Walk Amongst the Dead

by Mark Newman

  Message delivered.

  Chapter 4

  His fist is clenched white, the image of Walter Browne’s dead-eyed corpse staring back at him. He should have listened, the warning signs were all there, but he chose to ignore them.

  Taking out one of the old guard. That’s personal, a statement of intent. Kind that says we’re stronger than you, can hit any of you at any time. Challenge made. Now it’s down to Malkie to respond. But who to go after first?

  He needs the facts. He’s seen too many of his contemporaries go in guns blazing, a sure way to secure an early grave or end up inside. The police won’t tolerate Wild West shoot ’em ups on the streets.

  Recent events have left him shaken, but he’s not ready to bow out, too many things left undone. A cool head that’s what’s needed, keep the emotions in check—for now. Time enough to let vengeance wreak havoc. Situation such as this requires tact and patience. He needs to put the feelers out, use the network, and let those on the street be his eyes and ears.

  Malkie takes a seat, rubbing at the corner of his eye. It’s been a long day, and it’s not over yet. There’s a dull throbbing sensation emanating from his right temple, he massages it, willing the ache to disappear. There’s work to be done, he has no time for such irritations. He needs to find the answers, and quick. Could be any number of smaller firms trying to make a play for the top. Where to start? Could be the Bulgarians, even the Romanians. Both small, tight outfits, got the ability, but do they have the nous?

  Malkie needs a dram, pours himself a shot, and sinks it in one gulp. He refills his glass with a double, reckons he’s earned it. After all, it’s not every day one of his own is taken out.

  He drains the glass, staring in to the abyss, running it through his mind. Back and forth it goes, like a racket ball ricocheting off the wall. There’s no reason for the Bulgarians to make a play. It just doesn’t feel right, not now, not after all this time. Malkie’s worked hard to secure an understanding with Sergei. The agreements are in place. It’s not in anyone’s interests to go looking to start a war. There’s too much at stake, for everybody. Malkie’s known Sergei for almost seven years, in that time the two have come to an understanding. Wasn’t always that way, Sergei wanted his own territory, didn’t see why he should have to kick up to the established firm.

  Malkie respected that. It wasn’t all that different from when he’d come down from Glasgow back in the summer of eighty-eight and gone head to head with Vinnie Edwards. Difference was, he didn’t underestimate the challenger. Malkie could see the similarities; they both came as outsiders, everything to gain, and nothing to lose. Both mean and hungry, determined to carve out their own niche.

  He couldn’t take chances; the message had to be clear. An A4 manila envelope was delivered by hand by a plain-clothes police officer to Sergei’s home address. The officer knocked and waited, then showed his warrant card without giving his name. He told Sergei to examine the contents, he did so, taking out each photograph in turn, scrutinising the detail. Seven photographs in total. His wife, his five kids, and last—his own picture, all with a red felt pen dot obscuring the faces.

  No further explanation needed. The anonymous police officer and surveillance photos were enough to demonstrate the depth of Malkie Thompson’s power and influence. Sergei backed down, ordered his crew back to base, and prepared for a sit down with Malkie. It was either that or witness the systematic execution of his wife, followed by each of his children, starting with the youngest and working up to the eldest before succumbing to the executioners blade himself.

  Malkie offered Sergei his own territory in return for a twenty percent cut. He could see the potential benefits of having his own foreign legion of mercenary cutthroats to do his bidding. Those who could take on the kind of jobs he was trying his damnedest to steer the organisation away from. It made sense to use outsiders for the dirty work, a reserve army to carry out deniable tasks. So far, it had worked well, at least he thought it had.

  Malkie refilled his glass, considering whether one of Sergei’s guys could have gone rogue. Nothing quite as dangerous as an AWOL freelancer with an agenda. He took a nip, savoured the reassuring burn at the back of his throat and imagined himself on the other side. How would he do it? Simple – take the direct route; go for the organisation’s lynchpin. Take out the boss man.

