Violence in the Blood

by Mark Newman

  Malkie spat a globule of blood and mucus to the floor. ‘Safe, least it was.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘They’re watching. Should have trusted me.’

  ‘You’re a fucking comedian, Thompson.’ McAlister’s Browning 9mm jabs into the side of Malkie’s swollen cheek. ‘Live or die, your choice.’

  Thompson glared at him. Unflinching. ‘Your hired help fucked it; thanks to me you got no loose ends. I took care of that. And yeah, even got some cash, two bags. You’d rather I’d stayed, got lifted?’

  McAlister didn’t answer, content to listen, for now. ‘Give him some water.’

  Malkie swallowed down hard. ‘No trace. No connection. That’s down to me.’

  McAlister removed the gun. ‘Always liked you, Malkie, it’s why you’re still breathing. You’re a maverick, got the ability to go far, just as easy go to your grave. So, what to do with you, eh? Boys here think you’re dangerous like a rabid dog.’ He was up, moving round Malkie’s carcass assessing the damage, mulling over the options. ‘So question is, were you running or were waiting it out like you say?’

  McAlister signalled for the gaffer tape to be cut. ‘No hard feelings. Go home, get yourself cleaned up. You got two hours and be sure to have the money. Understand?’

  Thompson nodded his head, spitting fresh blood to the floor.

  ‘And Malkie, don’t fuck about. Johnston will drive you home. Keep you company.’

  Back at the house, an old tenement block on Ardenlea Street, Malkie hobbled in, Johnston two steps behind, checking the area before entering the house. He followed Malkie through to what passed for a kitchen, more of a larder equipped with an enamel Belfast sink. Malkie turned to Johnston, smiling. ‘Nothing personal, you know how it is.’

  A quizzical look formed on Johnston’s face. ‘The fu..’ incomplete words garrotted from his voice-box as Frank noosed the cheese-wire around his throat.

  Malkie turned back to the sink, cleaning himself up as best he could. Most of it superficial cuts and bruises. Ten days’ time and there would be no trace. The cracked ribs were a different story. Even strapping them up, he was still looking at six weeks plus recovery time.

  McAlister waited till Thompson was in the car, and then made the call. His south of the border connection, a Sassenach, lone operator. The call connected on the third warble. ‘Baxter?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Got some trash to dispose of, priority job. You able to collect?’

  ‘Depends on just how bad the smell is.’

  ‘The worst.’

  Checks his watch. ‘Give me four hours.’

  ‘Make it three, double your money.’ The phone disconnects.

  The same night, Thompson turned up at McAlister’s house. Two in the morning, he’s standing in the hallway.

  McAlister was taking no chances, his gun trained on Malkie’s chest cavity. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Had to take a detour, can’t be too careful. Had to be sure we weren’t followed. Wouldn’t want the police turning up, be kind of hard to explain,’ he said, gesturing to the bag.

  McAlister, suspicious, patted him down. Keeping the gun on him the whole time. ‘Where’s Johnston?’

  Malkie ignored the question, dead and buried, unzipping the holdall, he pulled out a bundle. ‘Parking up, you wanna wait?’ McAlister directed him to the office, the muzzle of the Browning 9mm pressed deep in to the base of his skull. ‘Lay it down on the desk.’

  Malkie complied, awaiting further instruction. McAlister made his way round to the other side of the oak desk, the Browning pointing at his face. ‘Count it out, nice and slow.’

  He reached into the bag, starting to pile the cash in to neat bundles. ‘I was coming in, nothing’s changed.’

  McAlister’s watched the bundles pile up, still with the 9mm trained on Malkie’s chest, he took a seat behind the desk, relaxing his trigger finger a little. ‘Know what you are, Thompson? An enigma.’

  Malkie noticed the pressure on the trigger ease, and kept talking, ‘so, we straight now?’

  McAlister silent, assessing the man in front of him.

  Malkie reached inside as if he was pulling out another bundle, ‘said we straight?’

  McAlister looked beyond Malkie towards the door. ‘Remains to be seen, don’t it?’

