by Mark Newman
Frank and Ron block his path. Cunningham jumps back out of his way. The drinks table going over in the melee. Ron and Frank straining to hold George back.
Malkie’s doubled over, coughing his guts up. ‘Enough of this shit, enough.’
The minders on the door are looking towards Frank for instruction. His icy glare telling them to back the fuck off – stay in position on the door.
Cunningham’s wiping himself down. ‘Fucking arsehole.’
George’s frothing at the mouth. Frank’s got his arms twisted up behind his back in a gooseneck restraint. ‘Calm the fuck down,’ he says, pushing him to the floor.
George, his eyes bulging in their sockets, his teeth clenched shut. ‘Get the fuck off me.’
Cunningham has a sarcastic smile written all over his face, looking down at George. ‘You’re out of control, need chaining up like a wild dog.’
Struggling against the grip, George is threatening untold damage. ‘Days are numbered, boy.’
Malkie’s recovered from his coughing fit. ‘Let him up, Frank. George, cool it – now.’
Ron’s moving towards the bar. ‘Think we all need a drink. Too much dick waving going on in here.’
His comment lightens the mood. The tension evaporating. George is back in his seat now, smoothing the ruffles from his shirt. Pushing his hair back in place. Content to banter. ‘You’d know all about that, close-quarters with all those blokes for that length of time.’
His comment raises a laugh from all but Cunningham. Ron’s in situ behind the bar refilling the glasses. ‘Never had you down for the jealous type. What’s your preference? Leave it with me, I’ll make a call, fix you up a date. You like a femme or a bear?’
‘Piss off, Ron, you keep your little queers for yourself, mate.’
Ron has a tray full of drinks. He brings the bottle, Irish single malt, two fingers for each of them. ‘Here, let’s have a drink, get things in perspective.’ He raises his glass, ‘to Walter, may he rest in peace.’
They all raise a glass, and toast Walter’s passing. ‘Walter.’
Ron refills each of their glasses.
Frank’s raising his glass appreciatively. ‘Ronnie, you’re always the voice of reason, good man.’
George drains his Irish, pouring himself another.
Cunningham’s silent and brooding. Wishing now he’d brought a piece. Could have smuggled one in, hidden it someplace, .22 calibre would’ve done the job. Dealt with all of them in one night. Be those who would consider it a public service. He should’ve known Malkie would be too stubborn to do the right thing.
Moving in his seat, dabbing at his clothes with a bar cloth, his Ralph Lauren polo shirt and Armani jeans ruined. The stink emanating from every pore, a concoction of stout, lager, and whisky. Way beyond dry cleaning, and too far gone for stain repair. The anger rising within, he’s glaring towards George. ‘You owe me three hundred quid, you stupid fuck.’
‘You reckon? Sing for it, you little prick. Keep your gob shut, and maybe your pretty clothes won’t get all messed up.’
Cunningham’s shaking his head, choosing to ignore the comment, letting the anger subside; it’ll make it all the sweeter when the time comes. He focuses his attention on Malkie. ‘So we just wait, that’s the plan. Wait and see?’
Malkie lets out a sigh, raises his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You go home, Jason, get cleaned up and rest up. Call you in the morning.’
‘What, I’m not part of this now. You’re dismissing me like some fucking wet back?’
Ron approaches Cunningham, he stands at his shoulder, ‘take the fucking hint, and do one. I’ll call you, OK.’
Cunningham readies himself to leave, makes a point of brushing down his ruined laundry. ‘Fine… I’m going, but you all need to remember, I’m the only one holding it together out there, you should all be thankful.’
Without warning, George delivers a vicious backhanded punch to the side of Cunningham’s head. He smashes his knuckles into the left temple, sending him flailing to the floor. It happens in the blink of an eye. No one moves. There are no objections. They all know he had it coming.
George is standing, his fists hanging loose at his sides; he’s calm, looking to the boss for the go. All he has to do is nod his head, and George will finish it. Malkie takes another sip, lets out a sigh, and shakes his head.
Frustrated, George stands down. ‘You don’t run your mouth no more today, Cunningham, you got that?’
Frank and Ron are both silent, content to sip their Irish – Frank knows not to tangle with George when he’s taken a drink.
