Terry stopped in mid-flow and stared at the man, narrowing his eyes to heavily lined slits. Joe and Mikey followed suit and took a step towards their boss. Terry nudged them and nodded in the man’s direction. “Looka this cunt in his fuckin’ leathers; must think he’s fuckin’ Easy Rider, or summat.
“Ow, Street Hawk, can I help you?”
The man acted like he couldn’t hear him and gazed at the prices on the board.
“Ow, mate, I asked you a fuckin’ question, you…”
“Did you?” the man replied, turning his head to glare at him with dark eyes. “Just sounded like white fuckin’ noise to me.”
Terry’s jaw dropped and hung open in amazement. People didn’t talk to him that way unless they were in a hurry to be crippled, like this fucking idiot in leather. His mouth snapped shut and his shoulders tensed up until he was in a fighter’s hunch. “Well, I asked if I could help you.”
“Can you make a Parmo?”
Terry’s face went blank. “What?”
“Can you make a Parmo?”
“No.”
“Then mind your own fuckin’ business.”
Terry drew back in shock and collided with Mikey, who pushed him forward gently. His lips tightened.
“You know who you’re fuckin’ talking to? You know who I am, mate?”
The man stepped back and put a forefinger to his lips. He looked puzzled, deep in thought, shaking his head. “Haven’t a fuckin’ clue, mate. Oh, wait, shit, yeah, I know. Oh, yeah, that’s right,” he said and smiled. “You’re that cunt who said, ‘You know who you’re fuckin’ talking to?’ about ten seconds ago.”
The insult hit Terry Albright like a slap. His face turned crimson and his body trembled in disbelief. Mark, barely suppressing a laugh, choked on his food, spluttering a half-chewed piece of kebab meat out onto the tabletop. Even Al reacted, with the faintest line of a smile on his face.
Terry realised that he was the butt of the joke, for once, and didn’t particularly like it. He jerked his head in Mark’s direction, then Al’s and said: “What the fuck’re you gawping at? Make us our Parmos now.”
Al shuddered and the smirk slipped from his face. He lowered his head, then went and slid the Parmos into the oven, closing it with a mechanical clunk. He clawed at the top of his smock, pulling the fabric tight, and edged towards the door of the storage room.
Terry paced forward with quick, purposeful steps, until he was standing barely an arm’s length from the man, ready for action. “You say summat?”
The man shook his head, as if in disbelief, and his mouth curled into a smirk. “Could’ve swore down you just heard every fuckin’ word I said. Maybe you didn’t though. Maybe you’ve too many curls in your lugs?”
Terry tightened his fists until the knuckles cracked. Sweat glistened in his hair. Fluorescent light gleamed on his forehead. “You wanna say that again?”
“Why bother. Throw a hook if you’re radged.”
Terry threw a fast right-hook that connected only with air. As he dodged it, the man stepped to his left and slammed a heavy fist deep into Terry’s gut. Terry folded inwards, staggered a few steps and fell on his knees. He held his stomach tightly and rocked back and forth, hissing in pain and barely able to breathe.
The man grinned and admired his handiwork. He looked in the direction of the heavies. Neither Joe nor Mikey had moved, but their bodies were tense, poised. He shook his head and wagged a finger. “This is between him and me. Stay out of it.”
Terry tried to get up off the ground. He groaned, put his free hand on the counter-top and pulled himself up. The man watched his laboured movements with a smirk of satisfaction.
Outside, the shutters of the shop came down with animal shrieks, one after another; pulled down by a giant of a man who performed the task as though they were barely even there. He pulled the final shutter halfway down, ducked beneath and came through the door. Locking it, he turned the door sign to Closed. He looked a lot like the guy standing over Terry, but his features and physique were larger, more pronounced, and his complexion was darker. He cracked a grin.
“What’ve we got here, then? A right nest of cunts is what it looks like.”
Terry gazed in open-mouthed fascination at the big man, who was at least six-four, maybe six-five. He gathered himself together and said: “Look, matey, you wanna turn right around an’ fuck off the way you came. Leave now an’ I’ll forget this shit ever happened.”
