Death Sentence

by Sheryl Browne

  ‘Comprendre?’ he asked, turning back to Natalie to fix her with an icy glare.

  Natalie nodded again, more readily this time.

  ‘Good.’ Patrick dragged his gaze away and headed for the door, reasonably satisfied.

  He’d already given her three week’s grace and still she wasn’t back on the job. She’d been taking liberties, thinking she was special because he’d moved her into one of his more upmarket pads. Well, she wasn’t. None of them were.

  ‘Don’t treat me like an idiot, Natalie,’ he warned her, glancing over his shoulder.

  ‘I won’t.’ She smiled tremulously. ‘Pat …’ she said, as he reached for the door. ‘Mr Sullivan,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘do you think you could, you know, let me have something?’

  Patrick stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at her, now truly dumbfounded. She really was taking the proverbial, wasn’t she?

  Natalie chewed doggedly on a nail. ‘Just to keep me going.’

  Shaking his head disdainfully, Patrick looked down to pluck a microscopic piece of fluff from his lapel.

  ‘I’ll make it up, Pat, I swear.’

  Patrick looked back up, his eyes narrowed as he studied her, wondering how she actually had the gall to ask him for drugs. For free? When she’d been sitting on her arse watching telly instead of working? He was astounded. He really was.

  Natalie gulped back hard, she’d clearly noted the look.

  ‘I’ve been sick, Pat, honest, I have, but I’ll be back on my game tonight, honest I will. You’ll get your money, I swear.’

  Patrick massaged his neck, the mother of all migraines threatening. I should shove her out now, he thought, attempting to keep a lid on the fury bubbling inside him. Move her to one of the shithole bedsits reserved for drug-addled tarts on their way down. That’d teach her a lesson.

  ‘Are you having a laugh, Natalie?’ he asked quietly, then lifted his right hand and circled the palm of it slowly with the thumb of his left.

  ‘No!’ she refuted, panic fleeting across her features as her eyes shot from his face to his hands and back. ‘I wouldn’t, Mr Sullivan. You know I wouldn’t. You’ve been good to me.’ She hesitated, swallowing again, as Patrick studied her mutely. ‘I lost my confidence, that’s all. I’m good now. I’ll make it up, Pat. You know I will.’

  She stopped and waited, her expression telling him she knew this could go either way.

  Nah, he’d leave her be, for now, Patrick decided, in a rare moment of extreme generosity. She was good when she was on her game, brought in a tidy wad normally. One more chance he’d give her. Just one, no one could call him heartless, after all. Slowly, he reached into his inside pocket.

  Natalie closed her eyes, wilting with relief when Patrick drew out the contents.

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a twist of crack cocaine. ‘That’s top stuff, Natalie,’ he said, as the girl took a tentative step towards him.

  ‘Thanks, Pat.’ She smiled and reached greedily for her fix.

  ‘My pleasure.’ Patrick caught hold of her wrist, as she made a grab for the package, and yanked her towards him. ‘Make sure you deliver, Natalie, do you hear me,’ he pushed his face up close to hers, ‘unless you want Mummy and Daddy to know how you pay your rent.’

  ‘I will!’ Natalie locked panic-struck eyes on his. ‘I promise. Ouch! Pat …’ She squirmed in his grasp ‘… you’re hurting.’

  ‘You’d better, Natalie,’ he snarled, twisting her wrist cruelly. ‘Or you won’t be sitting pretty. Trust me, you take liberties one more time and you won’t even be breathing.’

  With which Patrick shoved her away hard. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. You’d better have something for me, Natalie. I’m warning you.’

  Tossing his offering at her, Patrick eyeballed her meaningfully, and then turned to stroll to the door, leaving the girl sprawled on the floor.

  Is it worth the bloody effort, he asked himself, reached back into his pocket for his nail file as he waited for the lift, and then worked to free a speck of dirt from under his index nail. All this stress, he could do without on top of a shedload of heroin gone missing, all thanks to Detective Inspector determined-to-get-him-banged-up-again Adams.

