I Love My Smith and Wesson

by David Bowker

  Today he hovered.

  “Fireworks at the club last night.” For a big man, the Philosopher had an unlikely voice. It was like a jockey’s voice, high and nasal. “Someone got shot.”

  “Who?” The hope in Chef’s eyes was unmistakable.

  “Not Little Malc. Scotch Harry.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No. But he’ll never dance the Highland fling again.” The Philosopher laughed at his own joke.

  Chef eyed him sternly. “Did they get the gunman?”

  “He fucking legged it.”

  “Nothing to do with Little Malc, then.”

  “Possibly not. More likely just another drunk twat who’s cracked out for the weekend.”

  Chef smiled as he stirred his tea. He liked the way the Philosopher talked. The way he said “possibly not” when he meant “fuck knows.” It created the impression, at least in Chef’s imagination, that he had quality people around him.

  “It’s only a matter of time,” said Chef. “Someday soon, someone’s going to box the guy. He’s trouble.”

  The Philosopher scratched his arse reflectively. “Confucius say, ‘Sooner or later, man who mixes with wankers will get spunk in eye.’” He waited for a laugh that never came. Then added: “It’s a shame, really.”

  Chef glanced at him sharply. “What’s a shame?”

  The Philosopher shrugged. “Nothing. Just that whenever me and the girlfriend go to the club, Malc always makes us welcome. Not in a crawling, arse-licky sorta way. I think the guy means it.”

  Chef nodded. “Now you know how I feel. I’ve known him all his life. He used to play dirty doctors with my own daughters.”

  “I’ll tell you what, though. He’s no fucking Tom Jones.”

  Chef agreed. “But you can’t box a guy for singing out of tune.”

  “Everyone I know says he’s a nice bloke.”

  “Fuck nice,” snarled Chef. “Nice doesn’t build a business. Especially our kind of business. I mean, he won’t even let us stash knock-off at the club. They’ve got this massive loft down there, just lying empty. But he thinks that if he’s found with stolen goods on the premises, Madonna won’t agree to play a gig there.”

  “Madonna wouldn’t play a fucking gig there anyway.”

  “Try telling Little Malc that.”

  “Someone’s gonna box him. I can see it coming.”

  “Yeah. I just don’t want it to be me. I owe his father that much.”

  The Philosopher gave a slight nod. Secretly he was thinking, But you killed Little Malc’s father, boss. It’s common knowledge. You set him on fire. Then you fucking shot him.

  * * *

  Malcolm Priest’s house had always been the center of operations for the Priesthood. Priest’s sudden disappearance had not altered that fact. Although Chef had a house of his own in Hyde, where his resentful wife and work-shy son resided, he rarely went there. Now that he was the undisputed leader of the Priesthood, it felt right to sleep in Malcolm Priest’s bed. Just as a cannibal devours his enemy in the hope of possessing his enemy’s spirit, so Chef believed that sleeping in Priest’s bed and eating at Priest’s table would give him Priest’s authority and power.

  So far, that was how it had worked out. Chef had assembled a new inner circle of disciples to replace those butchered by Rawhead. Profits were up. Because Chef was less headstrong than his predecessor, he enjoyed a more cordial relationship with the Greater Manchester Police. In exchange for a small percentage, Clive Bosworth, the new chief constable, let Chef run all the drugs, porn, and whores he wanted. The only thing Bosworth didn’t like was guns, so Chef didn’t sell them. It was a nice, civilized arrangement.

  The only turd in Chef’s swimming pool was Little Malc.

  The only shark, the one human being Chef feared, was Rawhead.

  But Chef hadn’t thought about Rawhead in a while. Not until that morning, when Bryan Edwards brought a heavy-duty brown paper envelope into Chef’s study.

  Bryan, a charming but dishonest young man from Rusholme, had once been on Malcolm Priest’s hit list. But when Priest died, Chef declared a general amnesty. Partly because killing is bad for business but mainly because Rawhead had murdered all of his best men.