“And deny myself a workout?” he said, shadowboxing the air. “No fuckin’ chance, fatty.”
Joe and Mikey moved a few steps back, hands drifting slowly and deliberately in the direction of the holsters they had beneath their suit jackets. Beads of sweat trickled down the side of Mikey’s face and settled inside the collar of his shirt. His eyes flickered left and right as his attention jumped between the giant and the smaller man. He was breathing so lightly that his chest didn’t appear to move at all. Mark kept his eyes on them and slid his hand beneath the table until he had what he needed. His hand came back over the table and he got his aim just so, and then he coughed to get their attention.
Joe and Mikey looked at Mark’s face, then at the gun in his hand. They froze, as if silently deciding the next course of action. Their hands stopped moving and dropped to their sides, where they clenched and unclenched. Neither man looked like he wanted to be the first to speak, but Joe finally plucked up the courage. “What the fuck is this?”
Mark smiled. “I thought it was self-explanatory what this is, but if you’re a little confused, mate, I can fire off a few bullets and let them do the talking.”
5.
“Holy shit, girl, could you have found anyone uglier?”
Evie smiled, blew smoke in Tommo’s direction and waved her cigarette at him. “I could’ve given time, but he’ll hafta do for now. Quit your moaning, this is the guy they wanted.”
The black man pursed his lips and shook his head. He minced over to the sofa, sat down next to Tommo, grabbed a handful of naked flab and squeezed. “Most people have love handles, girl, but these… God, I don’t even know what these are.”
“Heavy goods handles?”
The man pulled a face. “You’re as funny as you are pretty.”
“So, very?”
“That’s right, Evil. Very unfunny.”
“Don’t call me Evil.”
The man’s teeth gleamed against his brown skin when he smiled. He was good-looking and he knew it. His face was as chiselled and symmetrical as his gym-buffed physique, which he drew attention to with a tight cream T-shirt and skinny jeans. The crotch of his jeans was pulled tight to show off his pronounced bulge. “Why not, girl? Suits you to a tee, it does.” His voice was high-pitched and camp, but played-up to accentuate the effect.
“Because I said so, that’s why.”
“What’s eating you?”
“Nobody’s eating me.”
The man pulled a face of mock-sympathy. “Aw, poor baby. I’d help out if I could, but I don’t eat surf,” he said and pointed at Tommo’s limp cock. “I’m more of a turf kinda guy.”
Evie snorted. She angled her head upwards and blew smoke towards the ceiling. “You’re welcome to it.”
“Somebody’s a grouch today. Time of the month?”
Evie gave him a withering glare. “Why is it that every time a girl’s in a bad mood, you fuckin’ lot blame it on the Red Menace?”
“You lot?” Ray said, arching his eyebrows.
“Men,” Evie replied and looked at him down her nose. “Though, to be honest, you barely qualify.”
“I’m all man, honey.”
“That’s debatable.”
Ray gave her the finger.
Evie smiled and said: “Shouldn’t you be putting that finger to better use?”
The man looked at Tommo, pulled another face, and exhaled loudly. “Ugh! Don’t remind me.”
He started taking off his clothes, throwing them in a pile at the girl’s feet. Once down t
o his boxers, he looked up at Evie and said:
“No time like the present. You got the phone ready, girl?”
6.
Joe and Mikey stared at the gun, their faces blank, and remained motionless, as if paralysed by shock. Mark coughed, tapped the table with his knuckles and thrust the gun forward slightly. “Hello? Either of you fancy being shot today?”
They shook their heads.
“Then you better lose the heavy goods,” he said and gestured at Terry. “That goes for you, too.”
