I Love My Smith and Wesson

by David Bowker

  Larry had never heard of Chef, but he found the height and bearing of this swarthy, broken-nosed killer hypnotic. Chef had more presence than practically any actor that Larry had met. And, crucially, Chef was for real.

  This didn’t stop Larry from having a tantrum when Chef apologized. “Do you realize who I am? Anything happens to me, and half the country’s TV drama grinds to a halt.”

  Like this was a threat.

  Chef took Larry into his games room (tastefully refurbished since Malcom Priest had burned to death on the carpet) and gave him a large glass of brandy. The Philosopher positioned himself by the door in case Larry had hysterics and needed to be hauled off the boss.

  When he saw the brandy and the thug standing guard, Larry finally started to grasp the gravity of the situation. “What do you want with me?”

  “Only that we should talk. Man-to-man.” Chef turned his liquid brown eyes to the TV producer.

  “About what?”

  “This show you’re making. Gangchester. I don’t want it.”

  “You don’t want it? Don’t want it to do what?”

  Chef just leaned back in his seat and scratched his chin. It occurred to Larry that it might be a good idea to be polite.

  “To be honest, sir, I’m a little surprised you’ve heard of the program.”

  “It’s about my organization, the Priesthood. The writer, Dye, has been here. In this house. He spent a few weeks with us, researching a book that was never written. You knew this?”

  “No,” said Crème. “I did not know this.”

  “It’s true. We paid him, welcomed him into our lives. And he shows his gratitude by ridiculing us. According to his script, I’m a homosexual! To take real people and rubbish them for the sake of a piece of entertainment. How can that be justified, Mr. Crème?”

  Crème needed to gulp, so he gulped down brandy. “It can’t.”

  “That’s good. So the program doesn’t get made.”

  “It isn’t as simple as that,” said Larry.

  “Why? Has it been filmed?”

  “No. But it’s been scheduled. We’ll have a great hole in our drama schedule if we don’t go ahead.”

  “You’ll have a great hole in your head if you do.”

  “Are you serious?” said Larry.

  “No.” Chef forced a smile. “That was just a joke. But I will say this. You’ll anger a lot of people in my line of business if you depict them as fools.”

  “But it’s comedy drama. The characters have to be foolish.” He looked at Chef searchingly. “So this Johnny character. The writer. You’re saying he’s based on Billy Dye?”

  Chef nodded.

  “But he’s stupid, too,” said Larry. “It’s not as if Billy is ridiculing gangsters and making himself out to be special. Everyone gets the piss taken out of them.”

  “You don’t really know who I am, do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “That’s good,” said Chef, secretly annoyed. “I don’t want to be well known. That’s the last thing I want. A program like this will bring me and my organization unwelcome publicity.”

  Larry Crème shrugged helplessly. “I see that. But I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

  “I’ve already told you. I don’t want this program to be made.”

  “Would it help if you were heterosexual?”

  The Philosopher was so shocked to hear this insult that he drew a .38. Seeing this, Chef gave a subtle shake of his head. By the time Larry had glanced round to see what was going on, the gun was back in its holster.

  “I am heterosexual,” said Chef coldly.

  “Sorry, sorry,” said Larry. He moved to touch Chef’s forearm, felt the chill, and withdrew his hand at the last moment. “I meant your character in the show. I mean, the character that you think might be based on you.”

  “I wouldn’t trust the writer to do anything I approved of. I’ve met him, remember. He’s a very disrespectful person.”

  “You’re not wrong there. He told me and my colleagues to go fuck ourselves.”

  Chef sniffed. “You’re just proving my point. I don’t want you to make any program written by Billy Dye.”

  “What? Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  Larry Crème sighed.

  “Are you a man of honor?” said Chef. “Do you give me your word?”

  Larry allowed himself a small cackle. “You sound like one of them mafiosi fellas.”

  Very coldly and deliberately, Chef looked Larry up and down.

  “Sorry, sorry. I give you my word. I promise.”

