A Perilous Pursuit

by Diane Gilmore

  “Christ, what happened back there?” His voice sounded tight in this throat.

  Craig’s hands trembled as he ran his fingers through his hair. He stared straight ahead, his hand crooked over the lower half of his face, his mind churning with recall. It was stark, vivid, and horrible.

  “The deal went bad,” he said finally, reaching for one of the cigarettes scattered all over the floor of the car. “A fucking burn.”

  He lit it and sat back in the seat, trying to calm his nerves. He’d heard about Cabrera getting into a few bad predicaments before and even knew about his boss pulling off a few rip-offs of his own, but he had never found himself in the dead center of the action. This one was close. Too close.

  “What happened to Eddie?” Steve asked.

  “He’s gone.”

  “What?”

  Craig looked at Steve directly. “Dead. Kicked it. They blew him away as soon as we walked in, right in front of me!”

  Steve stared at Craig, his eyes and mouth open in stunned shock.

  Craig nodded. “They were planning a rip-off all along, and we didn’t even see it.” He took a drag off the cigarette to steady his voice. “Yankee bastards! I knew they looked suspicious. Figured they could just grab the money and run. Bloody typical!”

  He ground out the cigarette on the floor of the car and took a slow, shaky breath. “They probably wasted Eddie because he had the money. That’s the only reason I’m alive to talk about it. If I’d left the briefcase there, maybe they wouldn’t have come after us. God, that was close.”

  “Lucky thing you got it.”

  “When Eddie fell, the case just flew at me,” Craig said. “I grabbed it and bucked.”

  “No doubt the cops will have a field day with the goods when they pull those bastards out of the bookstore window.”

  Craig smiled at the thought. “The bags were probably all full of flour, but if even one of them was good, the stuff will be all over the street from the force of that crackup. I’d say there’ll be a lot of happy winos tonight!”

  They shared a laugh, then Steve’s expression got serious. “Cabrera will be pissed off.”

  “Well, let him,” Craig snapped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tightly rolled joint. “We got his money. He can do something about it himself. He had a funny feeling about this deal, or he wouldn’t have sent Eddie in with us.”

  “Yeah, and he sent us in to be his guinea pigs,” Steve said bitterly. “The bastard would sell his mother for a tanner!”

  Craig didn’t answer at first. He lit the joint and took a long hit, suppressing the urge to cough while the drug took effect. It gave him an instant buzz and relaxed his mood.

  “The fellas he’s been dealing with lately are getting a bit rougher, that’s for sure,” he said.

  Steve took the joint and leaned back in the seat for a moment, quiet.

  Craig glanced over at him. “Hey, what’s up?”

  Steve bit his lip nervously. “It’s just that . . . well, we never . . .” He looked at Craig. “Christ, I think I bloody killed somebody tonight!”

  “Not a pretty sight, is it?” Craig replied. The remark came out a little more callous than he intended.

  “I’m glad you can take it so lightly,” Steve retorted. “You weren’t the one who pulled the trigger.”

  Craig’s hand reached out and grabbed Steve’s arm in a tight grip. “Listen to me,” he said firmly. “It’s not easy to survive in this business. You know that. If you’d have given that guy the chance, he wouldn’t have thought twice about wasting you!”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “It was either him or you, and you did what you had to do. Think of it this way. You saved my bloody neck tonight, all right?”

  Steve looked at him quizzically.

  “If you hadn’t popped out of the car when you did, that bastard would’ve had me pebble-dashing the road before I could have gotten to the car door,” Craig said.

  Steve seemed to relax a bit and smiled. “I’ll take that as a thank you.”

  Craig let go of him. He had come to terms long ago with the idea of defending himself if a deal went bad, even if it meant killing someone. He would never intentionally kill in cold blood, but if a person aimed a gun at him, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. That was that. The risk was something he had to live with, even if he abhorred the whole idea of ending someone’s life. He knew Steve, however, wasn’t the type to deal with such a commitment. He was a good wheelman, nothing more.

