he was selling a property. So, he said, "Everyone wants a little bit more than they can get—you know this. You've pushed the odd deal to keep commissions high I'm sure."
Patrick placed another piece of cake in his mouth and looked outside to the forty-foot poster of some naked kid stuck in an elevator with a broken nose, and, completely lying, said, "Trust me, I never have—and besides, I never actually said I'd pay this guy anything."
Chendrill stayed quiet on that one. From what he could tell, he had in a roundabout way, but getting into it with him was not worth the effort. As he looked again at Dan in the poster, Patrick said, "Strange thing was it sounded to me as if the guy was trying to do me a favor."
They always did, thought Chendrill—blackmailers were like that, never actually admitting they were doing anything wrong at all, just trying to help out.
"Yeah, they’re good at that, these types of people. But don’t be fooled—this fuck, whoever he is, he’s still trying to put one over on you—even if he seems as though he's on your side."
"Maybe he is though; he said I'd helped his friend Michael."
Chendrill frowned and took a swig of his coffee, then laughed, and held his side. "Fuck me Patrick, you need to let it go that this guy is a saint and knows your friends—he doesn't, he just adlibbed it all once you started talking. That's what these shitheads do. Has he mentioned a dollar figure?"
Patrick shook his head.
"Well he will and as you’re a rich man, you can expect it to be big."
"How big?"
"Bigger than the cost of one of your ads on the back of a bus big."
Then Patrick took a deep breath and said, "Fuck me, I don't care how much. I just want this mess gone."
And hearing this, Chendrill leaned in and said, "And the moment you start paying, it's never going to be."
Patrick took a deep breath and let it out and stared at a group of Asian girls sitting together taking up space with their computers, then he said, "What is it with these girls in this town? Why do they have to go fucking with me?"
Chendrill didn't answer, couldn't be bothered. The chances were slim to none that there was even a girl involved, though one had definitely instigated it all by taking the photos—but she wasn't likely to be doing that again anytime soon.
Then Patrick looked up at him and asked, "I read in the paper that some guy was found dead downtown. Was that the guy I saw?"
Chendrill nodded, it was exactly the same guy Patrick had seen stalking his friend and Chendrill’s old flame from way back just before he’d gone all medieval on her.
"And were you involved, Chuck?"
Chendrill sat there, staring at the table as he remembered seeing the man on the floor. "No, someone got there before me. "
Chendrill left Patrick to worry about his reputation in the coffee shop and walked back through Yaletown. He turned another corner in the old warehouse shipping area turned chic and trendy with yuppie boutiques and loaded with fast cars and restaurants. He stepped through the doorway of the offices for Slave Media nestled in amongst it all. The pretty girl at reception smiled, telling him he looked good today and that Sebastian was waiting in the boardroom.
"Where have you been?" asked Sebastian as Chendrill opened the door and stepped inside. "I've been trying to reach Dan, but he's not answering his phone."
Chendrill sat down at the table opposite and smiled.
"Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you?"
Sebastian looked back at him shocked; that was the last thing he was expecting to hear.
"Why would you say that?"
"Because you've plastered photos of him naked in a pair of some gay guy’s silver undies all across town and now he can't go out."
"No one knows they're Mazzi's."
"He does."
“Well he was all cool when he was wearing them at the time."
And Dan had been cool—cool enough to steal the keys to Mazzi’s apartment, cool enough to wear his clothes, cool enough to drive his Ferrari, but not cool any longer since Mazzi had caught him and broken his nose with his man purse then taken photos, paying him handsomely for it instead of having him thrown in jail.
Sebastian said, "He'll come around, but you need to keep an eye on him."
"I am, he's at home."
"Please tell him he's getting some great press."
"I don't think he gives a shit, Sebastian."
Confused now, Sebastian looked back at him and picked up the dog Chendrill had once saved for a cool $10,000 by simply going to the pound.
"He's not mad at us?"
Chendrill shook his head, "No, I’m just playing with you. Like I said he couldn't care less. All he wants to do is sit in his room."
"And do what?"
"You can work that one out."
Then Sebastian said thinking, "Oh? Well can you go around and tell him from me that he's just terrific, please?"
"That's it? You called me in to ask me that?"
"Yes, and to ask what's happened to Mazzi's Ferrari?"
This one threw Chendrill. He wasn't expecting them to know that the company car they gave him had been towed and was sitting in a tow company's lot, with Chendrill refusing to pay the fee. So, he said, "Some fat prick who uses his neck as a pillow has it."
"I know. They called here and asked me to come down. Told me I'd stolen it the last time they had it and now they want double. They said if I don't come down and pay, they’re going to send it off to their friend’s place on the river at Annacis Island to get it crushed."
Chendrill smiled. The cheeky fuckers had towed the Ferrari Sebastian let him use before and Chendrill had gone straight over to the yard and stolen it back. Now they had it again and were flexing some muscle with empty threats. Still smiling, he said, "They’re going to crush a Ferrari—same as they would a twenty-year-old piece of shit Chevy?"
"That's what they're saying, Chuck!"
"Don't worry, it’s bullshit; they haven’t got the guts," Chendrill said, but he knew different. These guys wanted to be Hells Angels, but didn’t have the smarts to become one—or the guts to chance getting themselves killed if they were. But they could crush a Ferrari and get away with it. All they had to do was crush it, take photos, then report it stolen—it was the way they were and the kind of thing they’d do so they could brag about it to their friends whilst they drank beer and mouthed off about their wives. He needed to get it back, Chendrill thought, but they could go fuck themselves if they thought he was going to be paying anything, let alone double.
Chapter Four
Rann Singh adjusted his turban as he sat in the booth of a franchise restaurant where wannabe supermodels worked as waitresses. Today's was blue—blue like the ocean, he'd been told when he'd bought it from the store in Southall on the outskirts of London. Buying it there in the store that smelled
like his grandfather’s home the day before he'd been chased out of town by the cops for killing the guy with the big mouth. Rann losing his temper and blacking out like he did, just as he had the first time it had happened, when the shithead kids at his school had smacked his bun as they sang out a little rhyme that referenced his parents, who wouldn’t be coming home, ‘Two down—fifty thousand to go. You’ll be next, you Paki cunt Joe.’
But that time he hadn’t won and had woken up on the floor with knuckles bleeding and his blazer ripped, his head covered in lumps from their fists and feet.
The food was not bad for a franchise place. The girl was in the toilet, no doubt preening her bleached white hair that he liked so much on tall skinny white women. She was feeling horny she'd told him, as she giggled down the phone, and said she'd been thinking about what he'd said about letting her see his hair—then admitted it was because she’d kept seeing these pictures of a really hot guy naked all-around town. She needed to make her mind up, not that it mattered.
What he'd do, he thought, was have the meal and take her straight back to his place, tell her he had to get up early for an appointment or something. Then he’d take her to his bed and go into the bathroom and pull his turban off, let his hair down so it would fall in her face as he was fucking her, let her swim in it. Girls loved that.
Then he'd kick her out and call Patrick again, let him know he was going to have to pay big to keep his secret safe, or there were going to be a different set of photos of him displayed on the back of every other bus in town.
But the girl had been a while, and knowing girls who were about to get laid generally did take awhile, he pulled out the untraceable phone he kept in his inside pocket and dialed. And as soon as Patrick answered in his usual joyous tone, Rann simply said, "I've managed to sort it all out Patrick, don't worry. The girl said you could have the photos back and she's going to forget about everything. All she wants is the commission you got from the penthouse suite you sold last month; that's it, problem solved.”
