by Robin Flett
The rusting handle moved surprisingly easily and the door opened on heavy duty hinges. A good bit more substantial than it looked from outside. Inside two powerful bare bulbs hung from frayed lengths of wire attached to the curved ceiling, illuminating an Aladdin's cave of motor cycle frames, spare parts, accessories and clothing. Some of it new but most appearing used and clearly second hand. Probably some of the erstwhile owners had not yet realized they had made a donation to private enterprise.
Against the front wall stood, or leaned, an extended cubicle made of plywood tacked to a timber frame. It was topped with a mixture of clear corrugated plastic sheeting and tatty roofing felt. The door, obviously created by the same craftsman, hung slackly as if the lower hinge was missing. Hollis automatically checked the place visually but the only sign of life was the pair of legs propped up on a wooden chair piled with magazines in the office.
Blind Jimmy was, inevitably, not blind at all. But he was pretty short-sighted judging by the bullseye-like lenses in his spectacles. In his fifties, the skin of his face and neck was strangely slack and creased, as if it were too big for him. Hollis' impression was of someone who had once been badly overweight and had been left with a permanent legacy of stretched skin covering his now-reduced frame. The apparition took another swig from a can of beer and set it back on the plastic table that served him for a desk. Behind him was another bare wooden door with a shiny new plastic label off centre proclaiming the word "GENTS".
'Yeah, what is it?' the man squinted at Hollis, his eyes grossly magnified through the thick lenses under the flat cap.
'You're Jimmy?' asked Hollis, although there could hardly be much doubt about it.
'I'm Jimmy. Who're you?' The legs came down off the magazines as the owner yawned and stretched.
'What's in a name? I'm told you have a lot of contacts,' Hollis waved a hand at the merchandise visible through the grimy office window, 'in the trade.'
'I know everybody, everybody knows me, what you lookin' for?'
'Not what, who. I need a couple of lads who know about bikes to help me with a small problem. They wouldn't want to be too worried about how they earn their money.'
'What do ye think this is? A fuckin' employment agency?'
'You know everybody, right?' Hollis reached into his pocket and put three twenties on the tabletop. 'You'll be telling me next that you've got receipts for all that stuff out there,' he jerked a thumb.
'What the fuck's that to you?' said Jimmy, with his eyes fixed firmly on the banknotes.
'Doesn't matter to me where it came from. Let's just say you've got a wide range of suppliers, in all walks of life. Think how grateful a couple of them will be when you put some easy money their way.'
'Two lads?'
'That's right. Probably be a bit of rough stuff so they'll need to know how to take care of themselves.'
'Couple of hard men, eh?' Jimmy screwed up his eyes at Hollis and picked his nose. ‘What makes you think I would know anyone like that?’
Hollis ignored him. 'As long as they know how to take a bike apart without making a fuss about it.'
‘Somebody upset you, have they?’ The now-empty beer can rattled into a battered five-gallon drum serving as a dustbin.
‘Bastard’s cheque bounced, now I want my bike back. But I’m going to need some help to get it. Problem is it might have to be dismantled and brought out in bits.’
‘And if he catches you at it … ?’
‘That’s right.’
Jimmy mulled it over for a minute and then made the twenties disappear. 'A couple of lads come in here now and again with bits and pieces. Good stuff usually. I don't know 'em well but the word around here is that you don't mess with either of them if you like to keep both legs working. I do business and don't ask questions, we get on fine. You sure they're the kind of lads you want?'
'I think they'll be just the lads I want,’ said Hollis truthfully. ‘Where can I find them?'
'Jimmy looked around him and finally tore a corner from one of the magazine covers. He scribbled on it with a surprisingly expensive-looking pen, leaning close to focus through the thick lenses.
'This is my phone number.' He handed over the scrap of paper. 'Ring me around five, I'll tell you where and when.'
Hollis gave him a hard look and saw the message go across. don't fuck me about.
Blind Jimmy watched until the outer door closed behind him.
'What do you think he wants?'