  He can’t overlook the Romanians, they’ve steered clear of violence, but things can change. Maybe they’re looking to expand, go beyond credit card fraud. Perhaps they’re looking to up their game. So far they’ve kept a low profile, the available Intel sparse. That’s where Frank comes in; he has the contacts. This type of thing requires insider knowledge. Frank’s well placed, connected to the Polish mob through his maternal lineage. The way Frank tells it, there’s no love lost between the Poles and the Romanians, but what they do have is a mutual respect, and they’re careful not to encroach on the other’s business interests. That said, the Poles have never made any secret about contracting out. Some jobs are dirty, and it’s safer to outsource to keep a safe distance.

  Malkie lights a cigarette, blowing a plume of grey-white smoke out. This current situation ups the ante. Hitting the moneyman, that’s strategic. It has the hallmarks of a new crew. Intelligent, ballsy even. Now that they have everyone’s attention, they’ll make contact - want to do a deal. A short cut to getting a slice of the real action. They might not know it yet, but all they’ve done is sign their own death warrants. Malkie won’t compromise, not on this, this is personal. He won’t give an inch.

  Chapter 5

  The killing of Walter Browne’s the game changer. Time for a show of force. Chance to see if the old man can still cut it in the real world. Step it up a gear. Show these young pups just why Malkie Thompson’s firm’s been on top for over twenty-five years. He’s not about to roll over for anyone.

  Phone in hand, his fingers jab at the keys, it’s time to rally the troops. He can’t ignore the facts any longer. Holding it to his ear, he listens to the shrill dial tone. He’s getting impatient. ‘Come on you bastard, pick up.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Georgie Boy, need you over here now. Find that nephew of mine, pronto – got that?’ The call ends without pleasantries or explanation.

  George Patterson, aka Georgie Boy Patterson, he’s been with Malkie’s outfit since the beginning. Seen it all, good and bad. Earned his place, he’s part of the inner circle. A trusted member of the old guard, Malkie’s advisor, his Chief Lieutenant.

  The phone call’s odd, Malkie’s voice tense and taut. The details sparse, can’t be too careful, never know who’s listening in. Malkie’s a seasoned professional; he’s seen more than a few of his rivals get burned that way. Some still serving time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Rule number one, sloppy talk gets you nicked, so keep it schtum. Just the basic outline, no giveaways. Nothing incriminating. Malkie’s intonation suggests it’s bad. Just how bad he’s yet to find out.

  Grabbing his car keys, he steps out in to the damp drizzle. The gravel crunching underfoot as he strides towards the Range Rover Evoque parked twenty feet from his front door. He’s lost in thought, his cell phone pressed tight to his ear. The call goes unanswered. Now he has to go trawling Cunningham’s usual haunts. Fucking prick.

  George has never had time for the little shit, but he’s Malkie’s blood. The heir apparent. That’s the real joke. Cunningham doesn’t know his arse from tit. He tried to break out on his own back in the nineties, but messed up big time. He used Malkie’s money to go it alone, but never paid his dues. Must have known Malkie was never going to let that pass. The unwritten rule, everybody has to kick up. No exceptions.

  Cunningham played at being the man. Always big on the window dressing, flash cars, girls, and mountains of dope. For a time, it was a non-stop party twenty-four seven. He lived the life, the epitome of the playboy gangster, but he lacked substance. Cunningham came unstuck when the Kosovans showed up wanting a piece of the action. He’d made the fatal mistak
e, cut all ties with Malkie. Word went round he was non-affiliated, and that made him easy prey – open season.

  His so-called crew deserted him before a single shot was fired. They left him standing. All but one, Ryan Kane. A tough bastard, a light-middleweight boxer, when the others ran he stood his ground. Against the odds, Kane put in a valiant effort, smashed heads and held off three would-be assailants. Then he vanished in the aftermath. Some say the Kosovans took him. Most right thinking folk decline to comment.

  Out of options, Cunningham went back to Malkie, his tail between his legs. Malkie sorted things his way. Jason wanted it to be like a scene from Scarface, fancied himself as Al Pacino. But that was never going to happen. No way Malkie was going to start a war with a bunch of gun toting battle-hardened Kosovans. It was safer to opt for the low-key approach.

