Must be the best part of ten minutes now since Glass went dancing. Still down there, putting all sorts of effort into looking cool for his girl. Truth is, most of the men are older than Glass, most of them are either pissed or off their face on something. He may just be the coolest dancer out there. All relative, obviously.
Peterkinney still hasn’t spoken to the girl, and it looks like he never will. Another man has just walked past Peterkinney, over to the girl. Standing at the side of her, his back to Peterkinney. It’s a big back, that’s as much as Peterkinney can decipher. Tall fellow, broad shoulders, short hair. Sort of fellow you don’t want to pick a fair fight with. You can guess his occupation from that, presumptuous as that might be.
The big fellow is pulling out the chair that Glass’s dance partner was sitting in. He’s leaning close to the silent girl and saying something to her. Too quiet to hear over the music. She’s looking back at him. Peterkinney’s just tall enough to see her face over the slouching man’s shoulder. She looks unhappy. A little frightened perhaps. She looks like she doesn’t want to be a part of anything the new arrival has brought to the table. She’s saying something to him, nodding her head back towards Peterkinney.
Doesn’t matter that she’s sat there and ignored him since Glass and his girl went dancing. Doesn’t matter that she has no more enthusiasm for him than she has for being set on fire. She’s obviously scared of this guy. That makes Peterkinney take notice. Maybe not enough notice to help her, mind you. He might only be nineteen, but he’s a smart nineteen. The kind that knows how to avoid trouble, by and large. But when the big guy turns round and looks at him with that ugly, beaten face of snorting contempt, it seals the deal. The damsel has herself a potential saviour.
‘You’re with her?’ the big guy’s saying.
A slight pause. The big guy is too dumb, drunk, high and dumb a second time round to notice it. It’s indecision. The girl recognizes it. There’s a pleading look on her face. Yeah, she gets that look now. Where was that ten minutes ago? Anyway, he’s helping. Helping because, smart as he is, he can be vicious too. That little streak that needs to be let out once in a while. Like now.
‘Yeah, I’m with her.’
Big guy’s turn to pause. A nose that’s been broken more than once. Lips that have been burst. The puffed and ugly look of a man who can’t say no to a good fight. A slow smile spreading across his face. The smile he gets when he’s thought of something clever. A smile he doesn’t get often.
‘So why are there two chairs between you then, huh? Two fucking chairs. What for?’
‘Our friends were sitting there,’ Peterkinney’s saying. His voice is loud, has to be over the music. But it’s steady, and his expression is calm. He feels calm, as a matter of fact. Dancing with danger, and he’s not nervous. He has the moves to keep up. ‘Now they’re dancing.’
But the big guy is still grinning. Sitting between the aspiring couple, turning in the chair to leer at Peterkinney. ‘I been watching since your mates went down there,’ he’s saying. Slurring his words and nodding his head down the three steps to the dance floor. ‘You ain’t said a fucking word since then. Neither of you has.’
‘You ever been in the sort of relationship where you don’t need to talk all the time? Where you can just be happy to be together?’ Peterkinney is asking. There’s smugness in the tone, even when shouting. ‘Course you haven’t, a guy like you. I feel sorry for you.’
The big guy’s not going to sit there and take that. You’re a big guy, and you work as muscle. The only thing you have is reputation. You let people make fun of you and get away with it, what have you got left then? You’re soft muscle, and nobody’s going to pay good money for that. So he’s standing up and he’s glaring at Peterkinney. Ready to make this a fight. His first instinct, every time.
‘Come on, get up,’ the big guy’s shouting. ‘Come on.’ Shouting so loud people are looking. Loud enough to be more than a regular shout.
Peterkinney’s looking up at him. Smiling. Not planning on getting up. He wants to sit where he is, try and force the big guy to back down. But it’s not up to Peterkinney.
The big guy is lurching forwards. A big boot crashing into the side of Peterkinney’s chair, a hand shoving him on the shoulder. Tipping him and the chair sideways. The big guy stumbling with the effort, but getting what he wanted. Peterkinney sprawled on the floor. It’s embarrassing, but it’s no more than that. Getting caught out by the big guy. Being face down on the floor, everyone looking. It’s a humiliation, not a hurt. Humiliation doesn’t keep you down.