Malkie’s straining, craning his neck. He sits back taking a sip. Cunningham’s unfurling from his foetal position, clambering on hands and knees. He’s trying to see straight. He took the full force. The side of his face feels numb; he reckons he might have nerve damage.
Malkie’s shaking his head again. ‘Always gotta have your say, got a nasty habit of rubbing people up the wrong way. Should watch how you go. I won’t always be around to wipe your arse.’
Cunningham rises to his feet, unsteady, swaying back and forth, holding his head. ‘You’re letting him get away with that. You forgetting who I am, your own blood?’
Malkie’s up, moving towards him, his eyes blazing. Squaring up, their heads inches apart. ‘You wanna act like the big man, you better be able to take the consequences and don’t ever tell me what I need to do. Think it’s time you left.’
Frank signals for the minders to slide the bolt back on the door. They all watch as Cunningham skulks away, never once looking back over his shoulder. George watches Malkie’s reaction, his fists clenched tight, his knucklebone white, the skin textured red.
Ron’s refilling the glasses. ‘Well, that could have gone better.’
Malkie’s turning, making his way back to his seat. ‘I want tabs on that bastard, night and day.’
George swills the amber liquid around his tumbler. ‘Put money on it that he knows something.’
Ron takes a sip, considering his response. ‘Nah, come on, no way he’s got the stomach for that.’
Malkie sits down heavy on the seat. ‘Done what I can for that boy…’
George takes a seat. ‘Just say the word, and he’s gone. Plenty out there want to get their hands on him. One phone call… Lot of folk more than happy to do the honours.’
‘He’s blood, George, my nephew – don’t ever forget that.’
George holds his hands out, palms upward to placate Malkie. ‘Way he spoke tonight, that means shit to him. Boy’s got no respect. Never has.’
‘Regardless, he’s family, my family.’
Chapter 9
Irritating beep of the clock radio, illuminated red digits burning through his eyelids. It’s five thirty am, the start of another day. Today it’s different, a dual anniversary, he’s turning fifty-four, and ten days have elapsed since Walter Browne’s death, still no answers. He reaches out from the comfort of the winter tog duvet, his finger jabs at the OFF button. The monotone beep silenced for another twenty-four hours, the SNOOZE facility redundant.
Sitting up, the quilt falls from his shoulders, the chilled air goosebumps his skin. The place has central heating, but he never uses it. The cold keeps him sharp. In this game that’s what counts. You want to be top of the tree you need work at it, no time to rest. Complacency gets you killed.
Rubbing at his eyes, he’s squinting in to the gloom. The dull throbbing sensation at the back of his head, a remnant of the night before. One too many shots of Irish single malt lingering like an unwanted guest.
His feet hit the cold tiles, padding down the hallway toward the bathroom. Naked, like a newborn delivered unto the world. He’s king of the castle, worked hard for his position, he’s not about to roll over for anyone. Any takers will have to prise it from his cold, dead hand. There are plenty of them out there. Waiting, willing his demise, but none of them have what it takes.
He lives alone, finds it better that way, no complicati
ons. He doesn’t do relationships. Can’t abide the neediness of others. He’s tried all that. Long time ago now, it didn’t work out.
A man of his position attracts a certain type of woman. The kind who crave status. Do anything to be seen on the arm of the Boss. They’re all the same, clones from the production line, coiffured hair, bee sting lips, all-year-round tan, and silicone tits.
Malkie’s an old hand, a seasoned pro, wise to the ways of the fairer sex. He plays by his own rules. Women aren't a problem, he can have his pick twenty-four seven. Female company just a phone call away. Course, he’s got his favourites. Regulars. No money involved, maybe the occasional gift. A token of appreciation, nothing more. He always goes to their place, never back to his. He keeps it simple, and avoids confusion. Doesn’t want them getting the wrong idea. It’s just sex. Functional, a basic human need. Same as eating and drinking. He’s clear on that.
Mimi knows the score. She’s his steady, the closest she’ll ever be to a girlfriend. As Malkie likes to call her, his regular piece of ass. The two of them have a routine going, it’s like clockwork. She’s the reason he smiles every Monday morning. He visits the parlour before official opening hours, sets him up for the week. She’s a dab hand at releasing the tension. Mimi knows how to work every inch of his body.
