by AJ Adams
So I was thinking that I could sort out any security issues London needed fixing, but what I knew about property deals would fit onto the back of a stamp and leave plenty extra space. Still, no point in being a pussy about new challenges, right?
“Tell me why we can’t just make them all an offer right now and have the whole deal fixed by Friday,” I told James.
He talked for an hour, but in the end it boiled down to one thing: goddamn red tape and assorted legal bullshit.
“So what you’re saying is that we put in an offer. That takes like a phone call and two seconds. Then we need the property surveyed. That takes several experts up to four fucking months. If it tanks, we walk away. If it’s a go, then we need some goddamn lawyer—”
“Solicitor,” James grinned.
“Right, some goddamn English solicitor, and we confirm the offer. Then there’s screwing about with more red tape, which takes another week or longer if the seller’s slow. That’s when we get to the actual deal. But nothing is final till everyone signs.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“What’s the point? Why not have the seller do the survey and show it to buyers?”
James shrugged. “It’s expensive if you do it right, and there are different types, so the custom here is for buyers to do them.”
“Why can’t we skip it?”
“Some of those places are hundreds of years old. We need to know if there are any problems. Like the first one we did was for a place valued at five million. The surveyor discovered the foundations and sewer pipes were fucked. It dropped the price to three million.”
So there was no avoiding the surveying step.
“The seller can change their mind at any time, and we can too, right?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck me!”
And that was it in a nutshell. Taking out the shooters would be a piece of piss, but it was going to take some effort to keep Jorge’s deal working. It had to be done just right, not just once but with eight separate properties.
“And you can’t let on you’re buying, because otherwise the last few fuckers will up their price, knowing you’ve got big plans,” James grinned.
When the jefe had sent his cousin to take over London, there had been the usual grumbling about nepotism. Not too much of it, though, because Jorge worked as a Zeta soldier when he was a kid and then went on to get a degree in business management at Cornell. We’d known England would take some delicate handling, but I was only now realising precisely what that involved. I’m an ace shot, but lawyers give me hives, so this wasn’t a situation I was happy about.
For a second I was thinking that I was truly in the shit. I had a cheating wife back home, fucking up my rep, and I was here, about to fuck up a major deal. Talk about a rock and a hard place.
Still, you know how there are moments in your life when you either man up or quit? Well, it was all eyes on me, and there’s no fucking way I’m gonna quit on anything ever, so I stepped up. “Okay, I need all the files and notes. Also, I need a place to stay. Can you get me somewhere near here?”
“We’ve got a place upstairs. I’ll get you keys. If you prefer a hotel, there’s one across the street that’s okay and a place a mile or two down the road that’s first class.”
“I’ll take upstairs. Now, fill me in on the cops.”
“The Brits are just like the Yankees: they take our money, pretend we’re scum and do as they’re told.”
James was offhand and sarcastic, taking it bad. Me, I don’t give a damn about loser cops, so it doesn’t bother me. If they act up a little I just pay them less. Who cares, right? Because we all know who’s really scum. And guess what… it’s not me, because I’m right in your face about who I am. I’m no two-faced hypocrite.
“Okay, you handle this meeting. Get my watch back and make sure we have background on the girl.”
“Consider it done.”
I thought for a second. Cops on the take are stupid, and I didn’t want any mistakes, like them thinking they had the upper hand. I had to let it be known that Jorge being temporarily out of the picture made no difference. If I were to get that property deal working right, it would have to be business as usual. “Everyone else, stay. I want a show of strength.”
There were nods all round. The crew were well-trained and seasoned. They knew the score.
When Cox and Foster pitched up soon after, I was at Jorge’s desk working while Matu, Paco and Lencho hung out, acting tough.
James was charming. “Everything good? Family all fine? Great! Have a tequila! Best in all of Mexico!”
