I Love My Smith and Wesson (6 page)

She read his lips. “Thirty-four? That's not old. But it's not young, either. You should have settled down by now.”

“I've never been able to find the right woman,” confessed Rawhead.

The kettle had boiled. She wandered off into the kitchen. “What kind of girl are you looking for?”

“A woman who knows when to lie down and when to shut her mouth,” he replied, knowing she couldn't hear him.

“What was that?” she said from the kitchen.

“An honest woman, who will never pretend that she knows better than me. A wise woman, who, when I'm tired of her, will have the good grace to leave before I'm forced to hit her with a shovel and bury her in a lonely place.”

“It's no good, Victor.” Mrs. Munley shouted back. “I can't hear a word.”

*   *   *

That night at eleven, Rawhead drove into Manchester. He parked the car at the far end of Water Street and squirted shaving foam over his registration plates. Then he slipped on a woolly hat and ski goggles and walked back to Little Malc's club. Two bouncers stood on the door. From behind them came the repetitive boom of dance music. One of the doormen was the fat guy with the curly hair Rawhead had seen earlier. The other was a little Scottish guy with swollen knuckles and a horribly flattened face.

“Where do you think you're going?” said the Scot, holding his hand out so that Rawhead walked into it.

“In there,” said Rawhead.

“Not dressed like that,” said the fat guy, glancing rapidly up and down the street.

“But these goggles cost more than your suit,” protested Rawhead.

The Scot pointed to a sign on the wall. “See that? ‘Dress code: smart casual.' No way are you smart. Now fuck off before I smack your legs.”

“But I'm a special guest of Little Mike's,” said Rawhead.

The bouncers exchanged smirking glances.

“Little ‘Mike,' eh? You're no special guest of nobody,” said the Scot. “Now do what the man says while you've still got teeth.”

“Did you realize you're supposed to call me sir?”

“You fucking what?” said Fats.

“I'm a member of the public. And even if you refuse me admission, you're still meant to call me sir.”

“Do you know what I love most about knuckle dusters?” said the Scot to no one in particular. “The way you can hear the crack as they split open a fella's jaw.”

“Mmm, yummy,” agreed Fats.

“That's a bit unfair,” said Rawhead, addressing the Scot. “I'll have you know I give a lot of money to your charity.”

“What fucking charity?”

“The Jimmy Krankie Benevolent Society for Little Scottish Spastics.”

Before Rawhead had finished speaking, the Scot took a direct swipe at his face. Rawhead stepped back, caught his wrist, and yanked him down the step. While the Scot was still struggling, Rawhead hit him once in the mouth. The Scot went down, shaking his head as if in repeated denial.

The fat man charged and caught Rawhead off guard with a surprisingly fast right to the gut. Rawhead blocked the follow-through and butted the fat man in the exact center of his angry red face. The fat man lost his balance, slipped, and landed on his back, gasping for breath.

Rawhead started to walk away. Spluttering threats and fragments of teeth, the little Celt ran after him. Rawhead glanced back, saw something flashing in the Scot's right hand. Rawhead never found out what it was. Unhurriedly, ignoring an approaching taxi, Rawhead unfastened his jacket, withdrew the Ruger Blackhawk, aimed at the ground in front of him, and fired. The Scot ran right into the bullet, which penetrated the instep of his right foot.

Roaring in pain and fury, the diminutive doorman hopped sideways, fell off the curb, and landed in the path of the taxi. He bounced off the bonnet and landed in the road. The taxi driver braked and swerved and ran over him again.

A woman in the taxi screamed. Rawhead walked on briskly, stepping aside so as not to collide with two teenage boys who came sprinting past him in their eagerness to inspect the damage. The way they were running, you'd think they'd never seen an accident before.

Four

But if you want me, if you do need me,

Who waits, at the terrible door, but I?

—“THE TERRIBLE DOOR” HAROLD MONRO (1879–1932)

At two minutes past eight, the big man with the long, melancholy face opened his heavy-lidded eyes. Every night, in his dreams, he was John Stavri, a little Greek immigrant boy. But when he awoke he was always Chef, leader of the Priesthood, the most powerful gang in Manchester.

