by AJ Adams
At this point Stinky’s eyes were bulging. We ignored him, devoting ourselves to tearing the place apart. We found a mountain of porn, some books about horse racing and not much else.
“Roll up the carpet and check the walls,” I told James. “Every shylock has a safe.”
We found it in the bedroom, under the rug. It was easy enough to open, being just a lock box under a loose floorboard. His ledger lay on top and he’d kept an electronic copy on an iPhone. Checking through the messages, unsecured by a password, I found email from him, the shooter and someone called Sooty.
“I know him,” James said grimly. “A bit higher up than this fucker. Runs a bookmakers. Lives near Harrods.”
It was all there, chapter and verse. Jorge had bought into a local casino they’d had their eye on. We got it, they didn’t, and the other character, this Sooty, had been mega-pissed because he fancied himself a big man, and Jorge had brushed him aside like he was cotton candy. The shooting was simple revenge.
Sooty had come up with the plan, and Stinky had hired the shooter.
James was shoulder surfing. “Hmm, they didn’t have the balls to do it themselves.”
“They couldn’t get past your security.”
It was a simple plan, a basic assassination. It might have worked, if they’d done the job right, but from the email, Sal and Sooty didn’t want to pay a premium for an up-close-and-personal hit. So they’d saved themselves two thousand, paying eight thou instead of ten, and their pro missed the target. Not too smart, right? But then the Peckham Knaves didn’t strike me as professional. They’d used Yahoo email to plot their murder, for chrissake!
James wasn’t impressed, either. “I wonder if Sooty’s heard of security. This bastard certainly hasn’t.”
“They’re a bunch of amateurs, if you ask me.” I rifled through Stinky’s phone, and that’s when I found the rest of his stash. It made me fucking furious. “Pinche maricon!”
My dislike of queers is well known. Most of the cartel don’t want to be near those fuckers, but James is one of the new men, and they all pretend to be cool with it. It’s fashionable, you know?
So James was all superior. “Yeah, he’s gay. It’s not a crime!”
“This perverted hijo de puta is into kiddy porn!” I showed James the top few photos, all of young boys, none older than twelve, in some fucking sick situations. My stomach heaved as I looked at it. “Pinche joto!”
“We’ll make him go out slow.” James was looking pretty grim, too. “Fucking pervert.”
I don’t think it will ever be fashionable to accept paedophiles. Even the Gulf cartel, our rivals who are definite lowlifes, agree that child molesters ought to be shot. It’s probably the one thing we have in common.
James and I confronted Stinky, showed him the phone we’d found and watched as he went purple.
“It’s a mistake to fuck with us,” I told him. “And I don’t like your taste in entertainment, either. You’re going to help us send a message.” I picked up the axe. “We call it being salamied. You know, going out slice by slice.”
Stinky was screaming into the gag, rocking back in the chair and trying to bust through the restraints. No dice, of course. You need the strength of a bull to break through duct tape; that’s why we use the stuff.
“Did you find any plastic?” I asked James.
“None. There’s a thick rug in the bedroom, though. It’ll probably absorb a few pints.”
“It’ll have to do.”
It was the work of moments to move the rug, but picking up Stinky was a bitch as he was a fat bastard, and his rocking furiously made it even more difficult. It took some heaving, but we finally got him and his chair on the rug.
Then James and I got some trash bags and made makeshift ponchos by cutting holes in the top and slitting the sides. Kids do it to make raincoats in Mexico, but we cartel use the same technique to splatter proof ourselves. Salami-ing is a messy job; blood spray can reach up to a meter and a half if the man has a healthy heart.
I faced Stinky again. Seeing I wanted him to fill me in on who was involved in the plot to take out Jorge, I’d scare him first. People tend to be very, very cooperative if they think it will save their skin, so I planned to make a move that would have Stinky spill his guts.
I picked up the axe, swung it high up in the air and brought it crashing down between his legs. Of course I was aiming for the chair but it looked like I was aiming to chop him in the nuts. Stinky screamed into the gag again and pissed himself.