  This was good news for Bryan, who found himself promoted overnight from hanger-on to the inner circle, the seventy pounds he’d stolen from Malcolm Priest’s house a distant memory. Chef was careful to warn Bryan that any further pilfering would result in the loss of his bollocks. And Bryan struggled to justify the faith Chef had shown in him. His trainers and Man City shirts were a thing of the past. Now he wore bespoke suits and creamy silk shirts from King Street.

  “I’ve found something out, boss.”

  Chef, who’d been checking his offshore bank account on-line, was irritated by the interruption. He tossed his head backward, silently inviting Bryan to surprise him. Bryan opened the envelope and took out a bound A4 manuscript.

  On the top sheet was typed the word:

  GANGCHESTER

  “What’s this?” Chef gave the manuscript a shove, to show that whatever it was, it was obviously a pile of contemptible shit.

  “It’s a fucking whadyacallit. A TV script.”

  “I can see that. What’s it got to do with me?”

  “Use your fucking eyes.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, boss. It just slipped out. But look. Just look who fucking wrote it.”

  Warily, as if he were afraid that a jet of sulphuric acid might leap up from the typeface and hit him in the eye, Chef peered at the name under the title:

  WILLIAM DYE

  It took Chef a few seconds to work out that William Dye was Billy Dye. Then a shudder of disgust pulsed through him, as if he’d inadvertently bitten into a dog-shit sandwich. Billy Dye was the bigmouthed little bastard who had started all the trouble two years back.

  “TV?” said Chef. “I thought he wrote books. Books that nobody reads.”

  “The guy’s branching out,” said Bryan. “Now he’s going to write TV shows that no one’ll fucking watch.”

  “Is someone actually going to make this?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Who?”

  “Larry Crème, no less.”

  “Who’s Larry Crème?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” admitted Bryan. “But Shonagh reckons he’s very important in telly land.”

  “Who the hell’s Shonagh?”

  “This actress I’m fucking. She’s juice. She plays Dorita Green in Coronation Street. You know, Dorita who works behind the bar. It was Shonagh who gave me this script to read.”

  “Bryan.” Chef leaned back in his chair to survey the scrawny young rogue in front of him.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not in the least bit interested in who you’re shagging or why. I wouldn’t give a toss if you were a stud or a virgin. You can spend the rest of your life wanking into a bucket for all I care.”

  Bryan half-laughed, half-gasped, in surprise.

  “All that matters to me is that you’re loyal. So why are you wasting my time with this shit?”

  “For a very good reason, boss,” said Bryan confidently. “This thing Billy Dye’s written, it’s about gangsters from Manny. About us. Don’t know about you, but I think it’s a bit of a fucking cheek to make a series about us and not ask us to be in it.”

  Chef pondered the point. The fingers of his hands were interlocked over his chest. His thumbs caressed each other like women in prison. “They should have consulted us,” he admitted. “No doubt about that. They haven’t shown respect.”

  Bryan suppressed a smirk. Chef was a strong leader, and few would have dared to cross him. But his obsession with Sicilian honor was a constant source of amusement to his men, all of whom were aware that Chef’s parents were Greek emigrants, greasy café owners from Hazel Grove, near Stockport. Not even a decent greasy café, but the kind that serves your tea lukewarm, with dandruff whirling on the surface.

>   “How did it happen?” said Chef, frowning. “That’s what I don’t get. One minute he’s writing spacko books; suddenly he’s in TV.”

  “Way I heard it, Dye writes this gangster book that no one wants to publish. His agent sends it to fucking Granada, who think it might make good telly. That’s what Shonagh told me, anyway.”

  “Will you fucking shut up about this fucking Shonagh?”

  “Sorry. Anyway, what do you want to do?” said Bryan. “Do you want Dye saddened?”

  “No.”

  “Should I cut off a horse’s head and stick it in his bed?”

  “Does he keep horses?”

  “Shouldn’t think so.”

  “Well, there wouldn’t be much point, then. Would there?”

  “I was just joking, boss.” Bryan smiled expansively to demonstrate the correct reponse to a joke.

  “Forget about Dye. He’s already being taken care of. It’s this Larry Crème guy we need to be talking to.”

