by Steve Liszka
‘That’s why he’s a millionaire,’ Dylan said, ‘because the man craves money, and people like him have never, ever got enough of the stuff. That’s free market capitalism for you; it breeds people like him.’
‘All right, Russell Brand,’ Lenny said. ‘We get your point.’
Jimmy took the stage again. ‘So, back to my question, what do we do about him?’
‘I say we should kill him,’ Dylan said without missing a beat.
Lenny laughed. ‘Nick’s gone now. You can drop the tough guy act.’
‘I’m serious. Let’s just kill him. The man is a boil on humanity’s ass. All he’s ever done in his awful little life is cause other people misery. The world would be a better place without him in it.’
‘Okay, great,’ Lenny said. ‘So, how do you propose to do it? What are you going to do: shoot him, stab him, throw him in a shallow grave and bury him alive? I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got planned.’
Dylan looked shocked at the suggestion. ‘I didn’t mean me.’
‘No, that’s right,’ Lenny cut him off, ‘you didn’t. You meant me or perhaps Jimmy or Bodhi. Someone who wouldn’t mind getting their hands dirty. I’ll telling you now, I ain’t killing no one, not if I don’t have to. If you want to kill him so much, then do it yourself.’
‘Sorry,’ Dylan said quietly. ‘That was a stupid thing to say.’
Wesley used the silence to intervene. ‘Okay, so now we’ve established that we’re not going to kill him, maybe we can decide what we are going to do. You know, it’s not too late. We can still walk away from this thing.’
‘Bollocks,’ Lenny said. ‘Just because I don’t want him bumped off, it doesn’t mean I don’t want the horrible bastard to pay for what he’s done. We’ve got a bigger fish to catch is all it means.’
Wesley looked unconvinced. ‘But this is Jonathan fucking Bogarde we’re talking about. He’s not any old fish. He’s a great white shark.’
‘Then, in the immortal words of Chief Bodhi,’ Dylan said, ‘we’re gonna need a bigger boat.’
Mac Attack
‘See you later, Nelly,’ Barry the fat plumber said to his boss.
Neil MacDonald ignored him, closing the door of the mobile unit they laughably referred to as the office. He’d had a bitch of a day and couldn’t wait to get home. The office stunk of mould and cigarettes and was starting to make him feel nauseous. He’d told the bastards they weren’t allowed to smoke in there, but he knew that when he wasn’t around, the lazy sods sat inside doing their best chimney impressions. The smell didn’t give him the urge to smoke again, he’d given that up over ten years earlier, and just like the booze, he’d put it behind him for good. What bothered him was that it was a representation of the men’s dissent, and that, like a load of other problems he’d encountered that day, well and truly pissed him off.
It had started first thing that morning. Vince, his go-to plasterer, had pissed off to Ibiza for a month with his mates without bothering to tell anyone. So, while Vinny boy was dropping pills on the beach, Neil spent two hours phoning around for someone free that day. The only person not booked up was Simple Simon, and his work was bordering on shit. These weren’t flats he was converting, they were upmarket apartments that would go for top whack; the last thing they required was Simon’s wavy walls. Eventually, he found a guy he knew was up to the task, but wouldn’t be available until the following week. And that was just the start of the problems.
One of the apartments that Vince had bothered to complete before fucking off to the sunshine had had its kitchen installed by a Polish guy Neil had taken on recently. He liked the Polish; they worked hard, didn’t complain and were happy to take less pay than their English counterparts. This guy had started working for him as a labourer and was a workhorse. After spending two months mixing muck and lumping shit around, he’d asked for a promotion, telling him he was also an accomplished chippie. Impressed by his attitude, Neil gave him the nod.
It turned out the only thing he was accomplished at was lying. Neil’s jaw had almost hit the floor when he saw the finished kitchen. It had a bigger snag list than could be fitted on both of his arms. Like Simon’s plastering, it would have been perfectly acceptable in one of Bogey’s slum flats, but not in this des-res. It was back to labouring for this Pole, and he could start by ripping out the piece-of-shit kitchen he’d spent the week installing. If he thought he was getting paid, he had another thing coming.
