Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  "Come in," Pearce said. "Open house today."

  "My name's Baxter."

  Pearce listened to Baxter breathing. Trace of a wheezy rattle. Sounded like he smoked too much. "You got a surname?" Pearce asked.

  "Baxter is my surname."

  "You got a first name, then?"

  "Jacob." He held out his hand. Pearce stared at it, but didn't move. "I'm a bit late," Baxter said, looking around. Fat Boy was still out cold. Flash was hugging himself, groaning more quietly now. Pearce gave Baxter no encouragement, but he went on, "I was supposed to stop Rodge and Flash getting hurt."

  Rodge? Well, Fat Boy was full of surprises. Might as well call himself Pansy. Pearce said, "You seem to have failed on that score."

  "I was outside." Jacob pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "My boys were supposed to call for me if things got hairy."

  Now Pearce knew who he was. Dad. My boys. A real family get-together. Pearce said, "They did."

  Baxter tutted. "I'm a bit slow, now and then," he said. "No fun getting old." He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and said, "You mind?"

  Pearce replied, "As long as you don't mind me coming over to your house and pissing on your carpet."

  Baxter frowned, which wasn't a pretty sight, and, judging by the old guy's reaction, hurt his nose a bit. He tucked his fags back in his pocket.

  Pearce put the photo back in the briefcase and slammed the lid shut. "Baxter," he said, "I don't take kindly to people breaking into my home and threatening me."

  "I know. I'm sorry about that. Really, I am. If there was any other way …"

  "Fat Boy and Slim here could have knocked first."

  "Didn't they? Look, I'm sorry …"

  "No matter. I taught them some manners."

  Flash shouted, "Cunt!"

  Pearce looked at him, looked at the briefcase. Well made, sturdy. He stepped over to Flash, landed a swift blow with the edge of it to the rude little fucker's head. Flash moaned. Pearce hit him again and Flash stopped moaning.

  "Mr Pearce," Baxter said, grabbing his arm, "please don't hurt them."

  "Bit late for that."

  "We need your help. That's all we want. Just some help with a little problem."

  "You could have asked."

  "We wanted to see if you could handle yourself first."

  "This some kind of test? These two? Don't make me laugh. They've never been in a fight in their lives, have they?"

  "Not quite true." Baxter was silent for a while, then when Pearce didn't prompt him, he said, "Rodge is a bouncer."

  "Yeah? Could have fooled me."

  "He's not used to people fighting back."

  "How long's he been a bouncer? A week?"

  "He's very good at his job. Just got a pay rise. Look, they're game lads. Good lads, my boys."

  No way was Rodge a bouncer, but Pearce let it pass. "You shouldn't let them loose with knives. They might hurt themselves."

  Baxter said, "Can we talk money?"

  "We can always talk money." Pearce wondered what was coming. "How much?"

  "Four grand."

  "What do you want me to do for four grand? Mow your lawn?"

  "It's all we can raise."

  Pearce said, "My heart bleeds." Truth was, he could use the money. Four grand wasn't a fortune, but it would help. He had a mortgage and no job. "What do you want me to do, Baxter?"

  "Protect my grandchild."

  Pearce thought for a moment. Then said, "From what?"

  "Not ‘what'. Who. From its father. You've seen the photo." He inclined his head towards the briefcase.

  "What about it?"

  "The baby's my grandchild."

  Pearce opened the briefcase again, studied the picture. Shook his head. "She's young," he said, "but she's no baby."

  Pearce listened while Jacob Baxter explained the situation.

  The girl in the photo was May, his daughter. She was sixteen, even younger than she looked, married to a man ten years older than her, and she was three months pregnant. Unfortunately, not with her husband's child. When Wallace, her husband, found out, he'd slapped her around and threw her out into the street. Fair enough, Baxter said, if only he'd left it at that. Baxter might have forgiven him for hitting her, maybe, under the circumstances. But subsequently, Wallace hadn't been able to leave her alone. Sending her threatening texts, leaving messages on her voicemail, turning up at her house, at school.

  Pearce gave Baxter a hard stare. "Married, pregnant, and at school? That's wrong."