  “Okay, let’s get our crap together,” Craig said, his voice softening. “We have a gig tonight, remember? A half an hour on stage and a few bevvies, and we’ll be back to our old selves again.”

  Steve nodded and smiled. He’ll be all right, Craig thought.

  He looked around, surveying the dented metal and shattered glass that littered the back seat. “We’re running late, and we can’t exactly pull up to the place in this thing,” he said. “We’ll dump it and call Montagne. We’ll tell him what went down, and he’ll tie up all the loose ends.”

  They got out of the car and walked quickly down the alleyway. Craig could hear the sirens of the police cars and ambulances that had converged on the bookstore several blocks away.

  They found a pub where Craig phoned Pierre Montagne, Cabrera’s contact man, with the news. He then got two pints of beer from the bar, and they sat down at a table near the window to wait. Craig held the briefcase in his lap, still cautious.

  “Shaun and Andrew are probably calling us all sorts by now, wondering where we are,” Craig said, “not to mention old Clancy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw us out of that pub for good after tonight. Then again, if he only knew how close we just came to not showing up at all.”

  Steve took a shaky breath. “I think this little sideline of ours is becoming a bit too dangerous for us. Maybe we should get out while we still can.”

  “It was a close one, all right, and I don’t exactly like having to put my bloody neck on the line any more than you do,” Craig said, “These runs are making me a little nervous lately, too, but they are keeping us all afloat right now until the band gets the right break.”

  “Or until we end up getting our heads blown off, like Eddie,” Steve muttered.

  Craig sighed. “I know. It’s getting hairier every day.” He downed his beer and got another, the weed and the alcohol finally relaxing his mood.

  Although they were well paid for being drop men in Cabrera’s trafficking syndicate, Craig was getting uncomfortable with the danger of the drug trade. It all began innocently enough as an occasional run for fast cash the band desperately needed. The deals were with small-time pushers around town for a local dealer, nothing elaborate. Now, their duties seemed to entail frequent, sizeable transactions with major European drug traffickers. The deadly risks that came along with doing business with them was a level of responsibility he never bargained for. Unfortunately, he and Steve did their jobs well, so he knew Cabrera was not about to let go of them anytime soon.

  “Sometimes I wish we never got into this crap in the first place,” Steve muttered.

  “Me too, mate, but someday we won’t have to contend with them,” Craig said, as he emptied his second glass. “The band will make it, and we can shake them all loose from our lives for good, you’ll see. We’ve just got to keep the band going for the break we need.”

  Steve gave a bitter chuckle. “Come on, pal. Do you think we’re going to get a break in that dingy pub we’ve been doing? With that crowd, we’ll be lucky if they’ll sober up enough to remember us the next day. We’ve got to get on the circuit, but in the meantime, we’re stuck running the risk of getting killed.”

  Craig shrugged. “You never know. One day, maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  A late-model BMW with
blackened, tinted windows pulled up slowly outside the window. Without a word, Craig and Steve left the pub and quickly climbed into the car’s shadowy interior, finally on their way to Soho’s illustrious Sword & Stone Pub.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Hey, isn’t this place the greatest?” Susan’s excited voice broke into Taylor’s thoughts. Leave it to Susan to find the area hot spot in town so soon after they arrived, Taylor thought with amusement, even if they did end up in Soho. London’s reputed wild area seemed to dictate an unwritten policy that visitors leave their inhibitions at home, and from what Taylor could see, Susan was already blending right in. Her friend looked around at the display of British men in the pub like a wildcat on the prowl. “What a gold mine! The guys in here look fantastic. And the band playing tonight is supposed to be good, too. Soho is the place to be!”

  Taylor glanced at her watch. “Seems kind of late for a live show to get started,” she said, half to herself.

