Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  The first sign that all wasn’t right was the actual sign itself. The neon sign that read ‘The Blue Orchid’ above the entrance wasn’t switched on. And the door was locked. She rang the bell; there was no answer. Gino, the manager, should have been there by now to open up. She had given him firm instructions: it was business as usual until further notice. She fished around in her handbag and hooked out the keys, turned them in the brass lock and the door opened. It was dark and silent inside. She threw on the lights and saw the place was empty. She went into the back office and discovered the safe open – nothing had been taken, as no money was kept there, just some legal documents – and drawers had been searched. She felt spooked and went straight back home.

  Once inside the flat, she went to call Gino and find out what was going on. The address book was a novelty one: red Bakelite with a silver dial. She put her finger in the ‘G’ slot for Gino – and was thrown into darkness as the lights suddenly went out. They had gone out in the whole building. She started going downstairs to check, but heard someone climbing the stairs and ran back inside, bolted and double-locked the door. She tried to call the police but, as soon as she put the receiver to her ear, she realized the line was dead. With a waxing moon and the street lights outside, Bobbie soon adjusted to loss of light inside the flat, and clearly saw, and heard, the front door handle turning quickly.

  A pause. Someone, moving back from the door. Not to walk away from it, but to enable a run-up. Then a forceful weight against the door, the dull but powerful thud of someone trying to shoulder his way in. A second, harder, attempt indicated the intruder really getting into his stride. Under its impact, the whole wall groaned, joists screamed and paint cracked. As strong as the door was, as new and secure as the locks were, Bobbie was losing faith in them holding out. She could now see movement: the door buckling under the force. Such was its power that she imagined a charging rhinoceros outside.

  She went over to the heavy black-lacquered bureau, the one Vince had slid across the door before there was a lock. It was heavy, however; just as heavy as it looked. She put all her weight behind it, which wasn’t a lot, and tried to push it over to the door, to act as a barricade. The next onslaught on the door saw wood splitting along the frame. Inching the heavy bureau across the parquet flooring of the front-door entrance, she was filled with a sense of dread and impending doom that sapped her strength. On the next muscular ram from the rhino, the doorknob flew off. With a good four feet still to go, Bobbie gave up on her makeshift barricade, ran to the kitchen, opened a drawer and pulled out a carving knife. Then she remembered the gun that Vince had stashed away in the heavy black bureau. She also remembered Vince’s advice about never firing it, and knew this was no time for props that might blow up in her face. If she had to have a weapon, she wanted one that at least worked. There was a heavy torch in the cupboard under the sink, so she picked it up, too.

  Gripping the torch and the carving knife in either hand, she went back out to the living room; and took an intake of breath that hit the back of her throat like a blast of freezing air. The door was wide open. The rhino was in the room. She turned on the torch, her hands shaking, and shone the beam of light erratically. Slashes of light tore through the dark until the beam settled on something unfamiliar. In one corner of the room, a closed eye. With its complex of scar tissue, it looked like a small plate of spaghetti. The eye then opened. Milky, marbled and dead. Henry Pierce was standing in the corner of the room. Not expecting the torch to pick him out amongst the heavy black shapes of the furniture in the room, his plan to locate his prey and then pounce was now foiled. But no matter.

  ‘Hello, my dear.’

  He’d always referred to Bobbie in such terms as My dear, and it always made her skin crawl. He reminded her of some benevolent old uncle who would always turn nasty once the parents were away and the lights were out. And now they were. And now he was about to start.

  ‘What’s that in your hand?’ Pierce asked.

  ‘What do you want?’ A stupid question. And one he didn’t bother answering.

  ‘I’ve got one of those, too. Sharp and pointy.’

  ‘One of what?’

  ‘One of’ – swooosh ‘– these!’

  Pierce held up the sword stick that he had drawn from its white wooden sheath. The ruse walking stick that hid a much darker and deadlier purpose.

  Bobbie moved backwards, hoping to circumnavigate this nightmare and make it to safety downstairs.

  ‘Stay right there – right where I can see you.’