Peterkinney’s getting to his feet. The big guy is turning to look at the girl, grinning at her. She’s stony faced. No change there then. She thinks her rescuer has lost the fight already. Peterkinney’s getting to his feet, slowly. Considering his options before he picks the right one. Another new situation. You can handle it any number of ways. Laugh it off. The girl is nothing to him. Why should he take a risk on her behalf ? But then it happens again and again. People see you as a guy that can easily be tipped off his chair. A guy that can be pushed around. No, don’t want to be one of those. Seen what happens to them. That’s not a life Peterkinney’s going to accept for himself. Won’t get him where he wants to go. You could try and bluff it. Talk the talk, play it out and hope it never turns nasty. Nah, any smart person will know you’re a fraud, and it’s the smart people you need to impress. You have to take the fight. Accept it, win it.
So now, in the second split second since he stood up, Peterkinney is thinking strategy. How do you win a fight you shouldn’t win? This guy’s bigger. Tougher. Definitely more experienced. If this is a fair fight, Peterkinney loses. So it can’t be a fair fight, obviously. That means a weapon. None to hand. Create one. Only option. Might not be popular in a place like this, but anything’s better than being humiliated by this moron.
Peterkinney’s turned to face the big guy. Smiling slightly at him. Keeping it smug. Let him think that Peterkinney isn’t nervous in the least. He is a little nervous now, but knows he should be more nervous. This could go very wrong, but that’s okay, because he’s decided it’s still the right thing to do. He’s standing beside the table, taking a casual glance at it. Picking up a champagne glass. Not his. Someone must have been at the table drinking it before they got there. Holding it casually in his hand for about half a second, then slowly bringing it down against the edge of the table. When it breaks, more of the glass falls away than he expected. Enough left to constitute a weapon. Enough left to intimidate.
The big guy is looking at him. Still grinning, but it’s an uncertain effort now. The silent girl’s eyes have gone wider. There’s noticeably less movement around the club. People are watching. The people nearest them turning first, then the rest turning to see what everyone else is looking at. The key, having smashed the glass, is to not take any more initiative. Make sure people think you’re using it only in defence. Otherwise you look like a nutter, and people blame you instead of the big guy.
‘Why don’t you fuck off,’ Big Guy is saying. Still smiling, still uncertain. This moved out of his control real quick. Not used to someone else escalating matters like this. Smashing the glass was his kind of move.
Peterkinney’s about to say something when a figure moves between him and the big guy. It’s Glass. Pushing out his chest, standing on his tiptoes and still only reaching Big Guy’s chin.
‘Why don’t you fuck off instead,’ he’s saying. Sounds childish. The little guy trying to be the big hero, but there’s more to it. Looking to throw himself in the middle of the fight, sure. Also looking to stop Peterkinney from using that broken glass. Protecting his friend from himself, as much as this big lump.
‘You’re a pair of fucking idiots,’ the big guy is saying, emphasizing pair. Already looking for a way out. Trying to make it clear to everyone in earshot that it’s two against one. That a man of his standing shouldn’t have to bother with this sort of thing. Trying to make a withdrawal look like a victory.
‘They’d have to go some to be as big an idiot as you are, Fraser,’ a voice is interrupting.
Peterkinney and Glass turning. Looking at the middle-aged man at the other end of the table. Standing up, watching the conflict. He looks angry. He looks important. That’s enough to silence all of them. Balding on top, a middle-aged spread. Short fellow, good suit, takes more care of his hair than he should. Nothing much to look at, frankly. But there’s a look on his face that straddles the border between angry and bored. The look of a man who doesn’t like his night out being interrupted by those less important. A look that says he’s used to people doing just exactly what he tells them. He’s telling Fraser to back off.
Fraser, obviously the big guy, is looking at him too. Just staring back. Not saying anything. Leaving it too long. Anything he said now would sound too considered. Taking a step back. Trying to stare down the more important man, but not willing to open his mouth. Now turning and stepping down to the dance floor. Peterkinney and Glass are watching him go, walking along the edge of the floor to the exit.
