I Love My Smith and Wesson

by David Bowker

  After what seemed a long time but was in fact seven minutes, Fats heard footsteps on the landing outside. He flushed the toilet and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Under the naked bulb, his sagging face looked white and scared. His hair curled upward, vertically, like a dollop of whipped cream. The light was on in Little Malc’s office. Fats could hear soft voices. Cautiously, he walked across the landing and stood on the threshold. Then he rapped softly on the door and peered into the room.

  Little Malc, his chauffeur, and Abraham Stoker were inside the room. Stoker and Little Malc were sitting at the table. The chauffeur, Frank, was slumped on the sofa. He was in shock, twitching and shaking. He flinched at the sound of Medcroft’s knock.

  Stoker was curiously relaxed and watchful. Little Malc was agitated. “Where the fuck were you?” he asked Fats.

  “I needed a dump, Malcolm.”

  “So did I when I saw that fucking gun pointing at me.” Little Malc jabbed his own chest. “I’ve just been shot at, I have. Some fucking nutter just tried to box me.”

  “What? In the club?”

  Quietly Rawhead told the story of the shooting.

  Fats wasn’t surprised. Anyone who puts a price on a hit man’s head is crying out to be deeply mourned and sadly missed. Fats had told Little Malc as much to his face. “Don’t do it, boss. You’re endangering yourself and the lives of your family.” Then Little Malc had got angry and called Fats a white wog. Fats wasn’t quite sure what Little Malc meant by this, only knew it was intended as an insult.

  “So where’s the body?” said Fats.

  “In the boot of my fucking Roller!” said Little Malc. “That car was my dad’s. Now it’s covered in blood and shit.”

  “And puke,” added Rawhead.

  “That’s right.” Little Malc pointed at Fats. “And you? Where were you? You big, fat Lady Boy.” Then he pointed at Rawhead. “I might be dead, if it weren’t for this lad. Do you hear me? This brave bastard, who isn’t even on the payroll, fucking shielded me! He did the job I pay you to fucking do!”

  “Really?” said Fats. “That’s funny. ’Cause when I saw this job advertised at the Job Center, I don’t remember ‘human shield’ being part of the fucking job description.”

  “Don’t be smart; it doesn’t fucking suit you,” snapped Little Malc.

  “I’d better ring my wife,” said Frank, the chauffeur. “She’ll be wondering if I’m all right.”

  “What’re you on about?” demanded Little Malc.

  “She’ll want to know if I’m all right,” said Frank. “If she’s heard about the shooting.”

  Little Malc was incensed. He got up and shook his finger in Frank’s face. “How could she have heard about the shooting, tug-boy? No one knows about this but us.”

  “Bad news travels fast,” said Frank lamely.

  “You’ll travel fast in a minute,” Little Malc told Frank. “You’ll travel right through that fucking window, headfirst.”

  Frank looked stunned, so Little Malc punched him on the shoulder to underline the point. “You breathe one word about this, Frank, and I’m warning you. I don’t know what I’ll do…”

  Everyone went quiet, apart from Frank, who started to blub. Little Malc poured brandy into a dirty glass and passed it to him.

  “I don’t drink and drive,” said Frank.

  “Fucking drink it!” snarled Little Malc. Then he poured a glass for himself.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Fats.

  “Answers on a postcard to Strangeways Prison, No-hope-of-parole, Losershire,” said Little Malc, with some bitterness. “What a fucking night! Someone trashes the fucking DJ’s car and it’s me he threatens to sue. Then I end up with a body to hide.”

  “You could ask Chef for help,” said Fats.

  “No fucking way,” said Little Malc. “It was probably him that paid for the fucking hit!”

  There was another long silence.

  Rawhead cleared his throat. “If you’ll forgive me, I’ve got a suggestion,” he said quietly.

  * * *

  Rawhead drove into rural Staffordshire and found a quiet leafy road. He opened the boot and attended to the stinking mutilated corpse. When he was satisfied that the dead man carried no ID, he dumped the body in a drainage ditch and drove away.

  Normally, Rawhead took pains about concealing bodies, sometimes driving about with them in the boot of his car for days. But he guessed, rightly, that no one would be able to identify Pest’s remains. The Staffordshire police would make a halfhearted appeal on Crimewatch and give up. Pest had no dental records. He had no dentist. Apart from his many creditors, no one would care that he was missing. People had wanted Pest to go missing for years.

  * * *

  Rawhead spent the rest of the day cleaning up the car and himself. He took out the carpet from the boot and dumped it at the local tip. Then he washed the Rolls by hand, scouring every inch of it for blood and tissue. He found quite a lot. When he’d finished, he phoned Little Malc on his mobile.

