"I'm out, Ran. That was the deal. I did that last thing, you helped me set up here, and we're done."
"Those insurance companies can be a real pain, right?" Gaines lit a second cigarette and offered the pack to Miller, who waved it away. "How many times this place been torched now? Twice?"
"Three times." Miller's tone was quiet, dull. He knew where this was going, and he knew what his answer was going to have to be. There was no way out from under.
"Three?" Gaines pulled a face. "And now the insurance company say 'no.' Now they won't renew. Was a risk taking you on in the first place. Now you're not covered, and the next fire? How do you cope with that?" Gaines went for the soft spot, nodded at Erica, smiling at her while he still talked to Miller through his teeth. "Does she know?"
"No."
"Okay. Tell me this: what would you prefer? That she's pissed at you for taking another job from me, or that she's pissed at you for letting your home burn down without insurance?"
Miller's youngest son, Eoin, ran past kicking a football, already good with it at his feet. He was wearing a Wolves top, a child-sized replica that Ransford had brought with him to the party. Already he was dreaming of wearing the real thing.
"You shouldn't have done that." Miller kicked the ball, sending his son chasing after it out of earshot. "I don't want him going near that place. Football's just for racists and hooligans."
"Wolves need all the fans they can get. Bottom of the third, looks like we'll be in the fourth next year, if the club's still going. My man at the cub says the receivers might be called in."
"You should be offering them money then, not me."
Gaines let him stew in silence for a moment. He waved at his daughter, who was following Eoin around. She was younger, still a toddler, but she was bold around strangers. He smiled once he saw Miller lean back against the wall and kick his heel against the concrete floor. They'd known each other long enough to read the signs.
"So, you seen Moses?"
Moses Lita was new. He'd only started working for Gaines in the last year, ever since he started to muscle in on the drugs trade. He's been running his own operation when Gaines had given him an offer he couldn't refuse. Gaines' offers came in threes: you said 'yes,' you said 'yes' after a broken bone, or you never said anything ever again. Miller was the only person who got to say 'no' to him, on account of things that had passed between them years before.
"I don't talk to Moses," Miller said. "Never trusted him."
"I should have listened to you." Gaines sucked hard on his cigarette. Tilted his head back to Blow out smoke. "He's gone to ground. Apparently he sparked some guy up in Birmingham. One of my guns, too, not that it can be traced back to me. Police are hard on him, and he's not clever enough to dodge them for long."
Miller smiled. Gaines had never been any good at finding people. He had a reputation for hands-on work, but the truth was he got other people to do it for him. Miller's memory flashed for a second, back to the things he'd done for Gaines, for loyalty and money. "And you want me to find him?"
"I ever came to you for brains? No. I know where he is. He's got his head down in Handsworth, using the carnival to stay hidden, but that ends today. We've got to get to him by tomorrow." Gaines raised his right hand and formed a gun with his fingers. "I want you to do the other thing."
Miller pushed off the wall and waved Gaines away, made to walk over to his family. "No way. Not again. You know that."
Gaines caught his arm and pulled him back. It was a quick movement, but others at the party caught it. Now everyone was watching them out of the corners of their eye, trying not to look like they were doing it. Now it was a thing. Gaines leaned in close and spoke quietly. "Listen, if the cops get him, it's not just me he can talk about, is it? You want them turning up here?"
Miller look at Gaines and then at his family. His two boys, Eoin and Noah, arguing now over who should go in goal. Rosie, the baby, asleep in a friends lap. Erica, turning meat and trying not to look like she was keeping an eye on him.
Gaines spoke again before Miller had the chance to think it through any more, "He's had his run, and he's fucked up. It's his time. No body, no evidence, he just needs to vanish. But I want to see him first, see it's done. You do this one more time, and all your problems go away. You won't need insurance. Anytime anything goes wrong I'll be here with a cheque. Hell, you want to, burn the thing down yourself and I'll buy you a house, tell Erica the insurance covered it."
"Last time?" Miller said.
Gaines nodded. "Last time. Then you're out."
* * *
Four in the afternoon the following day, Miller walked down Lozells road, feeling the stares. Just outside of Birmingham city centre, Lozells was deep Rasta territory as far as the newspapers were concerned. Dark skin, big hair, music with a beat. Miller knew few of the people in Lozells had ever seen a real Rasta, but the whites in Birmingham didn't care. They were all the same thing. The reason Miller was drawing stares was nothing to do with the colour of anyone's skin, but because people knew him. They knew who he worked for, and that he didn't belong.
Lozells wasn't Gaines' territory.
Hansworth, Lozells, and Smethwick were carved up between a complex understanding of the Irish, The Yardies, labour unions, and a few new younger gangs, the Watsons and the Meatpackers. Other people could try, but they would get their asses handed to them.
The Handsworth carnival had finished the night before, and there was still the smell of a party in the air. Posters and flags lined the streets in yellow and green, and the people had the easygoing smiles of the relaxed and the partied-out. As rough as the economy had been on the town Miller was living in, it had been worse here. At least back home there had been jobs in the first place. Into the backstreets of Lozells and Handsworth the government had thrown three generations of immigrants, and they'd never thrown work in after them.