  Chef realized that Crème would tell him anything that he thought would get him out of the house alive. Without changing his expression or the tone of his voice, the gang boss reached a decision.

  “Anyway, have another drink. Come on. No more business talk. Let’s relax. Do you like women?”

  Larry wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Chef nodded to the Philosopher, who got up and opened the door. Two women walked in, both dressed in white frilly underwear. One of them was fair-haired, young, and slim, with a flat stomach. The other was big and beefy, with huge breasts and a sullen face.

  “My friend here is an important man in TV. There are four bottles of champagne on ice next door. Give him a good time and he’ll get you a part in Coronation Street.”

  The women looked startled. But not as startled as Larry. “I … This isn’t…”

  “Please. Don’t thank me,” said Chef firmly. “It’s all part of the service.”

  * * *

  The two women wore Larry out. When Average came to collect him, Larry was lying on his back on the floor of the guest bedroom. Average picked him up, sat him on the bed, and passed him his clothes.

  “OK, Mr. Crème. I think it’s time to take you home.”

  Larry looked around the room. He was finding it difficult to focus. “Where’s the big girl?” he slurred. “I want the big-titty lady.”

  Average smiled tolerantly. “We can take her with us, if you want. You wanna take her with us?”

  “Yes, please,” said Larry.

  “Now, put on your trousers like a good boy.”

  Larry started giggling. “Know what you look like? You look like one of them heavy-metal fellas.” And he started playing an air guitar to illustrate the point.

  “That’s funny,” said Average. “Now get fucking dressed.”

  * * *

  It was a cold night. Larry’s breath turned to mist as he followed Average out to the waiting Jag. The Philosopher was already at the wheel, gunning the engine. The big girl, Fiona, was waiting in the backseat, wearing an enormous mink coat. She snuggled up to Larry and wrapped the coat around them both. “You’re a naughty boy, aren’t you? Does your wife know how naughty you are?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Larry.

  The Philosopher and Average laughed. The car moved off and the security gates opened. Soon they were on the motorway. Larry groped Fiona, felt something hard and metallic. It was a pair of handcuffs.

  Larry laughed. “Have you seen what she’s got here?”

  “Only way she can get laid,” said Average.

  “Look who’s talking,” sneered Fiona. “When was the last time you had a fuck you didn’t pay for?”

  Larry and the Philosopher tittered. Average sulked.

  Unhurriedly the car swept off the main road and stopped before a set of iron gates. Average got out and unlocked a heavy padlock. He opened the gates and got back into the car. Larry watched this in a kind of happy, drunken daze, Fiona stroking his hand as if to reassure him.

  The car moved forward down a tree-lined avenue. The trees writhed and bowed in the wind. Then the car turned into a circular avenue. Out of the window Larry could see hundreds of graves. “Why have we stopped here?” he said.

  “Because I’m dying for a fucking piss,” said Fiona.

  The gangsters laughed. “Sheer class,” said Average.

  “Working cla
ss,” said the Philosopher.

  Fiona opened the car door, then looked at Average in the mirror. “Will one of you come with me? It’s horrible out there.”

  “Fuck off,” said Average. “Just squat down by the car. We won’t look.”

  “I’m not doing that,” said Fiona. “What do you take me for?”

  “A big fat whore,” said Average.

  The gangsters guffawed.

  “Hey,” said Larry, feeling gallant. “There’s no need for that.” He patted Fiona’s hand. “I’ll come out with you.”

  Fiona led Larry away from the car, down an aisle of tombs. She linked his arm, guiding him past the crosses and the graves. Swearing, Larry paused for breath. He was wearing a thin lilac shirt without a jacket and shoes without socks and was feeling the cold. He was still very drunk. Fiona turned and pushed him against a set of ornamental railings. “Give me your hand,” she said.

