Crash Course

by Derek Fee

  He looked up at the front door and saw Veeral Hackett standing between the portals. Hackett’s thin body was quivering and his nostrils were flared.

  “You skanky bitch.” Hackett launched a kick at the girl’s behind as she began to get up. She was propelled past Kane and into the side of the Mercedes. “I told you not to come round here no more with your pussy in your hand. We got more free pussy here than we can handle.” The guard at the door smiled showing two rows of snow-white teeth. “You got money; you can buy some rock. Go peddle your ass somewhere else and come back with the money.”

  The woman had pushed herself up and was using the Mercedes to support herself. Hackett moved towards her but Kane stood in the way.

  “What the fuck!” Hackett looked into Kane’s eyes.

  Kane returned the look. “Kill the bitch but don’t get any marks on the paintwork, okay.”

  “Hey, mon.” Hackett’s lips curled into what passed for a smile. “I beginnin’ to forget that we got some big business to conduct. The bitch can wait. She totally strung out for some rock. She be back soon with the money. Unless you want her, mon?”

  Kane glanced over his shoulder. The woman tried to put on her most seductive look.

  “I may be stupid, Veeral, but I ain’t fucking mad. I don’t need to catch what she’s probably got.”

  “You heard the mon, bitch,” Hackett shouted over Kane’s shoulder. “Fuck off and don’t come back here else you got money in your hand.”

  “Veeral,” Kane pulled Hackett’s attention back from the woman. “I love socialising with you, man, but I got places to go and things to do. If you know what I mean.” He’d looked up the meaning of Hackett’s first name, it was ‘priceless’.

  Hackett’s lip curled again. “Dat’s right, mon. The business.” He turned back towards the house. “Chester, haul your lazy ass out of there.”

  Kane watched as the three hundred pounds of dreadlocked Jamaican blocking the doorway joined them in front of the house. Chester really didn’t need the omnipresent Uzi to throw a scare into a trespasser.

  “We take your beautiful wagon,” Hackett said, striding past Kane and heading for the Merc. “Chester, go in the back.”

  “Where to?” Kane said as soon as all three were settled in the car. Chester’s bulk took up most of the back seat.

  “You real keen to see our little factory,” Hackett said looking straight ahead.

  “Crack is big business and I want my cut of it. This deal is only the first big one and I want to be sure that you can keep me supplied with enough rock to satisfy my customers.”

  Hackett turned slowly and looked at Kane. “Dat Chester come over from Jamaica. His momma got the power to see things other people don’t see an’ they say that Chester got that power too.”

  “Three cheers for Chester,” Kane said holding Hackett’s eyes in a stare.

  “Chester, him think that you a policeman,” Hackett said, watching Kane for a reaction. “Him think that maybe you tryin’ to bring down me and my posse.”

  Kane half turned and stared into Chester’s face. “You may have your mother’s power but this time you’ve got your head up your arse.”

  Chester moved his body so that the Uzi was pointing at Kane.

  “Don’t do nothing stupid, Chester,” Hackett said. “We don’t want any bullet holes in the nice car.”

  “Let’s go the whole way.” Kane leaned forward and flicked open the glove compartment. He heard a round being chambered in the Uzi behind him. He took what looked like an acorn from the glove compartment and then pushed the switch on his key ring which locked the car door. “Chester says I’m a copper and I say I’m not.” Kane showed Hackett the hand grenade in his hand, pulled the pin and dropped it on the floor. “We’ve got twenty seconds before it explodes.” He sat back in his seat. “Maybe we’ll find out who was right when we reach heaven.”

  Sweat burst instantly from Hackett’s brow. He pulled at the door but it wouldn’t open. He whipped a gun from his belt and pointed it at Kane’s head. “Open the fucking doors, mon.”

  Kane looked passively ahead. He wondered what Davenport was thinking as he listened to their conversation.

