by Darren Dash
The details didn’t matter. The city knew I’d been at DEL’S with the killer. Those who didn’t know, would soon. Smurf Mironova could be at my apartment right now, waiting, mourning his dead sister in his own peculiar way. I wouldn’t let myself worry about that. Not until I had to.
The glamorous female killer was the mystery on everyone’s tongue. They figured she was a hired assassin, based on how coolly she’d taken out the victims, and the fact that she’d started shooting first. They thought it was a foe getting back at Smurf, or drug-related — Golding Mironova had been a dealer, apparently, and hadn’t been averse to taking her own unwarranted cut of the goods and profits from time to time.
But nobody knew who Toni was. Or that she was still in the city. Or that she had been kidnapped. Or where she might be. On those dark facts the city was silent. Silent as a grave.
Nearly seven. No sign of Mickey Goodnews. No Nose and Lucy had left me to brood alone. Lucy had wanted to stay, but I’d told her I could think more clearly in isolated silence.
I got ready to leave, figuring Mickey was probably glued to a seat at a poker table, blowing his week’s wages. I left a tip for the waitress, stood up… then sat again. Mickey was coming in, looking agitated.
He sat across from me. Fidgeted with the sugar bowl that was sitting between us. I could see that he was troubled, so I didn’t say anything. Let him get to it in his own time.
“You know about my gambling debts?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” I frowned, not sure why he was leading with that. Was he hitting me up for a loan? Now, when my life was on the line?
“I’m in deep,” he said, gazing down at his hands as I seethed, thinking he was looking to squeeze some cash out of me before someone put me out of action. “My own fault. Everyone warned me. Even the bastards at the track taking my money warned me to quit, told me I was reaching a point of no return. I didn’t listen. Convinced I could swing it. One big score and…”
He took out a sugar cube from the bowl, rolled it between his palms, watching it fragment and crumble, until there was a small pile of dust before him.
“My time’s almost up,” he whispered. “Any day now they’ll come for me. I owe too much, to way too many.”
“I didn’t realise it was that advanced,” I said, sympathising with him in spite of my predicament and heated feelings.
“Nobody does. I kept it quiet. Lucy has some idea, but even she doesn’t know the full extent of it.” He brushed the sugar away and clenched his hands together. “I’m telling you this so you understand. You’ve been good to me, like the others. You guys have always stood by me, tried to protect me from myself. You…”
He choked up and had to stop for a minute.
“I’m no hero,” he started again. “I’ve always put my own neck first. If this had happened a few months back, I’d have kept my mouth shut and let you burn, because I know I’ll burn too if I get involved. But since I’m dead meat anyway, I might as well go down helping a friend, right?”
I said nothing, staring at him, wondering what he had to say. He looked up and there were tears in his eyes. He blinked them away, dug into a pocket, produced a folded slip of paper, tossed it to me. There was an address on it.
“Ask for Craig Haine,” Mickey told me. “He knows what happened to your girl, where she’s being held. Maybe she’s dead now, or will be before you get to her. I don’t know. Ask Craig. He’ll tell you, if you force him. He’s weak, like me. If you twist his arm hard enough, he’ll talk.”
I studied the address. Then I looked at Mickey. “I’ll keep your name out of it,” I promised.
He laughed grimly. “Craig knows I know you, and knows I was asking about the girl. He’s no genius, but it won’t take him long to add two and two, and there’s only one answer.” Mickey shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck at this stage. If Craig or the guys who took the girl get to me before the loan sharks, good luck to them.”
“How much do you owe?” I asked.
“Thirty-five… forty thousand… something like that. Lost count a month or so back. Would have been more except I had a couple of outsiders come in. Pity there weren’t a few more like them.”
“Mickey…” I took a deep breath, then cleared my throat. “Any chance I could borrow your car? I wasn’t going to ask any of you guys – didn’t want to get you into trouble – but if things are as bleak as you say…”
“Take it,” he sighed. “It’s not mine anymore anyway. I lost it a couple of weeks ago. Only reason they haven’t claimed it is they’re waiting to swoop for the whole lot in one go.”