Joe and Mikey emptied weapons out of their jacket pockets and from holsters beneath their armpits. By the time they were finished the counter was covered with an impressive assortment of knives, knuckledusters, saps and a couple of snub-nose revolvers. During all this, Terry didn’t move. His face was frozen in a look of disbelief, staring into the distance, his eyes completely glazed over. He shook his head slowly.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Terry stopped moving his head and looked in Mark’s direction. For a few seconds, he didn’t appear to have understood the words. But finally, he shook his head one last time and did what he was told. He emptied out his pockets and stepped away from the counter with his hands raised.
“Al, grab their gear and put it behind the counter on the floor.”
The shop owner clawed at the sides of his face, which was a contorted, pallid mask of fear. His eyes angled towards the exit, and he looked terrified enough to make a run for it. “I don’t want any trouble, lads.”
“Won’t be any trouble if you do as he asks,” the smaller man said.
“Yeah. And while you’re doing that, Al, throw us in a sneaky Parmo,” the big lad said.
The smaller man and Mark stared at him open-mouthed then looked at each other and sighed. He shrugged. “What? I’m dying for some scran.”
“Eat later,” Mark said.
Al cleared the counter-top of weapons. He threw them on the floor behind the counter and stepped away with his hands raised.
“Put your hands down, Al,” Mark said. “Nobody’s interested in you.”
“Actually, I’m interested in him making us me fuckin’ Parmo, like.”
“Will you shut up about Parmos, you fat fuck,” the smaller man snarled.
The big lad frowned, teeth gritted, fists tight. “Don’t speak to us like that.”
“Or what?”
The big lad took a step towards the smaller man, who looked ready for a fight.
Al watched them squaring off then gazed at Mark and hit the counter top with the palm of his hand. “Look, lads? There’s three in the oven, anyway,” he said. “Have one of those.”
The big lad seemed happy with this and backed away, though not before scowling at the smaller man.
Terry’s dazed expression had changed to one of confusion. He turned his head from the bickering pair towards Mark. “Who the fuck are you?”
“We’re the people who’ve come to take your money away, Tel,” Mark said.
Terry gave him a shit-eating grin. “What money?”
Mark grinned back and tapped the table twice with the butt of his gun. The big lad threw a right so fast and hard it knocked Terry off his feet. He landed on his back and slid a few feet across the lino. The left side of his jaw turned red and started to swell. Bloody drool dribbled down the side of his face and nestled in his sideburns. Joe prodded Terry’s shoulder with the toe of his shoe but he didn’t move. Both heavies looked shocked and their bodies tensed up, as if anticipating an attack. Joe tried prodding Terry again, but he still wasn’t moving.
Mark sat back in his chair. “Look, lads, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but either way we’re doing it. Easy way’s you tell us what we wanna know and we all go our separate ways. The hard way’s you don’t tell us what we wanna know and I let the big lad here have his workout.”
The big lad shadowboxed the air, making the routine look effortless, and threw fists fast enough to raise a breeze. Joe and Mikey glanced at each other and remained silent. The big lad stopped his routine and stared at Mark, who shook his head and angled his eyes at Terry. “Al, throw some cold water on this prick and let’s do it again.”
Al filled a glass with water and threw it on Terry’s face. It took a few seconds for him to wake up. He lifted his hand to his jaw and groaned. Gradually, he pushed himself into a seated position, but swayed hard enough to suggest that he might collapse at any moment. He shook his head and took deep breaths, but his eyes remained unfocused and glassy. He tried to get to his feet, but there was no strength in his limbs so he slipped and ended up face first on the lino. A weak attempt at a push up ended in a similar result. Mikey leaned down, hooked his hands under Terry’s armpits and hoisted him to his feet. He wobbled, and only managed to stay upright by keeping one hand firmly on the counter.
“Shall we start again?” Mark asked.
“Who are you?” Terry said.
“Does it even matter?” the big lad answered.
Mikey tapped his boss on the shoulder.
“What?”
“Think I know who these lads are.”
Terry turned his body towards Mikey. “Yeah?”
“These are the blokes who raided Barry Ogden the other week.”
The big lad and his shorter companion glanced at each other and smiled.
Terry turned back in their direction. “You’re shitting me?”
