“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Bob nodded. “Yeah, I’ll see you at the office, but a bit later in the day. I’m gonna take it easy tomorrow morning,” he said and closed the door.
But as he walked through the gate and towards the house, Bob knew that he couldn’t take things easy. He had to know for certain about Jimmy. No matter how badly it turned out.
32. – Stanton
BERNIE BURGESS and his son, Geno, were more trouble than we needed, especially considering how much we already had. Rumour had it that they had killed more than a dozen people over the years and crippled countless others. Outside of Jimmy Raffin and Lee Regan, they were the best hitmen in the area. What made them so difficult to deal with was that they had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the local scum, plus they enjoyed their work. They liked killing and hurting people.
Burgess had once been a police officer, but was retired from the force on health grounds. Anybody with a hint of local knowledge could tell you that health never even came into it. They got rid of him because he was one of the most corrupt and violent officers on the force. He intimidated witnesses, stole from the public, stole from the police, tampered with evidence, used blackmail, physical violence and any other number of felonies to get what he wanted, which was usually lots of money.
With what they had on Bernie Burgess, the top brass should have been able to put him away for life. But what Bernie had on the top brass ensured that they didn’t. It was the kind of relationship that social mediarites would call complicated, and when it ended in divorce nobody was particularly surprised. The word was that he had enough blackmail evidence to bring down the entire department. So the arrangement was that he left on health grounds without kicking up a fuss and they would pay his pension for as long as he was alive.
He got the better deal. It allowed him to become a full-time scumbag.
And now this scumbag had his eyes fixed firmly on us. We’d become his new project, which meant that he wouldn’t stop hunting us until he was collecting the reward. He’d target the few friends we had left and make it impossible to operate. Piper and Thrombo were just the beginning.
So I figured that the best thing for all concerned was to ensure that it was impossible for Bernie to operate. Permanently. Besides, it wasn’t like anybody would miss him.
We drove around the few places we knew that Bernie liked to frequent until we caught a glimpse of the Burgess Mobile. It was hard to miss a metallic blue Ford Capri 2.8 Turbo that had been pimped out with a body-kit and wheel-rims worth more than a steelworker’s annual salary. It had been buffed to a high shine that reflected the streetlights.
The car was parked on a quiet street outside a house that had slowly but surely become the home of one of the world’s longest running poker games. Back before he became one half of Middlesbrough’s Most Wanted my brother used to lose his money here regularly, and that was years ago.
My brother did a slow drive up the street and let me out in an area of shadow where the streetlights didn’t work. Then he drove off to our agreed meeting place. I walked back to the Capri, studying the area for hiding places. The house next door to the poker game had a tall hedge, which made what I had planned a bit easier. Bernie’s car was the kind of vehicle a proud owner would alarm up to the eyeballs. An alarm that would make any proud owner come running once it started squealing.
I gave the car a push and made a run for the hedge. I dived over, hit the concrete hard and tried to ignore the numerous impact pains. The alarm screamed for about ten seconds until Bernie emerged from the house and turned it off with a fob. He looked up and down the street a few times, then waited a few seconds and pressed the fob again. The alarm beeped twice to let him know it was back on. Bernie gave the street another narrow-eyed glimpse as he went back inside.
Crawling on hands and knees, I found a small gap in the hedge with a good view of the front window. The curtain twitched a couple of times over the next five minutes, but finally stopped once Bernie got back to the business of gambling.
I brushed myself down and limped back to the car. Another quick push set the alarm squealing again. The hedge dive was more painful second time around. I held my knees and hissed quietly as I waited.
Bernie steamed out of the house, hissing insults under his breath. He stopped in the front of the car, muttered something inaudible and turned off the alarm. This time he waited longer before switching it back on. Another double beep. Bernie took his time about re-entering the house.
The curtain twitched constantly over the next ten minutes, though as the minutes wore on the interval between twitches grew ever longer. After another five minutes, I pulled the same stunt again.
Bernie sprinted outside, screaming abuse: “Shut the fuck up, you cunting piece of shite.” He switched the alarm off and stood over his car, breathing hard, hands balling into fists. Then he stormed back into the house without switching the alarm back on and slammed the door so hard it could have been heard in Newcastle.
I waited for a bit, then wandered over to the vehicle, picked the lock and climbed inside. I lay in the foot well between the front and back seats. It was a tight fit, but I just about managed it. I hunkered as far down in the shadows as I could, so if Bernie and his son were in a hurry they might not see me.
I took out my mobile phone and dialled.
“Yeah,”
“I’m in.”
“You want me to phone ‘em now?” Thrombosis asked.
“Nah, take your time, mate. It’s really comfortable lying on a car floor.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“What do you think?”
“That it’s sarcasm.”
“Then let’s go with that.”
Thrombosis paused long enough for me to know that he was uncomfortable about something.
“I take it summat’s upsetting you, so spill.”
“I’m just worried this’ll get back to me,” Thrombosis said.
“Nobody’s gonna know you’re involved. And the Burgess boys aren’t gonna be in any shape to do owt about it.”
“What if they overpower you, like? They could come for us next, couldn’t they?”