  She froze, never having expected to hear those words come out of Pierce’s mouth. Then she realized that his black glasses were off. She slowly sidled to the left, then to the right, but his one good eye, like an annoying portrait, continued following her around the room. His bad eye was frightening her even more.

  ‘You’re not really … blind?’

  ‘None so blind as those who cannot see.’

  He moved out from the corner and loped over to the heavy black wooden bureau, and with just one hand he pushed it up against the doorway, as if it was a mock-up, movie-set prop fashioned out of balsa wood.

  Bobbie now knew she was in for a long and painful night.

  Vaughn sat back in the rocking chair, the gun still trained on his brother.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Vince.

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘Whilst we’re waiting, d’you mind if I run a few things by you? Just for my own curiosity.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like who gave you the heroin?’

  Vaughn gave a sour smile. ‘Guess.’

  ‘The stuff comes from Jack Regent, brought in by Max Vogel, is my guess. But you wouldn’t be dealing with either of those two – no offence, Vaughn, but you’re too far down the pecking order.’

  Vaughn’s sour smile curdled and then died on his face.

  ‘So, that leaves Henry Pierce. Why would he give it to you?’

  ‘I did some work for him.’

  ‘Driving?’

  ‘And other stuff.’ Eager to impress now. ‘Wanna know?’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘The body on the beach, that was me.’

  Vince didn’t move a muscle, involuntarily or otherwise. It seemed that the age of great surprises was over for him. This was the time for twisted ironies.

  Vaughn, back with the smirk, proud of his job. ‘I chopped its head and hands off and dumped it.’

  ‘That makes sense. The job was botched.’

  ‘I followed Henry’s instructions, to the letter.’

  ‘The blind leading the blind.’

  ‘Henry ain’t blind. It’s just an act to keep the coppers off his back. Who’s gonna mess with a blind man?’

  All Vince’s hunches were coming to pass. The intruder in Bobbie’s flat could only have been Pierce. That wasn’t the work of a blind man stumbling around in the dark. ‘The body was meant to be found then, because the job was meant to be botched. That makes sense. If you want a botch job, you’re the man to do it, Vaughn. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t even botch the botch job by doing it right and never having the body turning up.’

  Vaughn took a few moments to work out that it was an insult, then he spat out, ‘Shut your mouth!’

  ‘Do you know who killed the man you buried?’

  Vaughn nodded, savouring his gangster moment. ‘Top London boys. We picked up the stiff in Soho.’

  Vince feigned impressed. ‘Friends of yours?’

  Vaughn took a cigarette out of his coat pocket, lit it from one of the candles on the table, then took a long, satisfied and noisy drag. He left that question hanging in the air for Vince to answer.

  Vince answered it silently, but didn’t share it. Because it wasn’t the answer Vaughn would want to hear. Because Vince knew that his brother was strictly a ‘wait in the car’ man. So Vaughn would never have met Duval and Tobin. They wouldn’t have wanted to meet him. Vaughn was the kind of low-level hood that a smart cookie lik
e Duval would have insulated himself from. It would have all gone through Pierce.

  So Duval and Tobin would never have made the connection that Vaughn was Vince’s brother.

  Instead, Vince said, ‘The stiff you got rid of, you picked him up in Wardour Street, at a club called the Peek-A-Boo? You did the driving for Pierce, using an ice-cream van.’

  Vaughn felt a chill at the memory: Mister Whippy. Henry Pierce had made him wear the white uniform with the cardboard hat, just in case they got pulled over. The blood on his coat looked conveniently like raspberry sauce.

  Vaughn, incredulous, demanded, ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I’m guessing you weren’t introduced to the men involved, but one was a grey-haired smooth-looking fella, goes by name of Lionel Duval. He owns that club, the Peek-A-Boo. Owns a lot of Soho, for that matter. The other man, stockier, older, red-faced, looks like an ex-pug. His name’s Eddie Tobin, my ex-beat partner in Vice.’

  Vaughn gave an imperceptible and involuntary nod of acknowledgement to these facts.

  ‘You know who killed the stiff?’ Vaughn sat there, his mouth gaping in ignorance.

  Vince couldn’t help the wicked grin that waxed around his mouth, as he told him, ‘It was me. I did it.’