  Looking down into the bag. ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.’ Fixing his eyes on McAlister, he shot him twice in the torso, his gun hidden deep within the holdall.

  He had seconds before the shots alerted the bodyguard. McAlister was alive, his white shirt soaked crimson. Thompson hid behind the door, the bodyguard entered, his weapon drawn. He went straight to McAlister. Rasping gurgling sounds emanated from dual holes to his chest. Malkie stepped from behind the door, the bodyguard turned, aiming his 9mm, but too late. The bullet ripping into his abdomen, he slumped to the ground, the Glock falling from his grip.

  Floored, he clawed at the ground, trying to reach for his piece. Malkie stood over him, ‘Chose the wrong employer, pal.’ Putting another bullet in him, he repacked the bag and went to leave, setting the holdall down on the desk, and taking out the pliers. ‘Guess I’ll be taking a keepsake, a memento of our time together.’

  ****

  The armed robbery in Dumfries had the cops and journalists swarming all over it like flies round shit. The tabloids, like sharks in a frenzy feasting over the two fatalities found at the scene. National news even sent a London based crew in the hope of securing an eyewitness account. BBC headline news broke the story that a local businessman with alleged ties to organised crime was gunned down in his own home. Police refused to comment upon speculation that the victim had several teeth forcibly removed with pliers found at the scene or that the two cases were in any way connected.

  Chapter 10: 1988

  Thompson was standing outside the gym, the street deserted, the waiting over, it was time for show and tell.

  Edwards ringside, surrounded by his main players. Supposed big hitters. Local hard men. The kind who most right-minded people cross the road to avoid.

  He was in the doorway, observing. Reconnaissance, taking it all in. A crowd of six or seven bodies gathered, watching two fighters sparring. He guessed the big guy they were fawning over was Edwards.

  One of the minders turned to grab a water bottle, spotting the stranger lingering at the back of the gym. ‘We’re closed, mate, private training session.’

  Malkie said nothing, continuing to stare, his eyes burning in to Edwards, willing him to turn and face him.

  The minder was getting impatient, striding toward the figure. ‘You deaf, pal? Closed. Fuck off.’

  ‘Heard you the first time,’ he pointed towards the large figure, ‘guessing he’s Edwards. Go tell your boss I’m here.’

  The minder’s eyes strayed to the holdall, his hands twitching. Concern on his face, unsure whether he’s staring into the eyes of a gunman. Keeping his eyes locked with the stranger, watching for any sudden moves, he called over shoulder, ‘boss, got a visitor.’

  Edwards turned, irritated at the interruption. Didn’t recognise the figure in the doorway. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Name’s Thompson, Malkie Thompson.’

  Blank faces. ‘Supposed to mean something?’

  Malkie smiled, and opened the holdall. ‘Depends how you choose to look at it.’ Taking a bundle of cash, the minder reaching for the 9mm tucked in his waistband. Malkie counted tens and twenties, letting them float to the floor. ‘Easy there big man, no drama.’ He ignored the minder, focussing on Edwards. ‘Consider this a peace offering, your cut, two grand.’ He waited... No response, just Edwards’ cold murderous stare.

  Satisfied, he turned and walked out, making his way to the bottom of the stairs, listening.

  ‘....taking the fucking piss, Vin. We should do the bastard, now.’

  ‘No, not like this. Now we got a face and a name. Let’s get the background, we want all of ’em. Get me Morrison, now.’

&
nbsp; Malkie sauntered to the car, Frank and George waiting inside.

  ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘Like I said, George, piece of piss.’

  Frank adjusted the rear-view mirror. ‘Ripe for the taking?’

  ‘Falling from the tree, Frankie.’

  Contact made. Malkie had walked into the lion’s den unarmed, dumped two grand on the floor and walked out unscathed. Urban legend in the making.

  Two days later, Edwards sent his reply.