  “What about?”

  “About whether he wants to do business with us or spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.” Chef picked up the manuscript and leafed through it idly. “What’s the script about?”

  Bryan looked startled. “How the fuck should I know?”

  Chef flung it across the table. “Read it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. This thing’s seventy fucking pages long.”

  “I take it you can read?”

  “Course I can fucking read. I just happen to hate fucking reading. Give it to the Philosopher. He reads real books. I’ve caught him at it.”

  “Bryan, you’re a lazy bastard. Take it home. Now.”

  “Aw, fuck. Don’t be cruel to me, boss. In me whole fucking life I’ve never read anything longer than the label on a beer bottle.”

  Chef said, “Exactly. You’re virtually illiterate.”

  “You saying I’m a bastard?”

  “I want intelligence around me. Culture. Understand? I want this organization to go upmarket.”

  “OK. But will you do us a favor, boss? Will you lend us some feed till payday? I’m skewed out.”

  Grumbling to himself, Chef slapped forty quid into Bryan’s outstretched hand. Upmarket? Fat fucking chance.

  * * *

  The next morning there was no one on the door of the club. Rawhead, dressed in the suit he’d worn for Billy Dye’s wedding, walked through the entrance and into the club itself. On a blackboard outside someone had written “Tonite for one nite only: Koo La Grace.” Koo La Grace was a famous Mancunian drag artiste. Little Malc was onstage, microphone in hand, rehearsing some crap patter. “Ladies and gentlemen … all the way from Little Lever near Bolton … the sensational, the unprintable, Manchester’s first lady … did I say lady?… Ladies and gents, let’s hear it please for the inimitable Koo La Grace.”

  A cleaner, somebody’s worn-out mum from Levenshulme, was wiping the bar for the minimum wage. A bored old twat sitting behind a drum kit gave his cymbal a clout.

  Little Malc grimaced. “What the fuck was that, Peter?”

  Rawhead sat down on a stool, not in a hurry, taking his time.

  The drummer shrugged. “I thought it sounded all right.”

  “It sounded like a very old man breaking wind,” said Little Malc. “Start again.… Let’s hear it for Koo La Grace.”

  Little Malc waited. So did the drummer.

  “What are you waiting for?” demanded Little Malc.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I just gave you your fucking cue.”

  “When?”

  “When I said, ‘Let’s hear it for Koo La Grace.’”

  This time the drummer provided four bars of highhat.

  “What the fuck’s that?”

  “It was meant to sound like a train.”

  “What’s a fucking train got to do with a drag queen from Bolton?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean, yes?” said Little Malc. “Did I ask you a fucking question?”

  “No.”

  “Well, why did you say yes?”

  “It seemed appropriate,” said the drummer.

  “Appropriate to fucking what?” Little Malc covered his face in his hands. “Look. All I want is a drumroll. You can do a drumroll, can’t you?”

  The drummer provided a perfect drumroll.

  “Good. Right,” said Little Malc. “Now try doing it when I say, ‘Let’s hear it for Koo La Grace.’”

  Another drumroll.

  “What was that drumroll for?” said Little Malc.

  “You said I should do it when you said ‘Koo La Grace.’”

  “No! No!” Little Malc kicked the stage. “That wasn’t your cue! That was me telling you about your cue!”

  “Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know?” complained the drummer.

  “Jesus Christ. Take fucking five,” said Little Malc, attaching his mike to the stand and walking off.

  Rawhead got up from the stool and waited for Little Malc to pass. “Mr. Priest?”

  Little Malc turned to look at him. “Who are you?”

  “Er, excuse me, Mr. Priest; I heard that you might need a doorman.’

  “Did you really.” Little Malc looked Rawhead up and down. “You opportunistic bastard. Yes, we fucking do. Are you any good?”

  “I used to work for Tommy Dean in Leeds.” Rawhead passed Little Malc a forged reference.

  Little Malc peered at it. “‘Abraham Stoker.’ Is that your name?”

  “Yes, Mr. Priest.”

