by Paul Slatter
Looking up as he heard his mother laugh, he stood and looked through the window at the Ferrari outside. Fuck, he thought, the car had been gone for a bit and for awhile he’d thought maybe Mazzi Hegan had gotten his way—but now it was back. He should just steal it again like he had that other time when Chendrill was fucking his mum. But for some reason, Chendrill wasn’t lasting as long as he had when they’d first met. So if he did, it wasn’t going to be easy.
And what was the point of asking to borrow it when Chendrill, the goof, was just going to tell him to get the bus.
He sat back down again and turned on the computer, typed in ‘D - A – N’, and looked at the photos of himself come flooding back at him.
That’s me, he thought—Dan. A legend now, a legend who still hadn’t even gotten laid—apart from the blind chick in the park, before her guide dog had gotten nasty and bitten him. But in retrospect it may have just been the girl’s purse he had his dick in by mistake.
He needed to go out again—get hold of Mel, and go dancing—but he couldn’t show up on the bus or walk in off the street. He needed a ride, needed to arrive, then walk in—after all he was Dan, and Dan didn’t do buses, even if his big thug minder/bodyguard had told him he should.
He stood up again and noticed the sock still stuck around his dick and pulled it off, tried to think back to how it had gotten there, and then remembered tugging one out to the pictures of Marsha—as she’d called herself after she’d invited him back to her suite, and licked the sweat from his chest. She looked good, but Mel was definitely more fun—and she worked at McDonalds.
He got dressed, walked up stairs and, reaching the fridge, opened it, grabbed a handful of cheese, then turned to see Chendrill standing there in a bright red Hawaiian and said, “Every time I see you, you make me want to eat a pizza.”
“Very funny,” Chendrill answered.
Then he asked, “Where’s the car been?” And right on cue Chendrill answered, “Get the bus.”
Dan closed the fridge door, the bottles inside clanging as it hit home.
“I’m an international superstar. I should be in the Ferrari; how can I sit on the bus and stare up at myself in the poster ads?”
“Close your eyes.”
“People will see me.”
“So, people saw you before.”
“I thought you were supposed to be looking after me?”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
Yeah by fucking my mother, Dan thought, but said instead, “You want to go eat?”
******
They sat in McDonalds with the Ferrari parked up diagonally out front, Chendrill getting out around the block and letting Dan pull in under the golden arches and park it that way as he liked to do. Dan saying now, “You like my mum then do you?” Chendrill smiled—he did—listening as Dan carried on, “Worth taking one in the ribs for, was she?”
Chendrill nodded and said, “You know that, she’s a good woman.” Then Dan leaned back, taking a big bite of the triple decker burger and chowing down. Mel was not there now, but if he was lucky, she’d be in soon and he could apologize for sticking his head up her skirt and embarrassing her. Then he could see if she wanted to go out dancing again and let her sit on his lap in the front of the car whilst Chendrill dropped them off, tell her he’s letting Chendrill drive it tonight because it’s his birthday. Then he said, “You need to give her a bit more loving so she don’t go looking around.”
“And you’re the expert?”
“Just an observation.”
Then Chendrill said, “I need to give her more loving to give you enough time to steal the car again, is that the kind of loving you’re referring to?”
Fuck, he was sharp this guy.
“No, the other guy bought her stuff.”
The other guy, Chendrill thought. The prick. And he said, “Well I’m not him, and I can’t cook pastry for shit, so don’t get your hopes up. Besides, you’re rich now. You can buy them.”
Dan ignored that one about being rich, and said nothing—the look he gave to Chendrill over the burger he was still stuffing into his face was enough. But, pulling it out, he couldn’t help it, “What, buy them from him? Yeah good move, I’ll ask him to deliver, maybe he can bring his bat.”
Chendrill moved at the memory of the baseball bat slamming into his side like it had, felt the pain in his ribs send an electrical pulse through his body, and thought, yeah and fuck you too Dan, you smart ass.