He was in Malcolm Priest's bedroom in Malcolm Priest's large, comfortable house in Knutsford. As usual, Chef had slept alone, his long, large-boned frame filling the queen-size bed. There was a knock on the door. Then the door opened and in walked the Philosopher, one of Chef's most loyal men. The Philosopher bore Chef's breakfast on a tray: orange juice, porridge, a pot of tea, butter, and toast. Normally, the Philosopher would have left the tray on the bedside table.

Today he hovered.

“Fireworks at the club last night.” For a big man, the Philosopher had an unlikely voice. It was like a jockey's voice, high and nasal. “Someone got shot.”

“Who?” The hope in Chef's eyes was unmistakable.

“Not Little Malc. Scotch Harry.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. But he'll never dance the Highland fling again.” The Philosopher laughed at his own joke.

Chef eyed him sternly. “Did they get the gunman?”

“He fucking legged it.”

“Nothing to do with Little Malc, then.”

“Possibly not. More likely just another drunk twat who's cracked out for the weekend.”

Chef smiled as he stirred his tea. He liked the way the Philosopher talked. The way he said “possibly not” when he meant “fuck knows.” It created the impression, at least in Chef's imagination, that he had quality people around him.

“It's only a matter of time,” said Chef. “Someday soon, someone's going to box the guy. He's trouble.”

The Philosopher scratched his arse reflectively. “Confucius say, ‘Sooner or later, man who mixes with wankers will get spunk in eye.'” He waited for a laugh that never came. Then added: “It's a shame, really.”

Chef glanced at him sharply. “What's a shame?”

The Philosopher shrugged. “Nothing. Just that whenever me and the girlfriend go to the club, Malc always makes us welcome. Not in a crawling, arse-licky sorta way. I think the guy means it.”

Chef nodded. “Now you know how I feel. I've known him all his life. He used to play dirty doctors with my own daughters.”

“I'll tell you what, though. He's no fucking Tom Jones.”

Chef agreed. “But you can't box a guy for singing out of tune.”

“Everyone I know says he's a nice bloke.”

“Fuck nice,” snarled Chef. “Nice doesn't build a business. Especially our kind of business. I mean, he won't even let us stash knock-off at the club. They've got this massive loft down there, just lying empty. But he thinks that if he's found with stolen goods on the premises, Madonna won't agree to play a gig there.”

“Madonna wouldn't play a fucking gig there anyway.”

“Try telling Little Malc that.”

“Someone's gonna box him. I can see it coming.”

“Yeah. I just don't want it to be me. I owe his father that much.”

The Philosopher gave a slight nod. Secretly he was thinking,
But you killed Little Malc's father, boss. It's common knowledge. You set him on fire. Then you fucking shot him.

*   *   *

Malcolm Priest's house had always been the center of operations for the Priesthood. Priest's sudden disappearance had not altered that fact. Although Chef had a house of his own in Hyde, where his resentful wife and work-shy son resided, he rarely went there. Now that he was the undisputed leader of the Priesthood, it felt right to sleep in Malcolm Priest's bed. Just as a cannibal devours his enemy in the hope of possessing his enemy's spirit, so Chef believed that sleeping in Priest's bed and eating at Priest's table would give him Priest's authority and power.

So far, that was how it had worked out. Chef had assembled a new inner circle of disciples to replace those butchered by Rawhead. Profits were up. Because Chef was less headstrong than his predecessor, he enjoyed a more cordial relationship with the Greater Manchester Police. In exchange for a small percentage, Clive Bosworth, the new chief constable, let Chef run all the drugs, porn, and whores he wanted. The only thing Bosworth didn't like was guns, so Chef didn't sell them. It was a nice, civilized arrangement.

The only turd in Chef's swimming pool was Little Malc.

The only shark, the one human being Chef feared, was Rawhead.

But Chef hadn't thought about Rawhead in a while. Not until that morning, when Bryan Edwards brought a heavy-duty brown paper envelope into Chef's study.

Bryan, a charming but dishonest young man from Rusholme, had once been on Malcolm Priest's hit list. But when Priest died, Chef declared a general amnesty. Partly because killing is bad for business but mainly because Rawhead had murdered all of his best men.

