I Love My Smith and Wesson (7 page)

“What about?”

“About whether he wants to do business with us or spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.” Chef picked up the manuscript and leafed through it idly. “What's the script about?”

Bryan looked startled. “How the fuck should I know?”

Chef flung it across the table. “Read it.”

“That's easy for you to say. This thing's seventy fucking pages long.”

“I take it you
can
read?”

“Course I can fucking read. I just happen to hate fucking reading. Give it to the Philosopher. He reads real books. I've caught him at it.”

“Bryan, you're a lazy bastard. Take it home. Now.”

“Aw, fuck. Don't be cruel to me, boss. In me whole fucking life I've never read anything longer than the label on a beer bottle.”

Chef said, “Exactly. You're virtually illiterate.”

“You saying I'm a bastard?”

“I want intelligence around me. Culture. Understand? I want this organization to go upmarket.”

“OK. But will you do us a favor, boss? Will you lend us some feed till payday? I'm skewed out.”

Grumbling to himself, Chef slapped forty quid into Bryan's outstretched hand.
Upmarket?
Fat fucking chance.

*   *   *

The next morning there was no one on the door of the club. Rawhead, dressed in the suit he'd worn for Billy Dye's wedding, walked through the entrance and into the club itself. On a blackboard outside someone had written “Tonite for one nite only: Koo La Grace.” Koo La Grace was a famous Mancunian drag artiste. Little Malc was onstage, microphone in hand, rehearsing some crap patter. “Ladies and gentlemen … all the way from Little Lever near Bolton … the sensational, the unprintable, Manchester's first lady … did I say lady?… Ladies and gents, let's hear it please for the inimitable Koo La Grace.”

A cleaner, somebody's worn-out mum from Levenshulme, was wiping the bar for the minimum wage. A bored old twat sitting behind a drum kit gave his cymbal a clout.

Little Malc grimaced. “What the fuck was that, Peter?”

Rawhead sat down on a stool, not in a hurry, taking his time.

The drummer shrugged. “I thought it sounded all right.”

“It sounded like a very old man breaking wind,” said Little Malc. “Start again.… Let's hear it for Koo La Grace.”

Little Malc waited. So did the drummer.

“What are you waiting for?” demanded Little Malc.

“I don't know.”

“I just gave you your fucking cue.”

“When?”

“When I said, ‘Let's hear it for Koo La Grace.'”

This time the drummer provided four bars of highhat.

“What the fuck's that?”

“It was meant to sound like a train.”

“What's a fucking train got to do with a drag queen from Bolton?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean, yes?” said Little Malc. “Did I ask you a fucking question?”

“No.”

“Well, why did you say yes?”

“It seemed appropriate,” said the drummer.

“Appropriate to fucking what?” Little Malc covered his face in his hands. “Look. All I want is a drumroll. You can do a drumroll, can't you?”

The drummer provided a perfect drumroll.

“Good. Right,” said Little Malc. “Now try doing it when I say, ‘Let's hear it for Koo La Grace.'”

Another drumroll.

“What was that drumroll for?” said Little Malc.

“You said I should do it when you said ‘Koo La Grace.'”

“No! No!” Little Malc kicked the stage. “That wasn't your cue! That was me
telling
you about your cue!”

“Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know?” complained the drummer.

“Jesus Christ. Take fucking five,” said Little Malc, attaching his mike to the stand and walking off.

Rawhead got up from the stool and waited for Little Malc to pass. “Mr. Priest?”

Little Malc turned to look at him. “Who are you?”

“Er, excuse me, Mr. Priest; I heard that you might need a doorman.'

“Did you really.” Little Malc looked Rawhead up and down. “You opportunistic bastard. Yes, we fucking do. Are you any good?”

“I used to work for Tommy Dean in Leeds.” Rawhead passed Little Malc a forged reference.

Little Malc peered at it. “‘Abraham Stoker.' Is that your name?”

“Yes, Mr. Priest.”

