by Paul Slatter
Yeah, I did, on your wife and her best friend, Rann thought as he sat down and ordered a beer. Then he lied.
“Not yet no.” Then he asked, “Where’s your Missus?”
“She’s focking tired, your tablets, I given it to her all focking night I has.”
Yeah right.
Then he said to the East Indian in the turban, “I’ve the first box of your tablets in the back of the car. I’ll meet you tonight and you can give me another five grand or you can give me the whole amount. Save us a lot of fucking about and get the job done.”
******
But he couldn’t give the Irishman anything like that anymore, Rann thought as he stopped and sat on a bench, giving his nuts a break from the hit this Chendrill guy in the shirt had just given him down there. The Irishman was dead now. He remembered him laying there at the bottom of the stairs—his wife, who he’d fucked the night before, long gone and the new price of the tablets the Irishman had asked for written across the forehead of the King and the Queen.
It had been too much, the Irishman taking him out again to another club that looked no different to all the others in Rann’s eyes—the girls all up on stage with their scarred bellies and sad eyes, the wife in another league and knowing it, sitting with him giving Rann a knowing look whenever her husband fucked off to take a piss, and Rann wondering what was going to happen after Paddy fell asleep as he’d made them come so hard the night before.
Then the Irishman, coming back from the toilet with his phone to his ear, had said, “There’s a problem we need to talk.”
He’d taken them out back, bottles of beer in crates up the top of the stairs ready to fill up the foreigners with poison so as they could buy the girls out and take them home. The Irishman stood there with his wife saying, “The pharmacist says he can’t make it work with the price he’s getting; he needs more cash.”
Rann looking at the guy now, telling him, “We had a deal.”
The Irishman lit up a cigarette, blowing out the smoke, then saying, “Well the deals focking off, because the cunt can’t make it work, he needs more money. He needs double, he says he has to pay off the cops.”
“Well, pay him out of your share,” Rann had said.
“That is not negotiable, I’m telling you this. I’m doing you a favor and you’s trying to turn me over. You Paki cunt. You’re not doing that.”
They both stood silent for a moment, Rann wanting to thump the guy right there and make him chew on his words. Then the Irishman carried on, “He needs double, I told you at the start you need to pay $5 a pack and I’m getting you it for half that and that’s what it is.”
Rann tried to keep cool and doing some math in his head quickly said, “That was for 100mg of the Sildenafil, I broke it into quarters. That’s why we did the deal at a dollar twenty-five US.”
“The cops don’t care a fock what percentage of focking shit is in it. What you could have a barrel load of the cum focking juice and they don’t care. They want their cut and it’s what you pay or you can fock off with your deal; it’s simple. Look—this is how it works.”
Quickly, the Irishman pulled out a pen and with his cigarette clasped firmly between his lips, began to look around for a piece of paper, and, not seeing one, he reached up to a picture of the royals on the wall and began to write numbers out on top of the King’s forehead. Rann, shouted at him, saying, “Don’t write on the King, show some respect.”
But the Irishman hadn’t any, not for anyone, not even for himself, and he’d carried on defacing the King and writing numbers across his forehead and the Queen’s tits, saying, “You pay for focking—25mg of the chemical, you pay same price—25 mg for the cops—same cost as the 25 mg of the chemical—pharmacist—I get half of the cost of a focking mg for me and I do all the work running about arranging and collecting, that’s how it works, you stupid focking gobshite.”
And then he’d seen him at the bottom of the stairs lying there twisted and broken, beer bottles all over the place, his wife who looked like a monkey and liked to suck cock nowhere to be seen—just him and the drunken Paddy, who was dead with his arm broken, wrapped around the backside of his head.