They had shots and then Cox and Fox got to wondering who I was. I’m not one of those imposing guys. In fact, I’m totally unremarkable. I’m just a regular Latino: not tall, not short, not skinny, not fat. Average black hair of average length and a regular mug with no surprises. It’s useful because I look like a million other people. Put me down anywhere between Nuevo Laredo and Ushuaia, and I just melt into the background.
I sat at the desk, reading the files and familiarising myself with the properties we wanted. However, Cox and Foster were edgy because they were dirty, and they didn’t like people knowing it.
As James talked about nothing and insisted on pouring more shots, Cox and Foster got more and more antsy about having a stranger in the room. We all saw it and we enjoyed watching them get all riled up.
“I guess you heard that Jorge got shot.” When the rats nodded and looked shifty, James handed over envelopes stuff with cash. “So I wanted to give you this personally.”
They looked at me, the greedy fucks, as they took the money. I glanced up, nodded and went back to my files.
Cox broke first. “Who’s he?”
“Just an associate.” James was beautifully dismissive.
There was a long silence, and then I stood up and came from behind the desk. “Enrique Ramas Moreno.” We shook hands. “And you are Cox and Foster.” They started, as nobody had used names. “It’s a pleasure. Don’t worry. I’m here for purely to take care of other business. You’ll be liaising with James.”
I nodded again and went back to work, knowing they’d both spotted the Magnum under my jacket. I knew they’d draw the conclusion that I was a hitman. As the cartel is famous for spectacular bloodbaths when threatened, they would assume I was here to organise a massacre in response to Jorge being shot. Of course, given the way their paranoid minds worked, my assurance that they weren’t targets would make them nervous and very anxious to cooperate.
It was classic, and I was dying to laugh. I always enjoy messing with cops. It’s probably small of me to get joy out of baiting losers, but as I’m a cartel man through and through, I guess it’s just one of those things, right? A touch of cruelty is part of the business.
So Cox and Foster got the wind up but tried to look casual. It didn’t work, and when I gave them a hard stare, they actually gulped.
“Gentlemen,” James said smoothly to the two chickens, “I want your help with a small matter.”
He had their promise to deliver the girl’s file and the watch before he’d finished speaking. Fear greased the wheels, and they got the goods on the girl to us in thirty minutes—but no watch.
“It wasn’t on the list,” James was scanning the crime scene notes.
“They missed it, took it for his or stole it.” It was a pain in the ass. I wanted it back. “Keep an eye out for it. Alert the pawnshops.”
“I’m all over it.” James scanned the file. “Quique, you should hear this.”
The girl had a sheet.
“Natalia Truelove nee Lupei, born in Arad, Romania, moved to London when she was six weeks old. She got done three years ago for having a carload of stolen cigarettes. A suspended sentence. Her ex, Frank Truelove, has a sheet, and so does her father-in-law, Robert Truelove. In fact, the old man is still in jail.”
That was all good news. The girl hadn’t seen much, but she would know to keep her mouth shut.
“Hey, she’s running the family business, a pub called the Black Horse. It’s across the road from the property we’re after.”
Coincidences are always trouble. “What was she doing there? Was she in on the shooting?”
James was flipping through the file. “She’s connected to the Peckham Knaves. They hold her liquor licence. No sign of any other business, though.”
“She’s Romanian? Who’s her family?”
“Both parents passed away in a car accident a couple of years ago. Her father was connected, Rohozneanu clan. He married a policeman’s daughter, and his people didn’t approve. Her people didn’t like it, either. They took off before the blood feud caught up with them.”
Romania doesn’t figure much in Zeta business. We touch base here and there in a casual way, sometimes for weapons, which they have in abundance thanks to their history as a Russian satellite state, but mostly because they’ve got some good-looking women there.
“Let me see that file?”
The picture was a mug shot, taken three years ago. She was looking pretty grim as people tend to when being booked, but even in harsh light, holding up a number, you could see she had good bones. There was a cloud of black glossy hair, large, slanting grey eyes, sculpted lips and a cute little nose. If she’d smiled, she would be a knockout.
