I Love My Smith and Wesson (11 page)

“How do you feel about Catholics in particular?”

“I'm not bothered one way or the other. But I think it's time they stopped propping the pope up. I wish they'd just let the poor old cunt lie down and die.”

To Little Malc's amazement, Rawhead suddenly shouted, “Hey! My friend here says the pope is a poor old cunt!”

Little Malc sputtered beer down his chest. “Jesus!”

“What's that?” said Rawhead, pretending to listen to Little Malc. “He says Gerry Adams wears a dress and bakes fairy cakes.”

It was the barman who attacked first. Roaring like a warrior, he pulled a wooden club from under the counter and swung it at Little Malc, missing his head by a fraction. Rawhead caught the barman's hand, held it against the counter with his left, and hit the barman in the center of the face with his beer glass.

Apart from the shard of glass protruding from his left cheek, the barman was relatively unhurt. But he was surprised, which was why his mouth was open when Rawhead punched him. Rawhead heard a crack and knew he'd broken the barman's jaw.

The barman held his left hand to his face and Rawhead twisted the club out of his grip and swung it round, almost hitting an old man in a cardigan who had got up to object to Rawhead's comment about His Holiness the Pope. Realizing he might get hurt, the old man changed his mind and hurried back to his stool.

One of the mechanics ran up next. A little guy with jutting ears and a long James Joyce chin. He seemed to have been influenced by James Joyce, too, because he was shouting something that sounded like, “I what dogs turd wanker!” Little Malc held out his fist and the guy ran straight onto it. Then his friend, huge and longhaired, weighing about twenty-four stone, lunged at Rawhead and he fell to the sawdust with the fat mechanic on top of him.

For a moment, Rawhead couldn't move or breathe. The mechanic was gritting his teeth and bouncing up and down on him. It was like he was trying to fuck him. Rawhead could smell motor oil and dirty cock, and the beer on the guy's breath. He could see the hairs up the bastard's nostrils, thick and tufted like tobacco.

Someone was shouting, “Kill him, John; fucking smack him!” in a high-pitched Mancunian voice. Rawhead tried to find his gun, couldn't reach it. But he groped in his pocket and found his lighter. He held it up to the mechanic's nose hair and set fire to it.

The mechanic screamed and jumped off Rawhead. The James Joyce look-alike sloshed a pint of beer in the mechanic's face. A moment later, while he was rubbing his eyes, Rawhead hit the mechanic so hard that he slid over the floorboards, smashed the back of his head on the jukebox, and blacked out.

Little Malc had seen enough and was edging toward the door. Rawhead followed. A stout red-faced woman with an outraged expression tried to bar their way. Little Malc stopped to reason with her, but Rawhead could see the barman was back on his feet and hungry for vengeance.

Rawhead was afraid that if they stayed around any longer, things might get violent. So he hit the woman, right in her outraged expression. The woman went down.

*   *   *

They got in the Rolls, Rawhead at the wheel.

“You punched a lady,” said Little Malc. “I can't believe you sunk that low.”

“She was about to deck you.”

“Are you seriously implying a woman could beat Malcolm Priest Junior?”

“Yep,” said Rawhead.

“Right!” said Little Malc. “That's it. Stop the fucking car and get out. I'll drive meself home. I'm stronger than any fucking woman and you're fucking sacked.”

Rawhead ignored him. He drove south out of the city, all the way to Macclesfield Forest. When they parked, Little Malc refused to get out. Rawhead sat there in silence, just staring at him. The power in his eyes was so intense that Little Malc had to look away. He was getting scared now, having finally deduced that the man at his side was not remotely like anyone else he'd ever met.

Suddenly a little fresh air seemed like a good idea. They walked for about half a mile, meandering through the trees, Little Malc complaining that the ground was frosty and he could feel the cold through the soles of his Italian shoes. Rawhead was dressed more sensibly, in heavy walking boots.

Squirrels chased and chattered in the trees above them, claws scrabbling as they raced upside down, apparently defying gravity. The light was fading, the sky streaked with pink and mauve, as pretty and sad as a bunch of hospital flowers.

Finally, Little Malc got pissed off. “Right. I'm not walking any fucking further.”