  Without thinking, Larry offered her his right hand. She snapped one of the handcuffs onto his wrist and joined the other to the railings. Larry laughed. “You kinky bitch…” With his free hand he tried to grope one of her breasts. But his hand seized nothing but the cold air. Fiona was already walking away.

  Larry rattled the handcuffs, saw that he was trapped.

  “Oi!” he shouted. “Come back this fucking minute!”

  He was shivering with cold and fear.

  Directly in front of him was an elaborate tomb with a grinning skull carved on its side. The skull had a little angel wing spouting from each temple. Larry glanced to his left and thought he saw something moving. He narrowed his eyes to peer into the dark. He could see nothing and thought he’d been mistaken. But no. There was another flicker of movement.

  Someone was coming.

  They were walking slowly down the path toward him.

  It was a figure in black. The stranger approached with excruciating slowness, stopping a few yards away from Larry. Larry couldn’t see the face, only the outline of a boyish head.

  “Listen,” said Larry. “I don’t know who you are or what you want. But I’ve got money. We can work something out.”

  Larry’s voice, like his body, was shaking violently.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” said the stranger, in a calm, low voice.

  Larry’s hopes soared. It was a woman’s voice. He was talking to a woman.

  “Jesus Christ, you had me worried for a minute…” said Larry.

  Larry had always had luck with the ladies. Surely a woman wouldn’t hurt him?

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said. As if she’d read his mind.

  Larry’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude. “Could I have a drink of water?” he said.

  She seemed to consider this.

  “Please?” said Larry.

  In the gloom, he saw her nod. Then she turned sharply to Larry’s right.

  “Bring him some water!” she shouted.

  There was no one there. But Larry didn’t know this. As he turned to see who she was talking to, the woman shot him in the head.

  She had kept her promise.

  There was no pain.

  There was nothing to fear.

  Eleven

  You are crueller, you that we love,

  Than hatred, hunger, or death;

  You have eyes and breasts like a dove,

  And you kill men’s hearts with a breath.

  —“SATIA TE SANGUINE,” ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (1837–1909)

  When Chris and Keith Medina began to make money, they refused to let success change them. They remained the same vicious, nasty, self-centered vermin they’d always been. Instead of moving out of their old house in Salford, they bought the entire street.

  Because no one wanted to live in an area where blood flowed in the gutters, the houses were going cheap. Twenty soot black terraced slums at four grand apiece. The brothers knocked three of the houses into one and lived there. The other seventeen homes remained empty and boarded up.

  The advantage of living this way was that the Medinas had no neighbors. Any cars found parked in the street were firebombed. Any person found walking down their street, with the possible exception of the postman, was liable to receive a serious kicking. When the brothers created a disturbance—as they often did—no one in the surrounding estate felt inclined to call the police. Even if they had, the police would have been too scared to call.

  The Medinas loved to make noise. They were the kind of people that let off fireworks at five minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve and then again at 1:00 A.M. and 2:00 A.M., then all over again the following night. They kept two huge rottweilers that snarled and barked into the early hours while their owners lay on the floor with cocaine snot foaming from their nostrils. When the dogs were quiet, the brothers would be shouting at their girlfriends or each other. When they were bored, they sometimes walked round the estate shooting out the streetlights.

  When the brothers were stoned beyond redemption, they vandalized the buildings on their own street. They held mock trials, in which they found their property guilty of being working-class and shot it. So far, they’d spared the lives of the houses they lived in, but it was only a matter of time before these dwellings also faced death by firing squad.

  Whenever they went anywhere, Chris would drive and his big brother would wind down the window to shout obscene abuse at innocent bystanders.

  Joggers. (“You running bastard!”)

  Fat people. (“You fat bastard!”)

  Girls they wanted to fuck. (“You sexy bastard!”)

  Girls they didn’t want to fuck. (“You ugly bastard!”)

  Women in saris. (“You wog bastard!”)

  People in wheelchairs. (“You crippled bastard!”)

  Middle-aged women. (“You menopausal bastard!”)

  Middle-class women. (“You posh bastard!”)

