by Adam Maxwell
“I’m sure Sir doesn’t have a reservation,” the maitre d’ smarmed, sliding around the small gentleman until he was standing on the other side of him. “Now I shouldn’t like to cause a big problem out of such a little issue.” Making his second mistake, the maitre d’ stifled a giggle.
The midget didn’t budge. Didn’t turn. Just kept staring at the spot the maitre d’ had previously occupied and sighed.
“Beeks. And Redford. Where are they?” he growled.
The maitre d’ was slightly unsettled. Usually this level of patronising and mild unpleasantness was enough to convey the superiority of himself and the establishment. Usually the person would be blustering and making a scene. And making their way out.
“Mr Beeks and Mr Redford will be along in due course.” The maitre d’ was tired of the exchange now, he had a restaurant to open and this vertically challenged chap wasn’t going to ruin his moment, even if he did know the names of the managers. “Listen,” his third and final mistake beginning in earnest, “if you go on the website you can download a form to apply for a job as a waiter but I can’t see a place like this employing a short arse like you. Now fuck off out of here before–”
The maitre d’ closed his eyes as he began to speak, an affectation of superiority the midget took full advantage of. Turning his back, the small man plucked a steak knife from the table and, with a practised precision, spun around and slammed the serrated blade straight into the maitre d’s thigh.
The amateurish insults which had been about to pour from the maitre d’s mouth went unheard as he dropped, squealing, to his knees. Toppling still further forward, he almost fell on his face, but at the last moment the attacker placed his small hand on the maitre d’s chest and held him in place. When the squealing dropped to a whimper, the small man began to speak.
“You have a knife in your thigh because you were rude to me you little fuck-puddle,” he said. “I asked you a very simple question. I asked you what time we open.”
The maitre d’ had closed his eyes, so the man slapped him hard across the cheek.
“No!” he barked. “You don’t get to pass out until I say you pass out you fucking cock snot.”
The short bloke reached over to the table and picked up a second steak knife. The eyes of the maitre d’ were wide and tears rolled down his cheeks; the blood from the wound on his thigh had soaked his trouser leg and was starting to pool by his knee on the polished, wooden floor.
“I want you to think about what I said. The question was what time do we open.” The man touched the back of the maitre d’s hand with the steak knife. “Now, you dirty little fuck-nozzle, why might I have chosen those particular words?”
The maitre d’ shook his head and tried to say something, but it just came out as whuwhuwhuwhuh.
“I chose those words because my name is Big Terry,” he said, walking in circles around the prone maitre d’, whose gaze was now level with his own. “Have you heard of me?”
The maitre d’ nodded twice.
“Elaborate please,” said Big Terry.
The maitre d’ whimpered. Big Terry took his right hand and wrenched it behind his back. Pushing his face into the floor, Big Terry hopped up on to his shoulders and held the maitre d’s thumb apart from the rest of his hand. “I am going to cut this cunt off unless you tell me.” And Big Terry ran the brand new blade across the pad of the maitre d’s thumb, opening a valley and drawing blood immediately.
The maitre d’ screamed again. There were other noises now. Noises from the kitchen. People were beginning to notice that something was going on that shouldn’t be.
“I heard someone talking,” the maitre d’ panted into the carpet. “Someone said you were a gangster. That we should be careful.”
“And what do you think, Mr I’m-so-much-fucking-taller-than-you?” Big Terry slowly dragged the teeth of the blade across the thin piece of skin that joined the maitre d’s thumb to the rest of his hand. With each tooth a small notch of skin was sliced just a little deeper.
The maitre d’ whimpered and then went limp.
Big Terry stepped off the man’s back and surveyed what he had done, the passed-out face of the maitre d’ pointing towards where he stood.
“Fucking piss-pot,” he said after a moment and then launched himself forward, punting his foot into the maitre d’s prone face.
The kitchen door burst open and a gaggle of staff spilled out amongst the pristine tables. Amongst the gasps and reticence, two figures emerged. Beeks and Redford.
