Walk Amongst the Dead

by Mark Newman

  The cold truth of it is plain to see, all three of them are getting old. The glory days long gone. They know it. Malkie knows it.

  Cards gotta fall where they will, with his help.

  Chapter 11

  Standing outside he’s analyzing the swirl of black and grey clouds drifting ominous in the sky. He raises the chrome Zippo lighter to his cigarette, the hand tremor forcing the flame to dance side to side. He drags a lungful and holds it; at least it tastes better than his breakfast attempt.

  The news isn't good. The best prognosis, one year from now he’ll be in a chair. It gets worse; the Parkinson’s is going to mess with his speech and his mind. Losing the ability to think straight that’s what scares him the most.

  At least now, he has perspective. Need to act fast.

  He’s making his way to the car, checking his watch, 8:15am. He has Mimi on speed dial 7, he selects the number.

  She picks up on the third ring.

  ‘Hey, it’s me. How’s my best girl? Half an hour. That OK with you?’

  ‘Sure thing, baby.’

  ‘You know what today is right?’

  ‘Malkie…how long we known each other?’

  ‘You got something nice for me, right?’

  ‘Baby, you gotta wait and see.’

  ‘I’m leaving now.’

  He terminates the call.

  In the car, he’s checking the rear view mirror of the silver Mercedes-Benz CLS550. He catches his own reflection, noticing that his eyes are dulled, dark rings sitting prominent underneath, life edging away. He chastises his own self-pity, telling himself he has to make those changes. Without further thought, he guns the ignition, the V8 engine roaring in to life.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he’s parking up in the reserved space marked up for VIPs, it’s all part of Mimi’s personal service.

  Malkie sits there in the Merc, collecting his thoughts. He never did like the approach to Mimi’s place with its rabbit warren of connecting alleyways. It makes for an easy target. There it is again the paranoia creeping in, tells himself, least of your problems.

  He’s waiting, sitting there, looking out observing the scene. Something isn’t right. He can’t pinpoint it. That same feeling he woke up with, the trepidation. He tells himself it’s because of the prognosis, that it’s just messing with his mind, but there’s no sign of life. He checks the time on the dashboard, the digital display switching to 8:47am. There should be something - this time of morning.

  He opens the glove box, .38 Smith and Wesson staring back at him. He closes it again leaving it in situ. It is what it is. Can’t keep the lady waiting. He opens the car door, the thought of Mimi’s hands going to work on him getting him hard.

  Malkie hauls himself from the driver’s seat, greeted by a spike of pain as it spasms in his lower back and down into his left leg. It takes a moment to right itself. He grips the car door, and pops two paracetamols, crunching them in to powder before swallowing them dry. He starts slowly towards the fire escape, reaches the rusting stairwell, and scans the area left to right. He grabs the handrail, turns and takes one last look over his shoulder - all quiet. The blood rush to his groin spurs him on. He reaches the top, uses the elevated viewpoint, can’t be too careful, just one last check. Nothing. He sniggers at his own paranoia, what’d you expect?

  He pulls the reinforced steel door open. She’s waiting, been watching him on the CCTV. Five four, petite. Long, straight silky black hair. Bumps in all the right places. She’s got that wry smile on her face, holding out her hand, she pulls him in from the cold. Mimi’s painted her two-inch long fingernails blood red, wearing lipstick to match – just the way he likes it. Big almond eyes and a quiver to her bottom lip, she kisses him long and deep. He takes in her smell, a mixture of expensive sweet perfume and exotic cigarettes. Intoxicated, he wants to hold on to it, and never let it go. He opens his eyes, she’s smiling at him. He’s hooked, her loving – his opium. Lost in the haze, he follows her inside.

  Down the corridor, her tiny hand leading him. They go past the business end. A clutch of rooms, sparse, and utilitarian. Empty for now. Give it a couple of hours, and there’ll be a steady flow of sweaty punters grunting and pawing at the merchandise. Mimi’s girls’ grinding, making it pay. Oscar nominees faking ecstasy.

  Malkie’s eyes are locked on to Mimi’s contours. She’s gliding, each movement feline. He’s drinking it all in. Seven-inch black heels, the strap goes a little way up her ankle, driving him wild. Smooth caramel legs disappearing in to a red, silk floral kimono. She knows how to work it, to put on a show; she’ll parade up and down, build the anticipation.