“Are you clean, Abraham? Reason I ask, see, is I can't use anyone with a criminal record. I'll get closed down if I do things like that.”

“I haven't been in trouble since I was a kid.”

“Er, no. Sorry.” Little Malc handed back the letter. “When I say clean I mean fucking clean.” He started to walk away.

“Your dad would have given me a chance,” said Rawhead.

Little Malc turned round, his eyes narrowing with venom. “What? What did you say?”

“I met your dad once. At Maine Road. When I was a kid, a guy I washed cars for lent me his pass to the director's box. That's where I met your dad. He was really a great guy. Bought me drinks all afternoon, really looked after me. He could see I was a little bastard, but he treated me with kindness. So, yeah. I think he would have given me this chance.”

“Oh. You do, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Little Malc took out a packet of Rothmans, put one in his mouth, and fumbled around for a light. Rawhead produced a silver Harley Davidson lighter and offered a flame to Little Malc. Little Malc gave a small nod of thanks, inhaled smoke, and stared into a corner. “You're a slick twat; I'll give you that.” Little Malc stepped back and looked sideways at Rawhead. “And you really want a job, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Little Malc nodded skeptically. “Standing on a door, arguing with drunken pricks who want to know why they can't come in wearing their underpants over their fucking heads?”

“That's right.”

“You realize it's only five quid an hour? No sick pay, health insurance, or paid holidays?”

“I don't care. I want to work, Mr. Priest.”

“OK. Tonight at eight. But only because I'm fucking desperate. Understand? You're on trial. If you're late, you're sacked. If someone lays you out, you're sacked. If you start any trouble or try bad-mouthing difficult customers, you're out.”

“Thanks, Mr. Priest.”

“And no weapons. If I ever catch you carrying a gun or a knife you're also fucking out. Is that clear,
Abra-fucking-ham
?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Priest.”

*   *   *

Rawhead's first night passed without serious incident. He worked the door with a young black kid called Brando, a sullen bodybuilder with a bad attitude. A coachload of Liverpudlians arrived. Two of them, both men in their twenties, didn't have tickets. Calmly, speaking softly and politely, Brando refused them entry. Rawhead stood back and watched, interested to see how the kid performed. One of the Scousers claimed that Brando's refusal to admit them owed nothing to their lack of tickets and everything to the fact that they came from Merseyside.

“You think we couldn't buy a couple of poxy tickets if we wanted to?”

“Well, why didn't you?”

“You Manchester cunts think you're better than us.”

Brando aped astonishment. “What do you mean I said you sleep in a dustbin?”

“You fucking what?”

“I never said anything about you eating cockroaches off the floor.”

The Scouser drew back his arm to launch a long-distance idiot swipe. While his arm was fully extended, Brando hit him. It didn't look like an especially hard blow, but the effect was impressive. The stricken man froze; his eyes rolled; he opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, then tottered around in concentric circles until he fell over.

His friend helped him up, spitting threats: “Youse bastards are gonna regret this. We've got mates in high places.”

“Yeah. High-rise tower blocks with shit down the walls.”

When things were quiet again, Rawhead asked Brando where he'd learned to fight.

“I got corrupted by television.”

“Me, too.”

“TV is destroying our culture. It always has done. All those medieval torturers that caused unspeakable agony to millions—do you think they were self-taught? No way. They got all their ideas off the TV. Same with Hitler, same with Genghis Khan. None of these guys would have hurt a living soul if it weren't for television.”

“I agree. So why are you working as a doorman?”

“I'm a complete fuckup,” said Brando. He unwrapped a stick of gum and chewed it thoughtfully. “What's your excuse?”

Rawhead just looked at him.

“Actually,” said Brando, “I just got out of the sadhouse. Six months for burglary. Can you believe that?”

“Easily.”

“But don't tell Malc. He doesn't employ criminals.”

“You don't find him a little, well, simple?”

“Listen. Where I've been, someone like Malc would be classed as a fucking genius. You ever been inside?”

“Once.”

“There are guys in there who could have been great world leaders if they'd only had a stable home life.”