When Neil got in his car, he breathed a sigh of relief that the week was finally over. If only life could be as straight forward in this line of business, as it was in his other, more lucrative one. People didn’t fuck about with him like this in the drug trade, and if they did, as the Albanians found out, they only did it once. The one thing that held true for both of his careers was that they were all about reputation. There just happened to be different methods involved in its protection.
The thing that really got to Neil, the thing that wound him up most, was that he even had to be doing the legit shit anymore. Considering the quantity of merchandise he was responsible for bringing into the country, he should have been a rich man. The twenty percent he got for his efforts from Bogey was a fucking joke. But that was the problem when you worked for a man like Jonathan Bogarde. Negotiation was not a word in his vocabulary. Fuck with him and you quickly ended up dead. Neil knew that better than anyone. He was personally responsible for seeing off most of his boss’ rivals.
Their relationship had started nearly thirty years earlier, when Bogarde was embarking on his fledgling career as a slum landlord. He’d inherited some money and had bought six flats in one of the most run-down blocks in Brighton. He brought Neil in to do a job on a couple of them, nothing fancy, just some dirt-cheap work to bring them up to a barely liveable standard. It didn’t bother Neil; he was more about muscle than finesse, and it was that muscle that became more and more useful to Bogarde over the years. The building work quickly fell by the wayside as Neil became his enforcer – collecting late rent, evicting tenants, and dealing with any other problems that arose. For a man like Bogarde, those problems were legion.
It was Neil who had come up with the idea over a decade earlier. He knew a man who knew a man who was able to get hold of an awful lot of coke in Spain. He even came up with the idea of bringing it over on their own boats, rather than risk the ferries. It was him who had determined that small and regular deliveries via a number of marinas on the south coast was a safer way of doing business than bringing in bulk shipments on commercial vessels. This way, should they get caught, their losses were minimised, and they could simply bring future product in elsewhere.
It was even his idea to use two boats, one coming from each country, to further reduce the risk of getting caught. If someone was taking too many trips to the continent, it may arouse the suspicions of customs and result in their vessel getting searched. To combat this, Mac had one boat leave Spain with the drugs on board. The crew would then attach them and a GPS tracker to a buoy and discard them in the English Channel. Half an hour later, a boat departing from Brighton, Portsmouth or Southampton would intercept the package. To anyone taking any notice, the culprits would resemble amateur sailors having a jolly on the high seas for a few hours. He’d been running the operation for five years and hadn’t yet lost one shipment.
Bogarde had been happy to bankroll the venture, but in doing so, he had taken such a large chunk of the pie that Neil was making a fraction of what he should have been. It was like Dragon’s Den, and Bogey was Duncan Bannatyne, taking most of the profit for himself. Neil was the one doing all the work and taking the risk, yet Bogarde was reaping the benefits. By rights, he should have been rich himself, not a rich person’s bagman, not at his fucking age. If it weren’t for the likely consequences, he would have gone solo a long time earlier, cutting Bogarde out of the picture altogether.
Neil pulled up outside his house at six-thirty. The thought of having the place to himself for the weekend was enou
gh to make him forget his shitty week. His wife was taking the girls to London for the weekend to celebrate their upcoming eighteenth birthdays. It would cost him a small fortune, but fuck it. It was worth it to get them out of the way for a couple of days. His plan for the weekend was to do precisely fuck-all. Arsenal were on TV the next day, and the thought of a lay-in was far more appealing than a blowjob from a twenty-two-year-old brunette.
He tutted when he got in the house. All the downstairs lights were on, and the heating was blasting. Fucking women, he thought, if they had to pay the bills, they’d think twice before making the place look like the Blackpool Illuminations. When he walked in to his living room, the sight that faced him was so strange, it took a few moments to sink in to his already-tender brain.
