It’s home.
Chapter 3
“You’re late, dickhead. Think I’m made of fuckin’ money, Buster?”
Barb cackles, making a sound like a parrot gargling nails.
The owner of The V is in her regular spot, perched precariously on a stool in the corner of the bar on the customer side. Barb Connors must be eighty-five if she’s a day but there’s still something of the King’s Cross hooker about her, and it’s not just her filthy mouth. She wears a yellow wig that looks like it would survive a nuclear attack and makeup half an inch thick. Her choice of lipstick, as always, is crimson.
Thurston acknowledges his boss but doesn’t say anything. As long as she keeps calling him “Buster” he’s going to keep right on saying zip. Barb had watched a documentary about silent movies last year and has been trying to make the Buster Keaton thing stick with Thurston ever since. He’s having none of it—as much to annoy Barb as to any objection he has to being called Buster. Ignoring the military-grade laser death stare coming at him from Barb’s direction, Thurston flips up the bar lid and hangs his sopping jacket behind the door to the cellar.
“Hey, Janie,” says Thurston to a thin blond punkette with tattooed cleavage who is placing fresh bottles in a cooler cabinet. Thurston makes a point of staring directly at Janie’s chest.
“Evening, girls,” he says and waggles his fingers.
Janie Jones reaches down and casually grabs Thurston’s nuts.
“Evening, boys,” she replies and squeezes. Hard.
“Jesus!” gasps Thurston.
Janie releases her grip with a sweet smile, flips Thurston the middle finger, and continues her task. On the other side of the bar, Lenin laughs and bumps fists with Janie.
“Man’s a Neanderthal, Janie.”
Janie doesn’t look up. “He’s Australian. What do you expect?”
“I was being ironic,” says Thurston.
“Well consider that nut squeeze my ironic reply, okay?” says Janie.
“Fair enough,” says Thurston. “How’s it been tonight?”
Janie stands and looks at Lenin, not quite ready to restore peace with Thurston. “Usual?”
Lenin is staring at Janie’s chest so she snaps her fingers in front of his face twice. “Hey. Hey. Up here. There’s nothing ironic about you, Lenin. Usual?”
“Uh-huh,” says Lenin, his eyes remaining glued to Janie’s breasts. While she pours, Janie turns to answer Thurston’s question.
“It’s been quiet,” she says, shooting a glance at Barb. “Kind of.” Barb looks at Janie and then back at Thurston. Something’s up.
Thurston slides his plastic cash register ID into place and punches in the code. While Janie pours Lenin’s drink she taps Thurston with an elbow and flicks her eyes toward a knot of men near the pool table.
There are four of them, all in suits, all in their thirties; beered-up, red-faced, peaking early. Thurston’s seen the sort down here plenty of times before; businessmen coming to The V for a bit of authentic old London boozer flavor. Slumming it before the inevitable gentrification takes place. They’re loud and look like they could easily be a bunch of dicks but Thurston can’t see what the problem might be. Two local girls are with the group but they look happy enough to be there, if a little bored.
They also look about fourteen years old, but Barb has a liberal approach to the drinking age laws.
Thurston raises his eyebrows in a question to Janie. “Problem?”
Janie shrugs. “They haven’t been here long. Couple of beers, nothing much. Out-of-towners. Tourists. Probably nothin’.”
“They don’t look like fuckin’ tourists,” says Lenin. “I don’t like ’em.”
Thurston agrees. Now he’s had a chance to study them a little longer the group don’t look like tourists.
They look like trouble.
One of them, a guy with cropped hair and a thick black goatee, sees Thurston looking their way. Black Goatee holds Thurston’s gaze for a few seconds, smiling without warmth. Thurston looks away. There’s never any point getting into a pissing contest with a drunk.
“There’s another one,” says Janie. “You’ll see. He’s in the bog.”
Two more customers come to the bar and Thurston serves them. Sofi Girsdóttir, The V’s chef for tonight’s shift, comes up shivering from the cellar carrying a can of cooking oil. She mutters something sweary in Icelandic and pats Thurston on the shoulder before heading back into the kitchen.