As the pair walked across the restaurant, Big Terry stepped away from the body of the maitre d’ and picked up a napkin. Looking down at his hands, he dabbed lightly at the blood spatter.
“Really? Terry?” Beeks said. “We only have one maitre d’ and it’s opening night.”
Big Terry pointed a stubby index finger and Beeks recoiled as if the gesture had actually touched him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Big Terry.”
Big Terry nodded. “This man was far too rude to be working in one of my places,” he said. “Get someone to clean him up, will you? There are customers waiting outside.”
Redford was still silent, drinking in the details of what Big Terry had done; the colour drained from his face at the blood spreading toward the carpet. He glanced up at Big Terry and snapped back into the moment, signalling to the cowering staff to come and move the maitre d’.
“Is he...” Redford began.
“Dead?” asked Big Terry. “Shouldn’t think so. Death’s too good for that shit sack. Anyway, if I’d wanted to kill him I would have used this.” From a holster inside his jacket Big Terry took a snub-nosed revolver and placed it on the table next to him. “Much quicker.”
“Is there something we can do for you, Sir?” said Beeks, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about Big Terry’s height. Was he supposed to comment on it? Was standing further away from him the right thing to do or would Big Terry prefer it if they were all huddled together. In the end, he decided grovelling from a distance was probably the right approach. Beeks nodded. And smiled.
“Yes, we were just briefing the staff in the kitchens when you–” Redford stumbled and recovered. “When you discovered our staffing issue out here on the floor.”
Big Terry adjusted the position of the gun on the table, pointing the barrel in the general direction of the two men. He looked up above their heads and pointed at the X-rays of Marilyn Monroe.
“Those,” said Big Terry. “Fucking monkey jugs.”
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Beeks gushed. “You can see the outline of her...” lowering his voice to a whisper “...breasts.”
“I had a phonecall, a tip off. They’re fakes, you toss rag,” Big Terry bellowed. “You pissed my money against the wall for a centrepiece that’s a fake. Do you have any idea how angry that makes me?”
Chapter 18
Two waiters scuttled in from the kitchen, darting over to the body of the maitre d’.
“What are you talking about?” said Beeks. “They’re not fakes. Just look at them.”
“What did you say?” Big Terry’s words slammed around the room, echoing from every surface.
The waiters froze, not sure what the hell was going on.
Beeks didn’t know what to say. He turned back around to look at the X-rays, squinting his eyes in concentration.
Redford held his hands up in surrender. “Big Terry, listen, I take complete responsibility for this.” Redford’s eyes flicked towards the gun laying cold and heavy on the rumpled tablecloth. “I took the lead on this, I thought I could trust the source.” Redford fixed his gaze on Big Terry’s eye but the midget maniac gave nothing away. “I’ll personally–”
“How do you know they’re fakes?” Beeks was still staring at the backlit X-rays with his back to Big Terry.
“What was that, cockass?” asked Big Terry, wrapping his hand around the gun.
Beeks held cupped hands in the air. “Because they look...”
Big Terry turned to Redford and the two waiters, who had managed to suspend the prone body of the maitre d’ between them, held the short barrel of the pistol against his own lips and made a silent shhhh.
What little colour Redford had gained was drained from his face as Big Terry turned the gun towards Beeks.
“...they look...”
Big Terry pulled the trigger and Beeks’ head exploded in a cloud of red mist, the bullet entering his head at the base of the skull and exiting through his forehead. Chunks of brain and skull were propelled toward the precious X-rays.
The accompanying sound was difficult to process for those unaccustomed to witnessing such events, but the combination of the wet brains and the clatter of skull against glass was enough to cause one of the waiters to lose control and vomit on himself, dropping the maitre d’ in the process.
Redford closed his eyes and looked away, his ears still ringing from the shot.