Rann looked up, staring at a gang of East Indian teenagers walking along the sea wall trying to look tough with the cops—just kids themselves, but in uniform—following right behind them trying to look tougher. Then he stood and adjusted his crotch, still hurting from Chendrill. Maybe the wife had pushed him, he thought, had enough of the drunken prick after getting fucked properly by a Sikh, a real man. It’d had to be her who’d done it, he thought. He’d worked it all out and done the math. She had twenty-six hundred packets containing now 30,000 odd tablets. If she split them up and sold them for ten bucks a pop on the street over the next year, she and her friend would be set up for life. They’d come over to see if the stuff worked, put on a show for him, and sat on his face, and as much as he’d liked it at the time —the thought of it all now made him want to puke.
The same thing though had happened with Rasheed, them talking, then Rasheed laying there dead. And Rann not remembering in between. Wondering if it was his temper, the one the school teachers back in Hounslow used to write about at the end of the year, telling his grandparents how he had to learn control.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sebastian wasn’t happy. It seemed to him only he and Chendrill were not in on the plot. He felt sorry for the young girl getting all upset, and angry at Patrick for using her that way, and at Mazzi for knowing what was going on and not saying a word. But Mazzi knew him and how sensitive he could be, and Sebastian was just as annoyed at himself for not seeing the forest for the trees until the last second when he’d gone over to try and console the poor love.
But he’d settled things down in his own way, holding her hand and letting her know that she was just a girl and still special and boys can be like that. “And for goodness sake—I should know!” he’d said in a camp, exaggerated way to make her laugh, whilst Hegan still snapped off shots, which looked great, as always. Mazzi working his magic the way he did, capturing not only what was going on but the emotions that got them into the situation in the first place. He was a talent—that was one thing you could never take away from him, even if he couldn’t drive.
Looking down he picked up Fluffy and placed him on his lap, the little dog who’d inherit millions if Sebastian died first, dropping from a heart attack or mysteriously falling down the stairs.
The first person to call when the pictures were leaked to the press was Gill Banton and Sebastian could tell she was still in bed—and not alone at that. She asked, “What are you up to, Sebastian?”
“Sorry?”
“You have a meal and don’t invite me?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was thinking of coming up. How would you feel about me signing the BlueBoy guy?”
Wow, that was a big one, Sebastian thought. If he let that happen, Dan would hit superstar status for real within a year. But it was too early for the kid, so he said, “Sorry, he’s signed with us.”
“What about a buyout?”
“Sorry.”
Gill was silent for a moment. Sebastian, certain he could hear the sheets moving, said, “Are you in bed?”
Gill carried on, “And who’s this guy?”
“Which guy?”
“The one who came to my barbecue and spent the afternoon chatting up my clients and Buffy.”
“Patrick, he’s into real estate.”
“Are you sure? He looks like an agent in the photos.”
Good, Sebastian, thought that’s exactly what he wanted to hear, and carried on, letting her know now she had problems.
“Well maybe he’s taking up a new hobby, Gill.”
Gill stayed silent for the moment. As much as Marsha was a pain, she was her pain, and it was not good to lose clients. She said, “Thank you darling,” and hung up. If anything, Sebastian was honest. It was a tough world he’d grown rich in and he’d do
ne so by never stabbing anyone in the back—in the front, yes, as he had just done with Gill Banton, but at least he’d been honest, and, for that matter, the bitch had threatened him with blackmail.
Sebastian stared at the photos—Patrick there holding Marsha back as she tried to reach Dan, who was sitting there nonchalantly just staring back. Patrick full of concern, never looking to camera, Buffy framed perfectly in the background, her hands out trying to help.
Where was Marsha’s bodyguard? Sebastian thought, as he looked through the photos and remembered him standing discreetly by the door throughout the meal. But where did he go? Paid off no doubt, he thought—Patrick not wanting anyone else to rain on his parade. He shuffled through the pictures some more. Chendrill there but doing nothing, just sitting, watching, looking sexy with his hairy chest sticking out of the front of his new white frilly shirt, taken by Mazzi, no doubt, just for him. He’d keep that one, he thought—keep it for later when Fluffy was asleep.