‘How the fuck did you get in here?’ he said to the lanky streak-of-piss fireman who sat on his chair. No one else was allowed to sit there, not even his wife.
On the sofa, next to him, lounged the one who looked like a beach bum, and Jimmy, the gobby shit who thought he ran the show.
‘We’re fireman, asshole,’ the young one said. ‘That’s what we do.’
Neil shook his head and dug his hand into his pocket. ‘You bastards are going to regret this,’ he said as he fished out his phone.
Before he could bring it to his ear, a massive forearm wrapped itself around his throat, cutting off his air supply.
‘Hello, mate,’ Lenny said as he squeezed. ‘How’s tricks?’
It was with reluctance that Mac finally opened his eyes. The dream he’d been having was a dozy. The twenty-two-year-old he hadn’t wanted a blow job from in the morning had turned up anyway and was putting on a little routine for him. It was only the slaps on the face that brought him out of his private show, back into the real world.
‘What’s going on?’ he slurred at the gargoyle whose massive hand was poised, ready to strike him.
‘It’s all right, pal,’ the beast answered. ‘You’ve just had a little kip, that’s all.’
The words helped get his brain in order, and after rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands, he began to work out where he was and who the fuck the crowd of people standing in front of him were.
‘How long have I been out for?’ he asked.
Lenny shrugged. ‘Couple of minutes. How long did it feel like?’
Mac rubbed his head, getting rid of the final pieces of confusion. ‘Listen to me, you fucking ape!’ he yelled, pushing the fog from his brain. ‘Get the fuck out of my house now, before I do something that you and the rest of these pricks may not live to regret.’
‘That ain’t going to happen, bud,’ Bodhi said. ‘We need words with you.’
Mac shook his head, accompanied by an “I can’t believe you’re that fucking stupid” laugh. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you morons? Have you forgotten what I’m capable of? Can’t you remember that no-headed Albanian cunt? I tell you something, you’ll be begging for what we did to him by the time my boys are through with you.’
‘Do me favour, will you?’ Lenny said. ‘Shut the fuck up. We’ve heard enough of your bullshit for now.’
Mac’s faced turned red, and his eyes started to bulge. ‘Are you stupid, or what? You know that I know everything about you. I know where you live, I know who your families are.’ He looked to Jimmy. ‘I know where your kids go to school. Why the fuck would you risk their lives by coming here? Don’t you love them anymore?’
‘Have you ever played trumps?’ Dylan asked from the comfort of the rocking chair. In his hands, he was holding a shiny new tablet. ‘Because what we’ve got on you trumps the fuck over what you’ve got on us.’
He got up from the chair, turned the tablet around, and showed Mac the picture on the screen. After taking in the picture, Mac shrugged his sagging shoulders. ‘Who the fuck’s that?’
Dylan met his sneer with a smile. ‘Good question, glad you asked. This, my friend, is Anton Jashari. And before you repeat your previous statement, I’ll fill you in on the details. Mr Jashari here just happens to be one of, if not the most powerful gangster in all of Albania.’
Dylan turned the tablet around, got busy with his fingers, then revealed the new image on the screen to Mac. Despite himself, Mac diverted his eyes from the scene for the briefest of moments.
‘Pretty rough, isn’t it?’ Dylan said, ‘It’s hard to make out exactly what’s going on here, but seeing as I read all about it on Wikipedia, I’ll fill you in on the details. See, this lot just happen to be part of a rival gang to our mate Mr Jashari. So, what he did was round them all up, and there were sixteen of them mind you, boil them alive, skin them, then he threw bags of salt all over them. This picture is of his still-alive victims laying in a mass grave, just before the JCB filled in the hole.’
He waited a few seconds before speaking again. ‘Kind of pisses all over you chopping that bloke’s head off, doesn’t it?’
Mac’s angry red complexion was starting to fade. ‘So, what’s this got to do with me?’
‘Again,’ Dylan said, ‘good question. Although, to be fair, it’s one you probably should have asked before your boy dressed up as a fireman and shot dead his nephew.’