  Malkie played to their egos. He made a deal. Gave them a slice of the action. Brought them in to the organisation’s extended family. Started using them for the muscle jobs. Allowed them to operate with increased autonomy.

  In return, they kept their brothels out of the way, hidden within an old factory unit on the outskirts of town. Away from prying eyes, or so they thought.

  Contained, Malkie monitored their movements twenty-four seven. Even put one of his own guys in as a business advisor. All part of the plan. Let them build it up – create an established network; prostitution, drugs, laundering, the whole shebang.

  All he had to do was collate the evidence, when the time was right—pull the plug. His guy on the inside knew the score. So he takes the fall. Gets lifted with the gang, it has to look legit. He knows he’s going down for a stretch, so it’s important to keep him sweet. Assurances are given, he and his family will want for nothing; they’ll be well looked after. So he rides his bang up with peace of mind.

  No one turns down the personal invitation of Malkie Thompson.

  The firm has one chance to do it right. The brothel gets raided, and the girls are rounded up, the punters who don’t get caught with their pants down at the scene are scared off. The main players get hauled in, they haven’t got any identification papers or documentation, they can’t verify whom they claim to be. They pose a serious risk of flight, so the authorities detain them until trial without bail. Once that happens, Malkie gives the order to move in and close down the remnants of the operation. With the bad guys off the patch it’s back to business. The status quo is reinstated, and everybody’s happy.

  The Old Bill’s end of quarter clear up rate looks outstanding, and the old firm can go on behind the scenes as normal. Most important of all, the money keeps rolling in. Nobody wants a war. It puts people out of business. Interrupt the money flow, and they’ll start looking for alternatives. Keep them sweet, and they’ll stay in line.

  George shakes his head; he can’t see how a fuckwit like Jason Cunningham is going to restore the balance. There’s no way he’s cut out to be at the helm. Deep down, even Malkie has to know that. There has to be a plan B. A back up. Something viable, a doable option.

  Cunningham’s no leader. He’s never had the respect of the old guard. Sure, he might have had the unofficial endorsement since Malkie’s recent ailments, but that’s a temporary short-term solution to deal with the day-to-day stuff. A decision that still doesn’t sit right with George. One that sure as hell wouldn’t have been passed if he’d been around. Frank and Ron stitched him up; saw to it that he was two hundred miles away the day it went to the vote.

  Democracy in action, he owes them big time for that stunt.

  Malkie won’t discuss it. He prefers to bury his head, maybe he is losing it. Sure as hell storing up trouble for the future. If George had his way, Cunningham would have disappeared a long time ago. He never did reconcile Malkie’s decision to let him off. So he was busted down, had his wings clipped. If it had being anyone else, they’d have ended up bleeding out, hanging upside-down from meat hooks at Dekker’s abattoirs.

  The situation still left a bad taste in George’s mouth. That whole episode took a lot of smoothing over. There were those in the organisation that saw it as weakness and an opportunity for self-advancement, vying for pole position. George stepped up, quelled any disquiet in the ranks. In doing so, he cemented his reputation within the organisation.

  Some say he could have been the top man that he missed his opportunity, but he was never going to go against Malkie, too much shared history.

  Chapter 6

  Frank’s waiting, he knows Malkie put the call out. Georgie Boy’s en-route tasked with bringing Cunningham in, too bad—he got the short straw. There’s something else, Frank can’t put his finger on. He’s mulling it over, chewing on his third stick of gum. Malkie’s theory about a new firm - he’s not so sure.

  Malkie shuffles in to view. Frank’s eyes hone in. He doesn’t look good; he has that sickly pallor, his skin taking on a translucent grey.

  Frank needs to plan; he has to have an exit strategy. Malkie might not want to admit it, but it’s coming undone, the whole shooting match. Everyone else can see it but the boss.

  Won’t be easy, Frank’s been with Malkie since the beginning, and that’s a lot of shared time, memories good and bad. The scenario’s moved on—this is the game changer, it’s way beyond loyalty now, this is about self-preservation. The opportunities to reach out and be affiliated are drying up, he needs to act fast or risk being frozen out.

