Rival Sons Page 12

  Trevor finished the second leg, tossed the pieces at the foot of the bathtub. He shifted to the dead pimp’s head. The body was draped over the tub, the pimp’s neck lifted at the sky, his half-hairy chin pointed at the drab yellow lights and black mold sporing across the ceiling. “The thing with the head,” Trevor said, “is that it comes away kind of messy, but it’s an easy job. That’s why I save it for last—you don’t want to get messy before you have to. I bet you’ll agree with me there, huh?” He positioned the hacksaw slightly higher than the pimp’s Adam’s apple. Before slicing, he stopped, turned to Remmie. “Know what? I could use an apron. Last thing I need is my dry cleaning guy giving me a bunch of shit about a little blood. You mind?”

  Remmie wandered like a ghost into the kitchen, opened a few drawers, found an apron crushed into a crusty ball. He walked back to the bathroom and handed it to Trevor. The fat man set the hacksaw on the edge of the sink and slipped the apron over his barbered hair, tied it around his broad belly. On the front of the apron was a cartoon image of a slim woman in a red bathing suit.

  Trevor smoothed down the apron and studied his profile in the bathroom mirror. The glass was rutted with toothpaste stains and caked with the gunk of the dead pimp’s uncouth and sporadic grooming habits. In the glass, Trevor was a lumpy shape framed by soap scum. He turned to face himself, ran his hands over the woman’s curves. “Kiss this cook,” Trevor said. He looked back at Remmie, noted the ketchup-stained pants again, and the greasy sheen of Remmie’s boots. “Say, where in the hell do you work, neighbor? I bet I might know the place.”

  “Big Stop’s Roadhouse. Just off the highway. We got—”

  “The world’s only egg-six-ways burger,” Trevor said nodding his head.

  “You know it?”

  “Like the underside of my dick. I get the bacon burger with scrambled eggs on top. That’s one hell of a meal, if you ask me.”

  Remmie said, “I bet I’ve cooked you a burger.”

  “It’s a small world, neighbor.”

  Remmie glanced at the pimp’s limbs piled in the tub. He’d come all this way—from the podunk shit heel town of his birth, from the mustard-odor of a dog food factory during the pitiful years of his youth, from the trailer park wedding and home births of his two little boys, from the county jail lockup—and wound up a fry cook at an inner city burger joint, a grease monkey standing in a shitty bathroom while a fat man in a suit chopped up a dead pimp.

  Small world?

  Yeah, Remmie guessed that about matched.

  He said, “The smallest world.”

  Trevor picked up the hacksaw, drew it down across the dead pimp’s neck, and began his bloody work. When it came free, the pimp’s head dropped, bounced, and rolled casually across the tile floor. It ended up at Remmie’s feet, the dead man’s sky blue eyes glaring up at him from the oily frame of black curls. Jeez-us, Remmie thought again. Kee-rist.

  Trevor tossed the saw in the tub. “Time to bag this sucker up,” he said. “This is where you’re going to earn your money, neighbor.”

  “Jeez-us,” Remmie said. “Kee-rist.”

  Trevor nodded and said, “Amen, brother. And may he rest in peace.”

  Click here to learn more about The Bad Kind of Lucky by Matt Phillips.

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  Here is a preview from Gravy Train, a crime novel by Tess Makovesky, published by All Due Respect, an imprint of Down & Out Books.

  Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.

  One

  Blam! Blam!

  Sandra cringes back behind the bar. For a second she thinks it’s gun shots ringing out across the pub. It wouldn’t be the first time—last year a bloke was killed right there on the red velour banquette by the door. Red blood on red cloth; she thought it wouldn’t show, but of course it faded to a splotchy brown. And took days of scrubbing with salted water to get the stain even half way out.