Mac was now looking more of a deathly white on the Dulux paint scale. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Google, you dumb fuck. Which is what you should have done before you started off this gangster shit. Now, the thing is, hopefully, it won’t come to anything. Anton and his nephew weren’t particularly close, from what I understand. In fact, it looks, although this is just my personal opinion, that Anton had nothing to do with his nephew’s little venture in this country. I’m guessing the young Jashari member was trying to cut loose and prove he could do it off his own back, so hopefully, you’re off the hook.’
He paused again, giving Mac time to take in his words. ‘Saying that… If the elder Mr Jashari were to find out what you had done to a relative of his, then I’m pretty sure he’d feel obligated to avenge his death. I believe you referred to it as “keeping face,” if I remember correctly.’
‘Are you all right?’ Jimmy asked. ‘It’s just that you’re looking a bit pale. Do you want me to get you a glass of water or something?’
‘Fuck you,’ Mac said, lacking any bark.
‘Now, if he were to find out what had happened, then it’s unlikely that he’d want to cross swords with your boss.’ Dylan allowed Mac time to absorb his words.
‘Oh, yeah, didn’t think we knew about that either, did you? So, like I say, while our man will want to preserve the family name, I doubt even he will want to go to war with our good friend Mr Bogarde. The man’s reputation is international. So, the question is, if not Bogarde, who will he take his revenge on? What do you reckon, Mac? Got any ideas?’
‘You wouldn’t,’ was all Mac could say.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Jimmy leapt in. ‘We wouldn’t have a few months ago, but things have changed a lot since you started terrorising our families. Now we think it’s time you and yours got the same treatment… Unless you feel like you want to start opening up to us, that is. It’s your call, big man. Take your time.’
After a long pause, Mac finally spoke again. ‘Want do you want?’
Raiders
‘So, how’s things going with Dylan?’ Bodhi said. ‘Do you think she’s going to take him back soon?’
‘She better fucking do,’ Lenny answered. ‘He’s getting right on my tits.’
They were leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the street to Jonathan Bogarde’s offices. For the headquarters of a James Bond villain, it was pretty unimposing.
‘Do you know what happened last night?’ Lenny asked.
Bodhi shook his head.
‘I had to sit through two hours of the biggest pile of shit I’ve ever seen. I had to apologise to my eyes afterwards. Tell me something, what do you think a film called The Cars That Ate Paris would be about?’
Bodhi shrugged. ‘I dunno. Sounds a bit art-house to me.’
‘Sounds right up your street,’ Bodhi said.
‘Sounds bollocks, more like. And you know the worst bit? It wasn’t set in Paris, it wasn’t even in France. It was some fucking hillbilly town in the middle of the Australian outback… I tell you something, that’s the last time I let him decide what we watch.’
Bodhi’s eyes narrowed as his brain kicked into gear. ‘I think I’ve seen that film. Must have been twenty years ago. It was pretty good, if I remember right.’
‘Then let him move into the Good Ship Bodhi, and you can watch shit films in bed together.’
Bodhi laughed. ‘I already did my good deed, if you remember right. It’s your turn now, bud.’
Lenny rolled his eyes, acknowledging the responsibility was indeed his.
‘Here we go,’ Bodhi said, nudging his friend.
They watched as a large man in a black suit and sunglasses headed into the building.
Lenny got out his phone and scrolled his thumb across the screen, ‘Nice one. I’ll let the little prick know what’s going down.’
Dylan jumped when his phone vibrated. He was sitting in the back of the pump with Jo. Jimmy was driving, with Wesley sitting in the OIC’s seat. They were parked three streets away from the scouting party. Dylan took out the phone, shaking his head as he read the message.
‘What’s happening?’ Jimmy asked.
‘Seriously,’ Dylan said, ‘the man’s almost forty-five. Fifteen-year-old wannabe gangster rappers don’t write this badly.’
He tossed the phone over the seat to Jimmy, who spun it around and read the message for himself.