******
Marsha was still in a tizz when she got up in her bed in the executive suite that Patrick had reserved for her at the Grand, which was twice as big as the one she usually stayed in and had a view across the water to the mountains on the other side.
How could Dan have ignored her like that? Her coming all the way up here to see him and all. Patrick doing all he could to help her when she got upset, as the other men in the place stared at her all night, especially the big flamenco guy; but not Mazzi though or Sebastian, for some reason they didn’t seem interested, which was odd. Buffy, though, seemed more with it now since Patrick was looking after things—even lending her some tampons, which was a first. Normally she’d say something like ‘use one of your sweaters, they’re the same size,’ or something bitchy like that, and by the time Marsha had understood what the girl had said, they’d be on another plane heading to some other place that made you sweat.
Patrick was good; she liked him. Dan was signing with him soon, so he must be. And he said he was going to get him a three-picture deal as well. Dan was going to be a movie star and model on the weekends or between pictures. Patrick said Dan was Oscar bound and you couldn’t beat that, he’d said. He’d also said he had some crazy young girls from Vesuvius who were going to set the world on fire and he hoped that Gill Banton had some aces up her sleeve, as he didn’t want to see her left behind.
Later she’d asked Buffy where Vesuvius was and she’d said it was a volcano in Italy, and she’d said to Buffy, “no wonder then Patrick’s girls are so hot, coming from there. No wonder they were going to set the world on fire.” Patrick was going to do everything for all these people and what was her agent doing for her? Laying in bed, like everyone says she did. Patrick, though, he was making it happen. He’d said that, he said he was the best—he had the key to make the world turn, but she always thought they kept that in Fort Knox.
Picking up the phone, she looked for the number for her agent that Buffy had left next to the phone, as always, and as soon as Gill Banton had answered Marsha asked, “Patrick said he’s got the key to make the world turn. Why haven’t you got it?”
Gill Banton stayed quiet for the moment; she’d just had the biggest orgasm of her life courtesy of this hot young Cuban one of her scouts had found and could hardly get her breath.
“Marsha, who’s Patrick?” she said.
“Dan’s agent.”
“I thought Dan was with Sebastian.”
“Dan’s not gay Gill, you know that.”
“That’s not what I meant, I thought he’d signed with ‘Slave’.”
“Dan’s with Patrick, he’s got some Italian talent coming in and he’s worried I’m going to get left behind, and so am I.”
“It’s hard to be left behind when you’re sitting at the top, Marsha, and that’s where you are, and I put you there. No hot bit of fluff from Italy is going to steal that from you as long as you are with me. So, don’t worry, I’ve got you flying out to Milan in two days.”
“But those girls come from inside a volcano, that’s why they’re so hot—Buffy told me that.”
“Buffy told you that?”
“Yeah she’s been really good since she’s been working for Patrick. She even let me use her tampons.”
******
Still wet, Gill Banton headed down the highway towards LAX and was on the next plane heading up to Vancouver—where the little people lived. If word got out that she’d lost her biggest client to one of them, then the rest would soon follow and she’d be back to square one. It happened—not to her yet—but it had to others. Vancouver was a small town, but it was the headquarters for Slave, and because of Sebastian, they were bigger than most.
She took a limo to the Sutton and asked for Marsha’s room. She wasn’t there.
Fuck. She took a suite, and called a guy she knew who’d moved back here over the summer because his visa had expired and lined him up for the night.
He’d looked good in his head shots and had what it took downstairs to make her smile, but every door she opened for him closed a little too quick, and in the end, she’d given up. For the moment, he’d do though—he knew what she liked.
She reached her suite, with its windows that didn’t open, and called Sebastian.
“I’m in town and I’m coming over,” was all she said and then hung up. There was no fucking around in her world.
An hour later, she was in Slave’s offices and walking up and down along the side of the boardroom table, saying to Sebastian and Mazzi Hegan, who had his feet up on the other side, “Sebastian, don’t make me put a contract out on your dog. You need to tell me where you’ve got her hidden.”