  She looks round wildly for the victim this time. Everything’s normal, nothing looks out of place. The pub is busier than it would usually be this time on a Friday night. There’s her usual gang: three old codgers playing dominoes with an elderly terrier, half-comatose under a chair. There’s a bunch of office workers from the block just down the road. But although the place is packed, nobody’s screamed, or even moved. There’s no blood, no smoke from a just-fired gun, no body slamming to the floor. So what the hell was the noise? Then she realises, and lets herself relax. It’s the bubbly corks popping in the snug next door. Some prat shaking the bottles before opening them. She wishes folk wouldn’t do that. Now there’ll be Champagne sprayed on the floor and walls.

  It’s a private function: braying men in suits sucking up to some older bloke they all call Ted. Quite appropriate really, since he looks like a picture of one of those fifties Teddy boys with his ruddy cheeks and his quiff. God knows what they’re celebrating but they’ve spent more in the last half hour than her normal crowd do in a week. So far they’ve bought six bottles of her most expensive Champagne, which she keeps down the cellar stairs. She can only carry two at a time so she’s been up and down like a rat in a pipe but she can’t really complain since it costs nearly a hundred quid a pop. She giggles at the unintended pun; stacks glasses from the dishwasher under the countertop. Wouldn’t do to run out of those. No glasses means no drinks, and unhappy customers are the last thing she needs. Especially when business is usually so poor.

  As if on cue: “Oi! Any chance of getting a drink around here?” It’s the youngest, flashiest guy from the private group. Her hand goes automatically to pat her hair, even though she’s twice his age and twice his size around the waist. Mike was a good enough catch in his day, but she’s never quite given up hope.

  “Sorry, love, be with you in a second.” She plonks the last couple of glasses on the shelf and scurries to the side of the bar that overlooks the snug. “Right then, what’ll it be?”

  “Three more bottles of Moët, six brandies, four pints of lager, a shot of Famous Grouse, one red wine. Oh, and a pint of lemonade for the poor sod over there.” He nods towards a lugubrious-looking guy on his own near the door—the designated driver, presumably. At least they’ve got the sense to have a driver after all this booze. It never ceases to amaze her how many people don’t. She wishes the police paid bar staff to tip them off. She’d do it like a shot and make a fortune without all the hard work.

  She busies herself with bottles, glasses, measures, a lemon and a knife. It takes time, and it doesn’t help that Flashy Guy is drumming his fingers on the bar. Always so impatient, these yuppie types. Rushing from one thing to another, one meeting to another, always on the phone. As though their lives depended on it. Then again, perhaps they do.

  The time she takes here means she’s neglecting the office crowd. But they can wait. They come in every once in a while. Bray so much they deafen her regulars and elbow them out of the bar. And they never stay long. A pint or two at the most, celebrating the end of the week at work, then they’re piling in their cars and heading off, leaving slops and empty crisp bags in their wake. Tonight the usual group have retreated as far as they can to a table near the back. It’s so far from the windows it’s a wonder they can see the dominoes—and a three-mile hike to the bar. Not that the windows help much anyway. Too small to let much light into the place, too grimy half the time. Mike’s supposed to keep them clean, but she’s given up asking him. He can’t reach half of them, can’t even clamber on a stool.

  She peers at the nearest window now, wincing at the smears. She should probably clean them herself, but it’s just one more job to add to the endless list. And it’s not like the view is anything to write home about. Parked cars, dustbins, buses rumbling past.

  There’s a snap of fingers in front of her nose. “Oi, step on it, Grandma. Do I look like I’ve got all night?”

  “Gran—” She bites down hard on her lip, cracking the gloss she spen
t so long putting on. But the customer’s always right, even if he’s as much of a bastard as this. She fetches the last few drinks, aware she’s scowling and banging things on the countertop. All thoughts of making out with him have gone. She’ll spit in half the brandies while he isn’t looking. She’ll show him Grandma.

  He grabs the tray and a couple of bottles of bubbly without so much as a thank you and heads off into the crowd. More people seem to have arrived since the last time she looked. It’s standing room only and the noise is deafening. Something by Coldplay hammers away in the background but she can hardly hear it for the bellowing shouts and shrieks. It’s like feeding time in the chimpanzee enclosure at Dudley Zoo. She sighs and rubs the top of her nose. She’ll have a headache by closing time for sure.