He passed me the keys. I pocketed them, feeling like a rat, but knowing I didn’t have time to sit here and comfort Mickey Goodnews.
“Did Craig Haine kidnap her?” I asked.
“No,” Mickey said, “but he knows who did and where you can find him.”
“Do you know?” I pressed.
Mickey was quiet for a few seconds. Then he whispered, “Yeah. Not where the guy stashed her, but I got the name.” He began to crush another sugar cube. “Ever heard of a creep called Smurf Mironova?”
NINE — THE JUNKIE AND THE CAT
I rang Lucy as I was driving. Mickey’s car didn’t have any hands-free devices, and I normally never used my phone when I was behind the wheel, but this was no ordinary day at the office.
Lucy was surprised to hear from me. Thought I was checking to find out if she’d made any progress. Started to tell me she hadn’t, but I cut her short.
“You helped Mickey Goodnews out of a hole a while back, didn’t you?”
“How do you know about that?” she asked, and I could sense her scowl.
“He let it slip,” I lied, not wanting her to know that No Nose had told me late one drunken night when he was raving about what a great woman Lucy was.
“Any business affairs I may or may not have had with Mickey are between me and him,” Lucy said icily.
“I agree. But I need to know if you gave him cash or transferred the money electronically.”
“Why?” she snapped.
“Because he just got through telling me he’s about forty grand in debt.”
There was a shocked silence.
“The guys he owes are done waiting,” I continued. “They’ll come looking for payback soon. From what Mickey said, they won’t settle for breaking a few bones. He’s history.”
“I can’t help him,” Lucy whispered. “I don’t have that sort of money.”
“But I do.”
Another shocked silence. I let this one ride.
“You’d give that much to Mickey?” Lucy finally asked.
“I owe him,” I said.
“He won’t learn,” she warned me. “He’ll gamble himself into this sort of a mess again, the way he always does.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I grunted. “I can help him out this time and I want to.”
Lucy laughed. “You’re a dark horse, Eyrie Brown.”
“Yeah,” I smiled. “A pity Mickey doesn’t bet on the likes of me every once in a while. So, can you tell me how you paid him?”
“Transfer,” she said, which was what I’d been hoping to hear.
“Can you text me his bank account details if you still have them?”
“Sure. I’ll do that straightaway.”
“Thanks. And you can cancel the search. Tell the others they can call it a night too. I have it from here.”
“Will do,” she said. There was a pause. I thought she was going to ask a few questions or say something mushy, given that we both knew I was heading for a shitload of trouble and this might be the last time we ever got to speak with one another. But then she just said, “Later, Eyrie.”
And I replied, “Later, Lucy.”
And that was that.
I took a few minutes when I stopped to check Lucy’s text and copy the details. Then I logged in to the account that Lewis Brue had set up for me. A quick glance told me he hadn’t dawdled — I was now worth a swee
t one hundred thousand pounds. I didn’t allow myself any time for regrets, just pinged forty K straight to Mickey Goodnews’ account and mentally wished him better luck in the future.
I grimaced and muttered, “Mickey fucking Goodnews.”
With a self-mocking laugh, I dismissed thoughts of the money and stepped out into the night.
Time to focus.
Walcorde Avenue, off the Walworth Road, should have been a classy affair. A quiet cul-de-sac of old, three-storey, brick houses, situated close to the centre of London. It should have been home to the city’s bankers, doctors, stockbrokers. But it had gone awry somewhere along the line and had an unkempt feel to it. A few of the houses looked like they were inhabited by squatters, and among those was the address that Mickey Goodnews had supplied.
The front door with peeling yellow paint was ajar, so I didn’t bother knocking.
“Hello?” I called, entering the hallway. “Anyone home?”
