I Love My Smith and Wesson

by David Bowker

  Right away, the Philosopher and Average started needling him.

  “Hey. Average,” said the Philosopher, “I think the new boy here’s been seeing Sidney.”

  “Eh?” said Little Malc.

  “Sidney Scud. The Sadhouse Stud. Lick his lollipop and win parole.”

  The Philosopher and Average chortled comfortably. Little Malc didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.

  “They’re saying your friend here looks like a convict,” explained Chef.

  “They should fucking know,” retorted Little Malc.

  Stoker behaved as if Chef’s boys hadn’t spoken. It was as if a couple of houseflies were trying to intimidate a lion. Although Chef didn’t like to admit it, the guy was impressive. He looked fit but carried himself like he had nothing to prove. Not a bully or a braggart—Chef despised men that acted tough. This guy seemed different.

  Little Malc was looking different, too. He was wearing a dark, funereal suit and seemed to have stopped dying his hair, allowing the gray flecks to show at the neck and sides. Apart from a few perfunctory wisecracks with Average and the Philosopher, Little Malc maintained a steady emotional distance. The man at his side, Stoker, said nothing at all. When it was time to order the food, he just shook his head and poured himself a glass of water.

  Chef noticed that the back of Stoker’s left hand was disfigured. Chef, who had set fire to a few men in his time, could see the hand had been burned. On his right hand Stoker wore a gold ring in the shape of a skull. Something about that ring troubled Chef. For the life of him, he couldn’t think what.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” announced Little Malc, his face very serious. “My dad set up the Priesthood with you. And he always said that one day, when it was time to retire, I’d take over his share of the business.”

  Immediately Chef saw what was coming. “He may have said that to you,” he said calmly. “He never mentioned it to me.”

  Little Malc carried on as if Chef hadn’t spoken. “So there’s my dad. OK, we never found his body, but we all know where he is. Floating on a cloud in the big Blue Swoon. Meanwhile, down on earth, you’re in control of the skew, the card games, the porn, the drugs, the whores, the free gifts, the anonymous donations. You’re worth fucking millions. And all I’m thinking is this: When do I get mine?”

  The room went deadly quiet. The Philosopher and Average were staring at Little Malc with thin smiles on their faces. Stoker was staring down at his glass of water.

  “You already got yours,” said Chef. “You got half-shares in this place and the club. You never had to work for these things; they just fell out of the sky into your lap. Just be fucking grateful. The economy is in trouble. Average has got a brother who hasn’t had a job since 1989. That right, Average?”

  Average gave a somber nod.

  Little Malc smiled. “Don’t give me that. The economy hasn’t harmed your fucking business.”

  “Just leave it,” warned Chef.

  Little Malc didn’t want to shut up. He was just getting started. “My father shared the profits with you. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t raise your voice to me. I don’t talk to people who raise their voices.”

  Little Malc looked to Stoker for support. Without appearing to move his head, Stoker nodded. Little Malc took a few deep breaths and waited.

  “We didn’t quite share the profits,” volunteered Chef. “I got forty percent. He got sixty. Which was fair, I admit that. Your father got the whole thing going.”

  “OK. I’ll accept forty percent.”

  Chef held up his hands. “Whoa. You go pretty fast for a little fat guy.”

  Chef’s men laughed.

  “I’ll go even faster unless you answer me this one fucking question,” said Little Malc. “Do you think my dad would be happy with the way you’ve shared out the pie?”

  “What pie? I don’t see any pie.”

  “Why won’t you answer the question?”

  “Because it’s the wrong question,” insisted Chef. “What you should be asking is, would your old man be happy with the way I’m carrying on his business?”

  “Well, I’m not fucking asking that. I’m asking if you think he’s happy with the way you’ve treated me. Come on. You’re a Catholic. You believe he can see us, don’t you? Is my dad laughing or crying?”

  “This is hypothetical bullshit,” said Chef. “You might as well ask me what your dad thinks of Legoland or the latest TV commercial for Lloyd’s fucking bank. I don’t know what he thinks; he isn’t here to ask. All I can say is that I’ve been fair with you; I’ve always been fair with you. And, frankly, it hurts me and incenses me that you should think any different.”