Looking at that set jaw, I still felt the impact of my fist as I punched her out. Hopefully I hadn’t messed her up too much. Funnily enough that took my mind straight to Tina. I wondered if she was regretting the fight, wishing it had been different. Maybe if it hadn’t all been my fault… It was still too raw a wound, so I forced myself to the business at hand.
James was making phone calls. “Let me get some better background.”
He got it pretty quick, calling just two people before hitting pay dirt. “She’s no Miss Congeniality. They call her Frosty because she’s a real bitch. She has no friends that stand out. Her ex-husband’s family need her, as she’s a deliverer.”
James gave me a quick rundown, and I admit I liked what I was hearing. She was running the family business, working to keep them all solvent. Still, I like to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.
“Let’s make sure she’s on the right page. Reach out to her. And see if she knows what happened to my watch.” It’s not worth much in money, the Dunhill, but it’s the only thing I have to remember my father by, so I was concerned. “There’s a reward.”
James picked up the phone again. “Hello, is this the Black Horse? Daily Mail here. Listen, is Natalia Truelove there? We’d love to do a story. For a fee, of course.”
A minute later he put down the phone.
“She was supposed to work tonight, but they say she won’t be in. Seems you bashed her pretty good.”
“Check the cop shop, just in case. And the local hospital.”
A few more calls revealed she was nowhere to be found.
“She said she’d give her statement later,” James announced. “Emergency services took her in for a check-up, and then she simply vanished.”
It wasn’t a surprise. The girl wouldn’t welcome a session with the cops. If she’d been a pro, she would’ve gone straight to them and volunteered a statement. Of course, it would be so vague as to be totally fucking useless, but that wouldn’t be her problem. Then she could happily vanish, claiming to have done her duty as a citizen. But amateurs don’t think straight, especially in a crisis, so I wasn’t surprised that she was lying low.
“We’ll call for her at her place in the morning. Oh, and I want an update every two hours on whether there’s news of that pendejo, Sooty.”
James was on that, too. “Actually, he had a fight with the Truelove girl. Seems he tried to leverage some extra cash from her. She trapped him into a corner and kicked him in the balls. He’s gone on a bender, swearing revenge.”
“What the fuck’s a bender?”
“English for drunk or partying,” James grinned. “It’s a different language than the one we learned in school.”
“It is for me, asshole. I’m not some capullo private school boy. My teachers spoke Spanish!”
Actually, I quit school when I was ten to work in the fields, but fucking around is part of making a team.
James grinned. “Well, you’re gonna get an education now. Head office sent you, so it’s your balls in the fire. Me, I’m looking forward to learning how it’s done. Assuming you don’t get arrested, that is.”
I looked at the girl’s mug shot again. “Nah, she’ll know the score.”
“Unless she does a deal for her father-in-law or they offer to have her sheet pulled in exchange for testimony.”
“If she tries to be clever, then we shoot her.” I looked at those good bones again. “It won’t come to that, hopefully. Frosty’s pretty easy on the eyes.”
Of course I spoke much too soon. If I’d known the trouble she’d cause me, I would’ve given orders for her to be taken out right away.
Chapter Four: Natalia
“She’s knocked out cold.”
“Don’t try and move her. She might have broken something. Wait for the health and safety mob.”
“Jesus! This bloke looks like he died of fright!”
“Wouldn’t you? Look at that axe, mate. I think they were about to chop him into a pieces.”
“Serve the sick bastard right. Look at this! That poor kid looks no more than four or five years old!”
“Yeah, well, I always said Stinky Sal was a slime ball.”
“Well, I won’t be looking too hard at who did him in. Good job, that’s what I say.”
The voices were carrying on while I was lying on a shag rug. A pretty filthy one. Of a disgusting hue of orange that was at home in That 70s Show and stinking of beer. There was a sharp breeze blasting me as well. Some idiot had left the door open. My jaw hurt. I tried to move, and my face and head began protesting. Fuck. Had Frank hit me again? This time I wouldn’t take a cricket bat to him. I’d kill the bastard.