As soon as he’s gone, Peterkinney is turning to Glass. Nodding a thank you, getting a nod back.
‘Find a bin for that,’ Glass is saying. Sooner the mess is cleared up, sooner everyone chooses to forget about what they saw. If there’s no evidence, no consequence, there’s no need to let it spoil a good night.
Peterkinney is gathering up the bigger bits of glass he can find. Glass is leading his girl back to the table, exaggerating his gentlemanly performance. Hoping he’s scored a few macho points. The silent girl is moving seat, dropping into Glass’s seat before he can take it. Making sure she’s next to Peterkinney now. He’s standing up with the glass in his hands. Smiling at the girl, who’s now smiling back. That’s a step forwards.
Now he’s turning to look at the middle-aged man who stepped in to help. Too late. He’s already sitting back down, whispering something to the girl next to him. She looks like a teenager. A pretty teenager. Not one of the bottle-blonde, orange skin brigade. There’s a few of them here, but not many. Marty’s more discerning than that. He knows his clients look for something better. Something that gives the appearance of being a higher class, even when it’s not. The aura of unattainability; nothing sells better. No point interrupting. That wouldn’t be any kind of a thank you.
There was a bin over by the doorway. He tipped the broken glass into it. On the way over and the way back, three people patted him on the back. A couple of others gave him a smile and a nod. Men and women. People here to party, and people here to work. Obviously Fraser was not a popular partygoer. Back at the table, sitting in his seat. Someone’s tipped it back the right way. On the tabletop there are white lines ready. Silent Girl is passing him a note and smiling. It suits her. The party’s starting.
7
Had a couple of drinks, which was a couple more than he intended. Now going to visit a friend of his. Well, friend’s the wrong word. Old associate. They knew each other a long time ago. Back when they both had hair and good health. Been a while since Arnie Peterkinney had either of those. At least as long for Roy Bowles. Roy’s a few years older than Arnie, mind you. Roy is sixty-six, Arnie three years younger.
Been a while since they had any kind of a conversation. Shouldn’t be an issue. You go a long time without talking to people, but they don’t forget who you are. They sure as hell don’t forget what you’ve done. Not if they’re any kind of smart. And Roy Bowles is all kinds of smart. That’s why he’s lasted so long in this business. So long since the police even looked twice at him. He knows what he’s doing, and always has done. That’s why he’s the right man to talk to.
There’s a reason why it’s been a long time since Arnie spoke to Roy Bowles. Since he spoke to anyone in the business. Arnie takes no pride in some of the things he did to make money back in the day. Nothing too extreme. He avoided the worst of what could be done, but he made some extra money doing things decent people should frown upon. He always thought he was decent. Always wanted to be. Spent most of his life doing legitimate jobs, working hard. But no great training, no great brain at work and no great luck. So he lost jobs. Never his own fault, but shit happens. Had to find some way of making money. On a few occasions he helped out old friends he shouldn’t have been friends with.
One of those old friends was Roy Bowles. Roy was always sneaky. The quiet guy. You never quite knew what he did for a living. You knew it was illegal, and you didn’t ask more than that. Arnie knew. It was guns. Always was. Bowles has been handling them for the best part of forty years now. Selling them to all kinds of scum. Doesn’t care about the consequences, because the consequences have nothing to do with him.
Arnie didn’t sell them for Roy, he collected them. When someone was selling a gun to Bowles, Bowles wanted a layer of protection. An employee who could go and pick the gun up from the seller. Someone smart enough to handle a nervous seller and tough enough to handle a dishonest one. There was never rough stuff for Arnie. Willing seller, willing buyer. But Bowles was a wary soul. So Arnie worked for him a couple of times over the years. Never for longer than he had to. Always glad to leave. You don’t get a slap on the wrist for handling guns.
Now he’s going back. Not for himself. He’s approaching Roy’s house to scrounge a job for someone else. Ringing the doorbell. Good lord, it’s late. Should not have stayed in the pub. Needed to steel himself for this. It’s going to be awkward. Begging. Never mind, one thing he learned about Roy is that Roy is not a fan of sleep.