  “OK,” said Little Malc. “Either you give me a share or you hand over all rights in the club to me. Plus I start collecting insurance from all the local businesses that aren’t happy with the service you’re providing.”

  Chef laughed. “Yeah? Who isn’t happy?”

  “Lots of people.”

  “Name one.”

  “I’m not about to betray the confidence of my investors,” said Little Malc.

  Average whistled in mock admiration.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Chef. “All these businesses you say aren’t happy, take them over, with my blessing. Why don’t you? Build your own crime empire.”

  The Philosopher and Average laughed heartily at this suggestion.

  “That’s right. Give the people a choice.” Chef was enjoying himself. “And who do you think they’ll root for? A fat little compere from a backstreet club or the gang that rules Manchester? Duh, that’s a hard one.”

  Little Malc had gone red in the face. By way of contrast, the man called Stoker looked bored and unruffled, somehow contriving to watch everyone without ever making eye contact.

  When Little Malc didn’t answer, Chef felt he’d scored a victory. “And another thing,” he went on. “What gives you the right to turn my friends away from our club?”

  “You mean Dumb and Dumber? The hairy menks from Salford?”

  “I mean anyone who I do business with.”

  “They were dealing.”

  “Who says?”

  “What do you mean, ‘Who says?’ The kids who were buying fucking shit off them, that’s who.”

  Chef sighed. “You’d better apologize to them.”

  “Yeah. I’ll go round to all their houses and say, ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get high; the Medina brothers burned you off.’”

  “You call up Keith and Chris. Tell them there’s been a misunderstanding, that your man here got a bit overzealous, that he’s still learning the job. Say they’re welcome at the club anytime. You can do that, can’t you?”

  Little Malc and his bodyguard got up to leave.

  “Hey,” said Chef. “Sit down. Please. Come on. This is stupid. How long have we known each other?”

  “I’m needed at the club,” said Little Malc.

  “Malcolm, you’ve ordered food. You might as well eat it.”

  Little Malc started pointing the finger. “All these years, I trusted you. And all along, you’ve just been taking me for a flob.”

  “A what?’”

  “A flob-a-dob. A flowerpot man. You’re in the Priesthood and you don’t even know Priesthood slang?”

  “That’s not Priesthood slang,” scoffed Chef. “Flob?” He turned to the Philosopher and Average, who were rolling about, laughing hysterically.

  “Malcolm,” said Chef. “Go home, take an asprin, and have a nice lie down.”

  “Yeah,” said Average. “And take your girlfriend with you.”

  Rawhead stared at him, very cold and calm.

  “Whooh,” said Average. “I’m scared.”

  The Philosopher got up to escort them out, serious now, trying to show Little Malc they were still friends. “We had a juice night out at your place the other night,” he said, holding the door open for them. “You’ve really turned that club aro
und.”

  “Oh,” said Little Malc humbly. “Thanks.”

  “Take care, mate,” said the Philosopher to Rawhead, playing the magnanimous victor. “We were only joshing around, hope you know that.”

  “Fuck you,” said Rawhead as he walked out.

  “What?” The Philosopher thought he must have misheard. He stood there, still holding the door open, watching the two men walk to their car. “What did you just say to me?”

  * * *

  Rawhead drove Little Malc back to Diva, crawling through the rush-hour traffic.

  “Flob!” said Little Malc. “Why did you tell me there was such a word when there fucking isn’t? You made me look like a right ‘nana.’”

  “Don’t you mean a flob?” said Rawhead. And he laughed quietly.

  “Hey, pal. They were laughing at you, too,” said Little Malc. “You needn’t look so fucking pleased with yourself.”

  “Let ’em laugh,” said Rawhead.

  “What kills me is, today was your fucking idea. Then you just sit there and say fuck all while those twats rip it out of me.”

  “They did exactly what I wanted them to do.”

  “Right. That’s it. You’re fucking sacked.”

