by Tin Larrick
I wasn’t convinced that, with forty definitely on the horizon, I had the stomach for it. It was a younger man’s game. I often had a touch of the seconds the night before match day, but this was slightly different. Instead of fantasising about yellow Ferrari and helicopter charters and the other proceeds of my illegal enterprises, I was walking around the parks in the more wholesome areas of Amsterdam, looking at the couples with bubs in a pushchair or toddlers on their shoulders. Then I was doing imaginary face-swap operations and superimposing myself and Nancy onto these idyllic little scenes – scenes in which the baby of the piece didn’t have two kilos of high-quality cannabis resin taped into their nappy.
I couldn’t confide in any of the others about these pre-mid-life reflections – it would be a death sentence, or at best, make me a laughing stock. Not even Nat – she would either propose marriage on the spot, or instantly lose all respect for me.
It was almost dark by the time I got into the district, and the Saturday night crowds were already slavering through the streets. I did my window shopping, then tried to kid myself that I was surprised when I arrived at Nancy’s window again.
She wasn’t there. For a second I felt let down, and then I laughed out loud in the middle of the street at my own adolescent musings. No heads turned. What the hell was this?
I dawdled outside for age, the opposing forces in my brain messing up my head more than any chemical Amsterdam had to offer.
Then she suddenly appeared in the window, although I didn’t see her enter, and I could have sworn I hadn’t taken my eyes off her empty chair.
She was wearing a black and red glam trash brassiere, eyebrows furrowed as she wrestled with a broadsheet newspaper. I bounded up the stairs, and knocked on the window. She glanced briefly, then let me in.
“Hello,” I said. Good start.
“One hundred euros for fuck and suck,” she said still trying to fold the newspaper into a readable shape.
I winced.
“You don’t remember me?”
She frowned and looked at the ceiling as she thought, then smiled as if she really gave two hoots.
“Oh yes, the jazz man. Sorry, but I have many customers every day,” she said in that singsong accent.
“I can imagine.”
“I doubt it.”
“No, really. In fact I came over to ask if I could borrow your fishnets.”
Lost, totally lost on her. Or just totally unfunny. What the hell was I doing there?
“Please come in, you are letting in cold air.”
“Sorry.” I stepped in and shut the door. There was a moment’s awkward silence. Second timers had to be the worst: she couldn’t use the same talk she had the first time, and didn’t know me well enough to talk about anything else. Not that there had been a first time.
She motioned me upstairs to the bedroom without a word. I started to obediently go, and then I thought better of it. Maybe some things are just better left to the imagination.
I turned around and made for the door. She looked genuinely confused and a more than a little irritated.
I pulled out my wallet.
“Sorry for wasting your time again,” I said.
She placed a hand on mine, stopping me from removing the cash.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Just…”
“Just… what?” I said, unable to keep the hope from my voice.
“Some things are not what they seem when they leave your mind.”
She smiled, and I left her place feeling somewhat flaming stupid. I saw Dane mooching around by the canal, watching a barge go past. He turned to me as I approached.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. He looked past my shoulder and nodded at Nancy’s window.
“What is she like?”
“See for yourself.”
“She’s gorgeous,” Dane agreed.
“Isn’t she?”
He looked bemused, and shuffled from foot to foot. I sighed and palmed him a hundred euros.
“Go on, go nuts. I’m sponsoring you.” He beamed, and started to say something, but I stopped him with a wave, and pushed him off towards Nancy’s door.
I walked around again, waiting for him, and the dusk bloomed into night, the neon coming into its own. The lights nuked my tender brain, and I felt all of a sudden that when I remembered all this, I probably wouldn’t believe myself. Amsterdam is a bit like that.
Dane emerged into a quiet street twenty minutes later and walked towards me, wearing a shit-eating grin that I couldn’t help but mirror. The grin parted as he began to speak, just as the lump of four-by-two came out of nowhere and crashed down onto his head.