Mazzi Hegan smiled. He loved this shit, these agents who could do nothing but talk and manipulate. He was never surprised by the depths they could sink to—and the bit about killing Fluffy was about as low as he’d seen this one get.
Sebastian laughed, saying, “No one’s kidnapped your client, Gill. She’d answer your calls if she wanted to speak to you.”
“She’s supposed to be preparing for Milan, she’s due there in two days.”
Preparing to do what, pout? Mazzi Hegan thought as he ran his fingers through his frosted tips and pulled his feet from the table. Then he said in his best Swedish accent, “The mirrors here are just as good as your ones down there you know.”
“Fuck off, you Swedish cunt, and mind your own business,” Gill Banton snapped back.
And then with a smile, Mazzi Hegan said back as calm as possible, “You’re losing your cool, baby, and you’re losing your star client.”
“Like I said, mind your own business and be careful I don’t go after your BlueBoy Dan. You know I can if I want. I’ll take him with me in the jet back to L.A., along with Marshaa.”
“If you can find her.”
******
Patrick was still getting calls from the advertisements running through town, and estimated he had lost out on at least three hundred thousand over the last few weeks, but he didn’t care. He had bigger fish to fry now and was enjoying playing games. The pictures he’d seen of himself on the front pages of the newspapers in town and on the internet had been sensational. He was going places, he could feel it.
Gill Banton was in town, wanting to see her star client, but thanks to the heads up from Sebastian, they were already on their way back to L.A.—Marsha sitting there looking cool in her big leather chair by the window drinking a cocktail that looked like something out of a comic. Buffy across the way watching a DVD on her computer. Patrick behind them both, laying it on thick to the flight attendant who he was certain was going to let him sleep with her as soon as they arrived in town. And for free, which would be a first for him in a long time; alright, the cost of the private jet had been $20,000, but who was counting? He had Marsha at his side, and with her around, the world was treating him differently. The only problem he had now was that Gill Banton was in Vancouver, and knowing agents of any breed, she’d try to grab Dan whilst she was there. Contracted to Sl
ave or not, she had the clout to pull it off.
And that was exactly what she was going to do.
******
Dan had been looking at the outline of a huge carrot that was shaped like a dick that he’d found in the fridge when the doorbell rang. And now he had this woman in his kitchen who was hot like his mum, and wondered why she was coming on to him. Showing off her legs and tits and staring into his eyes, she told him he was going to be a star while he tried to explain to her, “Truth is, I’m more into electronics. Besides I don’t want to be starved and hang around gay guys all day for the next two decades.”
But whatever he said, the more she would stare at him. She wanted him to fuck her, he could feel that, his every bodily function he had as a young man was letting him know. And with Chendrill out to lunch with his mum, as they liked to do, the timing couldn’t be better. He said taking a chance, “Why don’t you stop pouting at me like you are and just come downstairs and talk to me about this in my room.”
Gill Banton stared at the young man sitting there in the kitchen of this shit hole house just in his jeans, and from the bulge and outline of his cock it was obvious he was wearing no underwear, and she loved that. It had been making her wetter and wetter as she’d stood there looking at him with his hard stomach and broken nose and shiner. Now he was hitting on her. She should do it, she thought. Usually these guys did that because they wanted a contract with her and most of the time it never materialized. But this BlueBoy guy whose address she’d gotten from her paparazzi friend didn’t seem bothered—he just wanted to fuck her. If she did, chances are she’d never get the contract with him and this prick Patrick would; after all, he was friends with Sebastian and he obviously had it in for her.
She stared at him, sitting there eating, a piece of toast still stuck to the side of his mouth—then he felt it there, making him itch and catching it out the corner of his eye. Sticking his tongue out, he tried to reach it, then with extra effort, he stretched out his tongue long and tight and caught the piece, and, still staring at her, slipped it into his mouth like a lizard.