  Chapter Three

  It was all going pear-shaped, Davenport thought as he listened to the conversation in the car. A grenade. That mad bastard Kane had gone on this operation with a grenade in the car. The tension inside the police van was palpable as Davenport and the eight officers listened to the frantic shouting of the two Jamaicans. How the hell would he explain to the chief constable the destroyed Merc, a dead officer and two dead villains? This would be the end of him. Why the hell had he put his trust in somebody who played as close to the line as Kane? He wanted to look at his watch and count the seconds. What had it been; ten, maybe fifteen seconds since Kane had pulled the pin. Maybe the grenade had been a dummy. Knowing Kane, that scenario was highly unlikely. He glanced quickly at his watch and braced himself for the explosion.

  Sweat streamed down Veeral Hackett’s face. The gun was having no effect on Kane. There could only be a matter of seconds left in his life. His bladder was suddenly exerting terrible pressure on him. “Alright, mon,” he screamed. “Chester has his head up his bottom.”

  Kane bent and picked up the grenade from beneath his feet. He replaced the pin. He guessed they had had maybe two seconds before they all went up.

  Hackett looked at the grenade in Kane’s hand as though waiting for it to explode. He laughed hysterically and slipped the safety catch on his gun. “You are one cool mother,” he said looking at Kane. “Now tell me that that motherfuckin’ grenade ain’t real.”

  Kane slipped his finger through the pin again. “Why don’t we find out?”

  “You fuckin’ mad, mon.” Hackett glanced in the rear mirror and saw a look of feral fear still in Chester’s eyes. “The next time you get this juju feelin’ ‘bout somebody, mon, you keep that feelin’ to yourself.”

  “Places to go, people to meet, a deal to go down,” Kane said replacing the grenade in the glove compartment.

  “Yeah,” Hackett said. “Let’s get to it. I want to start spendin’ your money. Drive down the street and make a right turn.”

  Kane did as he was told. Nobody would ever know how close they had been to being dogmeat. It was so close that every sinew in his body was still singing. That had been one hell of a high. He was betting with himself that Chester and Hackett would never forget it. Or him. But the ‘snip’ still had to go down. That meant that the best was

  yet to come.

  “Two hundred yards then left,” Hackett said.

  They were nearing the middle of the estate and what was probably the epicentre of Hackett’s drug attack on the poor people of London. A group of youngsters, tomorrow’s potential crackheads, were kicking a ball around on a green the size of a living room carpet. Most of the houses had been treated to a dose of neglect. It was an ideal location for Hackett’s operation. Like any good businessman, he had sited the supply of his commodity as close as possible to his customers. A ruthless punk he might be but he had grasped the very essentials of modern capitalism.

  “Next right, fourth house down,” Hackett said.

  Kane did as he was told and stopped in front of the fourth house. He noted that there was no guard on the door as there had been at the crack house. Hackett was sure that his little secret was safe. But it wouldn’t be for long. The tracker fitted to the Merc would give Davenport their exact location. The house looked like every other on the estate. Maybe a little more dilapidated but given the general level of decay, it was difficult to be judgemental.

  “We there.” Hackett opened the door and climbed out of the car. Chester lumbered after his boss.

  Kane exited slowly from the driver’s side. He looked around the road searching for Hackett’s men. Four doors further up the street two women and a man sat in front of a house swigging beer from half-litre cans. Near the end of the road, a group of teenagers stood around beneath
a streetlight moving to the sounds emanating from a ghetto blaster on the ground beside them. It was a typical South London estate scene. Showtime was approaching. Kane could feel the adrenaline beginning to course around his veins. He moved towards the house and Hackett put a restraining hand on his chest.

  “Da money,” he said.

  Kane looked down at him and then smiled. “What kind of an asshole do you take me for? You think I’d walk into your crack factory with two hundred and fifty grand in a Waitrose shopping bag? You’re crazier than I thought you were. First, I see the merchandise and then you get to see the money.”

  “Only testin’,” Hackett said and smiled. ‘I know you a mon not to be messed with. You left da grenade in da car?’

  Kane nodded.