“Aw, would you look at that?” I turned to James with dismay. “I missed!”
“Try again!” he encouraged me.
“Yeah, okay.” I turned back to Stinky and paused. “Hey, James, think he can tell us where Sooty is?”
“Let’s ask him!” said my straight man.
When I turned to Stinky, I saw the cowardly fuck had passed out.
“Typical,” James sneered. “He gets his kicks from seeing kids being abused, but he can’t even take a threat. What a screaming pussy!”
I had my fingers in his neck. “Worse than that, the capullo’s dead.”
“You’re kidding!” James was checking his pulse, too. “Fuck me! He died of fright, the miserable maricon!”
That was disappointing. “Well, we’ll chop him up, and hopefully they’ll think he was alive when we started.” Terror, you see, is the best way to prevent people from fucking with you. “We’ll take off a couple of bits and exit.”
“Sure thing. Hands first?”
“Right.”
I was about to pick up the axe when there was a tremendous crash. When the door burst open, my reaction was automatic. I swung, coming up nice and low, and socked the bastard on the jaw. He crashed to the floor, out for the count. That’s when I took in the shoulder length hair and the swell of breasts under a tight tee. I’d punched out a woman.
Really, this wasn’t my week.
Chapter Two: Natalia
“Hey, Frosty! Gimme another one! And hurry up, okay?”
Three years since my divorce and yet here I was, working in the family pub. It might have been tolerable if I owned a piece of it, but I didn’t. Okay, so I had the manager’s position, total control and no boss to speak of, considering the owner, Bobby Truelove, my ex father-in-law, was in the clink for theft and handling stolen goods. It could have been much worse, but it was Monday and I loathe Mondays.
What made the day worse was that Donny Havers was on a lunchtime bender. Loud and obnoxious at the best of times, he was now becoming aggressive. If he took a swing at someone, I’d have to turf him out. That would be a pity, as I wanted his money. Donny is a prat of the first order, but he was buying rounds like there was no tomorrow.
In addition, my regulars were there: Mike and Dave, car mechanics, were there with their dog, Angus, as well as Abdul and Mo, local sparkies, McTavish, plasterer, and the Davidsons, who ran the chip shop. The lunchtime take was going to be a terrific.
“Frosty, can you give me a takeaway lasagne with an apple pie?”
“Lasagne? Same here, please. For one, but chocolate cake instead of apple pie.”
Adding takeaways to the menu had tripled the work load but had been worth it. The singles were fed up with frozen dinners, and as my portions were generous and freshly prepared, they didn’t mind paying a bit extra. Plus, the food pushed us from doing slightly better than a small profit to making decent money. People were staying longer to drink because they could eat their dinner, and customers who came just for a takeaway invariably stayed for a drink, too.
“Frosty, you’re doing well.” Larry Whedon, nicknamed Sooty for the great big bags under his eyes, was looking around the busy pub, no doubt calculating if he could squeeze any more cash out of me. “Mine’s a G&T. Seeing you’re doing so well, make it a double. And I’ll have a lasagne, too. Make sure it's hot all the way through.”
Sooty really put my back up, but I needed him, so I poured him a drink and instead of throwing it in h
is face, I put it on the bar. I handed him a bill for the gin and he initialled it.
“You’re a demon for paperwork, Frosty.”
He said the same thing every day. That’s when I handed him twenty quid.
“What’s this?” Sooty looked flummoxed.
“It’s what I owe you.”
“You owe me two fifty a week! That’s a thousand quid for the month!”
“That’s right. And having sunk double gins as well as dinner every day means your tab is running at nine hundred and eighty pounds for the month. The twenty quid is the balance.” I put a stack of bills on the bar and added the last one. “Here are your copies.”
“You can’t do that!”
Typical bloody Sooty! He really thought he’d get away with eating and drinking for free. “Sure I can. It’s just business.”
Sooty was red with rage. Seeing the conversations around him die as people began to sense a floorshow, he lowered his voice and hissed, “Listen, you nasty little bitch! Without me you’ve got no licence, and that means no more pub.”
