He needs this. Needs an alliance that can protect him through the storm. With Marty growing and seemingly pairing with that shit Patterson, Potty’s feeling the pressure. Peterkinney’s growing, becoming a serious player and a serious threat. Potty seems to be the only one standing still. The only loser in this little game. He needs support. Cut MacArthur in. Give him the chance to open up a new avenue of revenue, something he ought to want to do. Should want it even in good times. He should be bloody grateful for this chance now. Someone of Potty’s stature coming to him and making him a generous offer. He has no right to turn it down.
Pulling to a stop in the sort of area a car like Potty’s doesn’t stop in often or for long. The driver will stay with the car. Potty’s getting out and waddling slowly towards the door. It’s a small building in an industrial area. The parking’s tucked in just off the road. Up a step and pulling open the glass door. There’s a small reception desk inside and the young woman behind it is asking if she can help him. She doesn’t even know who he is. Bloody cheek. He’s telling her, and now he’s having to stand there waiting while she makes a call.
He’ll put this down to MacArthur’s increased need for security. He’ll forgive it, which is generous. They should not be making a man like him stand in some waiting area like this. She’s hanging up the phone and smiling at him.
‘If you’d like to go through, the office is second on your right.’
Not even going to show him the way. Nobody coming to meet him. This really isn’t the way to treat a person. Treatment like this is remembered. Alex MacArthur should know that. He wouldn’t accept it, and he shouldn’t hand it out. Potty’s pushing open the door at the side of the woman’s desk and walking slowly along the corridor. Finding the appropriate door. Two knocks and then opening, not waiting for an answer. Potty Cruickshank doesn’t need to wait for answers.
MacArthur’s sitting behind his desk. Ray Buller is sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room from MacArthur, and there’s a chair in front of the desk. It’s a small office. Not the sort of place you would expect to find a man with the business concerns of Alex MacArthur. Yeah, that would be the point, smart guy. MacArthur’s hiding himself away.
No wonder he looks miserable. Looks even older and frailer than the last time they met, and that was only a few months ago. A man of his stature should not be hiding away in wee places like this. It’s embarrassing for him. It makes him look weak, and he did not get where he is by looking weak. Does beg the question, just who is he hiding from? No stories about people outside the organization targeting him. Bloody hell, is he in here hiding from his own people? Bang goes any chance of a deal worth having.
‘Mr MacArthur, how are you, sir?’ Potty’s asking, and regretting it. You don’t ask an obviously sick man how he feels. That’s the last thing MacArthur will want to dwell on.
‘Good enough. Sit down, Ronald. What do you want?’ Said with obvious impatience. An implication that Potty couldn’t possibly have anything useful to talk about. This is all a waste of an important man’s time.
It’s an insulting way to speak to a man like Potty. This whole visit has been one long insult. Longer it goes on, the more Potty thinks he shouldn’t be here. Thinks MacArthur might not be capable of helping him. Might have been wiser to try and start a relationship with Don Park instead. Too late. He’s in the chair in front of MacArthur’s desk, so he might as well play to the end.
‘I have a business proposition for you, if you care to hear it.’ That was a slightly snide way to end a sentence. Potty’s struggling to hide his impatience. Should always maintain your manners around people like MacArthur. Doesn’t matter what you feel or think about someone, you stay polite. Then, if you need to move against them, they’re less likely to see it coming. Good manners cost nothing. Bad manners can be very expensive indeed.
‘I care to hear it,’ MacArthur’s saying. His voice is weak, almost whispery. Makes his tone seem even more dismissive.
‘We both know that the city is changing. Things have happened . . .’ Potty’s saying, and trailing off. Hardly needs explaining. Few people know better than the man in front of him. ‘I’m offering a chance to open up a new revenue stream. I know you’re not involved in the collection business in a big way. It’s a potential new source of revenue for you. It offers me an opportunity of growth that will protect my business through this time of upheaval. It’s good for both of us.’