“Big guy, shorter fella, mouthy cunts, both handy with their fists,” Mikey said. “Gotta be the Stantons.”
“Eric and Derek, right?” Terry said uncertainly.
Eric smirked. “That’s right.”
Terry sneered back. “Was your Dad drunk when he named you both?”
“He was always drunk,” Eric replied. “Plus he was a Clapton fan. Not a great combination when naming kids. And your point is? Or is your point that dick that’s protruding from your fuckin’ forehead?”
That caught Terry by surprise. He tried to think of something cutting to say in reply, but finally whined: “You crippled poor Oggie.”
Eric shrugged. “Poor Oggie crippled himself.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Terry said. “He flung his knees at your baseball bat, didn’t he?”
“No, but he sure as shite asked for it.”
“Poor Oggie wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”
“You mean aside from the wife he smacks around and the daughter he stubs his fuckin’ cigarettes out on? Then I’d have to agree. A fuckin’ prince among men is Oggie. A crank dealing, smack selling all round great bloke.”
Terry rubbed his jaw. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“I got all weepy when I cracked his fuckin’ kneecaps, like,” Derek said. “That’s how nice a guy he was.”
“It was a touching moment,” Eric agreed. “But not half as touching as it’s gonna get when we go to work on you,”
Terry gulped. “Dunno what you think you know about me, but somebody’s sold you bad info. I’m legitimate, me. Proper businessman, like.”
“Don’t tell me. Your guns are just novelty lighters, right?” Eric said.
Terry laughed nervously. “Some people don’t like the line of business I’m in.”
“You mean the drug business?” Mark said.
“I’m in construction.”
“Cuntstruction, more like,” Derek said, chuckling at his own wit.
Nobody else laughed. He glared around the room and then frowned, puzzled by the fact that nobody thought he was as funny as he did.
“Albright Construction has a lotta enemies,” Terry said. “I need protection.”
“What you need protection for is the fifty grand of cash you’re carrying with you.”
Terry tried to laugh, but it turned into a rasping cough. “I dunno what you’re…”
“Talking about?” Eric interrupted, smiling. “Your sister’s lad, Tommo, supplies you with heroin he gets from an outfit over in Southport. Only he’s not here tonight, is he?”
; Terry closed his eyes and cursed under his breath.
“You not been wondering why that is?”
Terry gave him a thin-lipped grimace and lowered his head in agreement.
“You fucked up Al’s lad about eight weeks ago. Deep-fried one of his hands, didn’t you? Just so you could get Tommo a role here, so you could meet up and do your transactions in peace in Al’s store-room, right?”
Terry stared at the man in cold-eyed silence.
“Every fortnight you give him fifty kay. For that you get a half-kilo of pure that he picks up for you from a spotty little gimp in an old Fiesta in the Pleasureland car park. You then pick this up from Tommo when he’s running his shift that same evening.”
“How the fu…”
“Like I said, haven’t you wondered why he’s not around?”
Terry’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“Tommo wasn’t happy with the rather shitty kickbacks you gave him,” Eric said with a broad grin. “So he came to us and offered a deal.”
“I look after that lad…”
“Two hundred and fifty quid each time he carries enough aitch to put him away till he’s old and grey. That’s not exactly gonna keep him in booze and fanny now, is it?”
“What deal did he offer?” Terry said, looking dazed, disgusted.
“The time and the place of the next meet plus how much you’d be carrying and how many heavies you’d have in tow. For that information he gets ten per cent of the take.”
“Ten per cent?”
“That’s right.”
“He sold me out for five grand?”
Eric nodded.
“That little cunt.”
“Should hear what he says about you.”
“The only thing I wanna hear from him are his screams.”
Mark coughed. “Touching as this moment is, Terence, you’re veering off-topic.”
Terry sneered. “You aren’t getting shite-all outta me.”
“That’s a shame,” Mark said.
The sneer curled higher. “Live with it.”
Bone Breakers (A Stanton brothers thriller) Page 3