  Little Malc asked Rawhead round to his house in West Didsbury, a nice three-story house on a desirable road. His neighbors were actors and TV personalities.

  Rawhead rang the bell and Little Malc’s wife opened the door. She looked stupid and pretty. She had kind eyes and a layer of brown mud on her face that Rawhead supposed was makeup. Two little girls ran into the hall to see who it was. They looked like their mother, only less used.

  Little Malc was in the vast fitted kitchen. He’d just got up. He was wearing his dressing gown and nothing else. He had his father’s tits and his mother’s hips. A huge pan of bacon, eggs, and mushrooms was cooking on the stove. Little Malc asked his wife for a little privacy and shut the kitchen door.

  When they were alone, he asked Rawhead what he’d done with the body. Rawhead told him he didn’t need to know.

  Little Malc nodded and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? Something tells me you’ve done this kind of thing before.” Rawhead smiled politely. Little Malc dished the food out onto two plates. “You eating with me? You might as well. There’s enough for two.”

  Rawhead was hungry. He sat down at the table with Little Malc and ate. Little Malc finished first and got up to brew a pot of tea. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he stood by the window, serious and watchful, the veins showing in his pale ankles. “Maybe you could tell me what your real name is.”

  “The name isn’t important,” said Rawhead.

  “So why are you here? You’re not from Manchester; you’ve got a London accent. And you’re certainly not a fucking doorknob. Are you?”

  Rawhead continued to eat. When he’d finished, he looked at Little Malc and smiled. “It doesn’t matter who I am. I think I could help you. You admit you need help?”

  Little Malc blew air out of his mouth like a child playing puffer trains. “You shouldn’t have been packing a gun. That was naughty. I told you not to. All I can say is thank God you didn’t listen. Otherwise I’d be dead and me kids would be orphans. Well, I suppose they’d still have a mother. So maybe orphans isn’t the right fucking word.… Anyway, you get me drift.”

  “You want me to work for you?”

  “Yeah. If you want it, you’re guaranteed a job on the door of my club for life.”

  Rawhead laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh.

  Hurt appeared in Little Malc’s eyes. “OK, then. Tell me what you want. Don’t just fucking snigger. I’ve got half-shares in a restaurant, too, you know. The Moroccan in Deansgate. I’ll give you a job there, if you’d rather. How does headwaiter grab you?”

  “Listen. In a year or so, you won’t have a restaurant. You won’t have a club, either, if the drug dealing carries on.”

  “What drug dealing?”

  “Are you kidding me? Those scumbags the Medinas are playing you like a flob.”

  “A what?”

  “A flob. A flobadob. A flowerpot man.” Rawhead sighed to convey his immense weariness. “You’re supposed to be in the Pr
iesthood and you don’t even know Priesthood slang?”

  “Ah. But who said I was in the Priesthood? I’m not. I’m a business associate of the Priesthood.”

  “You’re nobody’s associate, Malcolm.”

  “All right. Fuck off, then. Don’t work for me. See if I care.”

  “No. I’ll work for you.”

  Little Malc looked distinctly skeptical. “What as?”

  “I’m going to be your mentor.”

  “What kind of mental? You mean like a spackhead?”

  Rawhead wondered whether Little Malc was putting on an act or really was this stupid.

  * * *

  When Rawhead explained it, Little Malc grew to like the idea. Rawhead—or Stoker, as Malc knew him—would act as his bodyguard, his financial adviser, and his personal trainer. It sounded like value for money. “But it’s the bodyguard bit that’s important. How do I know you’re any good?” he asked. “OK, you shot that crazy bastard. No offense, but it don’t prove a thing. At that range, you couldn’t have fucking missed.”

  “OK,” said Rawhead. “Come with me.”

  They drove into town, to an Irish pub called the Peggy Gordon. It was smoky and crowded. A sign on the door read: NO BIKERS, LEATHER JACKETS, ETC. When Rawhead and Little Malc walked in, the bar was full of men in overalls.

  A TV above the bar was showing rugby. Rawhead ordered two pints of Guinness extra-cold from a barman who looked as if he was auditioning for Darby O’Gill and the Little People. He had red hair and a scar above his nose. When he saw Rawhead, his eyes darkened. He had worked rough pubs all his life and knew trouble when he saw it.

  “What’re we doing in this fucking shithole?” said Little Malc.

  “Why? Don’t you like the Irish?”

  “I don’t care one way or another,” mumbled Little Malc. “Protestants, Catholics, they can all blow the living fuck out of each other for all I care.”

  “You think the Irish are a violent people?”

  “No more than most.”

  “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 Li
ttle 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?”