Chapter Thirteen
Rann Singh stood on his balcony wishing he’d thrown something else down at Chendrill instead of the lounge chair. He’d liked that one, the way he just had to push back and the whole thing reclined with the little pillow he could use for his head or his lower back if it was aching like it did sometimes after he’d been letting his hair down.
But now the chair was gone and so were two of the weights from each end of one of his dumbbells that he’d been dropping as he’d tried to hit those two cars full of East Indians as they cruised by with their blacked-out windows and Bollywood music blaring. Their tires so low, making them a perfect target as they slowed to crawl over the speed bump at the front of the building.
Obviously, they were all part of the group who hung with the big boy Rasheed and were upset about him and his collision with an oncoming truck’s wing mirror. But fuck me, the guy should’ve been more aware of his surroundings instead of worrying about stealing his hard-earned cash.
Leaning down, he twisted the screws at the end of the second dumbbell and pulled off the two small weights positioned at either end. It was better; they were too heavy like that anyway and he only had them on there to impress chicks when they’d come over to see how long his hair was.
Leaning out, he took aim and gently threw out the third weight and watched it sail through the air, plummeting down towards the road, and saw as it just missed the souped up Mercedes and crashed hard into the tarmac just behind.
Fuck.
He had one left. With Chendrill he’d been on target the first time and the guy had gotten the message, disappearing quickly along with the $100,000 the kinky realtor promised. But he’d been in a rage then and you could do stuff like that when you were angry. Now though, he was just having fun, kind of, like playing darts, but with gravity. He picked up the fourth weight and sent it out there, this time a little to the left and with a bit of twist thrown in for good measure and watched it fall, spinning through the air like a discus thrown by one of those hairy Russian women he used to see in the Olympics.
Down it went sailing towards the Mercedes, on target this time, and hitting it with an almighty bam! Right dead center, making a fish pond out of the roof.
“Yes—Bullseye!” Rann said to himself, as he watched all the doors open and six East Indians pile out of the back and two out the front, the driver picking up the weight in disbelief.
Six in the back, Rann thought, it reminded him of his early days growing up in London when you’d see that many squeezed into an old Nissan going off in the morning to work at the airport. Now over here, they were driving Mercedes that got stuck on speed bumps. The other car pulled back, reversing up to the car. The driver got out and the rest unloaded out the back, all of them walking over to the driver of the dented car trying to look cool, seeing the dent, then the weight, then looking up at Rann. The driver not looking cool and quickly getting back in again and moving his ride out of range.
Rann looked at them all scurrying about picking up the other three weights he’d missed with, one of them down there without a turban, going native, pulling a pistol and aiming it towards him. Rann laughed to himself, saying, “You think you’re going to hit me from there, you dopey cunt? You’ll probably not even hit the building.”
He remembered the man from when he’d first gotten into town—Archall Diamond was his name. He called himself that because he’d drilled out a perfectly good tooth and stuck a diamond in its center. The man hung out with Rasheed pretending like he was the big guy and
Rasheed worked for him, when in reality it was the other way around and Archall Diamond just drove his Mercedes, with its neon lights rigged underneath and a 40,000-amp booster in the back blaring out Bollywood bullshit, making him feel stupid as they’d cruised around Surrey. Archall speaking Punjabi to Rann even after he’d told him twice he didn’t understand because he’d grown up speaking Swahili as his mother and father liked to do. The guy ignoring him and carrying on anyway, trying to show off and make an impression, letting him see the gun he was packing and would never use. Then showing him pictures of his girl with long legs who looked like she’d never once been fucked properly.
What a bunch of idiots.
Walking back inside, he grabbed a bucket and quickly filled the thing from the bath with both taps blasting out hot and cold. He came back and looked at them all still there staring back at him and swung the bucket out, saying out loud, “Ave some of that you fucking pricks!”