He crumpled at the knees, but he didn’t go down. Dane’s as hard as concrete, and though the blood was streaming down his face from a wicked gash in his scalp, he got up, running on adrenaline, and faced his attacker. The prick with the weapon looked mighty scared when instead of going down, Dane turned and went for him like a wounded bear. Dane got two rapid body shots in, hard, to the kidneys. A third, a monster uppercut, and the greaser went down, his four-by-two clonking on the cobbles. Too late, another shitkicker, this one with a metal baton, appeared and went for Dane’s body and head. Outnumbered, bleeding in his own eyes, he couldn’t possibly win, and as his own strength started dying, the first prick got up again.
I ran for him, but got the same treatment, from behind, out of thin air. Lightning exploded behind my eyes and my whole head felt like it had been mashed to water. I went down heavily, and just had time to raise my head to see Dane on his knees, bravely battling off his two opponents, before I took a second clout and was bundled unceremoniously into unconsciousness.
*
Daylight burrowed into my eyes as I was slowly brought round by open hand slaps to the face. I opened my eyes to acknowledge the pissant slapper, but couldn’t focus. I got three more slaps, then tried to mumble “I’m awake now, thank you nurse,” but my words stopped at the bundle of rag jammed into my mouth.
Slap.
“He is waking, boss.” Accented English, but I’m sure it sounded like Dane. Lying, traitorous, betraying piece of shit! What was going on?
“He is awake now.”
No, maybe it wasn’t Dane. I wished my eyesight would hurry up and come back. Being blind is not particularly nice.
Slap.
Slap.
I tried to wiggle limbs and vital organs to make sure everything was still there.
Slap.
It all seemed to be there, but I was trussed like the girl in the playing cards Dane had bought when we arrived.
What was that smell? I recognised it, but my fudged brain couldn’t place it.
Slap.
Getting pissed off with Smart Julian now. I forced myself to get with it. My eyes were streaming, but slowly the flow stopped and they sharpened up.
I was in some kind of damp cellar, on the floor, leaning against a cold stone wall, the ground wet and bitingly cold. I hoped to God I hadn’t pissed myself.
Opposite me was Dane, in a hell of a state. Out for the count, blood still streaming from a gash in his head. His face was puffed up like an ornate dessert, eyes swollen almost completely shut, black clumps of clotted wounds suggesting they had been beating him for some time.
A big dude approached. Unmistakable – Mr Solitaire. The big fucker who was about to get some stick for the slaps yanked the gag from my mouth – I guessed he was one of Mr Solitaire’s no-claims discounts.
“You fucking nonce, you slap like a girl!” I shouted at him. He recoiled, surprised. “If you’re gonna hit someone, hit them fucking properly!”
Foolish words, really, because the punch nearly broke my fucking jaw. He’d have swung the other as well, but Mr Solitaire hurriedly pulled him to his feet and said “Enough.” I tried my hardest not to black out again – hard work.
I eventually got my sight back and breathed deeply, fighting off the urge to puke. Mr Solitaire crouched by me.
; “Leroy! What… what the fuck are you doing? Why are you doing this? What’s going on?”
“Mr K, I have considerable cause for concern.”
“You and me both.” I pointed at Dane with my chin. “Is he ... have you killed him?”
“No, but Bruno can sometimes be difficult to restrain.”
“What’s going on?”
“I have received word, Mr K, that one of your little team is a grass.”
“A what?” I hoped he wasn’t trying to be funny.
“A grass, Mr K. A canary. A snitch. An informant. Someone, sir, is telling tales to people on high.” His English had improved in spades in the space of a weekend.
“That’s bullshit, Leroy, and I consider it a fucking insult of the highest order as well.”
“You are in no position to be offended. Someone somewhere knows more than they should, and one of your gang is responsible.”
“Fuck you.”
Bruno’s next punch did break my jaw. It went with a bang, like someone had force-fed me a firecracker. I blacked out as well, though only for a few seconds, I think. I came around again, with the two bastards still peering into my face. I spat out some blood so I could talk.