  Up the next flight of stairs, the paracetamol’s kicking in now, numbing the pain. Through a blue fire door marked Private. Inside, she pulls off his jacket, throwing it over the back of an oval wicker chair. The room feels hot and stuffy, as if she’s cranked up the heating. Could be his age. System overload, sudden rush of blood. Fifty-four years old ready to party as if he’s twenty-two.

  He has to follow protocol, all part of the game. Can’t rush things. Patience. Savour the moment. Let her do her thing. She pushes him down onto the oval bed. He’s pulling her toward him. Her crotch is level with his face. She’s fighting it—- playful. All part of the ritual, a well-rehearsed ballet.

  Shimming, the kimono slipping from her shoulders, letting it fall to the bedroom floor. Malkie’s breath coming fast and short, the sight of red lingerie adding to his fire. He’s kissing her neck, working down to the top of her breasts. Purring, she pulls away, keeping him at arms length. She tells him to lie back. He complies, subservient to her command. She lowers herself down; butterfly kisses to his forehead, working her way down his face, then on to his neck. She’s undoing his shirt, kissing his torso, taking it slow.

  The inferno’s raging, he wants to take her now. She straddles him, gyrating her hips, her almond eyes locked on to his. Working his zipper, taking time to massage him in the right places. She drops down, and takes him in her mouth. A slow teasing motion, she works him, stops, then pulls away.

  He wills himself to take it slow; he’s watching her stroking herself. She’s letting him see as her fingers go to work. ‘This what you want?’

  He’s up, trousers wrapped around his ankles. He’s cursing, pulling at them. Kicks off his brogues, the boxers follow. Mimi’s got her back to him, swinging her hips. She knows what he likes. He grabs her from behind, his rough, callused hands mauling at her breasts, he’s sucking the back of her earlobe. Hungry, he works his way round to the side, then down on to her neck. He pushes her to the wall. Her arms braced against it. She pushes back, grinding her ass into his groin, feeling his strength.

  Malkie’s transformed to a rabid dog, he’s ripping at her satin red panties, pulling them to the side.

  She’s wriggling out of his grasp, discarding the strawberry red thong. ‘You gonna stick it to me now, that what you wanna do?’

  She’s faster than him. Back on the bed, she opens her legs, revealing a neat, black Brazilian; she’s stroking herself some more, moaning, her big, brown eyes luring him in. He’s on her, she quivers as he thrusts. A rhythmic motion, their bodies moving in tandem.

  Changing position, cowgirl style. Mimi sets the pace. She’s riding him hard, guiding his hands to her thirty-four inch B cups. He’s mauling, tweaking as she grinds. Mimi’s groaning. Easy on the theatrics, Malkie’s no fool. His eyes scrunched tight, praying he can hang in there for a few more beats, gritting his teeth as she builds to the crescendo.

  Entwined in the post coital glow, Malkie’s thoughts are clouded.

  ‘What’s wrong, baby?’

  Malkie’s staring at the white, polystyrene ceiling tiles. ‘Nothing.’

  Mimi, her head resting on his chest. ‘You can tell me, we friends.’

  He’s reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Work stuff, forget about it.’

  She’s moving to face him, and looking deep in to his eyes. ‘I worry Malkie, for you. What future gonna bri
ng?’

  He holds her stare. ‘Future’s what I choose to make it.’

  He offers the cigarette pack. She takes them from him, lights one, and passes it back to him, then takes one for herself and places it on the bedside ashtray.

  Now she’s sliding down, kissing his torso, making her way below. Her hand massaging him. ‘I know what you need. Mimi always know.’

  He’s taking a drag, inhaling deep, content to let her do her thing.

  When she’s done, she lies back in his arms, the thud of his heartbeat vibrating through his chest cavity.

  They lie in silence, the seconds turning to minutes.

  ‘You different today, Malkie.’

  ‘Good or bad?’

  ‘No good no bad, just different.’

  ‘Must be my age.’

  ‘You seem sad. All time we know each other, I never hear you talk this way.’