They go way back. Was even a time when Mimi thought she might be the one. She wanted to tame him, to domesticate him; she’s long since given up on that. Theirs is an uncomplicated relationship. A business transaction. Mimi doesn’t work the punters, not for the last eighteen years. Malkie never did like to share. He told her to manage it, not to work in it, been that way ever since. They have an understanding; she’s one of the chosen. He makes her feel special, but Mimi’s realistic, Malkie has needs. He’s no different from any other man. Experience has taught her to be content. It has its benefits. She gets a free hand to operate her way, the firm doesn’t interfere, and the rivals keep their distance. No one wants to antagonise Malkie Thompson.
He’s top dog, but it wasn’t always that way. Plenty of twists and turns like a gnarled oak tree along the way. He’s buried a lot of people, good and bad. He doesn’t dwell on it, there’s no point. This life chose him. He had it all set up, an apprenticeship in the Clydebank shipyard like his old man before him. But fate stepped in, his father snatched from life in his prime at just thirty-eight years old.
Emphysema they call it now. Back then, it was just shit on the lungs. No one understood the reasons why, it just happened. Life insurance for people like them was nonexistent. The rent was overdue with the landlord getting heavy; Malkie couldn’t see his own mother and brother put out on the street. He had no choice, had to step up and become a provider. His apprentice wages were never going to cover that. He needed to get creative, to think outside the box, he’s been doing the same ever since.
Sacrifices made, toil etched in sweat and blood. He’s used all his lives now, doesn’t believe in the ever after. He takes comfort in that. Least he won’t burn in the eternal fires. He’s done a lot of bad things. Terrible things, but there are no regrets, dog eat dog. Don’t get to the top in this game by playing Mr. Nice. He’s got blood on his hands, indelible. No amount of scrubbing is changing that now. That’s just the way it is. Conscience doesn’t come in to it. The body count in to double figures, he sleeps like a baby—most of the time, least that’s what he tells himself.
He remembers the first, etched on his brain like a Polaroid, pays a visit when the single malt runs dry. He buries it deep. Still got those saturated colours…
Like anything, more you do it, the easier it gets. Over the years, he’s learnt to compartmentalise it. His world is a detached reality. Just a job. Business, nothing personal. Try telling that to the guy with his molar gripped between the plier jaws.
Rule number one, Malkie lives by it, his code. Don’t let anyone stand in your way. Not family, not friends…not anything. Rule number two, don’t make excuses. Someone or something fucks up, you sort it out – fast.
He’s been at it for close to thirty years now, a survivor, Malkie has that killer instinct. Least he had. Some say he’s going soft. Too old to lead the firm. It starts with a whisper, then turns to hushed tones. Now there’s open talk. Dissent in the ranks.
Chapter 10
He’s got one of those walk in walk out wet rooms, tiled slate grey floor and walls. A chrome showerhead protruding from the wall, the pipework hidden from view. Sleek, modern and clean. The list price north of ten grand, he secured a complimentary supply and install. No one turns down Malkie Thompson, reputation his currency.
Malkie stands in the centre underneath the showerhead, closes his eyes, and tilts his head back anticipating the ice-cold water. He draws a sharp intake of breath, puffing his cheeks out, exhaling. He remains fixed. Psyched, panting as though he’s working through labour pains. Frozen droplets waking every pore. Water running down his back, causing his balls to retract in protest. Sleep’s a distant memory, his heart rate up, he’s whistling away, no particular tune, it takes his mind off the cold. It’s all about the focus, and the mental conditioning.
Droplets ricochet from his head and torso. He’s wearing a smile on his face; a couple of hours from now he’ll let Mimi work her magic. He cranks up the temperature, rolls his neck to ease the tension. The steam hangs thick in the air, resembling one of those Turkish bath houses. He tells himself it’s good for his lungs as he hacks up the phlegm; it’s always at its worse first thing in the morning. His hands are outstretched, palms flat against the tiles, the coughing fit audible over the thrust of the water jets.