Jimmy looked round at the youth standing in the toilet doorway, his hooded dark eyes unblinking in the harsh light from the uncovered bulb above them.
The older man tucked the twenty pound notes into his trouser pocket. 'Christ knows, Al. What do ye want me to tell him when he phones?'
The youth scratched his unshaven chin. 'Set it up for tonight. Get him here for ten or so. I'll talk to Con, see what he says.'
'Okay.'
It was getting on for fully dark before the gray female cat emerged from the derelict shed leaning drunkenly in what had once been someone's garden. It was a dry mild evening, ideal for hunting and she had four kittens tucked away inside which were old enough now to need solid food. She herself hadn't eaten since yesterday.
In a place like this there would never be a rodent shortage, despite the best attentions of numerous stray cats and dogs to which this dreary place resembled a five-star hotel. She carefully skirted the overgrown path, jumping the last couple of feet across a patch of weeds onto the pavement. From there she crossed the road and walked slowly down to what had been a small ornamental wall separating two more ex-gardens. The wall provided a convenient passage to the rear where the embankment rose up to meet the canalside. It was dark here and she hunched up on her favourite spot atop the final section of wall to wait with the eternal patience of her kind.
Nearly fifteen minutes later a tiny rustle came from the dry grass off to one side. The gray cat's eyes blinked once to lubricate the lenses even as the wedge-shaped head snapped round. Triangulating on the source of the noise using the stereo input from the pricked ears. Her pupils were hugely dilated now and fully adapted to the darkness, gathering what little light there was and feeding it into the cornea for amplification and transmission upwards into the processing centres in the predator's brain.
For another three minutes she crouched there, just another dark shadow among shadows. Slowly her jaws opened and moved in the characteristic silent chitter––the prey was close now, the scent of it was strong in her nostrils although she had yet to see anything of it at all. Her ears twitched, following the almost non-existent sounds of something making it's way through the overgrown grass and weeds. Once she tensed rigid as a flowering stalk swayed gently. The cat was fully focused now, knowing nothing except the minuscule sounds and the familiar smell of the rodent below her. The superb hearing of untold generations of hunters could pick up it's breathing now: so close. Slowly she filled her lungs with air, flooding the muscles throughout her body with oxygen to power the spring, and it was finally time. At the last moment, as she dropped through the darkness with feline grace and in total silence she caught sight of the brown-black body and extended tail …
In the evening darkness the place didn't look quite so bad. Hollis drove past the lockup, taking care not to draw attention to himself by slowing down. He noted the light escaping underneath the ill-fitting door and the dark-coloured Audi parked outside. Fair enough.
This time he wanted the Range Rover out of sight, with nothing to connect it to whatever might follow. Four blocks further on he swung wide in a T-junction and headed back the way he had come, turning right into a side street and slowing to look for a suitable parking slot.
'Jesus!' The car jerked to a halt, his right foot kicking down automatically on the brake pedal, narrowly missing the dark shape that shot across the road in front of him.
'Bloody cat!' Hollis muttered. As if hearing his exasperation, the gray cat stopped on the far side in the shelter of a hedge and l
ooked back, a limp brown bundle dangling in her mouth. She watched the car move off again and pull in further along. Satisfied that there was no threat to her family she turned again into the darkness and was gone.
Mike Hollis carefully checked the environment from inside the car, but all was quiet. Taking a short length of wooden dowel from the door pocket, he applied pressure to compress the spring powering his home-made weapon and locked it in position with the trigger mechanism. From the same door pocket came a slim, thirty-centimetre-long meat skewer with the loop forming one end flattened out at right angles and shaped to provide a pad for the spring to push against. Hopelessly inaccurate at anything past a few feet range of course but that was all right. The skewer slipped into the tube freely, leaving a finger’s length of wickedly pointed stainless steel protruding. A single strip of masking tape fastened the crude weapon to the inside lining of his jacket.
He looked for the cat as he walked back to the corner, but there was no sign to show that any living creature had ever been there. Presumably the large rat it had been carrying was providing dinner about now.