  He leans in and kisses her forehead. ‘They call it Scots’ melancholy, nothing for you to worry about.’

  She looks at him, searching for answers she’ll never find. ‘I fix you a drink, birthday treat.’

  Before he can answer, she pulls herself away, he watches her lithe, naked body rise from the bed as she vanishes in to the adjoining room.

  Chapter 12

  His eyes flick open to a cacophony of smashing glass and a muffled scream. Malkie’s brain struggles to dissect reality from the imagined. He’s up, pulling on his boxers’, mid-step diving towards the door. He crashes into the small kitchenette. Sees Mimi slumped in the corner, claret stained hands clutching at her throat. A jagged four-inch gash, her severed vocal cords prominent. There are no words, just a rasping gargle. Her eyes wide and glassy, life ebbing away.

  He’s motionless. The reality smashing in to him. He rushes to her, holding her tight, he comforts her, tells her it’ll be all right. There are no tears, just anger. He’s squeezing, desperate to hold on to life, to keep the reaper at bay. Impotent… There’s nothing he can do, her body’s limp – and then she’s gone.

  A gentle sway as he rocks her like a newborn. He recites it over and over, a mantra of vengeance, ‘I’ll get the bastards who did this.’

  The warble ring tone snaps him out of the trance. He uncouples himself from her still warm, but lifeless body, then rests her down on the cold, terracotta tiles.

  He picks up the Nokia, clears his throat - readies himself, he knows what’s coming. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How’s the whore?’

  The voice is young and unfamiliar, still there’s something, he just can’t place it. Names and faces flash through his mind trying to get an ID. Someone he’s had dealings with direct or indirect. Associates, introductions through Frank or George – nothing.

  He swallows hard, and levels his tone. ‘When I find you, I promise you this – It’ll be slow… You fucked up big time, pal.’ He disconnects the call.

  Something makes him turn. He’s facing the window, looking out across the street below. He casts his eyes over the landscape searching for answers.

  He sees the muzzle blast then the bullet shatters the glass. Instinct kicks in, and he throws his body hard left. The burning sensation rips through his right shoulder. He’s falling to the floor, landing hard, impacting his head off the terracotta tile, Mimi’s dead eyes locked with his. He’s gasping and retching, his ragged shoulder an inferno of pain. He inspects the torn flesh, resembles skewered raw meat. A millisecond later he’d have took a slug to the jugular and joined Mimi on the other side.

  Time passes; he can’t be sure whether he blacked out or not. The sound of sirens in the distance alerts him to the fact that he can’t get caught at the murder scene. Malkie’s got to move. Less than three minutes before the armed response team will be all over the place. He shuffles along the floor, keeping himself low and out of view below the window. He drags himself with his good arm back to the bedroom, and scoops up his clothes. He pulls on his trousers one handed, biting his bottom lip, and gritting his teeth against the white-hot pain searing down his arm. He slips on his brogues, leaving the laces undone, retrieves his shirt, and drapes his jacket over his shoulders, careful to ease in the tattered broken pulp.

  Using a wet wipe, he’s wiping down the door handle; he retrieves the cigarette butt from the ashtray, and the soiled condom from the bedside metal bin. He’s out of time, the squeal of tyres emanating from outside as the first BMW X5 armed response vehicle skids to a halt in the courtyard. The best he can do now is run. Find out who ordered the hit. Get to them before they realise they didn’t finish the job.

  Moving out into the main corridor, he’s making for the stairs. Heading down three flights to the basement. He can hear raised voices in the back yard. He’s picking up the pace, ignoring the pain. Malkie just needs to make it to the basement, from there he can disappear on to the street, least that way he’s got a chance.

  He dials Frank, come on, pick up, you bastard.

  Chapter 13

  He locates the fire door in the corner of the basement, fights his way through the build up of crap that never made it to the dump. Pushes on the bar. Damn thing won’t budge. Looking over his shoulder, the voices are closer now, the cops getting in position. He’s got to keep moving. Malkie shoves his left shoulder into it. The impact sends a sickening vibration through his body, pain receptors almost flooring him. Doubled over, his head spinning, he’s breathing hard, he swallows down the vomit at the back of his throat. He can hear heavy boots clanking off the fire escape. Can’t risk another shoulder barge, he takes a step back, swings his left leg, exhales as his size nine brogue connects, pain ricocheting throughout his body.

