Dark Voices
Page 2
I had the good sense to look down and appear ashamed of myself. Truth of the matter was I’d let the kid go. He was wet behind the ears and he hadn’t meant to cross Gonzalez, but the fat chump’s oversize ego couldn’t take losing a simple game of poker in front of his buddies. The order to kill the lad had come almost immediately after the fat fuck’s defeat. I’d decided to cut the boy a break and let him do a runner. I knew there would be a dressing down at the least.
“Sorry, boss. It won’t happen again, boss.”
“Damn right it won’t. What shall we do with him, boys?”
He put his feet up on his desk and addressed the room. The mob Captains sniggered and sneered at me whilst being secretly glad it wasn’t them in the hot seat. I shuffled like a naughty boy being humiliated by the school bully.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m docking you a months’ pay.”
“But–”
“And you get to accompany my wife to the charity ball this Friday. I’ve been looking for a goddamn excuse to get out of that. You can go in my place.”
He took a puff on his huge cigar and exhaled, blowing the smoke in my direction.
“You get to buy her the drinks all night out of your own pocket.”
The Captains cracked up laughing at this. It was rumoured that Lola drank like a fish.
“OK, boss. Thank you, boss.”
“Now fuck off. Pick her up Friday and wear your best suit.”
I heard them laughing and joking as I left the room.
Lola
I tooted the car horn impatiently. The damn woman was supposed to be ready. Now, the thing about Lola is that she was half the boss’s age. Beautiful and sweet as apple pie. God only knew why she’d ended up with Gonzalez. Surely the money couldn’t be worth having that fat pig sweating and grunting on top of her. She tottered from their house on six inch heels and over to the car. Her figure hugging dress accentuated all of her curves. Her ample bosom was doing its very best to escape the tight confines of the dress. My eyes were drawn to the acres of soft, lightly tanned flesh. It was going to be a long painful night fighting off all the idiots who didn’t know who her husband was. She sat down in the passenger seat beside me. I had expected her to ride in the back like the Queen of fucking Sheba.
“Hi, I’m Lola. Are you John?”
I gave her my most winning smile and dragged my eyes up from her cleavage. Damn, no one had warned me she was so good looking.
“That I am and very pleased to meet you, Lola.”
I held out my hand for her to shake. but she leaned forward and pecked me on the cheek. I felt a pleasant little tingle at the contact. Her perfume was subtle and heady. I could see little glinting flecks above her bosom, some sort of body glitter.
We arrived at the Country Lodge and I handed over our tickets. A valet took my keys and parked the car. This opulence seemed at odds with the African charity that would be benefiting from the two hundred dollar meals. We linked arms and I wandered into the place with a beauty on my arm. I felt ten feet tall. She leaned close to me. When I felt her hand squeeze my ass I knew there would be trouble. When the dancing started she insisted we joined in. We danced close and slow. Her body pressed close to mine and she blew softly into my ear. I prayed there were none of Gonzalez’s friends around. I laughed at the thought. Men like him didn’t have friends, they had cronies like me. They wouldn’t be seen dead here. Charity was for the weak, in their eyes.
Two hours later Lola was riding up and down my cock in the back of the car down a side lane. Her breasts pressing into my face. She was gasping my name over and over. As I came I realised that my life would never be the same again.
Sunday
She’d snuck out whilst he was in town losing at poker again and we were headed for the outskirts of the town at speed, my Camaro accelerating away smoothly. Lola’s bags in the back of the car were full of her clothes and most Gonzalez’s stash of cash. I made a quick stop and mailed an envelope. Some lucky Fed was going to have a VERY good day next week. I stopped briefly and looked back at the town as I stroked Lola’s knee. The bridge looked as small and ineffectual as a trestle in the distance. I turned on the radio and an old Kinks number filled the car. We laughed briefly at each and sped away and into our new life.