That was my problem, see? You need a clean sheet to get a liquor licence, and I had a suspended sentence for receiving stolen goods. Yeah, I know, what a family, right? I didn’t do it, but they all say that, don’t they? But those cigarettes belonged to Frank, my husband at the time, and as they were found in my car, and I was driving, it was me who got nicked. Even with a suspended sentence for a first time offence you can’t get a licence, so I was dependent on an agent.
It’s a bitch to pay for nothing more than name-plating, but I had no options. I’d used my neighbour, old Joe Simpkins, but when he’d celebrated his 65th birthday a month ago the licensing board said he was ineligible. At that point, Bobby heard of the problem, and he'd sent Sooty, a member of the Peckham Knaves, who was a nasty piece of work but for sale.
“I own you,” Sooty was spitting mad. “I can close you down with a word!”
Actually, he couldn’t. I had to use him as he was Bobby’s choice, but I had arranged for lots of protection, including an undated signed resignation, and a bunch of paperwork that ensured Sooty had no way of touching the business.
“Sooty, there’s no point in squealing. I don’t run the place for fun; I run it to make money.”
And that was the god’s honest truth. Seeing Bobby was in jail and the pub was the only source of income that supported his wife, my ex mum-in-law Millie, and her 13-year-old daughter Delicia, I was running it for them. It wasn’t my dream job, and it was strictly temporary. Thankfully the nicks are so full now that you only do part of your time these days. Bobby would be released in three months, and frankly I was looking forward to quitting.
Running a pub wasn’t what I wanted to do, but Millie just couldn’t cope. When Bobby had gone inside, he’d handed it to their sons, Frank, my ex, and his brother Roger, but they turned out to be completely hopeless. Both of them got tanked every day, and an hour after opening they’d be offering their mates endless rounds on the house.
After a couple of months, Millie had sought me out. “Nats, you’ve got to stop them!” she sobbed. “It’s a disaster!”
Frankly, I was a bit off, seeing Bobby had hardly been friendly towards me since I’d divorced Frank. Feminazi, ball breaker, and bitch were just some of the names he’d called me, so Millie’s blubbing that his business was tanking wasn’t exactly tugging my heart strings. Also, Frank’s an arsehole in many ways, but running a pub should’ve been within his capabilities. He’d worked for Bobby as a kid, so he knew the ropes.
“I’m sure Frank has it under control.”
“No, he doesn’t. Please, Nat. I need you!” Millie put her hands over mine. “Please, I’m begging you! As family!”
“I thought I was a cold-hearted bitch, forever outcast?”
Millie winced. “Bobby was furious. He’s Catholic. Divorce is a sin.”
My divorcing Frank was a sin, but his beating Millie black-and-blue on a regular basis was apparently not, but I didn’t say so. I may be a bitch, but Millie herself had never done me any harm. It was Frank, Roger and Bobby who’d been furious. They’d refused to speak to me, and they’d done their best to get me sent to Coventry by the rest of the family.
I grew up with the Trueloves. We all live in the same street, so we kids were at school together. Also, when my parents were alive, Mum was best friends with Millie, so our families were close even before I married Frank. After the divorce, the cousins, Pat, Rose, John and Donald, and even old Aunt Sadie had bitched, but as they’re always that way, it wasn’t particularly personal.
The invites kept coming for birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas, and they were always popping round to my place for tea and a chat, so at heart we just went on the same old way. They used every occasion to moan at me, but that’s family, right?
Millie hadn’t been allowed to have me at her place since the divorce, but she’d talked to me whenever we’d met in a perfectly friendly way. I’d been disappointed she’d not stood up for me, but then again, living with Bobby the bully meant she was about as forceful as a damp kitten. So I was nice about turning her down.
“Millie, how can I help? I’m working day and night at Le Maison.”
“As a sous chef. Give it up and run the pub. You can make your own menus, be your own boss.”
“Bobby won’t agree. He’s never forgiven me for divorcing Frank. I’m not even on his visitors’ list. He won’t want me near his business.”