“Thrombo, the sooner you make that call. The sooner they’ll be dealt with.”
I hung up and waited. To pass the time, I imagined the scene: Thrombosis putting his phone down on the bed, looking at it for several minutes, whilst deliberating over whether or not he should make the call. He would rack up as many reasons as his limited brainpower would allow for him not to make the call. Finally loyalty would overpower reason and he’d make the call anyway. It passed the time well enough, though it didn’t do anything to alleviate the pain of lying on the car floor. All thirty minutes of it.
33. – Stanton
I HEARD Bernie and Geno as they came towards the car.
“Sort this bloody alarm out, son,” Bernie said.
“I didn’t even know it were fucked in the first place.”
“Mind your manners.”
“Soz, Dad.”
“Your mate’s got a lot to answer for.”
“He wouldn’t stiff us like that.”
The sudden rush of fear tied my stomach in tight knots. I felt giddy and afraid in equal measure. Several slow breaths helped bring my heart rate back to an acceptable speed. I remained very still, knowing that any sudden movements might reveal my position.
The shadows must have provided more cover than I’d thought. Bernie didn’t notice me as he got in the driver’s seat, or when he leaned across and unlocked the passenger’s door. Then I realised that the hitmen were so engrossed in their conversation that the world around them had ceased to lose all interest.
“I’m not saying he’s a bad lad, just that he’s not exactly playing with a full deck.”
Bernie put the key in the ignition, fired it up.
“You saying he’s mental?”
The car started moving.
“No son, I’m saying he’s not ver
y sharp.”
“Mebbe we should get the alarm checked before we go around blaming him.”
Bernie grunted an acknowledgement.
“So what does Travers want?”
My heart rate spiked again.
“He wants to talk,” Bernie said. “Sez he needs the money, ‘cause of his hand.”
“You reckon he’s gonna give ‘em up?”
“His hand’s buggered. How else is he gonna earn his dosh.”
“We cutting him in?”
Bernie snorted. “Bollocks to that. He’s not getting owt from us, but don’t be telling him that. We string him along.”
I sat up quickly and gave them a gun barrel each, pressing hard against their cheeks.
“If it isn’t the Hitman and Her.”
In the half-light of the car it was hard to see their faces, but you didn’t need a spotlight to see that both men were as thin as whippets and no doubt as fast. The car swerved a bit and started to slow as Bernie took his foot off the gas.
“Keep driving, dickhead.”
The car picked up speed again.
Bernie’s son leaned into the barrel of the gun slightly. “Who are you calling Her?”
“Shut up, son,” Bernie said. “It’s the name of a show.”
“Still doesn’t excuse that, like. It’s well outta order.”
I pushed his face forward with the barrel. “You’ll be outta order in a minute if you don’t shut the fuck up.”
Bernie made calming noises and gestured with his hands.
“Hands back on the wheel.”
Bernie did as he was told, but kept watching me in the driver’s mirror waiting for his moment. “Been looking for you,” he said.
“In all the wrong places.”
“Or maybe all the right places, but at all the wrong times.”
“Same difference.”
“Where you taking us?” Geno asked.
“Over the border.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Bernie and his son looked at each other for longer than necessary. I couldn’t see their eyes, so the meaning was lost, but it didn’t take a genius to know that it meant trouble.
“I’d unshare that gaze if I was you,” I said.
“Didn’t share nowt,” Geno replied.
“You better keep it that way, or I’ll start sharing my bullets generously.”
“Maybe we could strike up a deal,” Bernie said, glancing up at the mirror, trying to catch my gaze. He was clever boy, was Bernie. His attempts at eye contact were a ruse to draw my attention away from their hands. I kept my wits about me and my eyes forward. The tension was mounting. I could feel it. They weren’t giving up without a fight.
“What could you possibly have to offer?” I asked.
“To go away. To leave you alone.”
I scoffed. “You and I both know that’s bullshit.”
“Doesn’t hafta be.”
“With all the contracts out on us, we’re worth eighty five grand, dead. And I bet you’d like every penny of it.”
“I’d like to keep my health more,” Bernie said, trying the eye contact trick again.
“Don’t play me.”
“I never play.”
“Then what were you planning to do to Thrombo?”
“Oh, yeah, Travers. That’s different.”
“How?”
“He didn’t have a gun to my head.”
It was then I noticed that Bernie wasn’t taking the regular route. This one was quieter, away from the traffic, along the back streets. His eyes went back to the mirror and locked on my face, almost willing me to look at him. He wasn’t even watching the road any more.
And just for a moment, I took the bait. I stared back.
But a moment was all it needed.
And Geno grabbed at it with both hands.
34. – Stanton
GENO PULLED his head away from the gun and turned his body in one smooth movement, bringing his hand up and around the barrel before I had a chance to react. I pushed the weapon towards his body, but his grip was strong. He angled the barrel towards the windscreen, where it would do little harm, then made a grab for my face with his other hand.
