Charlie scowled. “Did you mean to say ‘get to’?”
His brother smirked. He had an unique sense of humour.
3
Safe Haven grew like a tumour around the capital city. During the early 21st century swarms of refugees headed for London, as though surrounding the country’s leaders was going to make them realise how much they had screwed Britain over and make them see sense. It didn’t. Disease spread, terrorism battled prejudice and before anyone had realised it aid packets were being flown over from Germany and the Australians were holding rock concerts for British kids in poverty. Most of the country slummed, counties broke off and suddenly all that anyone seemed to care about was the thriving capital, where business men still wore Armani and sipped espressos.
People flocked to London to fill the rumoured jobs and sample the last remnants of the good life. And when they got there London was walled off with wire fences as tall as the buildings they were enclosing. The cops kept watch and if you couldn’t pay you weren’t coming in. The gathering clustered and culminated and eventually Safe Haven became a city in its own right; a city with rulers as powerful as any of the fat men sitting in parliament square, and just as ruthless.
Pinky Morris had been one of those men, or at least his late brother Frank was. Pinky was more of the Deputy Prime Minster, to cover the summer holidays. They arrived in S’aven, when it was still a town of tents and ramshackle buildings, to sell hooch and marijuana to the refugees. People were starving but they could all afford a couple of joints. Business grew rapidly and one day Pinky blinked and the Morris brothers were at the top of the pecking order with an entire city underneath them. Frank was the boss, all smiles and threats, and Pinky was always there to back his little brother up with brawn and attitude. Together they could do anything. And they did.
That was more than a decade ago, before Pinky lost his empire, lost his respect, lost his brother. He was about to turn fifty-five, he’d lost most of his hair, his stomach was starting to sag and he was back to running a small drug cartel in the back of his wife’s club like he was just approaching twenty. His life had circled and he was pinning everything he had on it starting again.
The walls of his office were plastered with photograph after photograph; a memorial to the good old days. The little frozen moments captured a time Pinky could barely believe had happened. Hundreds of historical faces stared at him from his cramped office at the back of the bar, scrutinising the state he was in. And why wouldn’t they, they were from a time when he was on top and meant something in S’aven. Those glossy faces that surrounded him in his youth were gone now, mostly dead or hovering in the vicinity as haggard and as old and as spent as he was. What did they think of him now? It was a question he'd try to avoid asking himself. The answers only ever made him angry. After all it wasn’t his fault he was fighting for space at the bottom of the sewers again; he was just a victim of circumstance.
But all of that was about to change. He could feel a ball vibrating in the pit of his stomach. It was ambition and it had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to dream. The depression was almost over.
His eyes fell on the face that occupied every single picture; his brother, Frank. Pinky had tried to change things when he died. He had to, Frank had left them penniless with a reputation as worthless as their bank balance. Pinky had watched Frank’s demise and he decided to do things differently. He didn’t want to rule the city in fear, watching his back in every reflection. He let things slide now and again. He let the Russians move closer to his territory. He went easy on his boys. And he watched as it all came apart. Frank would never have let it happen, Pinky could see that now. His brother wasn’t perfect, but he was right for the city. S’aven needed a man like Frank Morris and Pinky was just sorry it had taken him seven sorry years to realise those shoes needed filling not replacing.
The man sitting opposite him coughed, clearing his throat rather than trying to attract Pinky’s attention. He used to be called Donnie Boom and his face was scattered across the wall beside nearly every picture of Frank, not that anyone would recognise him. Most of Donnie’s face was melted away, scarring from the explosion seven years ago. Even Pinky had to second guess himself when Donnie first made contact again.
That was four months ago and Donnie’s grey eyeball still made Pinky’s stomach churn. But even before the scars Donnie was enough to give a grown man nightmares. Now he just looked like the monster he had always been inside. And after all this time apart Pinky had forgotten just how crazy his brother’s best friend actually was.
“You blew it up,” Pinky stated with impatience. He rapped his fingers against the desk. His nails were bitten to the pinks of his fingers, the skin on his knuckles cracked and sore. They were the hands of an old man.
“I did what needed to be done.”
“Under whose authority?”
Donnie eyed Pinky with intense frustration, that grey eyeball pulsating in its scorched socket. “Your brother’s. That bitch killed him, she needed to be taught a lesson.”
Pinky lifted his thick rimmed glasses and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. Donnie didn’t understand the situation in S’aven anymore, or he just didn’t care. Blowing up the most reputable brothel in S’aven was like starting an underground war and he didn’t have the man power or the money to fight it.
“You need to lie low for a while.”
“I can help with…”
Pinky raised his hand sharply. “You want to fucking help, you keep your bombs out of my city!” Pinky yelled, surprising himself.
He sat back in his chair and stared at Donnie. His temper was starting to get the better of him these days. He couldn't remember Frank ever yelling. He never had to, Frank commanded respect without it.
Pinky calmed himself and lowered his voice. “Enough buildings are going up around this place without you helping. People are going to be asking about you now Donnie. My people are going to be asking about you.”
“Then let them know I’m back. I don’t get all this cloak and dagger shit.”
“You don’t get it. You put a bomb under my brother’s table and blew him half way across S’aven!”
“I didn’t mean to kill them. I told you, the instructions were from Frank’s phone. I was set up.”
“Exactly and you want the people who set you up on to us, do you? Whoever it was I want them with their guard down do you understand me? You stay off the grid and don’t come round here anymore. I’ll call you when I need you.”
“What about when you get the girl?”
“I’ll call you. Once we have her, we have everything. But we have to play this carefully Donnie. Frank pissed off a lot of people. We can’t just assume it was Lulu Roxton that killed him. When we have the girl we’ll know.”
Donnie nodded. He was crazy but he wasn’t stupid.
“I appreciate what you’re doing,” he said running what was left of his hand through his matted red hair. “You didn’t have to believe me.”
“You took a risk coming back here, I figured you were either suicidal or telling the truth,” Pinky told him.
“I had to,” Donnie assured him. “I have to know who did it Pinky. I loved Frank, what they made me do to him…” Donnie shook his head, close to crying – it was an unsettling sight. “You’re right, I shouldn’t be here. Sometimes it’s hard for me to think. My head gets kind of messed up, from the explosion. I’ll get out of your way.”
He reached the door before he turned around. “You remember you said I’d get to finish them?”
Pinky nodded, he did remember. With that Donnie left. There was no way he was going to let some deranged, half mad pyromaniac finish anything.
“What did he want?” Pinky’s wife stood in the open doorway.
“Revenge,” Pinky replied.
Riva swayed into the room. For a woman in her forties she was still turning heads. She smiled at Pinky, it was a natural smile, unblemished by silicone and cosmetics like the rest o
f the wives he knew. Sometimes Pinky would look at her and wonder what the hell she was still doing with him. He wondered if she asked herself the same question.
“Any news on the girl?”
“They think they have her.”
“Do you want me to send someone to get her?” The question set Pinky on edge. He still had men, not as many as the old days, but there was still an entourage. Only now his wife had her own money from the club and she was investing it all in a legal security firm which were making his own boys look like school kids. Using them would be better, but they were Riva's boys, Riva's bodyguards, Riva's heavies, Riva's assassins. Not his. He didn't like it.
Pinky shook his head. “I’m going to send a couple of the old guys.” He didn't say 'my' guys for her benefit.
“What about those brothers?”
“We’ll deal with them when she’s safely locked away. This time it’s going to be different Riva. I'm going to get my city back.”
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