  Hackett slapped Kane on the shoulder. “You one mad motherfucker. Let’s go look at what we have for you.” Hackett marched up to the front door of the house and knocked three times.

  There was a fish-eye spyhole at head level and Kane assumed they were being examined. Keys turned in locks and the door swung open. When Kane saw the thickness of the front door, he wondered whether the ‘ghostbusters’ would indeed be able to flatten it with their hydraulic ram. As he passed through into the hall, he noticed that a housing had been fitted to the doorframe which would receive six bolts which protruded from the side of the door. The man who opened the door might have been Chester’s twin brother, right down to the Uzi slung over his shoulder. He wore a gauze mask over his face and Kane immediately understood why. Kane’s nose twitched as he inhaled the powder which seemed to permeate the air. There was enough cocaine in the air to kill a healthy horse. As soon as they entered the hall, Hackett sniffed the air before picking a mask from a nail which had been driven into the wall.

  “Only the best for my clients,” he said, taking a second snort before donning his mask. Kane followed suit. The one thing he didn’t need was to get stoned. From the look of the front door, he would have to brave it out with Hackett and his boys for more than a few minutes before the cavalry would arrive. Chester inhaled deeply before putting on his gauze mask. Hackett headed for the rear of the house. What had been the kitchen and the living room had been knocked into one large room. Two of Hackett’s ‘chemists’ were cooking crack from a gummy cocaine base. Hackett dipped his hand into a plastic pail and came up with a handful of small white crystalline rocks. This was the crack that took over people’s lives and turned them into slaves to their next high. Hackett held out his hand towards Kane who took the crystals.

  Davenport had given the ‘go’ instruction as soon as Kane had stopped the car outside the crack factory. The eight sullen officers in the van donned helmets and began shouting and slapping each other. This was the wind-up of nervous men. Davenport remembered Kane’s instructions as he watched the hyped-up policemen. Anything could happen when these guys went through the front door. It was about to go down, Davenport thought as the van moved off quickly into the estate. The other two units in their operation would hit the crack houses but their target would be the factory and Hackett. They dashed through the streets with the ghostbusters’ van close behind.

  Kane was still examining the rocks when the hydraulic ram hit the front door. A phone rang somewhere but nobody moved to answer it. Hackett’s dark eyes hardened as both he and Chester looked at Kane.

  “You fuckin’ motherfucker.” Hackett’s shout was muffled by his mask.

  Chester raised the Uzi. Kane had already dropped the rocks and launched a karate strike into Chester’s windpipe. The big West Indian groaned through his mask before hitting the floor. Hackett’s chemists stopped cooking as the ram struck the door for the second time.

  Kane heard Hackett shout through his mask and saw him go for the gun at his waist. He drew as quickly and both men brought their guns to bear at the same moment. Neither man fired but simply stared into the eyes of the other.

  Veeral Hackett heard the hydraulic ram strike the door for the third time. The sharp report was followed by a splintering of wood. He looked into Kane’s eyes and what he saw there left him in no doubt that if he fired so would Kane. He might get the bastard but he would die and there was no percentage in that. He quickly calculated the odds. He might go down for drug dealing but he could probably cut a deal. Any which way he would still be alive and he would be on the streets again before too long. The bastard who had sold them down the river would still be there and he would have plenty of time to deal with him.

  “Go on, you bastard,” Kane said. “Fire.”

  Hackett thought that Kane’s eyes had a tranquil appearance as though he were observing the events in the room from afar. Then it dawned on him. The bastard wanted him to fire. He wanted to die. The realisation of who and what he was dealing with caused Hackett’s stomach to contract. He slowly lowered his gun.

  A loud splintering noise from the hallway told both men that the front door had finally surrendered to the battering from the ghostbusters. Kane reached his hand out for Hackett’s gun.

  “You one crazy mother.” Hackett’s eyes smiled above the mask. “I’m goin’ to be dealin’ with you, Whiteboy. I don’ know where and I don’ know when but I goin’ to deal with you.”