  Chapter 11

  Malkie, Frank and George took the opportunity to relax, shooting a couple of frames in their new home, Breaks snooker club. Malkie had ingratiated himself with the owner, Charlie Green, a fifty something using his redundancy pay-out to realise his lifetime dream. Malkie made him an offer, his protection in return for forty percent of the takings. Now Green’s no hero, he’s heard the stories about this new crew. Likes his kneecaps the way they are so he’s content to play the role of glorified gopher and teaboy.

  George clocked the visitors while he lined up his shot on black. ‘We got company.’

  Malkie downed his drink. ‘I see them. No bother. Can’t let a good malt go to waste boys.’

  Frank moved to the rear of the bar area, bat at the ready. ‘Five on three, could get interesting.’

  The first stepped forwards, six three, weighting in at two twenty. Malkie recognised him from the boxing gym. The others held back, fanning out across the room.

  ‘Vinnie Edwards sends his regards.’

  ‘Sure he does.’

  ‘Wants a meet, you’re to come with us, alone,’ opening his jacket to reveal the 9mm.

  ‘You even know how to use that, son?’

  ‘Bringing you in one way or the other.’

  ‘That so?’ Malkie stood, cracking his neck, making a show of taking his jacket off, handing it to George. Rolling his sleeves up, he loosened his tie, lifting it over his head, passing it to Frank, and striding toward the messenger. ‘Gonna have to take me down, son, not planning on going quiet, don’t mind do you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have it any other...’

  Sentence unfinished, as Malkie delivered a head-butt to the bridge of the messenger’s nose. He fell to the floor, Malkie straight on him, his boot crunching into the victim’s ruined face, his cheekbone shattering. Malkie relieved him of his weapon, turning his attention to the remaining four. ‘You boys wanna go the same way?’

  The largest of the group steps forward, bat in hand. Three stand their ground, box cutters ready to strike.

  Malkie placed the 9mm on the table. ‘Won’t be needing that.’

  The guy with the bat moved forwards, facing off with Malkie. ‘Dirty trick, jock,’ he swung the bat in a wild arc, missing his target. Malkie stepped in close before he had chance to re-aim. Locking the arm, he delivered a snap kick to the groin, following it up with a punch to the solar plexus. The big man crumpled. Malkie grabbed his polo shirt collar, pulling him towards him, finishing him off with a head-butt to the bridge of the nose. Retrieving the bat, he points it towards the box cutter boys and whistles at them. ‘Come on boys; show us what you got there.’

  Two rush forward. George and Frank standing in the wings ready to steam in. The box cutter boys don’t even get within six feet of Malkie. Brought down heavily, George and Frank going to work on them. Kicking, stamping, gouging. The message is clear; Malkie Thompson and his crew are in it for the long haul.

  Malkie made it towards the door, on a collision course with the last man standing. A young guy, probably it’s his first outing, there to observe, learn the trade. Malkie grabbed the youth by the throat. Cowed, he dropped the box cutter to the floor.

  ‘Don’t piss yourself, son, seen enough? Go tell Edwards I don’t dance to his tune or anyone else’s. He wants’ a meet, he comes here in person. Now get the fuck out before I carve you up.’

  The youth doesn’t need telling twice, he’s out of there.

  The word went round that Edwards’ crew got taken down in the snooker hall. He never did take up Malkie’s offer of a meet. Instead, he took the time to regroup, plan his next move.

  In the meantime, Malkie had the green light to expand, and started moving in on the local pub trade making collections. He moved onto the restaurants and fast-food outlets. Inside one month, Thompson’s crew had gone from a one-off bank robbery to extortion. Now they had their sights set on the casino and nightclubs in the centre of town – the heartland of Edwards’ Empire.

  ****

  Everyone Edwards sent came back in pieces, he seemed powerless. Malkie’s crew were a breed apart, no compromise, no fear. They went about dismantling his organisation piece by piece.

  Chapter 12

  Malkie bought up a derelict pub, empty since eighty-four, picking it up for a fraction of the going rate. He had to clear out the rodents and skag heads who had taken up residence. Apart from that, easy acquisition. Within three months, it was fully operational. The Kings Retreat. A boozer right in the heart of town, in Edwards’ back yard. Acquisition of the Kings Retreat marked the beginning of the turf wars. Edwards made the first move, desperate to regain ground, above all, he needed to rebuild his reputation or risk losing everything.