  "Not her fault," Baxter said. Then added, "She's very bright."

  "What's she doing?"

  "Looking for a summer job."

  Pearce nodded. "You've told her husband to leave her alone?"

  Baxter told him about the night they'd confronted him with hammers and wrenches, and how he'd given them all a pasting.

  Didn't surprise Pearce in the least. He said, "What do you think he wants?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Does he want May back? Is that why he won't leave her alone?"

  "He threw her out."

  "Pride?" Pearce suggested.

  "He wouldn't take her back."

  "You sure?"

  Jacob shrugged.

  "So, what's his game plan?" Pearce asked.

  "Revenge."

  "Against May?"

  "Primarily. But he's after the rest of us, too. There was never any love lost between us anyway, but he really hates us now."

  "What about the baby's father? His biological one."

  "Done a runner. Not just from May, but disappeared completely."

  "Isn't that a bit extreme?"

  "Not if he wants to stay alive. You don't know Wallace."

  "Very true," Pearce said.

  "Will you give us a hand?" Baxter said, looking towards his sons. He was doing a not-too-bad job of appearing calm and composed, not giving a shit. But he didn't fool Pearce. Maybe Baxter wasn't the type to bring flowers and grapes to a hospital bedside, but he wasn't hard. He had a face that was hard, but his mind was soft as a baby's bottom.

  Of course, Pearce could be completely wrong.

  Pearce helped Baxter prop Flash up against the wall and check that Rodge hadn't swallowed his tongue or something. He put a cushion under the big guy's head.

  "So what exactly do you want me to do?" Pearce said.

  Baxter said, "Just keep an eye on May."

  "You want a babysitter."

  They were standing in the middle of the sitting room now. Both men had their arms folded. Pearce let his eyes focus on Baxter's and wasn't at all surprised that Baxter couldn't hold his gaze.

  Baxter said, "I was thinking more of a bodyguard. Keep that sleekit Wallace away from her."

  "For how long?"

  "As long as possible."

  "Four grand won't last long."

  "Till Wallace has calmed down. A month should do it."

  "What hours would I be working?"

  "All the time."

  "Day, night, weekends?"

  "Stay with us. We'll feed you, give you a bed."

  "I'm not very sociable."

  "We won't be paying you for your conversation."

  Pearce breathed out slowly."Where did you get my name?" he asked.

  "Guy I know recommended you," Baxter said.

  "What guy?"

  "My nephew. Cooper. Said you had what it takes. Said you'd do an honest day's work."

  Cooper, huh? Loan shark. At one point he'd been Pearce's boss. He was in the nick now. Eventually got what he deserved. "That right?"

  "To be exact, he said since you'd lost your sister and then your mother, he thought that maybe now you really didn't give a toss about anything." Baxter unfolded his arms. His hand crept into the pocket where he kept his fags. Fiddled about in there for a second, then reappeared, empty. "Do you?"

  Pearce wondered if Cooper was right. Could be. "If you're worried about her safety, why don't you contact the police?"

 
"After what just happened?" Baxter pointed to his nose. "They'll think I'm setting Wallace up. Probably throw me in the cells again for harassment or what have you."

  Pearce nodded. "Let me think about it, okay?"

  Baxter looked hopeful. Then his brow ridged as Flash stirred. He glanced at his son, then back at Pearce. "Did you have to hit them so hard?"

  "That wasn't hard," Pearce told him.

  Baxter shook his head, lips tight. "I'm scared," he said. "I don't mind telling you. I'm scared for May."

  "I'm sure she'll be fine," Pearce said. "Guys like Wallace like to talk. But that's usually all they do."

  Flash spoke, a little breathlessly, "Not in this case."

  "How's the head?" Pearce asked him.

  "Like shit."

  "And the balls?"

  "Fuck off."

  Had to give the scrawny fuck some credit. He was still game. But Pearce decided to use Flash's reply to get rid of them. He didn't want to get involved in this. He didn't think from what her dad had said that May was in serious danger. And Pearce didn't think he'd make much of a babysitter anyway. And he definitely didn't want to stay with this lot for a month. Not for twice the money.