As he dumped the lot over the side at them, accidently letting the bucket slip at the last second on the recoil and watched the water splay out in front of him then drop down to the road, the bucket following behind landing next to where Archall was crouched with his gun. Fuck—he needed that, he thought as he saw the bucket hit the ground and smash into two. He had a girl coming over later and wanted to clean the bathroom.
Walking back inside, he closed the balcony door and turned on the TV. Hockey was on and he liked it; it was way better to watch than the football he’d grown up with, which everyone here called ‘soccer’ because they had their own football, which he just couldn’t begin to understand. Hockey though was great, nice and fast with no fucking around, no diving or any of that kind of shit and no fancy hair, just tough fucks with broken noses and no teeth. And they liked to fight, get it sorted there and then, like he did.
He sat down and wondered how he was going to do the bathroom now. There was a big saucepan in the cupboard he never used that had been left accidently by the previous tenant—he’d use that. That would do it. Get the place all sparkling so when the skinny white girl he’d been chasing came over, she’d feel good and clean. Girls like it like that; it makes them feel safe.
******
Patrick was doing well down south in the land of the beautiful people, feeling good in his new look, getting comfortable with himself. Marsha was with him now as he listened to her every word, understanding her, as she talked about herself and how everyone around her were the stupid ones because it must have been one of them who’d leaked it to the gossip magazines about how she didn’t know the price of a pint of milk. Telling her what she wanted to hear, he said, “Why should you need to know how much milk costs? That’s what the little people are for.”
Marsha nodded and looked towards her assistant Buffy eating cheesecake and told Patrick, “And that one, she can’t even remember to pack my things when I have to go to England, which is just outside Europe. Told me after, she had to get a private little thingy so I could have my clothes there in London in the morning.”
Patrick shook his head, feeling her pain, saying, “Chartered a jet?”
Marsha nodded, flicking her hair, “Yeah she rented one of them little ones, with the bed, and I bet she slept in it instead of putting my clothes on it and sitting in the small seat like she’s supposed to.”
Patrick shook his head, closing his eyes. Unbelievable, he thought, unbelievable. It had been a long time since he’d met anyone this stupid with this much money.
He looked over to Buffy, doing nothing and seeing everything, sharp as a tack, wasting away the day on the payroll watching all the people standing around the pool trying to look cool and no one going in—except her, when earlier she had and caused havoc in her flowery costume. All her phone calls were made, hotels and limos, beauty parlors booked, engagements arranged, and now just waiting and watching.
He asked, “Do you pay her?”
Marsha looked at Buffy, saying, “Someone has to; it’s the way it is. How else would she be able to buy her DVD movies?”
“She likes films, does she?”
Marsha replied, shaking her head with her eyes half closed, “Yeah, she waits till there’s a deal on any DVD’s and gets them. She’s got a whole suitcase full and just expects me to pay the extra baggage at the airport. Even today I saw she’s just bought another three. ‘I said why do you need another three Tom Cruise movies when you’ve already got loads,’ and do you know what she said?”
Patrick stared at her, waiting for the answer to come.
“She said, ‘Not all films are the same Marshaa,’ she said it just like that, then she said it was worth it ’cos it was a three for the price of two deal at the supermarket where I sent her to get my stuff. Said she couldn’t resist. You know, and I sent her there for me—you know what I’m talking about.”
He did, he understood completely, the girl had no concept that other people had lives. Then Patrick smiled at her, saying to her in a tone that could melt butter straight from the fridge, “You don’t need to worry anymore. I’m retired now see and need something to do. Why don’t you just leave everything to me and get on with enjoying your life, that’s all you need to do.”
Then taking Marsha by the hand, he led her over to Buffy and, still smiling, leaned in and quietly said to her, “I have no doubts at all that you are a very sharp and intelligent woman. I’d like you to come and work with me and if you do, I’ll pay you twice what you’re earning now with full benefits.”
Buffy stared at this man with the golden smile and white linen shirt who’d she’d never met before and had been spending the afternoon trying to work out where she recognized him from. He seemed sincere and was offering her a job and smiled nicely. So, she said, “But I work for Marsha.”