“Yeah?”

“No. But there are guys in there who could definitely open a can of beans after seven months' intensive training.”

“You haven't got much heart,” observed Rawhead. “I like that.”

Brando looked Rawhead up and down as if he'd made up his mind to like him. “Abraham. That's your name, right?”

Rawhead nodded. “But you can call me Stoker.”

“Abraham was a prophet. You believe in God?”

“Yeah. I believe in God,” said Rawhead. “What about you?”

Brando shrugged. “Man, I sleep in a fucking car. I've got no money, no woman. I'm near rock bottom. But I'm not so far down that I'll start praying to a fucking pancake in the sky.”

“Have you considered going back to burglary?”

“I can't pretend it hasn't crossed my mind.”

“Would you like to work for me?”

“What as? Your butler?”

A great roar of laughter rose up behind them. Koo La Grace had just told a joke about asylum seekers.

Rawhead never got round to answering Brando's question. A taxi pulled up outside the club. Two drunken men staggered out, accompanied by two giggling women. On closer inspection the two drunks turned out to be weasel-faced bruisers in their thirties. They had similar red faces, nasty little eyes, and worryingly low foreheads. “Evening gentlemen,” said Brando, waving them through.

“What a polite little nigger,” said the leading weasel. His brother guffawed. One of the women laughed. The other was embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough to walk away.

“Why'd you let them in?” said Rawhead, watching the party laughing and farting their way through the entrance hall.

“The Medina brothers. Friends of Chef's,” said Brando.

“Did you hear what he said to you?”

“Don't act so surprised, man. That's nothing. Try six months in Strangeways. In there, even the prison chaplain calls you nigger.”

Rawhead was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “Are you working tomorrow night?”

Brando nodded. “No rest for the poverty-stricken.”

“Something might happen. I want you to stay at home.”

“Yeah, great idea.” Brando thought it was a joke.

“I'll see you get your money, even if I have to pay you myself.”

Rawhead smiled calmly. But as Brando looked, the man at his side underwent a subtle transfiguration. His eyes darkened and he seemed to grow in stature. The face, which until that moment had looked mild and friendly, became a mask of primitive evil.

And there was something else. A sweet, sickening smell. It was the perfume of murder, like a fragrant breeze blowing through the hole in a man's skull. Inexplicably, Brando tasted blood in his mouth and for a few seconds he forgot to breathe.

“Did you hear what I said?” asked Rawhead.

Brando stared.

“Skip work tomorrow night,” said Rawhead slowly and deliberately, making absolutely sure he was understood. “There's going to be trouble.”

Five

With how sad steps, O Moone, thou climbst the skies,

How silently, and with how wanne a face,

—“ASTROPHEL AND STELLA,” SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554–86)

The Old Cow, a small, squalid establishment in Glossop, was renowned for its beer, its curries, and its gangland shootings.

The yellow-toothed landlord, Snowy Rains, had a habit of standing at the bar and interrupting the conversations of his customers. Rumor had it that Snowy watered down the beer with his own piss. He didn't. It just tasted that way.

Snowy liked to think of himself as a face and quietly enjoyed the fact that small-time hoods came in to drink and occasionally kill each other on the premises. As long as the customers didn't start on him, he felt the pub's ominous reputation reflected favorably on his manhood.

It was no exaggeration to say that Snowy's worthless life consisted of butting in, boasting, drinking, sleeping, and farting. He liked to claim that he had rampant sex with young women whenever his wife Sheila's back was turned, but this was untrue. The pub opened every day from eleven to three and seven to midnight. There was a lock-in every night, which meant the last stragglers would not be leaving before 2:00
A.M
. This left little time for fornication.

“We've had members of the Priesthood drinking here,” announced Snowy.

Until then, the pub had been silent. It was a Sunday lunchtime after Christmas. There were only four customers. In the snug, an old man and his son were watching televised darts.

Two thugs at the bar, Pest and Jammer, were working their way through a wad of stolen scratch cards to see if they'd won anything.