“She’s coming round.”
Blue eyes, a razor cut and a uniform. It was the plods. I closed my eyes again. What had happened? I remembered walking up the stairs, falling into the room and a brief flash of a face. Dark hair and dark eyes. Angry eyes so dark they were almost black. Foreign. Spanish or Italian. Right. Not Frank then. Okay. Or rather, not okay. My face hurt.
I was also leaning on something hard. Sharp edges were biting into my cheek. I wasn’t going to lie on this grubby rug forever, so I put my hands down, removed the sharp edges from my face and heaved myself up. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I almost blacked out again. I didn’t because of the sharp cold wind. Without thinking about it, I put my hands in my pockets. The sharp thing went in with them, but I wasn’t noticing because all my attention was on the scene in front of me.
Stinky Sal was taped to a chair. By the way his bulging eyes were wide open and unblinking, I reckoned the pervy bugger was a goner. There was an axe smashed into the chair, an inch away from his family jewels. That must’ve been what sent Stinky over into the afterlife.
I spotted the photos scattered over the floor. The one nearest me showed a boy with a biker with a long grey beard. I won’t tell you what they were doing but my thoughts were along the same lines as the plod who’d spoken earlier. If Stinky Sal hadn’t been dead, I would’ve done the deed.
“So. Frosty Truelove! What happened here then?” The older plod, a tall, lanky type who smelled of bacon, was glaring at me. “Come on, girl!”
“Come on, Ryan.” It was the little one with the razor cut who spoke up. “She’s had her face pushed in, for God’s sake. Give her a second to get it together.”
He was sympathetic, but I saw right through the cold blue eyes. This was Mr Nice and his mate was acting Mr Nasty. I was in no mood to play silly buggers, so I closed my eyes again.
“What’s going on here then?” I knew that voice. It was Detective Sergeant Smith, a right bugger. Luckily he was followed by a fleet of curious neighbours, at
tracted by the sight of so many boys in blue, as well as an ambulance crew.
I saw my way out and took it. “Oh my head! What happened?” Then I moaned a little for verisimilitude.
“Knock it off, Frosty!” Smith growled. “Nobody’s fooled by your act! What happened here?”
“Moron!” I snapped. “I’m a flipping victim!”
“Prove it!”
“She was knocked out,” Bacon-breath said reluctantly.
“I spotted her going in like five minutes ago!” An old party in hair curlers and a pink dress took centre stage excitedly. “And then two men came racing out less than a minute after!”
Bless the old bat. I’d look for her later and give her a bottle of gin.
“You're certain?” Smith grumped. “Can you identify the men?”
As the old dear told him all about not having her glasses on, I decided to prepare my exit.
“Oh! One of them must have bashed me!” I’m not exactly a shrinking violet but I was enjoying the Penelope Pitstop impression. I like teasing plods, and I don’t get to do it very much. “I think I might have something broken. Inside maybe.”
Like a watch perhaps. I could feel the outline in my pocket, and now I was remembering a snap as that dark-eyed bugger bashed me. It must be his. I should’ve handed it over, but I wasn’t fond of Stinky and having seen those photos, I wasn’t going to interfere with what seemed perfect justice.
“Trauma to the jaw,” one lovely paramedic announced. “Got a headache, love?”
“Shattering! And I’m dizzy! I can see spots, too!”
I hammed it up and was out of there in a minute flat, with the paramedic snarling at Smith, “You know her name, so you can get her statement later. My job is to make sure she’s seen to by accident and emergency. What if she has a concussion? I might get sued!”
Good old health and safety, right? They toted me into the ambulance, drove me to the hospital, and after an icepack for my jaw, I quietly slid out and went to have a coffee and a think.
Stinky being gone meant Johnathan’s problem had vanished, too. The plods would take his book and there would be nobody in the Peckham Knaves who’d know for sure what was in it. So that was all good.