Which is when Thurston sees the monster.
Chapter 4
The guy who comes out of the bathroom, dipping his head under the door frame, is huge.
A giant.
Thurston hesitates for a fraction of a second and then resumes pouring drinks.
“Unbelievable, hey?” says Lenin. “Incredible ’ulk, innit?”
Thurston shakes his head a fraction and glances again at the big man as he joins the rest of the crew at the pool table. Thurston sees Black Goatee point to the giant’s upper lip. The guy wipes something off with a hand the size of Nova Scotia. Black Goatee laughs and says something to another guy in the group.
Janie’s right; these fuckers are trouble.
As another evening wears on, The V fills, the noise level rising steadily as the alcohol takes hold. Thurston likes it fine that way. The more noise the better, the busier the better.
Less time to think.
An hour in, Black Goatee rocks up to the bar with another guy. The group has been ordering drinks from Janie so far, so it’s the first time Thurston’s had any reason to hear them speak.
“Five beers, three double Jack and Cokes, mate.” Black Goatee speaks in an American accent and says the word “mate” in what he imagines is a London accent. He stares at Lenin coldly.
The American voice surprises Thurston.
Black Goatee’s skinhead sidekick mutters something under his breath. Thurston can’t make it out but hears a Russian accent. They are talking about him—that’s clear—but Thurston lets it go. It happens every night.
Thurston completes the order in full Buster Keaton mode. When he asks for the money Black Goatee looks up.
“What’s your accent, champ? Scottish?” He hands over a fifty.
Thurston notices a faded tattoo creeping out of the end of his sleeve: an eagle of some kind with German-looking text underneath.
“Aye,” says Thurston, handing over the change but saying nothing else. Black Goatee frowns, aware he’s being punked but unsure exactly how.
“Yeah? Don’t sound real Scottish now I hear it again.”
Thurston shrugs. “Born and bred.” He turns to another customer. In his peripheral vision he sees Black Goatee getting wound up.
Before anything else happens, Sofi pushes open the door to the kitchen.
“Cody,” she says, “have you—”
As she sees the American on the other side of the bar, Sofi stops dead, the color draining from her face.
“Hey, lollipop,” says the American. He’s smiling.
Sofi Girsdóttir turns without speaking and stumbles her way back into the kitchen.
“Sofi?” says Thurston.
“We got to catch up soon, honeybun,” says Black Goatee to the closed kitchen door. He mimes putting a phone to his ear. “Call me, y’hear?” He and the Russian crack up.
“Do we have a problem here?” says Thurston. There’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. The exchange worries him. Thurston knows Sofi well enough: she’s feisty, independent, and not the sort to scare easy.
“No,” says Black Goatee. “No problem, chief. Just one old friend catching up with another in jolly old England.” The guy stares at Thurston for a few seconds before letting the Russian drag him back toward the pool table. Thurston has to fight the urge to leap across the bar and wipe the smug smile from Black Goatee’s face.
“Forget it,” says Janie quietly, appearing at Thurston’s shoulder. “But keep an eye on them. They give me the creeps. I
’ll go and check on Sofi.”
Thurston walks down the bar and takes an order from another customer.
Tonight’s going to be a long one.
Chapter 5
Janie had been right predicting trouble, but when it comes, it isn’t from the direction Thurston had been expecting.
Three guys in rugby shirts, who’d been drinking heavily all night, get into a political debate with, of all people, Lenin. Things escalate when an enraged Lenin punches one of them in the nuts. The men laugh, but the guy who was hit tips Lenin out of his chair.
Thurston is around the bar before Barb gives him the nod.
“Out,” he says, his voice flat. It’s a statement, not a question.
“Fuck off, Crocodile Dundee,” says the guy who Lenin hit. His voice has the plummy English accent Thurston hates.
“Out now,” he says.
“Or what?” says one of the others. “What, precisely, will you do, cobber? Throw another shrimp on the barbie?”