“This'll do fine,” said Rawhead. He pulled the Ruger out of his belt and fired up at the trees. In his alarm, Little Malc gave an impromptu little dance. Overhead, a squirrel exploded. Blood and fur rained down from the branches. Rawhead fired again and a second squirrel fell, this one merely wounded. As it fell, Rawhead shot it again and it burst apart like the first one.

“Jesus Christ,” said Little Malc. “I like animals, I do. We're animal lovers in our house. My little girls'd be heartbroken if they saw what you just did.”

Rawhead turned and pointed the gun at him. Little Malc's mouth dropped open. There was a long silence before Rawhead lowered the gun and said, “There. That's how easy it'd be.”

“How easy what'd be?”

“To kill you,” said Rawhead, walking away.

“Know what? You're a fucking psycho!” yelled Little Malc. “You start a fight in a pub and nearly get us both killed, you shoot some cute little furry fuckers that have never done me any harm, then you point a gun at me? Some fucking bodyguard!”

*   *   *

Rawhead drove to Knutsford, Little Malc prattling all the way about what a maniac Rawhead was. “Mentor? More like a fucking mental case.” They cruised down the wide avenue where Chef lived and ran his business. The house, once the home of Little Malc's father, was now protected like a fortress.

“Did you live here once?” said Rawhead.

“No,” said Little Malc. “I never did. Dad moved here after him and Mum divorced.”

There were security lights, high fences, and surveillance cameras. A tall man was standing behind the gate, face in shadow, looking out as they cruised by.

A little farther down the road, Rawhead parked the car and switched off the engine.

“Why've we stopped?” said Little Malc.

“I want to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Do you want to stay alive?”

Little Malc glared at him. “What kind of stupid fucking question is that? Do you?”

“Well, explain this to me. You work in Manchester. The city of guns. You put out a contract for a guy that took out eighty percent of the Priesthood, then sit around with no protection. You don't seem stupid, no more stupid than most people I come across.”

“Well,
thank you
.”

“But you're not armed. The people around you aren't armed. If he's alive, is this Rawhead guy going to sit back and let you insult him? I don't think so.”

“Anyone who thinks they can kill my dad and get away with it has got another think coming.”

“Then at least defend yourself. You don't even carry a weapon.”

“It's something me and Chef have agreed on together. None of the guys in the Priesthood carry weapons.”

“You really believe that?”

“My Uncle Chef wouldn't lie to me.”

“Your Uncle Chef?” Rawhead had to laugh.

“I've known him all me life. He was my father's best bud. They built up the Priesthood together. This guy used to sit me on his knee when I was little. No way would this man fucking lie to me.”

Rawhead turned in his seat to look at Little Malc. “He
is
lying to you,” he explained. Very calm, very patient. “In fact, I think he'd be very happy to see your coffin going by.”

“No way,” said Little Malc.

“Those friends of Chef's, the Medina brothers. I suppose you know they've been dealing in your club?”

“No way. In the past, maybe. My dad, God rest his soul, used to have us dealing drugs from behind the fucking bar in them days. When he died I told Chef. I told him, I said: ‘Top entertainers are staying away from the venue because they don't want to be associated with a lowlife drug den.' Chef gave me his word there'd be no more of it. I've got his word.”

“They're dealing. I've seen it with my own eyes. That's what Chef's word is worth. You know nothing illegal goes on in Manchester without the Priesthood taking a share. So what does that tell us? The Medinas are dealing in your club with Chef's permission. Otherwise they'd be dead. Don't you see that?”

“No.” Little Malc's eyes seemed to tremble in their sockets. You could see him battling the sheer logic of what he was hearing. “He wouldn't do that to me.”

“Does he still use you for recruitment?”

“Eh?”

“Chef. Does he still pay you to send him new boys?”

“Now and then.”

“Didn't Bryan Edwards used to take the coats in the club?”

Little Malc sniffed. “Take the piss, more like.”

“I'm right, though, aren't I? Bryan was one of your dad's sops. Now he's an altar boy. In a couple of years he'll be ordained.”

“What's your point?”

“That you're treading water. If you find good people, Chef takes them off you. Leaving you to look for new people.”

“People move up when they see the chance. That's the way it's always been.”