  Vaughn sat bolt upright, stirring the rocking chair into motion. He quickly steadied it with his feet, scared that Vince would take this opportunity of jumping him and snatching the gun. Vaughn was under no illusion that, if he got jumped, he would end up with nothing in his hands and it would be Vince pointing the gun. He rubbed his left eye quickly with his balled fist, as if he couldn’t believe what was laid in front of him. ‘You …?’

  Vince nodded, calm as you like. ‘That’s what I’ve been told, but of course, I don’t remember a thing about it. And deep down I don’t think I did do it, but they say they have a film of me that proves otherwise. So, you see, I’m just as fucked as you. Even more so, I’d say. Let’s be honest, Vaughn, nothing much was ever expected from you, and you didn’t disappoint. But me turning bad? Well, I’ve got further to fall. One thing we do have in common, Vaughn, is that we’re both being stitched up. So, wise up, put the gun away and let’s work out a way to get out of this. We never did do much together as brothers and this could be our big chance.’

  Vaughn picked up on the sarcasm. ‘Fuck you. I’ve got a way out.’

  ‘Henry Pierce?’

  A quick, unsure nod from Vaughn.

  Vince laughed. ‘For dumping the stiff, Henry Pierce paid you in bad junk, hoping that you’d take it and kill yourself.’ Vince now saw that Vaughn really hadn’t worked that one out.

  A candle fizzed and spat like a cheap firework, and seemed to burn brighter, throwing an unforgiving light on to Vaughn’s face. He had nowhere to hide. Not even when behind a gun.

  Vince, notching it up, knowing he had to make his move soon, continued. ‘And you trust him, you mug?’

  ‘I’m no mug! I’ve got stuff on Pierce!’ barked Vaughn, setting the rocking chair off again.

  ‘You’re disposable, Vaughn, always have been. Now put the gun—’

  ‘Bastard!’ Vaughn screamed, jumping to his feet. The gun was held in two trembling, intertwined hands, two twig-like fingers on the trigger. His expression was glowering, the skin of his face almost rippling with rage.

  Vince had intended to rile him, to get him off balance, but he didn’t want to receive a bullet. He slowly raised his hands in the surrender position.

  ‘Put the gun down. You’re not going to shoot me.’

  ‘Don’t bank on it, copper.’

  Vince shot out of the chair, one hand on the gun, the other hand around his brother’s throat. He smashed Vaughn into the wall, then threw him to the floor with such force that he seemed to slide along the polished wood.

  Vaughn lifted his head, dazed, eyes popping, but still clutching the gun. He lifted both arms to take aim. Vince dropped to the floor, snuffing out the candle with his hand on the way down. Vaughn squeezed off a shot. Bang!

  Vince distinctly felt the cold slipstream of where the bullet had passed. He clamped his hand to the right side of his head, felt blood. But it was a glancing impact that had just grazed his ear. Close enough, though, for Vince to mouth a silent Fuck! and to know what he had to do next.

  Vaughn called out, ‘Vince! You OK?’

  Vince didn’t answer, remained down behind the coffee table, playing possum. Bullet-in-the-brain dead. He could see Vaughn get up on one knee, but couldn’t still see the gun. Then he heard the click of the hammer being pulled back. That sound annulled any brotherly love that may have been felt in Vaughn’s last utterance. His brother was just checking his status as a corpse, and was now about to finish the job by putting a fresh bullet in him.

  Vince eased himself up carefully into a crouch, making sure he stayed lower than the coffee table. As soon as he saw Vaughn rising, the coiled Vince sprung. With his head kept down he felt his cranium connect with Vaughn’s chin. There was a grinding and snapping of ill-set teeth, followed by a low yelp of surprise and pain. Vince had launched himself with such force that he’d almost thrust Vaughn through the wall. A palpable tremor ran through the prefabricated bungalow. With one hand around Vaughn’s throat, Vince sent his brother’s head smashing against the skirting board as he fell. There was blood on the wall from his brother’s injured head, and around his mouth where the splintered teeth had pierced his tongue.