  “Yeah, but they say Fury is the big draw around here,” Susan said. “They only do one show, but the locals think it’s worth waiting for, even this late.” She took a swallow of the beer she had brought from the bar. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I could stay here all night. While we’re here, Taylor, I intend to give these Englishmen a real run for their money!”

  Taylor laughed. “That’s what I’m afraid of!”

  Taylor viewed her surroundings from the corner where she stood. The pub was full, and the dim light gave the room a diffused, yellow glow. People clustered around the bar. Loud mainstream rock music played from the sound system, while above it the crowd laughed and yelled to their drinking companions in a loud, liquid babble. Next to her stood a small but functional elevated wooden stage with an impressive set of amps and instruments for a band.

  Suddenly the crowd jumped to its feet and rushed forward as Fury made its entrance. Without an introduction, they bounded together up to the stage and, with unflagging energy, dove into their opening number.

  Clutching her drink, Taylor made her way to the center of the group to get a better look. From the start, she became riveted by the band’s energetic stage presence. Skillfully cultivating special talent into fame and fortune as her father had done had helped Taylor develop a finely-tuned ear and keen sixth sense for the current music trends. She knew at once that she was listening to no tired barroom band. With every riff, chorus and backbeat, they had that intangible something, the natural hidden quality that set apart one group from the rest.

  Her pulse began to quicken. Her father must hear them, she decided on the spot, and the sooner the better. She hadn’t planned on investigating London’s music scene while she was here, but this was an opportunity for big box office promotion for the company that was too good to ignore. While other bands in the States were all following a traditional, well-trodden mainstream rock trend, she knew that this band’s strong storytelling skills using choppy rhythms and energetic, diverse instrumentals would surely carry an enormous wallop on the American scene.

  She had to get a demo back to the States, and fast.

  Taylor’s mind churned as she scanned the men that made up the group. Yes, she silently calculated, they were all youthful and good looking. That was definitely material for serious American teen appeal, a big plus in promoting a new band. There were four in all, each one distinctly different. The keyboard player was a well-groomed, strapping blond, whose hair fell in soft golden layers around his collar. Though he stood on the other side of the pub’s platform, Taylor could see a well-built frame under his oversized, white button-down shirt. He was surrounded by a vast array of keyboards, all stacked neatly upon the other like steps on a staircase. While singing the lead on virtually every tune played, he manipulated the elaborate synthesizer before him, creating a smoothly-integrated whine that served as a catchy backdrop for the band’s numbers.

  Taylor could only see the drummer in a perpetual blur, hidden behind the drums and cymbals, his head bobbing up and down as his hands kept the rhythm going with electro-sounding, thumping beats. From what she could tell, he was a rugged sort. His sleeveless, worn T-shirt revealed large, muscular arms. His closely cropped chestnut hair accented his masculine look.

  The other two players stood loosely in front of the crowd. The bass player was young, smaller than the rest, with long, choppy hair accented with brash, punk-style streaks. He took up much of the space in front, whirling, bounding, and leaping all over his limited space with a youthful, brattish energy. His comical, flirting theatrics teased the crowd before him.

  Taylor’s eyes then wandered to the lead guitarist who stood directly before her. He was handsome, with a beautifully proportioned body and a strong, rigid profile. His movements, though slight compared to his bassist companion, were full of grace and virility. She noted his knee-high boots and the snug fitting, black leather pants tucked into them. Her eyes continued upward to a shiny guitar, and then to the black turtleneck that clung to his muscular chest and broad shoulders.

  Suddenly her gaze stopped short as her eyes met a pair of dark, arresting brown eyes that were, at that moment, bearing down into hers, sending a strange tingle racing through her veins. His thick head of dark hair gleamed in the makeshift spotlights above him. His locks fell over his neck, with tendrils that draped haphazardly off the side of his forehead.