As he walked, Miller noticed something else. Police. They were on every street corner. He walked past a parked police car and saw three uniformed officers patting down an angry young man sporting a toppa. His hands were held behind his back and his face was pressed down onto the bonnet of the bar, he was shouting in pain. In the doorways of the shops on either side of the street, Miller could see other men, watching, waiting.
He got one sense: Get out.
He slowed down as he passed the police and one of them gave him the fish eye, looked like he was about to get into Miller's face. He would be a new toy, a different shade of skin to mess with. Miller reminded himself that he had a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans and walked on. As he neared Villa Cross, the large junction known to everyone as the 'front line,' he saw the trade was still going on as usual. Just yards aware from where the police were patting down every young man with the wrong type of clothes, the ganja was exchanging hands. On each side of the junction, and in the car park of the nearby Villa Cross pub, he saw men slinking about, the easy gait of the dealers and the anxious shuffle of those not yet hopped up.
If they weren't here to stop the weed, what was going on?
Again he got the sense: Get Out Now.
He crossed the road and ducked into the Acapulco Café. It was a small space, just a counter for food, a few tables, a pool table, and a couple pinball machines. The window was covered in grilled mesh, which helped to hide from the outside view of the people inside as they sat smoking joints and played pool. Everyone stopped for a second as Miller walked in. He knew a couple of these people. Big George at the pool table, always wearing a leather deerstalker, and talking about women with his booming laugh. Irene, behind the counter, never looked like she was working, always looked ready to shout at you for whatever food you dared to ask for. She would have been a fine looking woman if Miller had been looking for someone with about ten years on him and stronger arms. One song on the radio ended and the DJ announced the next one: UB4O. The room went into near revolt, everyone shouting Irene to change it. Miller headed over to the corner where t
he owner, Chris, was wiping down the table.
"You doing here, man?"
"Maybe I'm here for one of your legendary coffees."
"I own the place and even I don't touch the coffee. Really, you doing here?
"Moses. I was told he's been getting his food in here every day this week."
Chris' face shut down. There hadn't been much of a welcome to begin with, but now there was nothing. He just shrugged and carried on wiping the table long past when it was clean.
Miller took the hint, "Okay. Mind if I ask your customers?"
Chris just shrugged. "Your mouth, man. Your life."
Miller turned back to the pool table where George was playing by himself, sinking ball after ball as a small crowd watched in a haze of smoke. Each time he sank a ball without missing, money changed hands in the crowd.
"You can ask what you want to ask," George's voice boomed out, friendly but with a warning firmness, loud for the audience to hear too, "but then I'll have to swear at ye."
Miller smiled and rocked on his heels for a moment, thinking there was no point in asking his question. He watched as George sank the black to a round of applause, then a small boy ran over to the table to set it back up. Another time, on another day, Miller would probably have challenged George to a game, and almost certainly would have lost, but he didn't want to be hanging around.
He changed the subject by nodding out through the open doorway to where the police had stopped another young man, had him pressed against the wall of the Fairway Furnishings store across the road. "What's going on today?"
George shrugged, almost ignored the question as he busied himself with chalking up his cue. "Nothing that don't happen every day roun' here. They got it in their heads we some kind of criminal masterminds, that they keep finding coke and horse here because we selling it, not taking it."
Miller stayed silent. He knew where the drugs were coming from, and he knew it suited the trade to have the cops think the local gangs were behind it. He nodded a goodbye and left. He had sensed his allotted time was up, and there was no point burning bridges with people by getting into an argument over Moses.
He crossed over to the car park of the Villa Cross pub and turned to look back at the café. The metal grill over the window did its job, and he almost couldn't see the several faces staring at him to see what he did next. He looked around at the buildings. The large bingo hall, once a cinema, that towered over everything on the far side of the road. The church to his left. Houses further along. If Moses was hanging out at the café, he would be nearby. He wouldn't be travelling far.
* * *
Eric Boswell had his face pressed to the bonnet of the police car. Three of them, it took three of the cowards. One of them pinned his arms behind his back while another was patting him down. For what?
"What you want man?"
"Did we ask you a question?"
"No."
One of them leaned in and grabbed Boswell by his dreadlocks, slamming his head down onto the car again. "Then shut up."
Boswell felt his blood rise. Wasn't right, be treating a man like this. He wanted to snap, show them how it should be done, show them not to mess with him. But he didn't. He didn't fight back and he didn't speak again. He took it. He let them frisk him once, twice, a third time. Let one of them whisper in his ear about the colour of his skin.
He saw someone stop beside them on the street out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look, saw a man who had ten years on him. His skin was darker then the police, but he didn't look Indian or Pakistani. He looked for a second like he was going to step in, tell the police to leave Boswell alone, but the one of the cops scared him off and he looked away, walked on down the street, his head bowed like a good boy. After a few more pushes and warnings, the cops stepped back and let him go. Boswell flexed his hands and rubbed his wrists, trying to get his feeling back. Again he wanted to step to. Wanted to show them how a man reacts to being treated like an animal. Again, he didn't. He turned and walked away, towards the front line.