Unforgiven
So I’m sitting in the murky interior of the Grapes trying not to smile at the irony of the name. Grapes of Wrath, see? Bert knows why I’m here, he ain’t stupid, never was. He knows some scores have to be settled, regardless of their age. He’s cool with it. I can see it in his eyes. Resigned to it. We sip our mild and blather about old times like they was yesterday. I miss having a smoke in a pub. That haze that used to hang around the bar, a kind of fine mist. What was it Simon and Garfunkel used to sing? How terribly strange to be seventy. They got that one right. We avoid any talk of arthritis or cancer or grandkids. We pretend we are eighteen again and stupid as a piece of two by four, like we were back then. Stupid or not, we have no regrets. We’d do it all over again and laugh just the same as we did back then.
So we start laughin’ and talkin’. Bert starts telling me about one time when Big Davey bawled him out for chewing gum behind the wheel. He whacked him so hard on the back of the head that he’d swerved and nearly taken out some old granny wandering along minding her own business. Davey was the nastier brother, so I heard. They reckoned he was a repressed puff. No one would have said that to his face, though, not if they wanted to keep their kneecaps. You could see why he was such a headcase, though, all that pent up sexual tension. It didn’t matter to me. A psychotic bastard was still dangerous regardless of which team he batted for. Bert offers no opinion on that subject. Still loyal after all this time, over half a century. Still loyal despite the time he did in Strangeways. You had to admire Bert for that.
Some young guns at the bar were starin’ daggers at us like we ain’t supposed to laugh, what with being old and all. I gave ’em the old dead eye back. They ain’t never seen a look like mine. Back in the day they’d have been in hospital for that kind of aggression. These days I just feel … world weary, I think they call it. Anger seems such an effort and my ticker ain’t what it used to be.
My lot were on the other side to Bert’s boys. We rolled with mad Tony. But don’t matter now, half of ’em are dead anyway. As for me, I still got this one last score to settle with Bert. It was my brother he run over outside the Blue Pearl club. That’s why he did time in Strangeways. We was exchanging fire and he was just a driver, but I can’t let that go, not even after all these years. It don’t matter that he retired and moved north when he got out. Blood was still spilled. Bert would do the same in my shoes. He gets up, his knees creaking, and shuffles off to the gents. His aged prostate speakin’ loud and clear to him.
I follow him to the gents. His aged hips give him a rolling walk like a cowboy or somethin’. Casually I slip the cosh out of my pocket and follow him inside. Shame, really; I like Bert.
Skating on Thin Ice
The puck skittered past Kelvin and he flew from his feet and went clattering into the sidings for about the tenth time that afternoon. The body check from the opposing defender had sent him sprawling. Marchant sneered at him and mouthed “wanker” to Kelvin as he climbed painfully back to his feet. Defenders like Marchant always left you black and blue after a game. Kelvin had scored no goals, but had managed two assists so far during the game. The rivalry between Kelvin’s team, the Dynamos, and Marchant’s, the Eagles, was strong and violence was both expected and inevitable.
Kelvin skated back into play for the second period and soon found he was once more in possession. He flipped the puck to Jones in an excellent breaking pass. Marchant slid alongside him and butt-ended him with his hockey stick. He managed to remain totally unseen by the referee and Kelvin crumpled to the ice like a rag doll that had been savaged by a Rottweiler. He lay on the ice coughing and spluttering. Marchant winked down at Kelvin, who ground his teeth in suppressed rage.
In the final period Kelvin was involved in a scramble for the puck. In the melee, Kelvin slashed a shot and the puck flew into the net. A sharp pain to his calf and he went down again, with Marchant standing over him, smiling, a look of comical innocence on his face. Again his contact went unpunished. The final buzzer went and it was game over. Kelvin’s goal did little to soothe the pain of a humiliating defeat for the Dynamos. Marchant patted Kelvin on the back.
“Try to stay on your feet next time, Bambi,” he sneered.
Kelvin gave Marchant a strange little smile and wandered off to the dressing room without uttering a word.