  Rawhead was getting used to this. Little Malc sacked him at least once a day. He was like a child. Ten minutes later, all was forgotten and he’d shuffle back to Rawhead, asking him to help tie his shoelaces.

  “This may surprise you,” said Rawhead, “but you did a great job in there.”

  “Bollocks. You saw it! They don’t take me seriously.”

  “They took you very seriously when you mentioned drugs. In fact, I think I’ve finally worked out what’s been going on. The Medinas have been dealing Chef’s gear for him in your club. It’s all part of Chef’s plan to become respectable.

  “First of all, he stopped selling guns. Now he’s got subcontractors to take care of the dope distribution. Little by little, he’s distancing himself from all his criminal activities. If the club gets busted, you blame the Medinas; they blame their social worker. No one blames Chef.”

  Little Malc sighed, bitter and resigned. “Way I see it, there’s fuck all we can do to stop the bastards.”

  “Believe me,” said Rawhead, “they have no idea what’s coming.”

  “What’s coming?”

  “You. You’re going to beat them. You’re going to be number one.”

  “Fuck off,” said Little Malc. Grinning because he was flattered. “Now you’re taking me for a flob.”

  When they got to the club, a sorry scene awaited them. Someone had sprayed CUNNT on the entrance doors in letters eighteen inches high. Fats Medcroft was out there, ineffectually dabbing at the offending red paint with a damp tissue.

  “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!” said Little Malc. “Who the fuck did this?”

  “We didn’t see, boss,” said Fats. “I was down the cellars when it happened.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” complained Little Malc, “but it isn’t even spelled right. Who do we know who’s got a grudge against me and can’t spell?”

  Ten

  Come away, come away, Death

  And in sad cypres let me be laid;

  Fly away, fly away, breath;

  I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

  —“DIRGE OF LOVE,” WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564–1616)

  The meeting with Little Malc put Chef in a foul mood. He ate his lunch alone. For lunch he always ate the same meal. Fillet steak with a hint of blood, served with fries and vegetables of the day. Usually he drank only water. Today he consumed two and a half bottles of Chianti.

  Chef’s eyes were turning as red as the wine when Bryan walked in holding Billy’s first draft of episode 1 of Gangchester. After a quiet chat with Average, who was spinning on a stool at the bar, Bryan walked over to Chef’s table.

  Chef slammed down his fork in disgust. “What now?”

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “So you fucking should be.”

  “I think you should hear this. You’ll thank me for it.”

  “Sit down,” said Chef grudgingly. He picked up his fork and stabbed a lump of steak.

  “It’s this fucking script, boss,” said Bryan. He was half-smiling, eyes wide, as if what he’d discovered was simultaneously thrilling and appalling. “It’s about us.”

  “Does it use real names?”

  “No, but it might as fucking well. The gang boss is called Melvin Feast. His number two is called … get this … Chief.”

  “Chief?” Chef’s fork hovered between his plate and his mouth. “What’s this character like?”

  “That’s just it,” said Bryan.

  “Just what?”

  “He’s gay.”

  “He’s what?”

  Bryan opened the script. In a halting, unconfident voice he read: “‘Chief sits in his office. He’s pushing fifty, a closet queen with mafia pretensions. He studies images of male bodybuilders in a glossy magazine.’”

  Chef plucked his napkin from his lap and slammed it down on the table. A vein on his forehead was throbbing. Bryan had never seen him so angry. He looked like he was about to explode. “And you say this shit’s going to be made?”

  “Shonagh says it’s been green-lit.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That’s what you call it, in tellyland. Green-lit. When something’s going to be made.”

  “Well, listen. You don’t work in fucking tellyland. Neither do I. So stop talking like an arsehole. What’s the guy in charge called?”

  “Larry Crème.”

  “Do you know where we might get hold of him?”

  “I could find out.”