  Rolling his shoulders, Patrick attempted to loosen his knotted muscles. He had a score to settle with Adams, big time. As for the tarts: ungrateful, the lot of them. He worked his backside off for them. Made sure they had decent digs. Nicely furnished apartments, most of them, where they could do what they want, entertain their clients in style. He watched their backs, beat the crap out of anyone who slapped them around. And did they appreciate it? No. Nothing but grief, thinking they could pull a fast one. Taking the odd day’s sicky, he’d tolerate, occasionally, depending on reasons why. Taking the proverbial he wouldn’t, end of.

  And then they had the cheek to threaten him, Patrick Sullivan, with telling tales to the police? Detective Inspector bloody Adams, of all people, the spineless little shit, nursing a grudge that went way back. Patrick pressed his forefingers to his temple, his migraine now well on the way to being a full blown one as his mind shot back fifteen years, his old man knocking the living daylights out of him because he’d kicked Adams around a few times. Not because he gave a damn about Adams, as far as the great Michael Sullivan, big shot bullying bastard and drugs kingpin was concerned, the copper’s son could have been found floating face-down in the canal. No, what irked his old man was that Patrick had been dumb-fuck enough to cause the filth to come sniffing around.

  He’d called him dumb-fuck a lot, hammered it home with each blow. Patrick was a complete eejit, a disappointment since the day he’d been born, he’d reminded him. Unlike Adams, of course, the straight A grade perfect copper’s son, whose old man bristled with pathetic pride. Every parents’ evening, Adams’ old man was there, patting his goody-two-shoes son on the back, puffing up his chest. The only time Patrick’s old man’s chest puffed up was with pure violent rage, the only physical contact with his fists. Attempting to quell the humiliation, which washed over him afresh every time Adams popped up to remind him of his past, Patrick re-straightened his tie, and tugged down his shirt cuffs.

  No one dared call him stupid nowadays. Not even the old man, since it had occurred to him that Patrick was big enough to take him on. No one treated Patrick with disrespect. Not anymore. He pocketed his file, rolled his shoulders again, and stepped into the lift. His head was going to explode soon and spill his brains, he would swear. He could do without his upcoming meeting with Tony Hayes, a big bruiser and a bad loser, who definitely didn’t piss about when it came to calling in his debts. If he was going to keep his legs intact, Patrick needed to buy some more time. Find out which clever bastard had diverted the drugs supply to line their own thieving pockets when Adams had managed to put customs under surveillance, meaning the drugs drop was off. He’d have to meet Hayes, he supposed. Standing the man up wasn’t an option, if he wanted to be able to actually stand up ever again. After that, he needed to get home. Wash the grime off. Do a few lengths of his heated pool and relax. Never mix business with pleasure was Patrick’s motto. His home was sacrosanct, away from all this.

  ****

  Dripping wet, which didn’t help his mood much, Patrick shrugged out of his overcoat as he came into the foyer of Seventh Heaven. ‘Is he here?’ he asked warily, handing the coat to one of his bouncers.

  ‘Watching the show.’

  The bouncer knew who he meant—Tony Hayes commanding respect wherever he went— and nodded towards the main lounge area. The man was built, his dinner jacket straining across his bodybuilder chest, but his expression was one of trepidation nevertheless.

  Swallowing throatily, Patrick tried not to break out in a too obvious sweat.

  ‘Right.’ He nodded, feeling an unpleasant queasiness gut-level. Knowing there was no avoiding the meet, though, and preferring it to be on his own turf, Patrick realigned his cuffs, braced himself, and went on through
towards Hayes and his two henchmen, who were perched on stools at a table one of the pole-dancer’s was performing on.

  Patrick looked across approvingly as the girl writhed and gyrated, as if making love to her pole, finally squatting to give Hayes an abundant eyeful. Thank God some of them knew what the punters wanted. Considerably relieved that the man had been adequately entertained while he waited, Patrick walked across to him, attempting to keep his stride purposeful, despite his distinctly shaky legs.

  ‘Tony.’ He fixed his smile in place and extended a hand. ‘How’s business?’

  Ignoring the hand Patrick offered him, Hayes, a short, stocky, heavy-jowled man, gave him a cursory glance, and then turned his attention back to the girl.

  ‘Nice,’ he observed, looking her appreciatively over.