MacArthur’s making a good effort at looking unimpressed. He’s about to say something when he starts coughing instead. A long-drawn-out wheeze of a cough. If Potty had heard that cough before he came here, he wouldn’t have come. Everyone knew MacArthur was ill, but he’s been ill for so bloody long, people assumed it was no big deal. One of those things that last long enough for something else to kill him. Now it looks and sounds like a big deal. Now he seems like the wrong horse to back. Truth is, if he was a horse they would shoot him. Someone still might.
‘I’d be looking at providing you a cut of 25 per cent,’ Potty’s saying. As he’d come in the front door of the building, he had been committed to offering forty. Now he’s not sure he wants MacArthur to accept his offer. Forty might have been enough to win him over. Twenty-five shouldn’t be.
MacArthur’s looking at him. Then looking past him at Ray Buller. Then back at Potty before he answers. And that look tells Potty a lot. The old man struggling. Not sure who he can trust. Pulling his friends close. Looking to people like Buller for more advice. Because he’s not sure of himself any more. Giving them more power because they’re the ones he would like to hand over to. Because they’re not Don Park.
‘I don’t think so,’ MacArthur is saying. ‘Timing isn’t right. I’m not saying never, but not now.’ Said with finality.
A finality Potty has no interest in arguing with. ‘If that’s your thinking,’ Potty’s saying, and getting slowly to his feet. ‘Hopefully times will change,’ he’s saying, a sentence that could mean just about anything. He’s reaching out a hand to MacArthur. His fat hand swallowing the bony hand offered. Feels cold. Feels like goodbye.
Potty’s nodding to Buller as he leaves. No handshake there. Buller was the one who said no. He was the one who made the decision. Maybe he should shake his hand. Thank him for killing the deal with a shake of his head. But Potty’s already out the door and making his way along the corridor. Feeling the effort by the time he ignores the receptionist and pushes his way out the front door. Relieved to drop into the back of the car and be driven away.
Dodged a bullet, sure, but for how long? The deal with MacArthur could have been a bad deal, given how weak the old man looks. But what’s the alternative? Stand alone? No, that won’t do. No deal is worse than a bad deal. He needs support. He needs to be able to survive these changes. By any means necessary. Dear God, he just needs to survive.
4
Peterkinney told him to do it this afternoon. And he meant to. He really did. But he got sidetracked. Happens to Holmes a lot these days. Life is a pursuit of the bottle. Everything else is a means to that end. Working to make money to drink. And he has some money. Not a lot. Money never lasts long for Holmes these days.
He wandered into a supermarket, is the short version of why he’s late. Bought a half-bottle and six cans. Took it back to the flat he’s in now. Blotted out the world for a little while. Blotted out what he’s on his way to do now. The memory of that night when those two little bastards smashed their way into his house. His house. Man, if you could turn back the clock. He had his own house. Wasn’t much to look at, but what does that matter? He had Norah. She wasn’t much to look at either, but she was his. All gone now.
His things. Didn’t realize that he cared about them until it was all gone. Until he had nothing. Stupid cliché, but that’s all that’s left. Into the bathroom to splash a little water on his face before he goes out. That straggly beard. Hair’s too long as well. Needs a haircut, but that’s money he could spend on something wet. Could trim the beard hi
mself. Hates it. Only has it to cover the scar. The scar’s ugly, but he stopped caring about that a long time ago. The long, thin red line is a reminder. That was the real punishment. Lets the world see his failure.
Can’t hide the bags under his eyes. The sag of his chin. Jesus, he looks like his grandfather. Bloodshot eyes and loose skin. Same bad teeth the old man had. Same reason. It was booze that eventually killed Grandpa Holmes. Took its time though. Holmes can’t wait that long. Won’t wait. All those dreams of the good life. A better life than the one he had. Skimming money because he thought he could have a better house. A better woman. He’d give everything he has to get back the home and woman he lost, but he has nothing to offer. Fuck it: staring in the mirror is only a guarantee of misery. A splash of cold water and he’s leaving. Little bit drunk, little bit angry. Nothing new.