“What?” said Big Terry, lowering the gun but turning to face Redford. “What’s the matter. He your boyfriend or something?”
Redford didn’t speak.
“Those X-rays sold in a California auction yesterday morning,” Big Terry continued, punctuating what he was saying by waving the gun around carelessly. “Oi! You two,” he shouted at the waiters. “I thought I told you to move him?”
The waiters stumbled back to life, trying without co-ordination to move the maitre d’.
“And when you’re done, clean the mess up in here as well,” he muttered, glancing to the semi-headless corpse of Beeks. Big Terry stepped towards the silent Redford. “Sold. Yesterday. California. Care to comment?”
Redford began to stammer but no words were forthcoming. Big Terry moved the gun forward and touched the back of Redford’s hand with its barrel, which was still burning hot from the shot he’d fired a moment ago.
“Bugger!” Redford recoiled, clutching at his hand. “We... that is... I had no idea. We had a dealer, the whole thing seemed legit. Lady Emsworth...” he trailed off.
“Lady who?” said Big Terry, suddenly interested. “Lady fucking who?”
“The dealer we got it from – there was a Lady Emsworth visited him. In an expensive car – a Lamborghini I think.” Redford’s words were distant but had a purpose. And that purpose was to stay alive outside of the next thirty seconds. “She said she did business with the dealer – Logan Price – all the time.”
Big Terry nodded and lowered the gun once more. “Better. Now that’s some progress. You–” Big Terry pointed at Redford with the gun and Redford winced but didn’t break eye contact. “Get this mess tidied up and start making money from this fucking shitty restaurant. Look at this place,” he said, looking around. “It’s a fucking mess. I wouldn’t bring my dogs here, you cunt.”
Redford kept nodding.
“Get something to replace the X-ray out of your pocket,” Big Terry continued. “Do all of that and do it fast, otherwise...” he nudged the leg of Beeks with his foot. “Otherwise you’ll pray I killed you as quick as your bum-chum here.”
“He was just my business partner.” Redford began to speak but, when he saw the look it elicited on Big Terry’s face, instantly regretted it.
“Yeah well, twice the share for you now if you last the week,” said Big Terry and began to walk towards the kitchen entrance. He took a mobile phone from his pocket and tapped the screen a couple of times. “Back alley. Now. Make sure no-one sees me leave.”
Redford heard the scuttling of feet and saw a brief glimpse of the staff scattering as the kitchen door burst open and then swung shut as Big Terry left. He closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, but all he could smell was gunpowder and death.
Opening his eyes once more, he looked down at Beeks, Big Terry’s words still ringing in his ears. On the plus side, twice the share for him. Redford smiled. Not all bad then.
14th September
* * *
Just under 4 weeks to go…
Chapter 19
It had been twenty four hours since anybody had spoken to Violet. In that time Barry had filled the majority of the warehouse floor space with cars. One of those cars was a vintage Mark One Ford Escort and, in spite of the fact that Lucas considered himself to be the polar opposite of a ‘car man’, even he had to admit it was a thing of beauty.
Eyeing it up from the other side of the warehouse, Lucas was happy to admire the deep blue colour as Barry carefully applied coat after coat of wax, but was wary of getting too close in case Barry tried to engage him in conversation about the variety of extras he’d clearly installed. Lucas was pretty sure the wheels were different, there seemed to be some sort of cage inside of it and the seats looked like they might be out of a Cannonball Run film but he really didn’t care to get into it any further than that. What he did want to get into a little further was the people he was working with. He fidgeted with the pack of cards he kept in his jacket pocket, occasionally glancing over and wondering how the hell Barry managed to find so many things to do on those damned cars when, at last, the door of the warehouse swung open and Zoe entered.
“Young lady,” said Lucas with what he hoped was a winning smile.
“Old man,” said Zoe without hesitation. She looked serious, unsmiling.
“Successful day’s surveillance?” he asked.