The voices inside stopped abruptly when Hollis pushed the door open and stepped over the coaming. The little office space was empty and there was no sign of Blind Jimmy. That was good although Hollis still harboured suspicions about him. It seemed pretty unlikely he could be so casually ignorant of where his merchandise came from and how, on occasions, it was obtained.
And these two appeared to have the run of the place.
The two youths stood in the middle of the floor, clearly waiting for their visitor. Both of them wore identical expressions of sneering contempt for the world in general. They watched Hollis in silence: a nondescript man in his forties with sandy hair and narrowed eyes, wearing a green waxed jacket. The apparition stopped in front of them, well out of reach.
'We're closed, pal.'
Hollis noted the "we", it appeared that Blind Jimmy had partners right enough. Not much of a surprise. 'Jimmy phoned me,' said Hollis simply.
There was an uneasy silence.
'Aye right, you're the guy who's lookin' for a couple of hard men, eh?' They both sniggered.
Hollis looked from one to the other. Only one of the pair had spoken so far. The silent one was the more heavily built of the two with an almost permanent smirk on his face. As Hollis watched, he reached up with one hand and scratched his crew-cut head. Not really a lot of doubt about it but anyway––
Hollis turned back to the speaker. 'You're Conway Moloney?' He gestured with his left hand.
Moloney gave him a hard look, he knew Blind Jimmy wouldn’t have mentioned any names, even on the phone. And anyway, this guy didn’t look right. His manner was all wrong for a man who apparently wanted someone taught a painful lesson. And he didn’t look intimidated in the slightest. Moloney was used to people being nervous in his presence; he exuded an air of menace entirely unconsciously.
'Who the fuck are you?' he muttered, 'That's what matters.'
Hollis walked slowly over to a rack of leather trousers, might as well get them used to some movement. He would gain an extra second or two when it kicked off. 'I was told that Con Moloney and his … friend are good at stripping bikes.' The deliberate pause and innuendo wasn't lost on either of them. Two pairs of eyes went very blank and the bigger one lost his smile for the first time.
Hollis waited for the explosion.
'I'm gonna re-arrange your fuckin' face, pal!'
'Leave it, Con,' said crew cut between his teeth. 'What's your game?' If this pratt was CID or something then there was no point in letting themselves be provoked. People just didn't walk in here out of the night and insult them like this. No-one was that stupid, it wasn't healthy.
Hollis let go of the leather jacket he had been pretending to examine. He had all the proof he wanted, there was no point in wasting any further time. That front door wasn’t locked and anybody could come walking in here. 'The word is that you two put a guy in the hospital last week when he caught you stealing parts from his bike.'
'What?' The two exchanged a glance.
'Benview Street, beside Ruchill Park,’ said Hollis evenly. ‘Gojo MacRae. You beat him up pretty bad, just because he caught a pair of thieves stealing his bike!'
'Crap! Nothin’ to do with us.’ Another glance crossed between them. ‘What's it to you anyway, friend of yours is he?'
'That's right.'
A friend, yes. One of the very few, very few , humans on this damned planet that he would turn his back on. And besides, there were debts to repay: albeit that they only existed in his own mind.
Al Hendry found himself staring into a pair of gray eyes that were even more stone-like than his own. The first vestige of uncertainty passed through his mind. Something was very badly wrong with this. The bastard should be shitting himself, coming in here alone and spouting this crap. Didn’t he know what was going to happen to him?
Moloney was clearly having difficulty with his temper, but the other one would be first. Hollis knew the signs. These two pea-brained thugs had no idea just how far outside their own league they were now. If you only knew how many people I’ve––killed––over the years! They were clearly puzzled that he wasn’t intimidated coming here, to the dragon’s den. Like any mindless predator, they felt safe on their home ground.
'Who the fuck are you?' Moloney wanted to know.
'Nemesis.'
'What?' Moloney looked mystified.