“You’ve got a real nice bedside manner, Florence,” I chuckled to myself, which descended into a coughing fit that racked my body with pain.
“Someone in your position should exact more courtesy, Mr K.”
“I’ve never been very bright.” Then, not wanting to take another punch, I tried to be reasonable. “Okay, okay, look, why would one of us want to turn you over? And to who? We’re small time.”
“Because you’re small time, Mr K. Today’s rewards for weeding out the bad guy are likely to outweigh the tiny profit you make on the feeble little amount of dope that you peddle.”
“But it makes no sense. If you’ve been turned over, how come you’re still her?”
“I’m a suspicious creature, Mr K. It’s what keeps me at the top. People asking questions, deliveries turning up late, extra crew members I’ve never seen before. It adds up.”
“So your neanderthal just ruined my looks because you’ve got a hunch? I know you’re not a pretentious man, Leroy, but if you’re trying to make a point, believe me, I get it.”
Dane stirred, and let out a choked groan. Bruno went over and squatted beside him. I kept him talking, in the hope it would divert his attention from Dane. His body didn’t look like it could cope with much more punishment.
“But why us, Leroy? Why do you think it’s us?”
“Special, special K ...” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder and shaking his head like an admonishing parent.
That was as far as he got.
A door on the far wall burst open, and three huge members of another chemical familia strode in, led by a tattooed besuited mountain of muscle. They stood, trying to look menacing.
Well, they convinced me, and I had yet to decide whether this interruption was going to work for or against us.
Mr Solitaire looked decidedly un-scared, and it suddenly dawned on me how in over our heads we had just become and how little their tiny psychopathic brains gave any thought to living beyond sunset daily. They exchanged words, threats and fuck-yous, I guess, but they were in Dutch. Each of them laughed at least once.
They moved slowly towards each other. I didn’t like this. I decided there and then that I quite liked living, and that chartered accountancy was definitely the way forward.
It was a proper stand-off. Each had a weapon trained on someone, and it was clear this one had already gone on too long. Mistakes get made. Sweat fell in my eyes. I tried to shake it out, and another surge of nausea leapt in my gullet. Christ, one of them had to act quickly, or ...
And the chief invader did. He leaped forward like a pissed cat, produced an automatic firearm from nowhere, and gunned Mr Solitaire down with a crack of spitting firepower. He jacknifed backwards with a sigh, open wounds slapping the stone floor. His goons parted like velociraptors, and went for the trio.
My brain was on long play – I didn’t get details, only loud, really loud bangs, blinding muzzle flash roasting my headache, and the smell of blood in a human slaughterhouse. That was the coppery smell I couldn’t place before. Fresh, human blood. You smell it once, by the bucketload like that, you don’t forget it.
When it was over, I realised I was sobbing. From the pain, our very near miss or the bloodbath I had witnessed, I didn’t know. But it went quickly, displaced by the realisation that I had to shake it up and hightail it hell for leather.
After painful wriggling and jerking, I managed to get a hand free. I bellied over to one of the dead gorillas, hoping nothing had splintered inside that would puncture a lung, and prised the knife from his hand. After much complicated twisting and double-jointing, I managed to cut myself free, although not without grazing myself several times on the concrete. Thankfully I missed any major arteries.
I hauled over to Dane and felt for a pulse. Weak, but still there. He’s a heavy bastard, but I dragged him out of there, up dank stairs and into the daylight. I was worried we’d been blasted in a foreign basement miles from anywhere, but Mr Solitaire had been short-sighted enough to take us to the house where he grew his shit. Cost the dickhead his life.
I jemmied open a Citroën parked outside, shoved an unconscious Dane in the back seat, and hotwired it away from there, trying to drive in a straight line. Harder than you might think.
We’d missed the midnight meet – it was already Monday. The car clock read ten a.m., and suddenly I remembered we were originally meant to collect the shit three hours beforehand.