  Vince reached down with his other hand to search for the gun that might still be in Vaughn’s hand. Meanwhile he squeezed his brother’s throat to stop him calling out. In the tormented silence that followed, he heard the gargle of blood from within Vaughn’s throat. Still Vince squeezed tight, unprepared to listen to any pleas.

  Down on the floor it was even darker yet he could distinguish the expanding whites of Vaughn’s eyes as they bulged, almost cartoonishly, turning his wretched features into some type of cheap Halloween mask. Vince turned away from the sight, felt his brother squirming underneath him. Those bony legs trying to kick out, doing the death dance, the last dance – the one you do on the end of a rope. Vince wanted to be sure of having the gun in his hand, before the last breath left Vaughn’s body.

  Then he found the weapon, as he felt the hard metal of it pressing into his chest. The butt or the barrel, he couldn’t tell.

  Then it gave its report.

  CHAPTER 30

  MAE WEST’S LIPS

  Bobbie was sitting on the red-lipped sofa. Henry Pierce sat in the chair opposite, a high-backed armchair with gilt-painted woodwork and red-velvet upholstery. Ornate, altogether over the top, and Jack’s. His chair, his throne. Pierce had seen him seated in it many times. He recalled looking up at Jack, whilst he himself sat below his level, on the feminised sofa, awaiting his boss’s instructions. Over time he’d grown to resent the arrangement – not Jack being boss, for that was never in question – but merely the seating arrangements. Jack on his burnished throne, all-powerful and talking down to him, while Pierce perched on a pair of girly fucking lips. Naaaa, no way to conduct business, Pierce thought, not dignified. Jack Regent? Jack Regina more like! She really knew how to lord it, sometimes! But now the chairs had been turned and he was on the throne. He had control.

  Pierce had poured himself a glass of brandy, a Vieille Reserve, Jack’s favourite tipple. He held the swordstick in his hand, its point rotating and boring a hole into the thick blue carpet. Pierce savoured the spirit, and the moment. As far as he was concerned, everything had now gone to plan. Even though he hadn’t actually planned any of it. But he satisfied himself that, if he had planned it, he couldn’t have executed it any better.

  He looked down at Bobbie. She stared at the hole he was making in the carpet. He considered the carving knife that she was holding so unconvincingly. They both had weapons, but, even with the best will in the world, you’d be hard pressed to call it a Mexican stand-off. She might as well have been wielding one of Murray the Head’s nail files. Bobbie looked down at
the knife in her hand – and had a nasty feeling it would soon be out of it.

  ‘What do you think Treadwell will do when he comes back here to find that knife you’re holding buried in your skull?’ asked Pierce.

  Bobbie dry-swallowed but said nothing.

  ‘Young Vincent has got one of two options,’ he said. ‘One, he’ll call the bogies and report a murder, then Machin will do a thorough investigation. A certain film will fall into his hands, showing Treadwell killing a man with his bare hands. Machin will put two and two together, because that’s what coppers are wont to do, and come up with a suitable conclusion: crime of passion. Copper falls for and then kills a gangster’s inamorata. The same gangster that he was sent down here to nick. Or, option two, the more likely but less bleedin’ newsworthy scenario: he’ll cut off your head, your hands, drive the knife into your chest to puncture your lungs to get all the air out of you, and then bury you somewhere at sea. Then he’ll go back to London like nothing ever happened, and carry on with his good work for the Metropolitan police service.’ Pierce smiled contentedly on reaching this conclusion.

  Bobbie bit her bottom lip, hoping the pain would distract her from thinking about the latter fate just laid out for her. Then she shook her head. ‘It’s all a lie, because Vincent wouldn’t do that. He’s not a killer.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Pierce, reaching into the inside pocket of his black Crombie overcoat and pulling out a long cardboard tube, ‘until I was shown these today. They’re enough to make you wish you was blind.’ Pierce tut-tutted and threw the tube over towards Bobbie.

  It bounced off the plump bottom lip of the sofa, and fell on to the floor next to Bobbie’s feet. She glanced down at it, then fixed her eyes straight back on Pierce. He carefully rested the sword-stick on the arm of the throne, then mockingly raised his hands, palms upwards, in a fey gesture of surrender, knowing that he could take the carving knife off her in a none-too-bothersome second.