  Back then, they were building up the territory. Frank and George taking it in turn to make the collections. Happened each Friday morning. Took a couple of hours to work round the array of betting shops, off licences and fast food joints. Always finished up with a visit to the Thai massage parlour, a perk of the job, a chance to work away the stresses of the week.

  Frank was back at base, holed up in the Kings Retreat, protection for the boss. Vinnie Edwards had upped the stakes, making two botched attempts to take out Malkie, a failed hit and run and a reluctant gunman adding to his list of failures. So now, Malkie had round the clock security while he figured out how to remove Edwards.

  Meetings with DI Morrison provided an insight into his operation and his personal life. Morrison reached out to Malkie, sensing a power shift, offering his services, negotiating terms for mutual benefit. At the time, Malkie didn’t realise he was playing both sides.

  They’d been tracking George all morning, monitoring his movements through their former territory. The promise of getting some payback making it all the sweeter. Watching Thompson’s bagman collect was like joining the dots. No point in rushing in. Still got two-thirds of the round to go, not counting their newer acquisitions, those that were always off limits to Edwards. Thompson’s firm didn’t play by the same rules, everybody got taxed, no exceptions.

  George exited the betting shop via the fire door to avoid police surveillance. Checking left and right, he stepped out in to the rain. Head down, making his way back to the high street. Got within a few yards of making it. But it was never going to happen.

  Three of Edwards crew blocked his exit. No need for introductions, he recognised their faces. So George turned, knowing what was coming. Confronted by three more goons all baying for blood, his blood.

  No way out. George looked back at the fire door, shut tight, hearing the bolt slide into place from the inside. So this is it. This is how it ends, in a rubbish-strewn back alley on a rainy day. Fuck that.

  He was out of options. If he was going down, it would be with his fists flying. He took his jacket off, folding it in half, careful to place it behind him out of the rain on top of an industrial bin. Getting himself in a wide stance, he lowered his centre of gravity. Gotta make the best of it. Take down as many as he could, show them some old school moves.

  They stalked in like a pack of hyenas taunting him. ‘Gonna mess you up real good, old man.’ He ignored them, remaining focussed. The first rushed him from the right. George let him get close, conscious of leaving his left side exposed, sensing movement, jerking his elbow backwards catching the second would-be assailant clean in the face, taking him out cold. He concentrated on his right again, his attacker’s over-confidence might be his undoing. Like a king cobra, George struck, finger-jabbing him in the throat. His
victim crumpled to his knees, flailing hands clutching at his voice box. Two down, four remaining. Now they closed ranks, coming in tandem simultaneously from both sides.

  George was mid-flow, punching, kicking, gouging, knowing his life hung in the balance. One of the attackers was down, George stomped, bringing his foot down heavily, repeating the action over and over, wanting the bastard dead. Now he had punches raining down to the back of his head, each blow thundering down like a mallet. Fending two more from the front, he couldn’t take his eyes off them. Sharp pain made him see stars, he shook his head, don’t black out. Rain-diluted blood ran free from his scalp, in to his eyes and down his face. He Ignored it. Had to deal with what he could see. He couldn’t risk turning, they would both be on him. He knew he couldn’t go down, if that happened it was game over, and no coming back.

  He was in program mode, like a Viking Berserker of old, fighting to the death. Adrenalin flowing, he couldn’t feel the punches anymore. Numb to the pain, he kept going, maintaining an unrelenting pace. From nowhere, his knees buckled, feeling the life drain out of him. Everything spun, his vision fading to a blur, and then total blackness.

  Chapter 13

  Edwards’ roll of the dice backfired, all it did was increase Thompson’s determination to break him.

  Malkie, brooding and silent, stared out the window. His head filled with the vision of George rigged up to life support, touch and go. Frank playing chauffeur, slotting the cassette into the player, the sound of opera filling the car. Incomprehensible to his ears, guessing it was Italian. Malkie’s choice, not his.