Crew-cut reached over to where stack of three cardboard boxes stood on the floor. He brought out a short rounded baton. As Gojo had suspected, it was in fact an ex-police truncheon––many of which were unofficially weighted with a lead core: It made it easier to subdue the violent types at chucking-out time. Hollis looked at it with some amusement and reflected that it was the first time he had actually seen one close up.
Moloney was much slower off the mark and had barely begun to move his weight forward when he saw the stranger's right hand slip inside his jacket and heard an odd ripping noise. This was followed almost immediately by a metallic twang and Al Hendry started yelling. But there was no time to think about that any more because he was nearly close enough and the blood was singing in his veins with the anticipation of being able to beat the leaving shit out of this son of a bitch––
Hollis watched with detached professional interest to see the effectiveness of his home made spring gun. He wasn't disappointed.
No-one but an idiot would try for a wounding leg or arm shot under these circumstances. That sort of bravado only works in Hollywood. The torso forms the largest target area of the human body, invitingly large and containing many vital areas. This becomes all the more important under duress, when any form of aiming is out of the question.
Given the necessarily primitive weapon, Hollis thought he hadn't done badly. It had been difficult to make full allowance for the jerk of the spring and he had shot high, but that was all right.
The steel meat skewer arrowed into crew cut's throat at an angle just below his Adam's apple, ripping through his larynx. Only the flattened butt end prevented it passing straight through and exiting from the back of his neck. But Hollis was already turning away, swinging round to meet Moloney, his left arm coming up palm outwards in a sweeping block. The now-empty aluminium tube in his other hand cracked Moloney viciously on the temple and sent him reeling into the wall of the tiny office.
Hollis briefly turned to guard his back but there were only muted gurgles coming from the writhing bundle on the floor. Ignore.
Something heavy crashed into his legs and brought him down sprawling, scattering spray cans of paint in all directions. He felt rather than saw Moloney’s fist clubbing for him and twisted to one side, taking the strike on his upper arm and using the impetus from it to roll on one shoulder, coming up in a crouch.
Moloney’s tried a wild kick at Hollis’ face but the American jerked his head aside, feeling the wind of it passing. A long stride took Moloney across to an extensive
but much-used toolkit, and by the time Hollis got to his feet he was facing a large screwdriver, held like some obscene bulbous carving knife.
Well now. Hollis felt a strong sense of deja-vu. Memories of numerous street-fights when he was a teenager surged to the surface. Not to mention the hours spent trying to stay alive while the Army’s unarmed-combat instructors took the recruits apart and then showed them the right way to do it.
Hollis stepped forward one pace, which shook Moloney to the core. You don’t walk up to someone who so obviously intends to do you severe physical harm with a lethal weapon. At this point blind fury, generated primarily by fear, completely overwhelmed common sense. He struck out, the full weight of his upper body behind the lunge.
Hollis stepped to his left and rotated his hips and upper torso to the right, brushing the grimy tool past with both hands. Moloney was still staggering when the heel of the American’s left shoe slammed into the outside of his right knee.
The pain was indescribable. Moloney cried out involuntarily, feeling the leg buckle under him, and feeling also the red hot agony of badly torn ligaments and dislocated joint. Hollis completed the turn, pivoting now on his forward foot and mule-kicked Moloney between the shoulder blades even as he fell. There was an almighty crash as the youth impacted heavily into a pile of engine parts.
Hollis stepped over and looked down at the groaning figure. Bending down, he grasped his attacker’s head in both hands, heaving him up and then smashing him down face first into the concrete floor. The sickening crunch was followed almost instantly by a spreading pool of blood.
Mike Hollis surveyed what he had done. The gurgling had ceased now and by the look of his ashen face, crew cut was not much longer for this world. He was drowning in his own blood, and tough luck. Moloney would probably survive, but he would need some reconstructive surgery at the very least. That is if anyone could be bothered. He wasn't, after all, a major asset to society. Hollis retrieved the aluminium tube and slipped it into an inside pocket. He would dispose of it far away from here.