  Pearce prodded Rodge, who moaned, snorted. Pearce poked him again. "Hey, get up."

  "What's the matter?" Baxter said.

  "I've heard what you have to say. I'm not interested."

  "What?" Baxter said.

  Pearce poked Rodge again. "I want you out of my house. The lot of you. Right now."

  Baxter said, "When you meet Wallace, don't be fooled, Mr Pearce. He's older than he looks. Twenty-six, but looks not a day over eighteen. He's tough, though. Maybe even tougher than you. He's had training."

  Training, huh? Well, now. If Pearce was a bull, that was a red fucking rag.

  Baxter said, "Let's get my sons back on their feet. If you have a moment to spare, I'd like to show you something that might convince you the threat posed by Wallace is very serious indeed."

  "You a dog lover, Mr Pearce?"

  "Got a terrier."

  "I didn't notice."

  "He doesn't like strangers."

  "Well, brace yourself. Go on, Rodge."

  The side of Rodge's face was swollen. Looked like he'd had a fight with a lunatic dentist. He glanced around. The coast was clear so he popped the boot. Held it open a foot or so.

  Pearce hunkered down and peered inside. A black mutt's body was crammed in there, looking … dead. Certainly smelled like it was dead.

  Yeah, Pearce liked dogs. But he preferred them alive. Dead dogs didn't have quite the same appeal.

  Pearce stood up. "Is that yours?" he asked.

  Baxter nodded. "Just look at the way his throat's been cut."

  Pearce didn't much want to look again. He said so.

  "Go on," Baxter said.

  Pearce bent down again. Fido's head was hanging by a flap of skin, just a hair short of a beheading. Pearce said, "Pretty nasty, I'll give you that. But I don't see what a dog with its throat cut has to do with May being in danger."

  Baxter looked around him. The car was parked down at the beach end of the street. Other cars were pulling in, driving off; couples strolled past arm in arm along the promenade in front of the car.

  Pearce wondered if it was against the law to have a dead dog in your boot. Probably wasn't. Ought to be, though.

  Baxter said, "Too public here."

  Rodge eased the boot shut.

  Baxter got in the car. Flash hobbled into the back, hands hovering over his bruised groin, and Rodge joined him. After a second or two, Pearce climbed into the passenger seat.

  Pearce had closed the door before he realised how much the stench of dead dog had permeated the air inside the car. Felt as if he was sitting on top of the carcass. He breathed through his mouth.

  Baxter reached into his pocket and took out his fags. He offered Flash one, and Flash shook his head. "The dog was a message from Wallace," Baxter said.

  "And a warning," Flash said, rubbing the back of his head.

  "An omen," Rodge said.

  Pearce said, "Make your mind up, guys."

  "Found him there yesterday morning. Right there. In the boot."

  No wonder the fucking thing stank. "What are you going to do with it?" Pearce asked.

  "We'll bury him. When we're ready."

  "Better hurry. He's ripe."

  Baxter shrugged. "We've been busy trying to console May."

  "Could have found a few minutes to dump it somewhere. Let it rot in peace."

  "We thought it would be good for you to see it firsthand," Baxter said. "Anyway, Louis is fine where he is. It's my car. My dog. My nose."

  And Pearce thought, yeah, enough of this shite. "You can sit in this stink if you want," he said. "But I don't have to." As he turned to get out of the car, he felt a hand on his arm.

  "Please" – it was Rodge – "for May. Louis was her dog."

  Pearce looked at the fat fingers on his arm. He stared at them until they moved away. He said, "What makes you think I won't end up in your boot like poor Louis?"

  "Maybe you will," Baxter said. "Wallace wouldn't think twice about killing you if he had to. And he's more than capable of doing it."

  For fuck's sake. You'd have thought the ugly bastard could have tried a bit of flattery. Did he want Pearce to accept this job or not? "If that's what you think, why do you want to hire me?"

  "We can't afford anyone else."

  Nice.

  The smell was really getting to Pearce now. Dead dog and cigarette smoke. It had soaked into his skin. He wanted to scrub his cheeks till they shone. He opened his window. It made only a little difference, letting in the rumble of traffic and children's shouts and a trace of barbecue smoke which momentarily masked the other smells in the car. He looked to see if he could spot anyone having a barbecue. But whoever it was, they were further up the beach, out of sight.