  “Are you clean, Abraham? Reason I ask, see, is I can’t use anyone with a criminal record. I’ll get closed down if I do things like that.”

  “I haven’t been in trouble since I was a kid.”

  “Er, no. Sorry.” Little Malc handed back the letter. “When I say clean I mean fucking clean.” He started to walk away.

  “Your dad would have given me a chance,” said Rawhead.

  Little Malc turned round, his eyes narrowing with venom. “What? What did you say?”

  “I met your dad once. At Maine Road. When I was a kid, a guy I washed cars for lent me his pass to the director’s box. That’s where I met your dad. He was really a great guy. Bought me drinks all afternoon, really looked after me. He could see I was a little bastard, but he treated me with kindness. So, yeah. I think he would have given me this chance.”

  “Oh. You do, do you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Little Malc took out a packet of Rothmans, put one in his mouth, and fumbled around for a light. Rawhead produced a silver Harley Davidson lighter and offered a flame to Little Malc. Little Malc gave a small nod of thanks, inhaled smoke, and stared into a corner. “You’re a slick twat; I’ll give you that.” Little Malc stepped back and looked sideways at Rawhead. “And you really want a job, do you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Little Malc nodded skeptically. “Standing on a door, arguing with drunken pricks who want to know why they can’t come in wearing their underpants over their fucking heads?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You realize it’s only five quid an hour? No sick pay, health insurance, or paid holidays?”

  “I don’t care. I want to work, Mr. Priest.”

  “OK. Tonight at eight. But only because I’m fucking desperate. Understand? You’re on trial. If you’re late, you’re sacked. If someone lays you out, you’re sacked. If you start any trouble or try bad-mouthing difficult customers, you’re out.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Priest.”

  “And no weapons. If I ever catch you carrying a gun or a knife you’re also fucking out. Is that clear, Abra-fucking-ham?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Priest.”

  * * *

  Rawhead’s first night passed without serious incident. He worked the door with a young black kid called Brando, a sullen bodybuilder with a bad attitude. A coachload of Liverpudlians arrived. Two of them, both men in their twenties, didn’t have tickets. Calmly, speaking softly and
politely, Brando refused them entry. Rawhead stood back and watched, interested to see how the kid performed. One of the Scousers claimed that Brando’s refusal to admit them owed nothing to their lack of tickets and everything to the fact that they came from Merseyside.

  “You think we couldn’t buy a couple of poxy tickets if we wanted to?”

  “Well, why didn’t you?”

  “You Manchester cunts think you’re better than us.”

  Brando aped astonishment. “What do you mean I said you sleep in a dustbin?”

  “You fucking what?”

  “I never said anything about you eating cockroaches off the floor.”

  The Scouser drew back his arm to launch a long-distance idiot swipe. While his arm was fully extended, Brando hit him. It didn’t look like an especially hard blow, but the effect was impressive. The stricken man froze; his eyes rolled; he opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, then tottered around in concentric circles until he fell over.

  His friend helped him up, spitting threats: “Youse bastards are gonna regret this. We’ve got mates in high places.”

  “Yeah. High-rise tower blocks with shit down the walls.”

  When things were quiet again, Rawhead asked Brando where he’d learned to fight.

  “I got corrupted by television.”

  “Me, too.”

  “TV is destroying our culture. It always has done. All those medieval torturers that caused unspeakable agony to millions—do you think they were self-taught? No way. They got all their ideas off the TV. Same with Hitler, same with Genghis Khan. None of these guys would have hurt a living soul if it weren’t for television.”

  “I agree. So why are you working as a doorman?”

  “I’m a complete fuckup,” said Brando. He unwrapped a stick of gum and chewed it thoughtfully. “What’s your excuse?”

  Rawhead just looked at him.

  “Actually,” said Brando, “I just got out of the sadhouse. Six months for burglary. Can you believe that?”

  “Easily.”

  “But don’t tell Malc. He doesn’t employ criminals.”

  “You don’t find him a little, well, simple?”

  “Listen. Where I’ve been, someone like Malc would be classed as a fucking genius. You ever been inside?”