  Patrick did likewise, more than happy to distract Hayes from business with pleasure. She wasn’t bad, he had to admit: lithe and tanned, blonde hair down to her bum. The ankle bracelets were a nice touch. He took in the sequined ankle bands she was wearing along with her black sequined thong. It was the stilettos that did if for Patrick though: six inch heels on long shapely legs. You could keep the rest as far as Patrick was concerned.

  Rewarding the girl with two crisp twenty pound notes, folded and appropriately placed, Hayes reached for his whisky and took a leisurely sip.

  ‘I like what you’ve done with the place.’ He glanced around, taking in the vintage plum coloured walls, rich mahogany woodwork and gilt-edged mirrors, French, nineteenth century, Louis XVI style, which had set Patrick back a bob or two. But then, needs must if you wanted to attract the right clientele. The place looked like a sleaze-pit in his old man’s day. Even Patrick couldn’t blame the town council for trying to shut them down.

  ‘Another drink, Tony?’ Patrick offered. Desperate to keep him sweet, he nodded at a passing waitress, indicating the man’s glass needed topping up. Hayes was here for information, but Patrick was guessing it wasn’t the name of his interior decorator he came for.

  Hayes, though, didn’t want another drink, it seemed. Placing his hand over his glass as the waitress attempted to pour, he pushed himself away from the table and got to his feet, the two heavies at his side immediately shadowing him. ‘I have a prior engagement,’ he said, turning to face Patrick.

  Standing a good few inches taller than Patrick’s five-eight, both of his henchmen looked like pro wrestlers who would enjoy taking him apart, limb from limb. Patrick gulped back a knot in his throat, and hoped the perspiration popping out on his forehead wasn’t too obvious.

  ‘You have news for me, I hope?’ Hayes’ tone was impassive, his expression bland, belying the ruthless bastard he was underneath.

  Patrick felt perspiration now wetting his armpits.

  ‘I’m working on it, Tony,’ he assured him shakily. ‘I have an idea who was involved and I—’

  ‘Ideas don’t pay the bills, Patrick, do they?’ Hayes interrupted flatly. ‘I’ll give you another week,’ he said, and smiled, the look in his arctic blue eyes deceptively amiable.

  His throat suddenly too parched to speak, Patrick gulped again, hard.

  ‘After that, we start seizing goods to recoup our losses,’ Hayes casually examined his well-manicured nails, before looking pointedly back at him, ‘starting with your balls.’

  Sickening apprehension immediately squeezed his pelvis in that particular area, and Patrick searched for a way to stall but came up with nothing.

  ‘I, er, think I might need a little more time than a week, Tony,’ he tried, wishing he’d taken the conversation through to the office, where his humiliation wouldn’t be witnessed. ‘I’ve got people on it as we speak, but—’

  ‘Seven days, Sullivan.’ Hayes stepped past him, his two heavies moving simultaneously with him, both of whom would think nothing of taking Patrick outside and biting his ears off by way of subtle indication of what might come next.

  ‘I don’t care how you do it,’ Hayes imparted, over his shoulder. ‘Burn your poxy club to the ground if you have to and claim on the insurance. I don’t give a toss. If you want to keep hold of any part of your tackle, sort it.’

  With which Hayes headed towards the exit, cueing his henchmen to follow.

  Neanderthals, Patrick thought bitterly, swiping a trail of sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand. Then he drew his shoulders up, lest anyone notice he was rattled, and headed for the bar. He needed a drink. He needed several.

  ‘Gin,’ he snapped, indicating the barman to get his arse over to him pronto. ‘Make it a large one.’

  ‘Ice and a slice, Mr Sullivan?’ the barman enquired pleasantly.

  ‘No, I do not want ice and a fucking slice! Do I look gay, or what!?’ Patrick glared at the kid, a university grad. God help the state of the country. Patrick eyed the two-fingers of gin he was offered despairingly. The idiot wasn’t even capable of serving up a decent drink.