  Baxter picked at a fingernail. "Mr Pearce," he said, "my daughter's husband is one nasty piece of work. You've seen what he did to my dog. We've told you what he did to us. You can see the evidence for yourself." He indicated his nose. "And he's already hit my pregnant daughter."

  "Wallace has a rep," Flash told him. "A serious rep. Ask around."

  Pearce looked away. Silence in the car for a while. He listened to the distant crash of waves, the beep of a reversing bus in the station away to his left. He stared out to sea. Gulls swooped for morsels at the water's edge. He had the strange feeling of timelessness. Like this could have been a hundred years ago. Then he heard the drone of a plane passing overhead. Shattered the illusion.

  Just as well. He was turning into a bit of a fanny for a minute there.

  "He hit May. He beat us up. He killed the dog. There's a progression there. That's worrying, man." A muscle twitched in Rodge's cheek. "He's going to kill somebody."

  "You can't judge what he's going to do next on the basis of what he did to the dog," Pearce said. "Taking a human life is very different from killing a dog. Believe me. Fuck, you don't even know for definite it was him who killed the dog."

  Baxter said, "Who else would have done such a thing?"

  "Okay," Pearce said. "But why would he do this?"

  Flash said, "He's a sadistic fuck, has a history of violence. Forget what he did to us. That was nothing. When he was eighteen, Wallace kidnapped a guy off the street, complete stranger, flung him in his car, held him in his bedroom for a couple of days while he carved pretty patterns on his face, then sent him packing with a couple of his own severed fingers shoved up his arsehole."

  "Original. He do time?"

  "Got away with it."

  "Guy was too scared, right?"

  "Nope. Some kind of problem with the evidence being inadmissible. Everybody knew he'd done it, but he couldn't be tried for it."

  "And why did he do it?"

  "He's crazy," Flash said.

  "Got a lot of company," Pearce said. "Okay, he's crazy. How do you think he rea
lly feels about May?"

  "She's his wife. But the baby's not his. And he can't live with that idea."

  "So why doesn't he wash his hands of her?" Pearce asked.

  "He doesn't want her," Baxter said. "But he doesn't want anybody else to have her either. And he doesn't want her to have the baby."

  Pearce didn't doubt the truth of Baxter's statement for a minute. Wallace sounded like he'd wound these poor sad crazy bastards up pretty tight.

  "You want the job?" Baxter asked.

  "I'll think about it," Pearce told him. The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying. He really didn't want to think about it. The whole thing was pathetic. The crazy old fool and his slightly less crazy sons, the dead dog – and the smell wasn't getting any better – the teenage daughter, the unborn child, the vengeful dad. Family from hell. Did he want to get mixed up in that? He wasn't a social worker. Ah, shit, there wasn't a chance in a million anything seriously bad would happen. Just paranoia and craziness. "But don't get your hopes up," he said.

  Pearce watched them drive away, Baxter at the wheel, Rodge riding shotgun, Flash stretched out on the back seat and Louis the dog decomposing in the boot.

  Back at his flat, Pearce found Hilda curled up in his basket. Yeah, the dog was called Hilda. He liked the idea of naming it after someone, a real person, and who better than his mother? True, the dog was male. But Pearce didn't think Hilda would mind. Either of them.

  He told the dog that everything was fine now, the nasty men were gone. Hilda wagged his tail, hopped towards the door and stared at it.

  Pearce shook his head. In Hilda's world, anything he didn't understand meant walkies. Fair enough. Pearce grabbed Hilda's lead off the cabinet in the hallway, fastened it. He could use some clean air after the stink in the Baxter's car. Live by the sea, you ought to take advantage of it as much as possible.

  Hilda pulled all the way down the road towards the promenade. When they got there, Pearce unfastened his lead and Hilda skipped off into a patch of long grass at the edge of the beach where the local dogs were fond of relieving themselves. He hunted for the perfect spot before lifting his back leg. Never ceased to amaze Pearce how the wee bastard could piss on two legs without falling over.