  The door scrapes open three inches; he pushes on it with his good arm. There’s a blockage on the other side. He manages to force his head through the gap, greeted by the buildup of detritus, a mixture of fast-food cartons and the remains of cardboard and bedding blocking his exit. He pushes harder, it gives a little. The sweat’s dripping from his forehead. He takes a step back, and slams his foot into it.

  The cold winter breeze cools his skin. He’s out, checking left then right. No pedestrians. All quiet. He glances at his watch. 10:12am kids and mums safely deposited to school and the morning coffee routine.

  Moving away from the three-storey overhang, the phone pressed to his ear – still no answer. He curses under his breath. Kerbside, he’s stepping out in to the road. The angry blare of a car horn followed by a quick succession of expletives as motorists swerve to avoid the bloodied walking dead invading their normalcy.

  Malkie heading for the laundromat, he can be safe there, at least for a short time. It’ll make for a good observation point. He checks his watch again 10:14am. His shoulder’s burning, the blood seeping through his jacket. He needs to lay low. Can’t risk unnecessary attention. The shooter could still be in the area, needs to confirm the kill, got the client’s expectation to fulfill, they’ll be waiting on a call. The gunman won’t be paid till the job’s done. Proof, that’s what he’d want. Anything less doesn’t mean shit. They can’t risk leaving him alive; they know he’ll come for them.

  Entering the laundromat, it’s deserted. He turns the Open sign to Closed on the door, and proceeds farther inside. Waiting, cursing himself. No excuses – fucked up. He’s risking a look at his injury, needs to get patched up and grab some fresh clothes. He can’t risk going back to his place, cops’ll be all over his car by now. Only a matter of time before they run his plates and find his piece in the glove box. Then it won’t take long to hone in.

  The call connects, Frank in jovial form. ‘Hey, Malkie, the birthday boy…’

  ‘Cut the shit, Frank, listen, some fucker just tried to take me out. Bastard got to Mimi. Far as they know, I’m dead. I want it to stay that way for a while at least. I’m on Pritchard Street, the Turkish place. Mehmet’s, you know it?’

  ‘Come on, Mal…fuck off. What is this—birthday prank?’

  ‘I’m serious, Frank. I’m hit, my right shoulder It’s bleeding like a ba
stard. Put the word out. And call George. I want this fucker, want who he’s working for, and I want him alive.’

  Frank’s silent, processing the information. ‘Shit. I mean, come on… Who’s gonna risk…You get a look at him?’

  ‘No. Just… ah it’s nothing.’

  Frank’s moving from one room to the next, into the study, grabbing his other cell phone, scrolling through his text messages. Checking the bottom drawer of the grey filing cabinet for his 9mm. He takes it in hand, checks the load. ‘I’m on it, we’ll get this bastard. Someone’s gotta know, right? Sit tight, sending a car for you now. Take you some place safe. Buy some time, figure out our next move.’

  Malkie’s tucked away, sitting towards the back of the laundromat, nestled on a bench between two dryers, his eye on the street. He’s breathing deep, easing his jacket off. Rasping voice. ‘Frank.’

  ‘Yeah, you ok? You don’t sound too good.’

  ‘Need you to contact Maddox, the Merc’s gonna get towed. SOCOs’ be all over it, swabbing for prints, DNA, whatever else they can pin on me. They’ll tow it to a secured compound someplace. He’ll know. You make sure it gets torched. There’s a piece in the glove compartment, my .38, it needs to disappear, you hear me?’

  ‘I got it, fuck this is insane. Can’t be local. We’d have known. We’ve got eyes and ears all over. There’d be whispers at street level – something at least.’

  Malkie needs him to focus on the present. ‘Frank…Fr.’

  ‘Who in their right mind would do that to Mimi?’

  Something in Frank’s tone, the way he says do that to Mimi, imply to Malkie that perhaps he knows more than he’s letting on. He decides to keep it to himself for now. Malkie’s interrupting, his voice a flat monotone pitch. ‘It’s dangerous to speculate. I know this much, Frank, whoever it is, they’re gonna wish they’d finished it.’