  Time stood still. Taylor felt a powerful attraction to him, a natural affinity that instinctively sprang to life between them. His gaze brought every cell of her being clamoring to life in an instant, like turning over a Formula One engine for the first time. The sensation literally took her breath away. She tried to draw her eyes away from that halting gaze but found she couldn’t break the connection. He came closer, looking down to study her, his eyes lingering intently on her figure.

  “Craig!”

  A clearly inebriated, high-spirited female fan had lost her balance as she staggered to the front of the crowd, and Taylor was pushed out of the way. Their locked gaze was interrupted, the silent spell broken. He moved away.

  Taylor retreated to the safety of her corner space to watch the rest of the show. The crowd enjoyed every minute of the band’s performance, singing along eagerly to many of the rowdy “sing-song” tunes, a trait of the British that was common in pubs. Still, Taylor sensed a rapport and polish seldom seen by a band in this type of setting. By the end of their session, she felt a bond, a good feeling of camaraderie that existed between the band and their audience. She knew with the right commercial packaging, the American public would surely feel the same way.

  People began leaving as soon as the band left the stage, making the pub less crowded and allowing for more room to move around. A few minutes later, Taylor noticed the band at the end of the bar, surrounded by a motley group of young girls, laughing and drinking as noisily as the rest of the pub’s remaining patrons. This was her chance to approach them.

  Seizing the opportunity, she walked purposefully through the crowd toward their group.

  Chapter 2

  “Well, well, what have we ‘ere?” The bass player quipped in a drunken cockney drawl the moment she walked up to them. Now that he wasn’t jumping about on the stage, Taylor noticed that he was a young man, perhaps just into adulthood. And he was the slightest of the group, short and thin compared to his companions. He took a swallow from the pint of beer in front of him, scrutinizing her.

  The barroom noise seemed to suddenly fade, and her heart started to pound nervously in her ears. From her earlier impression of their performance and on-stage personality, she didn’t expect such cynicism. This wouldn’t be easy, but there was no turning back now. She had to talk to this band, and she had to do it now.

  She took a deep breath. “I enjoyed your performance tonight—”

  “She’s a Yank!” the keyboard player observed in wide-eyed amazement. He jerked his thumb toward her. “Fancy that, mates!�
� He was sitting with his feet propped on an adjacent bar stool. A dark-haired young woman, at most a size 6, sat behind him, casually toying with the blond strands of his hair with long red fingernails accented with sparkling glitter. She wore heavy black eye makeup, and her multi-colored, low-cut dress was so short that if she bent over, she’d give the entire bar a free show.

  Taylor felt the eyes of the guitarist, the one they called Craig, upon her again as he sat silently in the back of the group. He moved his gaze over her in keen examination as she stood before them. She stole a glance in his direction, then shifted her attention back to the others.

  “And good looking, too, Steve!” piped the bass player before she could speak. His quip brought a round of laughter, making her feel more ill at ease.

  “Oh, belt up, Shaun,” the keyboardist shot back with a chuckle.

  Shaun didn’t reply. His eyes narrowed, and he gave her a sly, devilish grin. “Far from home, are ya, darlin’?” He patted his lap. “Why don’t you park yourself right here for a while?”

  Taylor was becoming annoyed at their boyish behavior. She had a job to do, and their flippant exchanges were getting them nowhere.

  “That’s not why I’m here.” Her voice remained smooth but insistent.

  “That’s not why she’s here,” Shaun mimicked. His eyes widened in mock offense. “Well, why not? Aren’t we as good as your American boys?”

  Taylor felt her blood pressure rising. Ignoring his implication, she pressed on, directing her attention to the keyboardist, the one called Steve. Surely he would listen to her.

  “My father owns an entertainment management company back in the States, and—”

  “And my father is Prince Charlie.” Steve cut her off, then grinned and nodded at her. “That’s a good approach. Yeah, clever.”

  “Yanks are supposed to be clever, aren’t they?” Shaun broke in, which brought a round of giggles from the group.