He threw away the slip of paper with the address on it. Doesn’t need it. Born and raised round here. Knows the place like the back of his hand. Spent his working life pounding the streets, finding and punishing people. If it’s a shitty part of town, you can bet Jim Holmes knows it well. It’s starting to get dark. Damn, must be pretty late. Doesn’t have a watch to check. Never mind. Peterkinney won’t care too much about the timing. He’ll just want to know that it’s been done.
It’s a small block of flats, four storeys high. Not the best exit when the target’s on the third floor, but Holmes doesn’t care. This is going to be simple. One target. Only other person likely to be there is the girlfriend. And the boy isn’t expecting him. That’s always the difference-maker. If you don’t expect it. If you aren’t ready. If Holmes gets the first punch in, he’ll have no problem here.
Up the stairs and along to the front door. A quick knock on the door. Then, thirty seconds later, another one. He’s not patient. He doesn’t want to have to come back a second time. Too much like hard work. Also, being seen repeatedly in the location of your crime is a dumb move. Holmes knows that. The old instincts are still there.
He has to wait another twenty seconds before the door slowly opens. It’s a young woman looking back at him. She looks scruffy but pretty. Didn’t someone say she was a hooker for Marty Jones? Wearing a T-shirt and jogging bottoms. Greasy dark hair tied back. She has a cloth or duster in her hand. Looks like she’s been cleaning up. A woman taking care of her home. Quaint. A reminder of Norah. Not quaint. Hard to take.
Disappointing that the girl’s here. Always easier without some squawking woman thinking she has to defend her man. That’s the problem with them. They always defend their man, even when he’s wrong. And even if they don’t get physically involved, they can raise the dead with their shouting. Certainly raise the alarm. That’s Holmes’s experience of them, anyway, but his experience with women has made him sad. Not bitter. He knows it was his own fault.
‘I’m looking for Alex Glass,’ he’s saying. You wouldn’t know he was drunk to hear him. Maybe if you knew him well, but otherwise he would sound strong and in control. Takes a lot of practice to be able to control yourself that well whilst brimming with alcohol.
‘He’s not in,’ she’s saying, and moving to close the door.
You don’t take them at their word. That’s not instinct, that’s just common sense. People who owe money become good at hiding. Practice makes perfect there too. They know when to shut the door and when not to. They have instincts of their own. Holmes is sticking his boot in the door and shoving into it shoulder first. He’s not as big as he used to be. Lost a bit of weight. Not eating properly. Still a lot bigger than Ella, doesn’t take much force to push her backwards.
‘Hey. Bastard.’ She’s stepping back and letting him in. She can complain, but there’s no point fighting back.
Holmes is inside the flat, looking around. Not much of a flat. Door opens into the living room, and you can see the door through to the small kitchen. No hiding places. There’s a little corridor off to the side that he’ll have to check. No sign of Glass at first glimpse.
‘Where is he?’
‘I told you, not here. He has a job. Something or other, I don’t know what. Just for tonight. I don’t know where.’
Holmes is ignoring her. If the answer isn’t within the flat, then he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s going into the kitchen. Dishes in the sink, but no Glass. Out into the living room again. Along the corridor and pushing open a door. A bedroom. Small, with only a single bed in it. Doesn’t look like it’s used. Pushing open another door. Bathroom. Nobody hiding there. Into the final room. Second bedroom. Bigger, more furniture, a bed with a dishevelled look about it.
If he’s hiding in the flat, then it’s in this room. No room under the bed. Lifting up the quilt and looking under. Nope. Last-chance saloon is the wardrobe. Otherwise he’s not here and Holmes is going to have to make a return visit. Opening the wardrobe doors and finding nothing but clothes inside. Damn it all. Shit. They can never just make it simple. Now he’ll have to come back and go through this again. He’ll get the job done late. Might not even get it done tonight. Then Peterkinney will be pissed off with him, and he’ll be struggling to hang on to another job.
He’s slamming the wardrobe door shut. It’s not a door designed to be slammed. The wardrobe is shaking and doing its level best not to fall apart under the assault. Holmes is marching out of the bedroom, along the corridor and into the living room. Looking furious. Ready to pick a fight with anyone over anything. Just a good old-fashioned fight. It would make him feel better.