She shrugged. Lucas nodded in recognition and stood up, knocking over a large container of washers as he did so. His reflexes kicked in just in time, his hand darting to catch the toppling box. A few of the different sized silver rings spilled onto the floor. Lucas quickly collected them, then wandered up the metal stairs that ran up the back wall of the warehouse to the first floor. Behind a heavy fire door was a badly lit corridor with several other doors leading off into rooms he hadn’t even bothered to explore until now. Poking his head into the first, he discovered that other than a few chairs, it was still full of rolls of enormous bubble wrap. And the light didn’t work. So that was out.
The second door, however, was more promising. Opening that revealed a room that Zoe had partially kitted out with flashing computery-type equipment. He knew almost as much about computers as he did about cars, but at least this room had a table in the corner. Being careful not to touch any of Zoe’s precious doodads he dragged the table into the centre of the room then wandered back to the first room and, after a couple of additional journeys, had moved five chairs around the table.
He stood back, nodding his head at what he’d created, when Zoe wandered in. Seemingly oblivious to him, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and plugged it in to one of the dangling wires, then picked up a keyboard and started tapping away.
“Are you actually doing something there or just pretending so you can see what I’m up to?” he asked, sitting down at the table.
“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” Zoe said, finally allowing a half-smile to dance momentarily across her lips.
“D’you know why Violet’s been missing in action?”
Zoe shook her head. “She isn’t, she’s in the office.”
“Has anyone actually spoken to her recently?”
Zoe shook her head again, her smile gone.
“Fancy a game?” Lucas placed the well-worn pack of cards on the table. She nodded her head and sat down opposite him.
Lucas pretended he was about to deal the cards, then stopped. “Hang on,” he said. “I’ll see if Barry wants in. Will you get Violet?”
Zoe nodded and wandered off out of the room with Lucas a few steps behind. If he played this right he could stand to win back three or four times more than he’d generously given to his secretary. A move that he still wasn’t sure whether or not he regretted.
“Barry!” Lucas shouted from the top of the stairs. “We’re playing cards, you in?”
Barry was half way up the stairs before Lucas had even realised he’d stopped working on the car. “Damn straight,” he said as he reached the top. “Violet in?”
Lucas shrugged. H
e wanted to know what was going on with Violet, with all of them in fact, and he knew from experience that poker was a great leveller and a great loosener of lips. “Two seconds, I just needed to grab those washers.”
Lucas galloped down the stairs to collect the container of washers he had knocked over earlier and, as he returned to the table, heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Moments later Zoe and Violet walked through the door, Zoe looking relaxed, Violet scowling and pensive.
“Everyone know the rules?” asked Lucas.
“Of what?” Violet snapped.
“Poker. I’m sure you’re familiar with it,” said Barry, taking his place at the table. “You never know, you might actually enjoy it. Straighten that miserable face of yours.”
Lucas shuffled the cards, but his eyes didn’t stray from Violet’s face. Barry’s words made Violet wince. Only for a millisecond, not something that most people would notice, but Lucas was getting in the zone, looking for tells. The thing was, he didn’t want her to be pissed off. He wanted her to be relaxed, he wanted to know more. More about the plan, more about what they had found out. He wanted to know more about the people he was working with, but above all he wanted to win their money.
“So, are you going to tell us?” Barry asked Violet.
Violet kept staring at Lucas shuffling the cards. Zoe looked nervous, she was trying to hide it, but it wasn’t working. Her eyes danced around the room from Violet to Barry, Barry to Lucas and back to Violet. Lucas was pretty sure she was going to be the easiest mark.
Barry reached past Zoe and prodded Violet in the elbow. Zoe gave a half-laugh as Violet slowly turned to Barry and let out a long sigh.
“I made a mistake,” said Violet.
Lucas tried to distract everyone from the seriousness of what Violet was saying by beginning to deal out the cards. Zoe picked her cards up to look at them, Barry just lifted the corner of each card to check what his hand was. Violet left the cards where they were.