  Eight bomber-clad screaming idiots came bursting through the front door. They clambered over the prone body of the guard. Confusion reigned as Davenport’s men spread throughout the house roaring ‘Police’ at the top of their excited voices. The chemists were quickly rounded up. During the confusion, the gun in Kane’s hand never wavered from Hackett’s sweating face.

  By the time Davenport entered the house, it was all over. The guard who had been at the door was being helped to the police van and Chester was being half carried, half dragged through the hallway by two stout police officers. Kane still held Hackett at gunpoint in the back room of the house.

  “I think you can put that away,” Davenport said as he entered the room. In his world coppers didn’t need guns. He turned to one of the constables holding Hackett. “Why don’t you inform these gentlemen of their rights while you escort them to the local nick.”

  Hackett smiled at the newcomer. He nodded towards Kane. “You know, mon. I’d have dat bastard killed if he wasn’t already dead. I not goin’ to do him the favour of puttin’ him in the ground. I be out tomorra and I be back in business before you know it. But next time I not goin’ to trust no honky dealer.” One of the constables recited Hackett his rights as they bundled him out of the room.

  “Not a bad night’s work,” Davenport said, watching Kane put his gun away. “I’m glad you didn’t have to use that. We’re not like our American cousins. All shoot-outs and the like. The British press can be messy about coppers shooting suspects. Even scum like Hackett have rights.”

  “He’s probably right, you know.” Kane pulled off the mask which hung around his neck and tossed it into a pot of cooking cocaine. There was probably more money in that pot than he earned in a year. What the hell was he thinking of? More than he earned in five years. The money to be made from drugs would mean that Hackett could afford to buy the best legal brains in the city. His mind sometimes boggled at the lottery-type sums of money that Hackett and his posse dealt with. He could feel himself coming down from the adrenaline high. “He’ll be back on the streets before we can say ‘Jack Robinson’. He’ll have the best brief money can buy and some beak or other will accept that his father used to abuse him when he was four. We haven’t stopped Hackett. We’ve only hindered his career.”

  They exited the room. The forensics team would arrive soon and bag the evidence. Davenport’s mobile phone rang and he listened silently for a few minutes.

  “Don’t be so bloody despondent,” Davenport said. “This is like Alcoholics Anonymous. One dealer at a time. I heard on the blower that we netted twenty-nine of the bastards between the raids on the other houses and here. We’ve taken Hackett out of circulation even if it’s only for a short time and it’s a message to all the others. We’ve got them in our sights.
It’ll take him weeks to get his operation up and running again.”

  They reached the front door and Kane could see a young constable behind the wheel of the Mercedes.

  “It’s got to go back,” Davenport said. “We’ll give you a lift back downtown.”

  A second constable gingerly handed Kane the grenade which had been in the glove compartment. He dropped it into his pocket.

  “Lucky the grenade wasn’t real,” Davenport said.

  “Wasn’t it?” Kane said as he walked towards the waiting police cars.

  Chapter Four

  Kane’s head snapped back as he evaded a vicious left jab. It was seven o’clock in the morning a week after the Hackett operation. The boredom had set in and Kane’s method of alleviating boredom was to put himself in the firing line. Except that assisting a middleweight contender by acting as a sparring partner cum boxing bag was probably most people’s definition of madness. Kane dodged another jab before walking straight into a right cross. His ears sang as he bobbed and weaved to avoid further damage. He slid out of a clinch and bounced along the ropes. He tried a shuffle but his feet appeared to be about two minutes behind his brain. He received a sharp left jab to his face for his trouble. A second Mohamed Ali he certainly wasn’t although in his younger days he could hold his own with most of the top amateurs. His ears were returning to normal when he heard the welcome sound of the bell.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Davenport stood at the corner of the ring and watched the sweat from Kane’s body form a pool at his feet. Davenport’s own definition of exercise was walking up one flight of stairs. “I suppose you should see someone. Although I don’t think they have a cure for masochism.”