Thurston doesn’t reply. Instead he steps forward, pulls a pen from his pocket, and jams it tight against the throat of the guy who’d tipped Lenin from his chair. With his mouth close to the guy’s ear, Thurston whispers:
“Apologize. Or you get a second hole in your windpipe.”
The plummy-voiced loudmouth is about to react when he looks at Thurston and sees something in the Australian that keeps him still.
“Get your hands off him, you fucking oik!” One of the others takes a step forward. Thurston stops him with a quick shake of the head.
“The night’s over, gents,” says Thurston. He drops his hand to his side but knows he’ll have no more trouble. “Go on, out you go. Nice and quiet.”
“Yeah, fuck off,” hisses Lenin, back in his chair. He singles one out of the group and points a finger. “Come the Revolution, bro, you’re going down. Believe it.”
Thurston closes the door of The V behind the troublemakers and returns to the bar.
“A pen?” says Barb, one thickly-drawn eyebrow raised to within an inch of her dyed hairline.
“Worked, didn’t it?”
Thurston looks toward the pool table and, as he knew he would be, Black Goatee is looking in his direction.
Chapter 6
The already feral atmosphere in The V curdles further as the night wears on. From what Thurston can see, a blizzard of coke is being snorted in the toilets. One sneeze and there’d be a whiteout.
“You want me to do something about this?”
Like everyone at The V, Thurston knows coke is a fact of London life. Mostly, so long as there’s no obvious dealing taking place, the cops turn a blind eye to the occasional recreational toot. Tonight though, the group at the pool table are flat out taking liberties and Barb could find herself shut down so fast it would make her nose bleed. Which, from the look of some of the customers, is also a fate they’ll be experiencing soon.
“You better tell them to go.” Barb looks at Thurston. “You sure about this one, Buster? These guys don’t look like they’ll take a hint.”
“I don’t plan to be subtle,” says Thurston. “There won’t be any hinting.”
Thurston wipes his hands on a cloth and moves toward the bar flap. He’s about to go through when he stops, hearing a muffled noise in all the cacophony that, without knowing exactly why, sounds out of place. Wrong.
“What is it?” asks Barb.
“Where’s Janie?” says Thurston, but doesn’t wait for an answer.
Following some base-level instinct, connecting the dots as he runs—Janie taking a cigarette break, the giant glancing her way as she heads to the back of the pub, a couple of knowing looks between Black Goatee and the Russian—Thurston ducks past the toilets and pushes open a fire door to the alley.
Next to the Dumpster, Janie Jones is on her knees. The giant from the troublemakers inside is holding her hair bunched in his massive fist. His other hand is unzipping his fly.
“Private party,” rumbles the giant. “Fuck off.”
Janie, tears running down her face, moans. She moves her mouth but no words come.
“Shut up, bitch!” growls the giant.
Thurston retreats. “This isn’t my scene, man,” he says, holding up his hands. He turns to go. “Sorry, Janie.”
“That’s right, little man, run along and let the grown-ups play.”
Thurston moves away and then, as the giant turns his attention back to Janie, picks up a length of wood leaning against the Dumpster, whirls around, and cracks it across the man’s windpipe.
If a normal human had received the blow, it would have killed them. Instead, the giant buckles at the knees, his hands clutching his throat. Thurston takes two steps forward and, two-handed, cracks the wood over the man’s skull. He falls to the floor, motionless.
Janie Jones gets to her feet and kicks the guy full in the face. His nose explodes. She leans over him and spits at him. “Motherfucker!” she howls and kicks him again.
“C’mon, Janie,” says Thurston softly. “Let’s call the police.”
“No!” Janie jabs a finger in Thurston’s chest. “No fucking police! Have you got that, Cody? No police!”
“Okay, Janie,” says Thurston. “Whatever you want. No problem.”
He guides Janie back to the door of The V. Sofi and Barb appear in the doorway, their shadows dancing across the body of the fallen giant.
“Jesus,” says Barb. “Is he dead?”