Door’s opening. A look of surprise from Roy.
‘Arnie.’ A pause. ‘Good to see you.’ Sounded almost like a question, the unconvincing way he said it.
‘Roy. Too late in the day to have a quick conversation?’
They’re in Roy’s living room. He’s insisted on making a cup of tea for them. Not what Arnie’s bladder needed. They’re sitting, talking a little about old times. Small talk. Tiny, in fact. Neither one of them cares at all about the conversation.
‘So what brings you here in the dead of night?’ Roy’s asking.
‘I knew you’d be up,’ Arnie’s shrugging. ‘That never changes.’ Roy used to be up all night, even when he was married. Even when he was married with a kid. Arnie would get phone calls from him at two o’clock in the bloody morning. That was the nature of his business. Not many people want to buy or sell guns in the middle of the day. It was a night-time pursuit, and Roy lived accordingly. ‘I need to ask you a favour.’
Roy’s frowning a little. Not easy to spot the frown on that lined face with the beady little eyes, but it’s there. That was how Arnie used to start the conversations when he was looking for work. Roy remembers those reluctant conversations. Arnie hating the job but needing the money. Roy uncomfortable at having such an unhappy employee. He has a good memory. Another part of what makes him good at his work.
‘Don’t worry,’ Arnie’s saying with a knowing smile, ‘it’s not for me.’ He remembers those conversations too. Arnie knows he’s too old and too long out of the business to work for Roy now. Things have changed since he last did a job for Roy. Must be close to twenty years. Close to ten since they had more than a passing word to say to each other. Now he turns up looking for a favour. Yeah, he knows how that looks. ‘It’s for my grandson.’
Roy’s nodding a little. Non-committal. He doesn’t know anything about Arnie’s grandson. Didn’t know the boy was old enough to work. Better hear it out. You never know. Sometimes you end up unearthing a gem from these kinds of conversations. Rarely, but sometimes. ‘Go on.’
‘He’s nineteen. He’s a good kid. Sharp as they come. Needs to find some work though. You know how it is out there. There’s nothing at all. The boy’s living with me. It’s not where he wants to be. He’s desperate to get out into the world and do something, but . . .’
That’s half the story. The half that Roy Bowles needs to know about. He doesn’t need to know that Arnie’s worried about the boy. Hanging around with h
alfwits like Alex Glass. Half-witted friends are no big deal. Where they lead you can become a big deal. As soon as Arnie heard mention of Marty Jones, he knew he had to do something. So here he is, doing something. Finding an alternative. Not a big leap up from Marty, but better. If Oliver insists on working for someone that isn’t above board, it might as well be someone reliable. Someone who isn’t going to end up inside, with Oliver in the next cell. Marty is a disaster waiting to happen.
‘So he’s looking for work. What’s he done?’
This is where it starts to get awkward. Having to admit that Oliver’s in no way the best person for the job. Times like this, so many people looking for work, Roy could have his pick. ‘Not a lot so far. Like I said, he’s a kid. But he’s a smart kid. A good judge of a situation. Sharp, you know. Clean record. I know I’m his grandfather so you’d expect me to say this, but he’s a kid who’s worth a chance.’
Arnie’s opinion was always solid, but that’s not worth anything now. Arnie doesn’t know the business now. And he can’t be a proper judge of his own grandchild.
‘Does the kid know you’re here?’ Roy’s asking.
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘So how do you know that he wants to work for me?’
‘He’s desperate to make a start,’ Arnie’s saying. Thinking of him, hanging around people like Marty Jones. Sure, Arnie hasn’t been around the business much these last twenty years. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t know about Marty and his kind. A fucking pimp. That’s not the worst of it. A bloody debt collector too. Preying on the weak and vulnerable. Snaring them in a money trap and bleeding them dry. Ruining their lives. Anything is better than that. ‘The boy will be thrilled with a job with you, Roy, I know it. He’ll take the chance if you give him it. He’s a good long-term option.’ Throwing in the reference to long-term, because he knows Roy will like that.
The Night the Rich Men Burned Page 5