  Should that happen, it’s all over, might as well sit down with a bottle of malt and spin the barrel of the revolver, Russian roulette style. Better for it to be on his terms than another’s. Frank has no reason to gift some bastard the bragging rights for capping him.

  He’s taking a second look, giving Malkie that sideways glance, shit he’s old. Got that beaten downtrodden look. The man’s lost his game face. Malkie’s still the Governor; he has his loyal followers, ready to step up when the time comes. Voices of dissent won’t be tolerated. Play the game, Frank. They don’t see what he’s seeing. It’s like chess, all down to strategy. Frank has to figure out his moves three or four plays in advance.

  But what about George? Frank can’t see him running out on Malkie any time soon, that’s his problem. He and George go way back. Both time-served veterans, the scars running long and deep. He’s always liked George, just one problem – his pride. George never did learn when to step back, just not in his DNA profile. Frank’s known that since the early days, tried teaching him enough times in the ring; guard up, head down; chin tucked in. Useless every single time, Georgie Boy always thinking he was the Great White Hope, sucking on a drip feed diet of Rocky Marciano re-runs.

  End of the day, George is a romantic. Still thinks it’s like the old days. Stuck somewhere between seventy-nine and eighty-three. The memory brings a smile to Frank’s face, the golden era for the firm. Plenty of cash, easy pickings from security vans. Back then, they were like street kings, the manor ran itself. No one dared to question their authority, their reputation solid. People stayed in line. Unlike now, Frank doesn’t understand the rules anymore, if there are any. The landscape’s changed beyond recognition. Maybe it’s an age thing, too fucking old.

  Frank’s unwrapping another stick of gum from its silver foil packaging, still wearing two of the nicotine patches on his upper right arm, so far doing nothing for the cravings. What he wouldn’t give for a cigarette right now, be happy to trade a blood transfusion for a long, slow drag. He’s contemplating how they got to this point. He blames it on the gun culture, the wannabe baby-faced gangsters going strapped. Any idiot can pull the trigger, doesn’t make them a gangster, just a pretender.

  Cunningham understands the changing nature of the market; he anticipates the trends, adapts and gets on. A lot of the old guard think he’s nothing more than a little shit undeserving of his elevated position within the firm. There have been rumblings of discontent about his status, whether it’s based on blood ties rather than merit. Frank sees beyond that, the boy’s got genuine ability, he could go all the way. He needs gui
dance, that’s all. A seasoned advisor to show him the ropes. Frank’s done the groundwork, he voted in Cunningham’s favour to run things while Malkie was out of the game. That has to be worth something.

  Ronnie Price is making his way in, the unwelcome summons interrupting one of his illicit liaisons. He’s pacing towards Frank, seeking an explanation. The look on Frank’s face tells him everything he needs to know, and it’s bad. His eyes flit to Malkie, stone-faced, sitting in silence, lost in thought, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. He knows better than to interrupt when his mood is this dark.

  This new development puts everything on hold, Ron needs to reassess, gather his own thoughts. If the situation is as bad as he thinks it is, he needs an out. Ron moves to the bar, and pours himself a tonic water, still hopeful that the summons will be over quick enough for him to make a return visit to his lady friend.

  ‘What’s the crack then,’ he says, throwing it out there, hoping one of them will answer. It’s met with mortuary silence. That’s a new one. Maybe they’re just fucking with him. He’s thinking hard now, what’s he done? What’s been said? The paranoia’s taking hold, setting in like wet concrete. Deep down, Ron knows he’s done nothing to cause an upset. He tells himself to get a grip.

  Nobody in the firm is above suspicion, but Ronnie, perhaps more so than anyone else, has proved his worth over the years. He’s made personal sacrifices, gave eight years of his life, surrendered his liberty at Malkie’s bidding.

  Ron joined the organisation back in the late eighties. He saw an opportunity and went for it. At his core, Ron’s a businessman, he traded information on his old boss, laying the way for Malkie to gain ground once the arrest warrant was in place. That’s how it works; people like him look for exit strategies when they know it’s all going to shit.