“I fucking hope so,” says Janie and pushes through into the bar.
“This is bad,” says Sofi. She puts a hand on Thurston’s arm. “What does Barb want you to do?”
“I’m getting those lowlifes out.” Thurston looks at Sofi and raises his eyebrows in a question.
“What?” says Sofi.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“What all that stuff was back inside with your beardy friend?”
Sofi’s eyes flash. “He’s no friend, Thurston.” She turns back and starts walking toward the kitchen.
“So that’s it?” says Thurston.
Sofi stops.
“Be careful,” she says.
Chapter 7
Thurston walks directly across to the group of Americans and Russians, takes the drink out of the hand of Black Goatee, and jerks a thumb at the door.
“Get the fuck out. Right now. All of you.”
The American starts to speak but Thurston talks across him.
“No. Nothing to say. Get out before I hurt you. If that overgrown bear you’ve been hanging around with is still alive, take him with you. He’s in the alley considering his life choices.”
Black Goatee looks steadily at Thurston. Behind him, the Russian is thoughtful.
“Come on, Nate,” says the Russian. “We don’t need this, right?”
Black Goatee waits a couple of beats. “Okay, cobber,” he says, smiling. “We’ll go.”
He waves a couple of his boys toward the alley. “Go get Axel.” He turns back to Thurston.
“Listen, man. No hard feelings, okay? We’re all grown-ups here, right? You ever need a job, call me. Always on the lookout for someone who can add experience to the company.” He holds out a hand. “Nate Miller.”
Thurston looks at Miller’s hand like it’s been dipped in manure.
“I wouldn’t touch your hand if you were pulling me out of the wreckage of a burning plane. Get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper properly and embarrass you in front of your dickwad buddies, Nate.”
“Okay, chief,” says Miller. “All I’m gonna say is you might have call to regret that decision someday.” He pulls back his jacket to show the handle of an automatic tucked into his waistband.
“Good for you. SIG Sauer SPC 2022, nine nineteen,” says Thurston. “I wondered what model it was. Must be kind of awkward walking around with one of those stuffed in your panties? Although I guess there’s plenty of room down there. You ever use that thing or is it for decoratio
n only?”
Miller nods like Thurston has confirmed something.
“Not bad,” he says. “Not bad at all.” He holds Thurston’s gaze for a few seconds before brushing past followed by the rest of his crew. He is almost to the door when he spots Sofi huddled with Janie and Barb behind the bar.
“You and me got some unfinished business, Ice Queen. You dig?” Miller smiles and cocks his fingers into a gun. “Bang, bang.”
Chapter 8
“You gonna tell me now?”
Thurston and Sofi are the only ones left at The V. Barb’s gone to bed and Janie’s been put in a taxi back home. She’d continued to refuse any contact with the police. Thurston’s locked up the darkened bar and is leaning against a steel table watching Sofi make her final cleanup in the kitchen.
“Tell you what?” Sofi doesn’t look up from her task. Her arm sweeps back and forth furiously. Thurston waits patiently for her to slow down.
“C’mon, Sofi,” says Thurston. “You know exactly what I mean. You’ve got history with the guy with the beard. Miller.”
Sofi stands upright and breathes deeply. Her dark eyes glitter. She’s been crying.
“Okay,” she says. She puts down the cloth and runs the back of a hand across her brow. “I know him, yes. From Reykjavik. A long time ago.”
Sofi takes off her chef’s jacket and hangs it on a peg.
“And?” says Thurston.
“And what?” Sofi pulls up a stool at the table and opens her ledger. “It is late, Thurston, and I still have to do tomorrow’s orders for Barb.”
“I’ll quit bugging you if you give me some more information.”
“This isn’t a movie, Thurston. Miller is bad news. Okay? This I can tell you. Very bad news. And you being a big hero man didn’t help anything, you know? Not a thing. In fact, if I’m honest, it makes things worse. We done? I can finish my work now?”
Bookshots Thriller Omnibus Page 19