* * *
“We awake today to some shocking news of a huge pile up on the motorway. Dozens injured and the air ambulance has attended the scene. At least five are feared dead at this time. In other news, ice hockey player, Stephen Marchant, has been found brutally murdered on waste ground near his home. A dog walker found his body in the early hours of this morning. Police have released a statement saying that the body has been formally identified and they confirm that they are treating it as murder. Marchant is believed to have multiple lacerations on his skull from some kind of sharp blade. Unconfirmed reports state that he had a hockey puck wedged inside his mouth. Police are appealing for anyone with information to come forward. They advise that it will be treated in the strictest confidence. Marchant’s team, the Eagles, beat local team the Dynamos last night in a humiliating defeat.”
Kelvin changed the station and went back to the sink, where he continued scrubbing the blades of his skates. He whistled cheerfully as they came up shiny and good as new. He poured the crimson water down the plughole, dried his hands, and went off to cook breakfast.
Boardroom Massacre
Vinny sang along cheerfully to Hotel California as he rammed the clip home. He secured the stock to the barrel with an air of almost gleeful indifference, his little radio belting out one rock classic after another, as he casually constructed the powerful killing machine with a practised ease borne of experience.
* * *
Neil tried with an almost Zen-like concentration not to drum his fingers on the desk. Two hours of this drivel he’d had to listen to so far. Two whole, soul destroying FUCKING hours. Thank god it’s only once every six weeks, he thought grimly. Three more speakers, then it would be his turn to give his sales presentation. He looked despairingly at his watch and tried to stifle a yawn.
* * *
Vinny admired his handiwork. Fairly quick assembly, but he’d managed it quicker in the army. The L96 smelled pleasantly of gun oil and to Vinny it was a work of art, a thing of beauty. They could keep their bloody Rembrants; this weapon was a sleek, well-honed masterpiece.
* * *
Time slowed, as it always does when one is bored. The hands of the clock above the projector moved at glacier like pace. Neil’s mind wandered aimlessly and he could not help but stifle a grin as he thought of last night.
Sofia had been at the sink washing the dishes, her blonde hair bobbing up and down as she nodded along to her favourite CD, some ghastly album by George Michael. Neil had crept up on tiptoes behind her and cupped her firm breasts. She’d complained at first as his lips caressed and then his teeth had bitten the soft skin of her neck. His hand roamed and deftly undid her skirt, sliding down the zip at the back with one fluid motion. He nipped her neck as he ripped off her blouse roughly. She’d raised her voice sharply at this point, angry. She realised that he was naked and standing intimately closely behind her. The complaints trailed off as he unclasped her bra and threw it casually across the room. His soft hands now kneading her breasts, deft fingers sliding around her pink areolae and pinching the nipples gently. She gasped a little, all sense of complaint gone now. He knelt down behind her and slid down her panties, already smelling the heady musk of her arousal. His heart beat hard in his excited chest.
* * *
Vinny sang along now to the Beach Boys as he attached and set up the telescopic sight with all the care of a master jeweller examining a precious ring. He squinted as he sighted down the room; oh, yes, he was feeling those good vibrations. He adjusted the elevation minutely. He fiddled briefly with the focus and magnification until he was satisfied. He strolled to the window and opened it up just a crack, just enough for a rifle muzzle. He drew the curtains closed and knelt on his kneepad. He flicked off the safety and began the long wait. Black Sabbath’s Paranoid pounded from the radio and Vinny’s smile left his face for the first time that afternoon as he thought grimly of the task ahead.
* * *
Neil hardened now as he thought of her. Such a beautifully sexy and curvaceous woman. Her sparkling green eyes and flawless alabaster skin drove him wild. Damn, they better not call me next or I’ll have to hop to the whiteboard, he thought ruefully. They couldn’t continue on like this though. She had to go through with it like they’d planned. You couldn’t sneak around forever, it was good for no one.
He heard his name called. He fixed his best fake smile and walked over to the whiteboard. Knock ’em dead, massacre them, his ego told him. A sudden movement caught his eye as he passed the window …
* * *
Vinny’s target finally loomed large in his scope. He took aim and slowly, carefully, and with endless patience, squeezed the trigger. The light pressure took an aeon to move the trigger and time stopped then exploded back into life as the rifle kicked hard at his shoulder.