He crossed over to the Acapulco. Big George looked up as he walked in, missing his shot. The boys behind him all started to whoop and talk, money trading hands, slapping palms. Chris nodded for Boswell to step over to him, took him to the corner.
"Go get your man, make sure he stays off the streets."
"I'm over, man, all the cops yeah?"
"No." Chris tilted his head slightly, motioning out through the door with a flick of his eyes. "They the least of it tonight. The gypsy in town. If Moses steps out tonight, he'll never have to worry about the police again."
Gypsy. Boswell figured that must have been the dark-skinned guy. He nodded, pretended to Chris that he understand what he'd been talking about, but he hadn't been listening. The blood was too busy rushing in his ears, saying hear me, use me, fight me. He stepped out of the café and looked around, checking for any sign of the gypsy before he turned to head down Heathfield Road.
* * *
Miller hung back in the doorway of Fairway Furnishings and watched the young man in the toppa step back out of the Acapulco. He'd seen him go inside and something had told him this was it. Sometimes he just got a feeling, and he'd learned to roll with it. The young man stepped out again not much more than a minute later, and from the way he looked around Miller knew he'd been told to look for him.
Bingo.
Miller let the guy walk on down the road for a minute or so before he pulled out of the doorway and followed. He stayed on the other side of the road, and always tried to keep a parked car between them, blocking the guys line of sight as he turned back a couple more times. He could have spotted Miller, but he didn't, and soon Miller realised he wasn't looking at him. He was looking back at the cops.
The man crossed over, towards the same side of the road as Miller, and made to turn into Mayfield Road. Miller stepped down into the road, behind a parked red fiat, with his quarry passing only six feet away from him. He counted to twenty then stood up and followed again. The route was leading them back towards Lozells Road. At the junction of Lozells, the same three police were watching people walk by, but this time they didn't bother with either Miller or the man he was following. They both crossed the road and headed down Burbury Street. Miller hung back and bent down to tie his shoe lace, watching as the young man stopped on the other side of the road, about seven doors farther down, and let himself into a red-brick terrace house.
Bingo again.
Miller reached round behind him to feel the solid metal presence of the gun. He hated them. He hated what they made him. But he only needed to use one more, and then he was done. He swallowed a couple of times to clear his suddenly dry throat, and decided to head to the pub. It was too bright for him to do it right now anyway. He needed nightfall. He turned back towards Lozells Road.
* * *
At around 4:45, a police officer noticed a car was double parked at Villa Cross. As he approached the vehicle, he noticed there was no tax disc on display. The officer started to write out a citation for the driver, but the young man behind the wheel was spooked and he ran away from the police and into the Acapulco café.
The officer's attempts to enter the café were met with hostility, and he called for backup from the many nearby officers. As the numbers of police officers at the scene swelled, so did the crowds, mainly angry young locals, who had felt victimised and isolated by the police due to the colour of their skin. Stones were thrown and threats were made.
The officers on the scene called for more back up. So did the locals.
The lid was off.
* * *
Miller sat at the bar of the Bush, a small pub set back from the main roads of Lozells. The violence could be heard as gangs fought running battles with the police, often winning them, in the streets outside.
He sipped at his pint. He'd lost track of how many he'd had.
What had started as just a couple of drinks to pass the time had become a few more drinks to steady his nerves.
Now it was a full-blown session to avoid the riots. He heard a muffled explosion, something he would later learn was the first of a handful of firebombs set off after gangs had lured the police into traps in the narrow streets.
His hands shook but it wasn't the violence outside that was causing him trouble.
He set his drink down and looked over the bar, at the mirror opposite that was set behind the bottles of whisky. He was giving himself his full Rumblefish stare. He was not a killer, he told himself. Trouble was, he already knew that wasn't true.
Anymore, he added. I'm not a killer anymore.
His memory flashed to a favour he'd done for Gaines a long time ago. An act that had them locked together ever since, unable to escape the pull of their past.
Once more.
You can do it.
Someone slid onto a stool at the bar next to him but he didn't look up. After a moment of silence, Irene spoke. "You going to ignore me all night?"
Miller looked up, the booze framing the edges of his vision. "Sorry."
Up close she looked a little younger, maybe closer to his age. Or maybe it was the soft focus of alcohol. She leaned closer and picked up his pint, sipping at it before pulling a face and then putting it down on the other side of her, out of Miller's reach.
"You've had enough of that crap," she said.
"Beg to differ." Miller waved at the barman, who picked up the drink and handed it back to him. He tipped it to down the last of the beer, then wiggled the glass in the air to ask for another.
"He's scared you know?" Irene's voice was softer now. Almost pleading. "He knows he's in trouble."
"Yeah."
"Can't you just leave him be?"
The windows of the pub rattled as another explosion sounded off, this one closer. They heard people running past, fighting, shouting. Something bounced off the locked door.
"It's like one of those horror films out there," Miller said. "A zombie film. Though zombies don't run."
"No." Irene shook her head and spoke with sadness. "What we have out there is a ghost story. Ghosts of a community, of other lives, other stories. That's all we have left now."
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled 2 Page 12