  People who looked terminally ill. (“You dying bastard!”)

  Old people. (“You dribbler bastard!”)

  The Medinas believed they could do or say what they liked to anyone, without fear of comeback. In most cases, this was true.

  But spitting on Rawhead’s shoe?

  That was a bad mistake.

  * * *

  The street the Medinas owned was called Stainer Street. A fitting name for a thoroughfare spattered with every conceivable form of human and animal filth. Even without a map, Rawhead would have found the Medinas easily.

  Rawhead was wearing his long black coat. He had a pair of matching Ruger Magnums in his trouser belt and a short, wide-bladed knife in the side pocket of his overcoat. On foot, he skirted Stainer Street to familiarize himself with the geography of the battleground. Stainer Street marked the end of a block. To the south lay several identical roads. In the opposite direction stretched a vast area of dog shit–encrusted waste ground, where Rawhead had paid two kids twenty each to guard his car, with the promise of the same again if he returned to find it still had wheels.

  Rawhead crossed the end of Stainer Street. A big fat intellectual was standing guard in the middle of the road. Behind him, partygoers were dancing in the street, whooping and shrieking in a desperate attempt to convince themselves they were having a great time. The intellectual spit on the ground as Rawhead walked by. Without reacting, Rawhead turned right into the neighboring street. The windows of the houses were vibrating with the noise.

  An old man in a vest was standing on his doorstep. He addressed Rawhead as he passed. “Twice a week we get this fucking lot! My wife’s fucking bedridden. I’ve written to Environmental Health. Have they done anything? Have they fuckers like!”

  Rawhead nodded politely, walked back the way he’d come, and watched the big fat prick waving a taxi full of party guests into the street. When the car had driven off, Rawhead whistled to the fat intellectual. The intellectual glared at him. “What?”

  “What’s the capital of Denmark?” said Rawhead.

  “What?”

  “It’s a general knowledge qu
estion,” explained Rawhead calmly. “Name the capital of Denmark.”

  The intellectual took a step toward him. “Fuck off! You stupid fucking pillock…”

  “If you don’t know the answer, just say so.”

  As the guy walked forward, Rawhead stepped back.

  “What about Holland? Surely you can name the capital of Holland?”

  The intellectual swung a kick at him. The kick almost connected. Rawhead felt the breeze against his knees.

  Before the aggressor could recover his balance, Rawhead stepped forward, drove the knife behind his windpipe, and twisted. The intellectual staggered, his lips moving as if he was trying to say something. Blood spurted freely.

  “Say it; don’t spray it,” said Rawhead.

  Wearily the victim sank to his knees and lay down. A seismic shudder passed through him and then he lay still.

  He died as he lived. Pointlessly.

  * * *

  Keith Medina was upstairs in his room with two teenage stinks. The music was so loud that the floor was humming. The girls were meant to be putting on a show for Keith. Chris had asked them to wear corsets, frilly knickers, stockings, and suspenders, and had loaned them an enormous vibrator. But the teenagers looked more like two dumb supermarket checkout girls pricing a cucumber. It was obvious that they weren’t really lesbians and it was debatable whether they even made the grade as whores. So far, their efforts had been so lame that Keith couldn’t even get a hard-on.

  It was conceivable that his lack of enthusiasm owed something to the mound of cocaine on the dressing table. Every few minutes he returned for another snort. That was the maddening thing about coke. Once it had got you as high as you could go, high enough to make any further dosage pointless, you still went back for more.

  Keith dipped his forefinger in the white powder and then reached down the back of his boxer shorts. He’d read somewhere that taking cocaine up the arse helped avoid nosebleeds. Hadn’t Stevie Nicks from Fleetwood Mac done it? But what about arsebleeds? There was only one fucking way to find out. He shoved his finger as far up his rectum as it’d go and waited. Nothing.

  One of the girls on the bed belched. They both rolled about laughing, as if flatulence was the very pinnacle of wit. For them, it probably was.