“He’s in solitary for fighting,” Millie was wringing her hands. “I can’t see him this month. By the time I can tell him what’s going on, the pub will’ve gone under. I’ll lose the business, our home, everything!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! Just look at these accounts!”
She was right; Frank and Roger were fucking up royally. What was worse, Bobby hadn’t been doing too well the last few months before he went inside, either. Millie was right. She and Delicia would be on the street and stony broke if something drastic wasn’t done.
“I’ll look into hiring a manager.”
Millie recoiled. “It’s a cash business, with no checks or balances. We’d be robbed blind!”
She wasn’t all wrong, either. Pub managers are notorious for being light-fingered, and when I thought it over, I realised I only knew dodgy ones.
“What about the rest of the family?” I asked Millie.
“Like who?” she wailed.
When I went through all her relatives, from her sons to various in-laws (and there were loads of them), I saw she was right. They had no F&B experience, and those who might do it already had jobs. So it was me or the highway.
Being in charge of a pub wasn’t something I’d considered before, but after thinking it over and checking a few things, I decided I could make it work. Bobby wouldn’t like it, but without help, he’d lose everything. Millie wasn’t exaggerating; she’d be totally broke.
Bobby would have to lump it. I couldn’t let Millie down or Delicia, her 13-year-old niece. I know, what a name, right? Like a tin of pineapple.
Delicia was the daughter of Eunice, Millie’s sister. The family call Delicia the “oops baby” because Eunice never married. She was always a bit of a goer, our Eunice, so she was having it off with various men, but her relationships were measured in weeks—and sometimes hours.
When Eunice hit fifty, she went to Lanzarote for a holiday, and clearly she had a blast. When she came back, she put her lack of the monthly curse and sudden weight gain down to the menopause, and by the time she figured out what was going on, she was six months gone.
Poor Eunice died of cancer when Delicia was four, so Millie and Bobby took in their niece and treated her like their daughter. Delicia had been the flower girl at my wedding, and I loved her as if she were my own.
That’s what tipped the balance, really. Delicia was a sweetheart, and I wasn’t having her life fucked up even more. Having Bobby in jail was bad enough. While I soon decided I’d do it, the o
ne thing that held me back was the thought that the rest of the family might not like it. Their sniping skills alone would get them instant acceptance to the SAS, and as I wasn’t popular anyway, I didn’t want their bitching to escalate to a civil war.
“I’ll take it on, but I want the family behind me,” I told Millie. “I don’t want anyone accusing me of pushing Frank and Roger out.”
“Well, you did divorce Frank.”
“Why stay in an unhappy marriage?”
“But he was in jail when you divorced him!”
I’d started the process before he was arrested, but the family just didn’t get it. They thought I should’ve called it off when Frank got done for ecstasy. I didn’t because the charge wasn’t life-changing. Frank only did a month, so it wasn’t exactly a long haul. Also, he’d been in the slammer for three months when he was sixteen, so it wasn’t particularly traumatising.
The Trueloves are always in and out of the nick for small things, so I thought Frank being banged up was just one of those things. Of course, the family didn’t see it that way. They’d given me a tonne of grief, and now it looked like Millie was set to rehash the whole argument, blow by blow.
“Millie, I’m not going to go through it again. Done is done.”
“You’re so hard, Nats,” Millie grumbled. “You never used to be this way.”
She had Frank to thank for that, but I didn’t say so. No point, really. The women in the Truelove family believe the men can’t do wrong. Sickening, but that’s the way it is.
“I’ll talk to the others,” Millie said, “but you have to be there to explain.”
It was reasonable. Without me there, they’d roll Millie out like pastry. “Okay.”
To be honest, I thought they’d put the kibosh on it. Surprisingly, although Frank and Roger weren’t happy, the rest of the family talked them into it.
“You? After what you did to Frank?” Roger was fuming. “No!”
“But Roger, you’re making a mess of it!” Millie cried.
“Dad won’t wear it!” Frank snapped.