‘Where is he?’
‘I told you. I don’t know.’ She’s getting fed up of this now. She doesn’t know, and even if she did, it’s obvious she wouldn’t tell this gorilla.
‘When’s he going to be back, huh?’ Almost shouting now.
A sigh. ‘I don’t know. Don’t know where he is, don’t know what he’s doing, don’t know when he’ll be back. He’s doing a job. Trying to make some money, okay. So that he can pay some back. But it was all rushed, and I don’t know what it was.’ Trying to be persuasive, but running out of patience. ‘He shouldn’t be long. You can come back in an hour. There’s no need to be so angry about it. I don’t know what your problem is.’
That’s it. That’s just enough to spark a rage. ‘You don’t know what my problem is? Do you want to know? Eh? Will I tell you what my fucking problem is? It’s people like you and your wee guy. Your Alex Glass. Borrowing money you can’t afford to pay. And then I have to come and collect it cause you’re all so fucking daft. And your fellow ain’t here to pay. Big fucking surprise there, eh. Always hiding. Always hiding.’ He was shouting at the end, spitting as he did.
Ella’s just glaring at him. ‘He’s trying to earn money to pay you back. And you don’t need to be shouting at me, I don’t owe you anything.’
Defiance. Not much, but enough for Holmes. ‘Oh, you don’t? Well, your man does. He’s yours and so is his debt. You owe.’ He’s moved towards her, pushed her shoulder. Not violent, but looking to provoke violence.
‘Stop that. Just leave. Please, just get out.’
‘What did you say to me? You telling me to get out? That what you said?’ Lashing out with a slap, catching her hard on the side of the head.
She didn’t see it coming. Holmes was always a fighter, since he was a little kid. Always had a quick hand. It’s the surprise as much as the force that’s knocked her sideways. Knocked her off her feet and onto the floor. Lying on her side. Shaken, sore, but no permanent damage. But she’s staying down. Convinced that if she gets up, she’ll get hit again. She’s been hit before. She knows how this works. Let them see they’ve won. Let them see that they’re more powerful than you. When they see they’ve won their power game, they can back off. So she’s staying down and hoping that’ll be enough for him.
But it won’t. Not for Holmes. He’s not like her clients. Not trying to make himself feel big. Feel like a winner. He already knows he’s lost. He’s drunk and angry and remembering that time Glass smashed his way into his house. He’s remembering
all the failure that followed. Remembering Glass and Peterkinney at the bottom of the stairs in the old house. Standing there and kicking him while he lay on the floor. Now he can make one of them suffer.
He’s lashing out with his boot. Not holding anything back. Hitting her in the stomach, his boot scuffing along her side. Didn’t catch her square, but it felt good to him. Good to be kicking out. Good that he can make Glass suffer.
‘You feel that?’ he’s shouting. ‘You ask your boyfriend if he remembers. You ask him. I remember. You ask him if he does.’
Kicking her again. Hard as he can, all his weight behind it. Square in the stomach this time. Knocking her onto her back. She’s rolled onto her other side and stopped moving. He’s making to kick her in the back this time, but stopping. Instinct. Walking round to the other side of her. Looking at her face. Her eyes are half shut, her mouth half open. There’s no movement. Her arms are down on the floor, not raised to defend herself.
‘Come on. Come on, get up. Come on.’ Holmes is bending down, grabbing her by the hair. Lifting her head half an inch and letting it drop onto the floor. There’s a faint groan. Her eyelids flicker. But that’s it. ‘Shit, come on. I didn’t . . . you’re not that badly hurt. Come on.’ Getting angry with her now.
Taking a step back and looking around. A deep breath. What do you do? Instinct says run and right now instinct is all he’s got. He’s out the front door, just aware enough to pull it shut behind him. Down the stairs and out into the night. Breathing heavily, in real need of a drink. This need isn’t just pesky old alcoholism. This is fear that needs to be drowned before it hurts him. That girl was in trouble. He went too far.
5
The Night the Rich Men Burned Page 28