  ‘I said large,’ he seethed, slamming the glass back down and turning to walk around the bar. ‘Christ Al-bloody-mighty, do I have to do everything my …’

  Patrick stopped as he heard a distinct sneer from a table just behind him. Oh, for … His jaw set in a grimace, Patrick eyed the ceiling. Just what he needed. His old man, obviously having decided to stumble in, had witnessed proceedings and was clearly about to revel in his humiliation.

  ‘Patrick.’ His father raised his glass, as Patrick turned to face him. ‘Well done, me boy. Couldn’t have done better meself. Hayes will be quaking in his designer loafers, so he will.’ Taking a drink, his father wiped a hand over his mouth and looked back to Patrick, that same derogatory look in his eye Patrick had suffered since he was knee-high.

  ‘You’d better make that your last.’ Patrick attempted some degree of civility for the sake of paying customers.

  ‘My last, my ever-lovin’ shon, will be when I’ve finished drinking.’ His father slurred, one eye closed and the other unfocused, as he pointed his now empty glass in Patrick’s direction. ‘Meanwhile, it would pay you to concentrate on keeping your balls, yer fucking eejit.’

  ‘You’ve had enough,’ Patrick warned him, seething quietly inside.

  ‘Lucy!’ Ignoring him, his father clicked his fingers and waved his empty bottle, indicating that one of the dancers should bring him another.

  And serve it whilst sitting in his lap, no doubt. Patrick curled a lip, repulsed, as he watched his alcohol-soaked old man openly leering at the girl, who sashayed across willingly enough, bottle in hand and a smile glued to her face. The look in her eyes as she glanced at Patrick, though, told her she didn’t want Michael Sullivan’s sweaty wet paws all over her and his whisky-laden breath in her face. The girls were all much the same to Patrick, dressed in uniform sequined thongs, he couldn’t be arsed to differentiate one from the other, unless they had exceptional ankles, but even he could sympathise.

  ‘Come here, my little temptress.’ His old man slapped his knee, and then reached a hand around the girl, squeezing her backside demonstratively. ‘Dance for me, darlin’,’ he growled. ‘Shove those tempting ripe breasts in me face and let me die a happy man.’

  Patrick watched on, wishing the old bastard would die as he yanked the girl close and buried his face in her cleavage, his hairpiece skewing on his bald head as he did. The drunken old sod was a complete embarrassment. Fury bubbling inside him, Patrick turned back to the bar to down his gin in one.

  He was about to start on another when a crash behind him signalled his old man was on his way out back, stumbling over stools, as per, and cursing liberally as he went.

  Walking back towards Patrick, adjusting her bra-top and looking somewhere between grim and flustered, Lucy eyed him worriedly. ‘He wants me to take him another bottle. Should I?’ she asked.

  Obviously, the mighty Michael Sullivan intended to make use of the office with Lucy after he’d made use of the urinal, as if he was capable of successfully doing either. Reviled, as he watched his f
ather stumble through to the corridor, Patrick had a lightbulb moment. ‘No,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Gesturing the girl to put her abundant assets to better use elsewhere, Patrick went around the bar and selected a Jameson original Irish whiskey. His father normally only ever drank Gold Reserve, but Patrick had a feeling he wouldn’t be savouring the taste of it tonight.

  Chapter Five

  ‘So, you followed in your father’s footsteps then?’ Steve asked, making idle conversation, as they waited outside Sullivan’s residence, set in its own private grounds, complete with tennis courts and swimming pool. If there were any justice, the pool man would over-chlorinate it and Sullivan would choke to death. Matthew amused himself with the thought. Then again, that wouldn’t be a painful enough way for an evil runt the likes of Sullivan to go.

  ‘Something like that,’ Matthew shrugged an answer and reached for his coffee, which was lukewarm, and really wasn’t satiating his thirst for something stronger. ‘I doubt I’ll make DCI anytime soon though.’

  ‘You don’t fancy another pip on your epaulette then?’

  ‘Maybe. Sometime.’ Matthew shrugged again and took a drink from his cup. Assuming he wasn’t up on a charge himself, that was. The need to get Sullivan off the streets was so all-consuming sometimes he was sorely tempted to look at alternatives to the legal way.

  ‘Still on the force, is he, the old man?’ Obviously aware of his father’s ranking, Steve pursued the conversation, though Matthew would much rather he didn’t.