A man in his fifties or sixties, in large army boots and nothing else, emerged from one of the rooms. He glanced me over and smiled. “One of Glenn’s friends?” he asked bitchily.
“No,” I told him. “Looking for Craig Haine.”
His nose wrinkled. “No fun in you then.” He sighed and returned to his room. Muttered over his shoulder as he went, “Up the stairs. Top floor. The door straight ahead, with the pussy.”
I jogged up the stairs. Found a door with a dead cat nailed to it. It was starting to decay, but had been doused in perfume and other scents, so the smell wasn’t too overpowering. I knocked, trying not to meet the cat’s glazed eyes. There were sounds from inside and, after a while, a thin, squinting guy opened the door.
“Yeah?”
“Craig Haine?”
“Maybe,” he said cautiously.
“I want to ask you a few questions.”
“You police?”
“No,” I smiled. “I’m a taxi driver.”
He scratched the inside of his left elbow – scarred from too many needles – and nodded me in. Closed the door after me, having checked to make sure nobody else was lurking outside.
There were no chairs for us to sit on. A single bed with a horribly stained duvet stood next to a window overlooking the road outside. Bare walls, scraps of ancient wallpaper clinging to them in places. Small holes in the uncarpeted floorboards, gnawed by mice or rats. No attempt to decorate or hide the blemishes. A load of empty takeaway cartons in one corner. Nothing of value apart from a laptop that looked top of the range.
Haine sat on the floor by the laptop and pressed PLAY on a film that he was streaming. Christopher Walken started yapping and I recognised it as King of New York.
“Good movie,” I said, staying on my feet. I didn’t want to sit. Afraid a rat might dart out of the shadows and sink its fangs into my arse.
“Seen it three times,” Haine said, picking up a slice of cold pizza from a piece of torn cardboard that was serving as a plate. “Walken’s gold. Never seen anything with him in it that wasn’t worth watching.”
I could have argued that – I’d caught him in a piece of crap called Kangaroo Jack once – but didn’t think this was the time to play devil’s advocate.
Haine pulled out a joint and lit up. Didn’t offer me a drag, which was fine. I wasn’t averse to the occasional puff, but I drew the line at sharing a spliff with a filthy junkie who was almost certainly a walking disease factory.
We watched Christopher Walken dominate the screen for a while. I was anxious to push this forward but figured I’d let Haine finish his smoke. He might be more inclined to open up if he was feeling mellow. I was all for avoiding unpleasantness if possible.
Haine seemed to have forgotten about me until, the joint still going, he turned and blinked. “I don’t know you. What do you want?”
I smiled as politely as I could. “I’m looking for Smurf Mironova.”
He paused the film and stubbed out the joint. Stared at me more alertly than I’d expected. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped.
“Yes you do,” I said with a smile that I hoped came across as friendly. “I need to find him. I know you can tell me where he lives, where he hangs out.” I forced a chuckle. “Where he takes people he doesn’t like.”
Haine continued to stare at me coldly. “You want me to set up a meet?”
“No. I’m just looking for an address.”
He began scratching his arm again, reddening the flesh, picking at old holes.
“You’re a taxi driver?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“You know a guy called Mickey Goodnews?”
I didn’t say anything.
“That son of a bitch,” he snarled. “You’re the fucker who was in DEL’S last night with the trigger-happy she-wolf. The one Smurf –”
He stopped and his arm jerked guiltily.
“The one Smurf…?” I pressed.
“I don’t know what that prick Goodnews told you,” Haine said, “but he’s a headcase. You can’t believe anything a loser like that says. He’d tell you the moon’s green if he thought there was a score in it for him. I know nothing.”
“You know Smurf Mironova.”
Haine shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”
“You know where I can find him.”
“No.” His lips went thin. “I did some work for him in the past, but that was a long time ago. I don’t know shit. That’s the truth. Ask anyone.”