This was good news for Bryan, who found himself promoted overnight from hanger-on to the inner circle, the seventy pounds he'd stolen from Malcolm Priest's house a distant memory. Chef was careful to warn Bryan that any further pilfering would result in the loss of his bollocks. And Bryan struggled to justify the faith Chef had shown in him. His trainers and Man City shirts were a thing of the past. Now he wore bespoke suits and creamy silk shirts from King Street.

“I've found something out, boss.”

Chef, who'd been checking his offshore bank account on-line, was irritated by the interruption. He tossed his head backward, silently inviting Bryan to surprise him. Bryan opened the envelope and took out a bound A4 manuscript.

On the top sheet was typed the word:

GANGCHESTER

“What's this?” Chef gave the manuscript a shove, to show that whatever it was, it was obviously a pile of contemptible shit.

“It's a fucking whadyacallit. A TV script.”

“I can see that. What's it got to do with me?”

“Use your fucking eyes.”

“What?”

“Sorry, boss. It just slipped out. But look. Just look who fucking wrote it.”

Warily, as if he were afraid that a jet of sulphuric acid might leap up from the typeface and hit him in the eye, Chef peered at the name under the title:

WILLIAM DYE

It took Chef a few seconds to work out that William Dye was Billy Dye. Then a shudder of disgust pulsed through him, as if he'd inadvertently bitten into a dog-shit sandwich. Billy Dye was the bigmouthed little bastard who had started all the trouble two years back.

“TV?” said Chef. “I thought he wrote books. Books that nobody reads.”

“The guy's branching out,” said Bryan. “Now he's going to write TV shows that no one'll fucking watch.”

“Is someone actually going to make this?”

“Looks that way.”

“Who?”

“Larry Crème, no less.”

“Who's Larry Crème?”

“I don't fucking know,” admitted Bryan. “But Shonagh reckons he's very important in telly land.”

“Who the hell's Shonagh?”

“This actress I'm fucking. She's juice. She plays Dorita Green in
Coronation Street.
You know, Dorita who works behind the bar. It was Shonagh who gave me this script to read.”

“Bryan.” Chef leaned back in his chair to survey the scrawny young rogue in front of him.

“Yeah?”

“I'm not in the least bit interested in who you're shagging or why. I wouldn't give a toss if you were a stud or a virgin. You can spend the rest of your life wanking into a bucket for all I care.”

Bryan half-laughed, half-gasped, in surprise.

“All that matters to me is that you're loyal. So why are you wasting my time with this shit?”

“For a very good reason, boss,” said Bryan confidently. “This thing Billy Dye's written, it's about gangsters from Manny. About
us.
Don't know about you, but I think it's a bit of a fucking cheek to make a series about us and not ask us to be in it.”

Chef pondered the point. The fingers of his hands were interlocked over his chest. His thumbs caressed each other like women in prison. “They should have consulted us,” he admitted. “No doubt about that. They haven't shown respect.”

Bryan suppressed a smirk. Chef was a strong leader, and few would have dared to cross him. But his obsession with Sicilian honor was a constant source of amusement to his men, all of whom were aware that Chef's parents were Greek emigrants, greasy café owners from Hazel Grove, near Stockport. Not even a decent greasy café, but the kind that serves your tea lukewarm, with dandruff whirling on the surface.

“How did it happen?” said Chef, frowning. “That's what I don't get. One minute he's writing spacko books; suddenly he's in TV.”

“Way I heard it, Dye writes this gangster book that no one wants to publish. His agent sends it to fucking Granada, who think it might make good telly. That's what Shonagh told me, anyway.”

“Will you fucking shut up about this fucking Shonagh?”

“Sorry. Anyway, what do you want to do?” said Bryan. “Do you want Dye saddened?”

“No.”

“Should I cut off a horse's head and stick it in his bed?”

“Does he keep horses?”

“Shouldn't think so.”

“Well, there wouldn't be much point, then. Would there?”

“I was just joking, boss.” Bryan smiled expansively to demonstrate the correct reponse to a joke.

“Forget about Dye. He's already being taken care of. It's this Larry Crème guy we need to be talking to.”