  One voice stands out above the rest. When the sardines part for a second she sees it’s that bloke Ted, waving a Champagne flute and holding court. He has a cigar clamped between his teeth like some kind of Texan billionaire. She hopes he doesn’t try lighting it as smoking isn’t allowed indoors—but convincing him could be hell. He’s playing the smiling host, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Looks like it’s all surface gloss like her lips; she’s willing to bet he’s got a nasty side. The poor cow next to him looks suitably subdued, nose in a glass of wine but staring into space. Her face says she’s heard it all before. The boasts, the bragging, the snobbery, the loud-mouthed man of the world. Sandra wonders how she puts up with it. Then she sees the woman’s fingers plastered with gold rings, and suddenly she knows.

  She doesn’t usually listen in. She doesn’t have the time, and the customers wouldn’t thank her for nosing in their affairs. Plus half the time it isn’t worth it anyway—long rambling tales with no real point, or snide gossip about people she doesn’t know. But something about this guy tonight catches her attention. Probably because he’s talking—no, bellowing—about her favourite subject. It’s music to her ears. She finds herself sucked in.

  “Easy money, mate. No limit, really. Couple of million if you like. Maybe more. Nobody will ever suspect.”

  “So you’re saying it’s legit?” One of the other guys looks unconvinced.

  “Dunno if I’d go that far, but it’s better than robbing banks.” Ted grins and taps the side of his spreading, purple nose.

  The people around him make noises as though they’re impressed. Some of them even look as though they are. And if those figures are right, she can’t say she’s surprised. She’s impressed as well. What she couldn’t do with a million pounds herself.

  “And what? We just bet on it as though nothing’s happened?” one bloke says.

  “Too right. Pop into William Hill on your way home from work, or do it online. You don’t even need to move from your settee!”

  “Surely someone will smell a rat?” Doubting Thomas again, echoing Sandra’s own thoughts. Yet another get-rich-quick scheme, probably. Too good to be true. The gambling business is hardly a charity.

  Ted frowns and flaps a hand. “They can suspect all they want, mate. But we’ll only be hitting them once, and they’ve got to be able to prove it. And by the time they’ve got their thumbs out of their arseholes to do that, we—and the money—will be long gone.”

  There’s a chorus of assent. “Gotta be worth a punt.” “Cheers Ted.” “Nice one, mate.” Glasses chink; even the woman manages a thin, if jaded, smile.

  Sandra wonders what the scam is. Sport, probably, since that’s all the rage just now. Those cricketers last year, caught fixing games, and a couple of football stars. All the juicy details were in Mike’s copy of the Sun. But before she can overhear more, Flashy Guy comes back for the rest of his drinks.

  “You still here?” He sneers. “Thought you’d have better things to do.”

  She doesn’t want him to think she was listening in. She doesn’t want him telling his boss, and Ted smacking her or refusing to pay the bill. She hands over the rest of the order without another word, then hurries off to the other side of the bar. As she feared, there’s a queue built up and it’s twenty minutes before she’s free. By then the talk in the snug has moved on. She sighs. Just when it was getting interesting. Now she’ll never know.

  She reloads the dishwasher and dreams about all the things she could do if she had a million quid. That would buy a whole new pub, no, three or four, in better parts of town. Areas where she wouldn’t get cheeked by blokes who are half her age; where she could serve champagne as a regular thing. Where she might even be able to put a proper menu on. Not just ham rolls, peanuts and crisps. Anywhere but Hockley, she thinks. She hates the way people talk about it now, as though it’s paradise. It’s all the Jewellery Quarter this and the clubs and bars that, but she knows there’s Hockley and there’s Hockley—and this is the wrong end. Besides, after dark, it all looks the same. The kids getting drunk and falling down, the broken glass, the endless pools of sick. And she and Mike are stuck with this: a dead-end hole in a dead-end part of town. Her dad would have said it was no more than she deserved. She’d like to prove him wrong.