“Yeah? When are you going to move up?”

“Eh?”

“What are your promotion prospects? I'd say they were nonexistent.”

“Hey, pal. Don't you worry about me. I'm happy enough. I'm not a gangster. I'm a showman. Give me a song and a glass in my hand, I'm happy as Larry.”

“Malc, listen,” said Rawhead. His eyes gleamed oddly, reflecting light from nowhere. “Is it all right to call you Malc?”

Little Malc either nodded or suffered an involuntary neck spasm. Rawhead wasn't sure which.

“I saved your life. Do you admit that?”

“Yeah. I admit it. Thanks.”

“So you can trust me. Yes?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, look. Your Uncle Chef is fucking you over. Completely and comprehensively. What did he say when you put out the contract for Rawhead?”

“He said he understood,” said Little Malc. “He said the love between a father and son was special. He didn't agree with me, but he understood. He said if that was my decision, he wasn't going to interfere.”

“I bet.”

“Look. Everyone knows Chef and me are partners. If I was in trouble, he'd come to help me. Course he would.”

“Yeah? Where was he the other night when that punk tried to waste you? You're alone. You're so wide open, I can see the sky. And there's Chef, safe in his electrified kingdom, with a whole army around him. Vive la différence.”

Little Malc sulked like a small child.

Rawhead sighed and looked straight ahead. A rather shamefaced man was walking a little dog in a red velvet waistcoat. When the dog crapped on the pavement, the man instantly bent down and scooped it up. It was that kind of neighborhood. Rawhead wouldn't have been surprised if the owner had wiped the dog's arse.

“It's like this, Malcolm. I can protect you. I can protect you from
anyone
. If that's what you want.” He appraised Little Malc coolly, offering his hand. “Well?”

Little Malc felt excited, confused, and scared all at once. Mostly he felt excited. He took Rawhead's hand and clasped it. “It's what I want,” he said.

*   *   *

Rawhead got Little Malc to drop him off at a bar in Sale. As soon as the Rolls was out of sight, he stepped out of the bar and walked back to his lodgings. Mrs. Munley was sitting in the living room, watching a game show on TV. Rawhead could hear her laughing indulgently as the young morons went through their carefully rehearsed routine. “I'm easily bored,” said the girl who was choosing a date. “I enjoy fine wines, particularly champagne. Contestant number one: How would you wine and dine me?”

As Rawhead went upstairs, he imagined an honest answer to the mindless question. “Well, Sarah … I'd take you to a nice little wine bar. We won't need champagne: your beauty will be more than enough to make this boy fizz. When I'm chilled, you can help to pop my cork. Then you can taste my fine vintage. And then I'll kill you and bury you in the cellar.”

Rawhead took a bath, dressed, and cooked himself an omelette. Then he made tea for himself and Mrs. Munley. He'd bought her a box of Lindt chocolates and she ate them while she watched some laughable shit about a casualty ward, in which all the accident victims gave lengthy speeches to let the audience know how they were feeling. “Oh, Victor, it's a long time since I've had company on a Saturday night,” said the old woman.

*   *   *

After his landlady went to bed, Rawhead sat in his room reading
The Oxford Book of English Ghost Stories.
When the house was still, he loaded his gun and went out in the BMW. He drove to Prestbury. According to the guidebooks, Prestbury was a picturesque Cheshire town at the foot of the Pennines. It had a thirteenth-century church, many of its shops occupied listed buildings, and practically none of its citizens pissed in the streets. And now Billy Dye, Rawhead's blood brother, had exchanged his three-story slum in one of the poorest parts of Manchester for a house in this pleasant bourgeois village.

Prestbury was a retirement village for
Daily Telegraph
readers, not a gifted writer who had once spit on society's corrupt values. To Rawhead, living in such a place was proof that Billy had fallen a long way.

Billy's new house was on a country road at the edge of the village. Rawhead parked in a lay-by round the corner. The house was only a century old, a mere stripling of a dwelling by local standards. Its black and white timbers conveyed money without taste rather than the Tudor opulence that was intended. There was a stone fountain on the front lawn. The house had land on all sides, at least five acres. As Rawhead strolled by in the dark, it seemed to him that cozy yellow light shone in every window.