I studied his pinched face, thin arms and bloodshot eyes. A sorry, lost cause. Even an amateur like me could see that he would be easy to bully and twist. I was no grand inquisitor – I had a lot of sympathy for people like Craig Haine, knowing that there but for the grace of a few good friends went I – but the situation demanded I adopt that mantle, so I steeled myself for savagery.
“You know about the shooting last night,” I said softly.
He shrugged again. “Everyone does.”
“You know Smurf found the killer.”
“Did he?” Haine sniffed. “First I heard of that.”
“You know where he took her,” I went on sharply.
“No,” Haine whined. “Don’t know anything like that. I’ve been out of those loops for years. That’s the truth, man. Swear on my mother’s grave.”
“Swear on your veins, Craig.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Forget it. You admit you heard about the shooting in DEL’S?”
“Yeah,” he said uncertainly.
“So you know…” I produced the Hi-Power, “…I’m not a man you fuck with.”
His eyes went wide. He started to shiver.
“Tell me what I want to hear or I’ll put three bullets in you,” I said coldly. “The first in a kneecap, the second in the other kneecap. If you don’t crack – and I’m pretty sure you will, given the pain involved – the third goes straight between your eyes and I move on to my next informant.”
“I know nothing!” Haine squealed. “I swear I –”
“Craig.” I crouched so we were eye-to-eye, not liking what I had to do but determined not to flinch. “Let’s not waste each other’s time.” I pointed the gun. “Which leg do you favour, right or left?”
“Don’t!” he screamed, scrabbling backwards. “Don’t! I… I’ll tell you, all right? If you swear you won’t tell him it was me, OK?”
“Talk.”
“You won’t shoot me when it’s over?”
“Depends on what you have for me.”
He brushed a trembling arm across his mouth. “Normally I wouldn’t have heard anything,” he croaked, “but there’s a guy, part of Smurf’s crew. We’re old friends and he likes to shoot up. Smurf doesn’t know about that and my friend wants to keep it secret – Smurf pushes his people out to the sidelines if he thinks they’re a liability, doesn’t take chances on users – so he comes to dealers outside Smurf’s regular circle. He visited me this morning, shaking bad, needing the needle. I was able to charge him more than normal, the
dumb fuck, he was so –”
“The point, Craig,” I growled.
“Yeah. Right. So I prepared the works for him and he shot up here. He got to talking later, when he was coming out of it and in a warm place, started telling me about the crazy shit going on, how Smurf’s sister had been killed, how Smurf got the name of a cabbie who was part of it.”
Haine started to warm to his story and slipped into the present tense, as if living in the moment that had been shared with him.
“Gary – the guy I know – and a couple of others go with Smurf to kill the cabbie, but instead they find the bitch who’d killed Smurf’s sister, tied up in the driver’s flat. Smurf starts kicking her so hard that Gary’s sure he’s going to kick her to death. Gary’s thinking it’s a pity, wasting a looker like that, but nobody tells Smurf what he should or shouldn’t do, so he keeps quiet. Next thing, Smurf stops and smiles. Pulls her to her feet, hauls her down the stairs and bundles her into their car. Says he’ll come back for the cabbie, tells one of the boys to leave a message for him, then takes her back to his place, where they can…”
He stopped.
“Go on,” I grunted.
“Is the woman something to you?” Haine asked, almost compassionately.
“Never mind that. Go on.”
“It’s just… I don’t want you going mental on me. I’m not part of this. I’m just telling you what I was told.”
“Did he kill her?” I asked softly, dreading the answer.
“He might have by now but I doubt it. He wasn’t in any rush. Gary…” He wiped his mouth again and picked up the joint. “Gary said the plan was to pull a train on her. Smurf said they were going to invite all their mates round to rape her, let any bugger in London take his turn if he was game. Gary said Smurf was talking about bringing dogs in too – after the rest of them were finished, of course – filming it all, letting her know it was being broadcast, that this would be her legacy, the price she’d pay for having killed his sister. He said they’d fuck her to death and upload it to the web for the world to watch forever.”