  * * *

  Larry’s affair with Artemesia had lasted seven months. For Larry, this was a record. Initially he’d hired her as a PA, hoping she’d be willing to accommodate a stale middle-aged man with dyed hair in exchange for career advancement. Happily, she was. Two dozen blow jobs later, Artemesia was a script editor on Second Thoughts, Larry’s most popular program. In the afternoons, when they could, they went to Artemesia’s flat in West Didsbury for a sandwich, a glass of wine, and a one-minute fuck. Larry knew a minute wasn’t long enough, but at least it proved Artemesia excited him. When Larry had sex with his wife, it sometimes took him all night to come.

  When the doorbell rang, Larry was lying on Artemesia’s bed, surrounded by teddy bears.

  Artemesia was in the shower, rinsing Larry’s scud out of her hair. Larry wanted to ignore the doorbell, but it kept ringing. He got up, swearing, and walked to the intercom. “Hello?”

  “Parcel for a Mr. Larry Crème.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Larry was intrigued. The only person who knew where he spent his lunch breaks was Artemesia. Had the little darling bought him a present? He dressed, left the flat, and descended to the main entrance. A thin young man with no eyebrows and tousled blond hair was standing on the step.

  “Mr. Crème?” he said hopefully.

  Larry nodded. The young man smacked him in the jaw. Larry Crème fell over.

  * * *

  Rawhead phoned Nikki, to check she was in. She said yes, come by for tea. He drove round that afternoon. The little girl was playing on the rug. Every time Rawhead looked at her, she screamed for her mother.

  Nikki looked great, eyes and hair shining. “Where’s Billy?” said Rawhead.

  Nikki told him about Billy, locked in the Malmaison hotel like Rapunzel.

  “Do you think he’s doing any work?”

  “I don’t know. When he phones, all he does is swear. Last night he was crying.”

  “Crying?”

  “Yes. He thinks he’s betraying his soul. I told him he’d better get writing. His soul is going to feel a lot more betrayed if we lose this house.”

  The sun was shining, so they put Maddy in her pushchair and went for a walk. Nikki wanted to know about Billy, so Steve told her all about when they were thirteen. The times that B
illy stayed over at Steve’s, the two boys reading ghost stories aloud by candlelight when they were meant to be sleeping. He left out the stuff about going to prison for stabbing a kid at the school dance. In Rawhead’s experience, stabbing was not an aphrodisiac.

  “You like Billy a lot, don’t you?” she said.

  “Why? Don’t you?”

  “Course. I love him. But creative people tend to be very selfish. They’re not easy to live with.”

  “But you’re a creative person, too.”

  “Nice of you to say, but no. I used to be creative. At the moment I’m just a housewife and a mother.”

  “So you resent Billy for that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not his fault.”

  “I know. I can’t help it.”

  Rawhead nodded sympathetically. “Why did you come back?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You left him once, didn’t you? If he’s such a pain, why did you come back?”

  “I was pregnant. I had no money, nowhere to live. It’s not that I don’t love Billy. He thinks I don’t, but I do. He complains that I don’t admire him anymore, but he’s wrong about that, too. He’s focused; he’s determined. Why wouldn’t I admire him? But the truth is, I’m thirty-three, and I can’t work out what I’ve been doing, or where my life went.”

  Rawhead was thinking, You talk too much, bitch.

  “Pills, therapy, I’ve tried everything,” she went on. “I didn’t know what was wrong, but I went to the doctor and she told me I was showing all the classic symptoms of depression. Not sleeping, inertia, thinking the world is a horrible place.”

  Just to shut her up, Rawhead pulled her toward him and kissed her.

  Nikki didn’t respond. It was like kissing an inflatable doll. He stepped back to look at her. Her face was now sad and stricken, as if he’d imparted some catastrophic news. “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.”

  She shook her head, grabbed the back of his neck, and returned the kiss. A tender girl’s kiss that probed and coaxed and took its time.

  * * *

  Chef appeared to be upset when he saw Larry’s swollen face. Not as upset as Larry. No one had ever hit Larry that hard before, although many had been tempted. Nothing was broken, but his jawbone ached. Not the muscles around it, but the bone itself. Larry was amazed, not having realized that bones could hurt.