And Marsha said back, “It’s all good. Patrick’s looking after me so I can do what I need to do.”
Buffy stared at them both now, smiling, taking it all in. Marsha beautiful, but dumb as a post, this guy she’d never heard of before but whose face she now recalled seeing only two weeks before many times on the back of buses in Vancouver—here now looking different, doing the impossible, holding Marsha’s attention for more than two hours and offering her a job with twice the money to boot. What was his angle, what was the catch? Then before she could ask, he said, “There’s no catch, Buffy. You come and work for me and we both look after Marsha, I’ll get someone else to do the work you do now and then I’d like you to assist me once Marsha begins to introduce me to all of her friends.”
Knowing only too well Marsha didn’t have any friends, Buffy waited for the ‘but’ to come and when it didn’t, just said, “I thought you sold houses?”
Patrick carried on, ignoring her question as though he hadn’t heard it, saying “I’ll tell you what, if you’ve time, I’ll arrange a jet to take us all back up to Vancouver sometime soon and we could maybe get together with Sebastian and Dan, and there’s this great crab house I know, you’ll love it.”
Buffy looked up, her eyes swiftly connecting with Patrick’s and saying enough to tell him he’s on the wrong track, and quickly taking over the conversation said, “Marsha’s not eating shellfish at the moment Patrick, but Vancouver sounds great, I’ll check the schedule with Gill.”
Patrick moved on from Marsha, kissing her hand, treating her like a princess and knowing she wasn’t. Buffy was great, he liked her, stopping him right there in a middle of a blunder with the crab comment before he could destroy a whole afternoon’s work; yes, she was good, looking after him now and not even on the payroll.
He reached a crowd of people all standing around the pool, looking tanned and beautiful, their teeth capped and flawless, the women’s tits and hair perfect, the guys looking younger and more perfect than when they were young for real. Then with charm a mile long, Patrick walked right in, put his hands around them all and said, “You guys look as good and happy as I’ve ever seen anyone. What’s the secret?”
And their secret was pure bullshit and Patrick ha
d more than anyone there—after all, he was the guy who’d just spent the afternoon chatting with Marshaa and she’d never dream of speaking to them, let alone smiling.
He was the man, and his balls were huge.
Chapter Fourteen
Rann Singh walked back to the window and looked down to the road; it was getting on and they were still there below waiting.
Why don’t they just come up, he thought, worried he’d have to karate their asses—after all they knew that’s what he did and had done for some time now. After taking a second beating from the skinheads at school, it was all he’d done since. He was a black belt six times over and still couldn’t believe the big guy with the loud shirt had managed to get the better of him sucker punching him twice—he must be getting soft.
Since losing his bucket, he’d sent a whole tin of peanuts down on to the posse that was forming and made good use of a china tea set he’d been given but didn’t like, and seeing it smash all over the idiots below and their cars was special. Fuck ’em.
Soon though, he’d go down and take them on one at a time, put to use all the training he’d done in the past but didn’t do as much now as he should. He’d take down the Punjabi warrior with his gun, break his fancy teeth with it first then bring it down on his head hard, so as every time he felt the lump on his head over the next few days he’d wished he’d kept his hair and wore his turban like a good Sikh should—the fucking cocksucker. It was nine in the evening. He’d give them till ten and go down and put the cat amongst the pigeons.
At ten he did just that, and as he came out the door taking them all by surprise, two began to run.
Feeling his china from the tea set crunching under his feet, Rann walked straight over to Archall Diamond in his silk suit and pointy shoes and went at him. Taking his gun from his hand before he could lift it, he smacked him on the head, knocking him out, and threw the gun over the wall into the same area Chendrill had thrown his knife when he’d disarmed him so easily. It felt good to be back. Then he said as the guy hit the ground, “You all need to have a whip round to pay for that tea set you made me smash on your heads—and my bucket.”