Now he’s got that tremor in his left hand. He balls his fist, and wedges it into his lower spine. It’s difficult to stand straight. Won’t be long before he needs a chair. The symptoms are getting worse. He’s got to keep fighting it. The dull aching strikes his body from head to toe, pills for this and pills for that, rattling around his body like coins in a slot machine. Be easy enough to end it all, a bottle of single malt, and a handful of sleeping tablets. All he needs to do is lie down and go to sleep, but that’s not his way, early exit’s not an option - too much left undone.
Back in the bedroom, five thirty-eight, taking two minutes extra this morning. Getting sloppy, slowing up old-timer. He won’t stress over it, birthday treat to himself. So he’s got a few aches and pains, and his lungs feel like a fire pit. Shit happens. Deal with it – crack on.
Today’s the day; he’s got an appointment with the consultant, Mr. Aziz. He’s paid the extra to go private and he’s planning to make the drive out of town, away from prying eyes. Safer that way. He wants answers. Knows he can’t put it off any longer.
He pulls on his fitted boxers. Malkie keeps it simple, always black or charcoal grey. Moving through to the kitchen, he turns on the DAB radio. Retro vintage styling, a mixture of chrome and teak with a two-inch tuning dial sitting prominent, a throwback to the nineteen fifties design aesthetic.
Malkie always selects the BBC World Service. He’s never been one for breakfast TV. Another American import, a lot of fuss over nothing. He never bought in to it. Fake presenters sitting on sofas making out they’re your best pals. Cold facts that’s all he’s ever needed.
Sitting at the pine table, he lights his first cigarette of the day. His taste buds alive with anticipation. He closes his eyes, and inhales deep, imagining the swirl of black smoke seeping deep into his lungs. He savours the hit, before the cough smacks the life out of him. His throat burning, and his eyes streaming, he stubs it out and reaches for the pack. The branding looks legit, but it sure as hell doesn’t taste like it.
It’s coming back to him now, Frank talking shit about the mark up on counterfeit cigarettes. How they should get in with Bosko’s crew. Take on the distribution, easy money to be made. Malkie shakes his head as he recalls the conversation outline. No way he’s getting in with that. He’s heard the stories, the rat poison and arsenic, Christ knows what other shit they’re putting in to the manufacturing proc
ess.
He casts the packet aside. Frank and Bosko, Polaks united, that bothers him. Frank’s never given him reason to doubt him, but things change. Time moves on. Malkie knows it’s a different era now, people change and loyalties shift. Maybe he’s getting paranoid in his old age, but it’s always there in the background, goes right back to the Vinnie Edwards era, the unspoken rift, it’s always present, lurking beneath the surface. Frank never did come to terms with that…
Back to the bedroom, he opens the closet, and reaches in for the charcoal suit, white shirt ensemble. He owns four suits, seven shirts, and two pairs of brogues, one black, one brown. His suits are handmade, and couriered from London’s Savile Row straight to his door. It’s important to look the part. Malkie wears it like some might wear a uniform; it’s his brand identity.
He moves through to the kitchen. A cup of tea in hand, semi-skimmed milk, no sugar. He needs to keep the waistline trim. Now he’s taking a swig, checking the clock, 6:08am, time he was gone. He reckons George and Frank have something planned. A decent bottle of malt, and some female company lined up, maybe. He can’t let the side down; man of his age still needs to play to the crowd, he’s got the Viagra on standby.
His mind focuses back on the immediacy of his own health; he’s got to see how things pan out today. Whichever way it goes there’s no easy answer. Decisions have to be made. He can’t leave it hanging, there’s too much at risk. If he leaves it to chance, there’ll be a bloodbath. Everything he’s worked for, everything he’s built up, it’s all on the line.
The organisation needs new blood, a new direction. Someone to lead. George and Frank have been with him since the beginning. At their time of life, they don’t need the aggravation. Both have loyalty, but lack ambition. At the end of the day, good lieutenants’ don’t make for a good boss. The firm needs someone with natural ability. They have to have instinct, can’t teach that. Needs to be someone with the vision to realise the transition, to go legit. Malkie’s steered it that way for the past five years, slow and deliberate, careful not to draw attention. Making the bad money good takes time.