  The night moves on. People come and go; the office crowd head home to loved ones, supper and comfier shoes. A gaggle of youngsters turn up, making a night of it, hell bent on getting drunk. She sees a lot of that these days: kids whose only aim in life is to drink themselves paralysed, throw up on the carpet and collapse outside in the street. Is it so very different from how she was? She thinks it is. For starters she never had that much spare cash. This generation seem loaded; either that or it’s the only thing they spend their weekly earnings on. Whichever way, she’s sick and tired of it. Tired of them treating her place like the nearest doss house. It’s not like they’re loyal; they’re not even regulars.

  There’s another shout for refills and she hurries through. A small group have broken away from Ted and edged towards the bar. One’s shouting into his mobile phone, the others chat amongst themselves as though she isn’t there. Frumpy and fortyish, that’s all she is to them. She might as well be invisible. It’s annoying, but it might also be a good opportunity. If they start talking about the money again. She gets their drinks, as slowly as she can.“I’ve never heard of AFC Aston,” says a thin bloke with a beaky nose.

  “Me neither.”

  “One of them break-away clubs. You know. Like FC United up in Manchester. The fans are pig-sick of all these owners who are foreigners or billionaires. And Villa aren’t doing so well.”

  The thin guy sniggers. "Be bottom of the league if they keep this run up. But why not them? Why use this Aston mob?”

  "Dunno. Maybe there’s less chance the authorities will notice the small-fry clubs…”

  There’s only so much time filling four glasses can take. She pushes them across as quietly as she can, hoping they’ll take her for part of the furniture. It works. One of them says ‘Cheers luv’ and hands her a twenty-pound note, then takes his change without a second glance.

  She has to stop listening while she rings it up on the till but now her ears are tingling again.

  “…can’t believe he’s got at the referee!”

  “Yeah, good one, that. You expect the players but not the bloke in black.”

  “I just hope it works. Could do with a top-up this month.”

  “You know where to get it. Sunday, lunchtime match, penalty kick in the thirtieth minute. Be a bit clever, though. No good us all going to the same bookies or they’ll smell a rat.”

  “That’s okay, I’ve got an account online.”

  “I’ll use my local high street place. They know me, I’m in there all the time. They’ll never suspect a thing.”

  “And you heard what Ted said. No telling all your mates. We keep this small, between ourselves. In a few months’ time we can always try again…”

  They drift away into the crowd, still talking, but Sandra isn’t paying attention now. They’ve served their purpose, given her the information she was hoping for. She can feel the ends of her fingers itching—
itching after all that cash. Just think. She and Mike could put a bet on that dodgy referee too. Who’s to connect them to the scam? Nobody will suspect the barmaid at the local pub. She might get lucky, for once.

  There’s a sherry bottle she keeps on a shelf beneath the bar. Usually it’s for when she needs cheering up, but this time she’s celebrating. She pours herself a hefty slug and raises it cautiously in the direction of Ted. Doesn’t want him noticing and getting the wrong idea. Doesn’t want anyone else to see. But as she sips, she toasts him silently. Cheers, mate. You’ll never know what a benefactor you’ve been to me.

  Two

  Blam! Blam!

  Vernon Ball slammed down the telephone then banged his fist on the desk. Cynthia was unhappy, and he knew from past experience that when Cynthia was unhappy, he was likely to be unhappy very soon afterwards. The only solution was to pass on the suffering to some other poor sap. And he had just the person in mind.

  “Bradley. Bradley! Get your fat backside in here right now!”

  His office door cracked open and a large, spongy face bearing a worried look peered round. “Yes, Mr Ball?”

  “Bradley. I have just had Mrs Ball on the line. Mrs Ball is outside her hairdresser’s, four miles away, with a new and expensive hairdo and no means of getting home. She is not particularly pleased. I thought I told you to go and pick her up?”

  The spongy face advanced a little further into the room, bringing with it massive shoulders, a neck like a buffalo and two flat feet. “Yes, Mr Ball. You did. But there’s a problem with the car.”

  “What problem? And why didn’t I know about it?”