I weighed it up for about six seconds before I swung a U-turn in a packed four-lane urban street, and went back to Mr Solitaire’s place. Fuck it. Career suicide it may have been, but what I had seen had already thickened my skin, and I wasn’t about to chuck it away, despite the fact that it was only four kilos of plant resin.
It didn’t take long to pick the stuff up. There was no law on the scene yet – the basement must have been well soundproofed. I held my breath as I stepped over the bodies, their faces already beginning to caramelise with death. I collected the dope, then got on the gas again and headed for town.
Round a corner, I saw a Range Rover in the rear-view and got serious shakes. It closed up behind me. Nix: Mr Solitaire’s was a three-door, this was a five. Steady, Kenley, steady.
They’d left a message at Short’s of London, saying they’d already left for the lock-up, along with directions. Cheers, loves. Slightly risky, but still, a lot had happened since we all got together.
I checked on Dane. He was breathing steadily, his pulse getting stronger. Apart from the mess of his face, he could have been asleep. Getting some sense of reality back, I floored it out of the Amstel and headed for the airfield.
*
5
Dane woke up in the back seat on the way there. He snapped out of it pretty quickly, so it looked like it was mainly bodywork damage, just one or two panels that looked like they needed beating out.
“What the fuck happened?” he groaned.
“Don’t ask.”
“Fuck ... my fucking head. Where are we?”
“On the way to the lock-up. Flight’s in two hours.”
“Do I look as bad as I feel?”
“Worse.”
“Oh good. Have we got the stuff?”
“Yes. Don’t talk. Get some rest.”
It took about half an hour to get to the lock-up. It was one of a row of old bunkers in the middle of an ancient industrial estate that had been dead in a long time. An old factory with decayed brickwork and smashed windows lay to the south. Nothing around except an expanse of barren, flat field, and the end of the runway at Schiphol in the distance. Airliners screamed low over our heads every two bloody minutes.
Vincent emerged from the lock-up, and turned white when he saw us. I got out of the car.
“Stop standing there like a goldfish and help me wit
h this lug.”
Vincent closed his mouth and hurried over. We hauled Dane out of the seat. His protests went unheeded, till he shook us off with, “I’m fine, fuck off!”
“What ... what happened?” asked Vincent, weakly. We went into the lock-up, and Natalie and Henry put on carbon copy faces.
“Little going away present from Mr Solitaire and chums.”
“What? What the fuck for?”
“He had a bee in his bonnet that one of us is a grass.”
“Wanker!” This was Nat. The atmosphere got heavy: they were outraged, but even so, everybody gave everybody else a suspicious look.
“Don’t sweat it. None of us is guilty. Mr Solitaire was one paranoid dude.”
“Was?”
“Yeah, he got in the way of some speeding bullets.”
“I’m well confused now.”
“Some rival cartel ran in and spoiled the party. Quite a show. Every prick there got wasted, and just about saved our bollocks.”
“Jesus.”
“Never mind, we’re all right. Plan goes ahead as normal.” Vincent closed the door of the lock-up and we stood still in the semi-darkness. My breathing sounded like Darth Vader.
“Are you sure?”
“Plan goes ahead as normal,” I said again. “Let's go over it one last time.” I sat down heavily on a concrete block, and let my muscles go limp. It felt good. Nat walked over with some water. I sipped it gratefully, and she dabbed at my wounds with a damp cloth. She lit a JPS Light and slipped it between my swollen lips, her eyes glistening in the gloom. I smiled thanks; she kissed me on the forehead and went over to tend to Dane.
“Right, Vince, when you and Dane swing through past Customs, give it as much mouth as you can. And make it good, boys. If you don't get pulled, we’re fucked. Now, in all likelihood, you’re each gonna have to endure a full strip search by the cold fingers of the UK Border Agency.”
Silence indicated assent. Vincent flared his Zippo and lit a cigarette.