I pulled back momentarily, allowing Bernie to react. He took his foot off the gas and turned away from the wheel. As he swung around, Bernie collided with Geno, loosening his grip slightly. They fought each other for the gun. I used the moment to adjust my body and get a better aim with the other weapon, the one they had forgotten about, the one I was now aiming at Geno’s knee.
Narrowing my eyes, I squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flash turned the car white, and the gun boomed. White noise rang in my ears, then the volume came down and everything was muffled.
Geno’s kneecap looked like a mound of raw steak, and he was half-deaf from the noise, half-blind from the flash, but he kept on fighting. His grip was frighteningly firm and he was clawing at my fingers, trying to break them. I knew if I lost control of the gun I was in big trouble. Narrowing my eyes again, I raised the other weapon and aimed at his elbow.
Another white flash. Another ear-busting boom.
The bullet tore through Geno’s arm and spiderwebbed the windscreen. A muffled scream escaped his lips as he let go of the gun and tried to support his wounded arm.
Bernie gave his son a momentary look of concern, but kept fighting me for control of the gun. We jerked it left and right, neither of us giving an inch.
Squeezing the trigger again, I took a chunk out of Geno’s shoulder. Pain twisted his face and his eyes rolled over white. He fainted from the shock and collapsed against his Dad.
Leaning in, Bernie used his bodyweight to push Geno away, but the car swerved in the road and his son swooned back in his direction. For a split-second, Bernie’s attention drifted from me to Geno. He lowered one of his hands from the gun to stop his son from falling.
I used the advantage to bring the other weapon across. The barrel was only a couple of inches in front of Bernie’s face when I fired into the windscreen. Muzzle flash consumed his face with fire, setting his hair alight. Even through the high whine of my tinnitus, I heard his screams of pain. Blue flames danced across his scalp, singing his hair into small curly crisps. Bernie squealed as he patted down the blaze, scattering singed wisps of hair everywhere.
The car jerked to a sudden stop.
Bernie’s hands went to his eyes. He was shrieking words, but they came out so quickly that they ran into each other and were impossible to understand.
The air was hot and carried the sickly pork-stink of burned flesh along with an underlying tang of used bullets. Gun smoke rolled around the car like a Victorian fog. I found the clasp to the passenger seat and pushed Geno forward as I tried to exit the vehicle and escape the heat and stench. He was still unconscious, but groaned as he struck the dash.
Bernie screeched and made another grab for the weapon. He swung his hands around, swiping at nothing but air. I knew that he’d taken a muzzle flash to the face, but it wasn’t until he turned around completely, and made a final attempt at getting the weapon, that I realised just how bad the damage was.
His eyebrows and eyelashes had been burned away, leaving only red flesh and curly wisps. The skin around his eyes was blistered badly, like severe sunstroke. But it was his eyes that had taken the worst of the damage, and were so bloodshot they looked almost black.
Bernie was swinging at nothing because he couldn’t see.
I pocketed one of the guns, then grabbed the right hand that he was flailing uselessly in the air. He tried to yank it away. Bernie still had some fight, though not enough to prevent me from pulling him forward. When I had his hand where I wanted it, I pushed the gun barrel against the palm. Bernie must have realised what was coming, because he mewled and pleaded for mercy.
I wondered how many people had begged him for mercy over the years, or pleaded to his better nature, only to find that he didn’t have any. People like Bernie and Ge
no deserved every unpleasant thing that happened to them.
I pulled the trigger. The bullet almost tore his hand in half as it passed through and into the windscreen. Bernie flopped forward. Catching him by the collar, I pulled him back up and pistol-whipped him until he came around with a yelp.
I put the gun barrel beneath his chin and leaned in close. “Word of warning, dickhead. You talk to the pigs about this and I come back and finish the job.”
“I’m no snitch, you faggot,” he hissed.
Now was as good a time as any to leave. I pushed Geno forward again and opened the door. Cold air flooded in. Bernie felt the breeze and made one final grab for a weapon. I smashed his front teeth down his throat with the gun butt, then knocked him unconscious. He slumped against the steering wheel.
I got out of the car and looked around. The area was as dark and deserted as Bernie had hoped it would be. If anybody had heard the gunshots they weren’t coming to investigate. It was the kind of area where people didn’t try too hard to notice gunfire or screams. They just waited till morning before deciding whether or not to phone the police. There was no movement in the windows of the few houses that weren’t boarded-up, so I figured I was safe to make my getaway.
Walking away casually, I kept away from the glare of the streetlights and tried not to look like I was as guilty as hell. When I was far enough away, I phoned my brother and gave him the news.
He called me a cunt for spunking our cash on the nail gun.
35. – Stanton
THE NEXT morning I called Gupta’s office and asked to speak to him. A secretary named Marla with a beautiful phone voice told me that Mr Patel was far too busy to come to the phone. I asked if she’d tell him that it was Mr Stanton calling about the trombone he’d ordered. I told her I’d wait.
That freed up his schedule.
“You’ve got a fuckin’ nerve,” Gupta said.
“Nerve?”
“Calling here. Talking about Trombones.”
“Better than showing ‘em to your wife.”
“Alright, fine,” he said, chewing on the words like they were chunks of shit. “Point made.”
The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Page 14