* * *
With a crash like the end of days to the startled Neil, a pigeon slammed hard into the window and he leapt back, startled, colliding with the seated form of Randall, the managing director, who in turn spilled his coffee all over his notes. Neil’s false swagger evaporated like water in the desert.
* * *
In the street below an attractive blonde woman in red high heels and an expensive raincoat crumpled suddenly to the ground. A crimson pool slowly spread out around her.
Vinny whispered tenderly, “Why Sofia?”
Dope on a Rope
As he hung upside down from the Humber Bridge on a petrol soaked length of rope, Pete Howell mused about how his day couldn’t get much worse. His hands, which were tied behind his back, were starting to go numb. As a wasp landed on his face he realised that yes, upon reflection, his day could get worse. The rope creaked as he wriggled and started blowing at the wasp. The bitterly cold water of the Humber below seemed to call for him to join it. He had plenty of time to consider the events that had led him to this situation.
The Previous Day …
Pete sang along at the top of his voice. Freddie Mercury accompanied him and stated loudly and clearly his intention to break free. Pete’s pleasure centres fizzed nicely from the Peruvian marching powder he’d just snorted. He put his foot to the floor and swerved along, twisting the wheel to the beat. A white Transit van overtook him, taking as wide a berth as possible. In the passenger seat a thick set guy in a luminous Day-Glo work vest stuck two fingers up to Pete and mouthed the word “wanker”. Pete headed toward Hull, oblivious to this, as the rising sun kissed the grey sky like a long lost lover.
* * *
Kelly looked at the traitorous scumbag he’d once called a friend. Seth Walker, known as “Old” Seth to his friends, on account of his prematurely grey goatee beard, was in bad shape. Bloody, battered and with an arm hanging slackly by his side, he was shackled securely to a metal bar set into the wall. Splatters of blood surrounded Seth and various bloodied instruments of torture lay nearby on the floor. A cheese grater looked particularly well used, with scraps of raw fles
h still hanging from it.
If he were given a time machine, Seth wouldn’t want the lottery numbers for the coming week. He wouldn’t want to warn people of upcoming disasters. Seth would mostly want not to have knocked on Kelly’s door when he was out. He would not have entered the house. He would not have entered Kelly’s hot little Italian wife. Several times. All over the house. He would not have been there taking her from behind as she bent over the kitchen table and squealed, “Yes, big daddy! Give it to me harder!” just as Kelly entered the kitchen. On reflection, he wanted very much not to have done that. Kelly once more kicked Walker in the knackers and decided he was now tired of it. He stubbed his cigar out on Seth’s bloody chest and only sighed when Seth screamed. He was even getting bored of the screams.
“We’ll finish fucking Romeo here when I get back,” he informed his loyal henchman, Gus, who just nodded and went back to filling in his MENSA entry form.
Like most deranged criminal psychopaths, Kelly had a secret love. Only it wasn’t a stripper or model. Her name was Rosie and she was a little black pedigree pug. People might laugh behind his back to see the huge muscle-bound man walking the wee creature, but those who valued their kneecaps didn’t do it to his face. He grabbed her lead and, stroking her head gently, led the wheezing, snuffling creature outside.
Dover Street, off English Street, was home to a number of small industrial units that were ideal for the dark purposes of the local criminal fraternity. They were so obviously used for illegal purposes they might as well have had “swag hidden here” in large neon letters across the front. The smell of fish from the docks hit Kelly like a left hook from a prizefighter. The biting November air caused little Rosie to shiver like a junkie going through cold turkey. In unspoken agreement they both decided it would be a short walk.
* * *
Sniffing up the remaining few traces of bouncing powder from his nostrils, Pete indicated and exited the dual carriageway just before the Clive Sullivan Way flyover. Still weaving and enjoying the, for once, traffic free roads, he shimmied between the two lanes as he headed down to the roundabout under the flyover. Pete went round the empty roundabout and exited quickly, turning into English Street.