One Dead Witness (13 page)

The coke she used that night was first class.

She opened her purse, unzipped the small inside pocket and
removed a twenty-dollar bill she had already prepared. It was
rolled up tight as a straw, both ends expertly folded over after
the required’ amount of the finely grained white powder had been
sifted inside the tube.

With extreme caution, Tracey unfolded one end of the note and
inserted this end into her left nostril. She closed the other
nostril with her thumb to bring about better suction.

She tilted her head back and snorted.

Immediately her nostril froze up, showing just how pure the
stuff was. Before the real buzz hit her, she quickly shoved the
note up her other nostril and sniffed up the remainder of the coke
from the tube, instantly freezing that one too.

She gritted her teeth as tiny particles of the drug were taken
down her passages to her throat; other particles of it were
transported by the small capillaries in the mucus membrane and
delivered speedily and efficiently to her brain.

The rush slammed into her seconds later. Like an express train
smashing into her cranium.

She staggered, dropped the twenty-dollar bill and grabbed the
wash-stand to steady herself.

Her eyes rose to her reflection. She no longer saw the
scrawny, drug-abused female; instead there was a transformation.
She was beautiful again. Full of confidence and sass, raring to
confront Charlie Gilbert and Mario Bussola. The two men who had
promised so much and given so little.

Kruger angled the TV screen in the palm of his hand to enable
Myrna to see the picture properly.

She stared down at the tiny set. Horrified, her face creased
into a mask of anger. She looked quickly at Kruger. ‘The bastards,’
she uttered. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘
Call the cops, I imagine,’ he said. His heart rate had
increased in pace to about a million beats per second. He stared
back down at the sordid tableau which was being delivered to him by
the latest in hi-tec. ‘Kelly?’ he hissed into his radio. ‘Are you
receiving this picture?’

‘
I was, but its gone blank for some reason. I’m trying to get
it back, but there’s interference on the screen from somewhere,’
she responded desperately.

‘
Get it fixed and get it recorded,’ Kruger ordered her, knowing
there were video-recording facilities in the comms van.

‘
Yes, boss.’

‘
And call the go damned cops and tell ‘em to break their asses
gettin’ here.’

‘
Okay, boss.’

‘
Cops could take for ever,’ Myrna said. ‘We can’t let this go
on, Steve. If that’s not rape and that kid is older than ten years,
my name’s not Myrna Rosza.’

‘
PI’s watch - they don’t get involved,’ Kruger
baulked.

‘
Not in this case, Steve. Otherwise we might find ourselves
accessories to murder.’

‘
Yeah, you’re dead right.’ He looked at the TV screen again and
made a decision - but before he could translate it into words and
action, something else happened on-screen and he gasped, ‘What the
hell’s this?’

Tracey crept out of the restroom and stepped quietly down the
hallway towards the foot of the stairs, feeling as though she was
walking on air. She paused briefly, checked over her shoulder to
ensure that the door to the telephonists’ room was still closed,
then began to slowly climb the stairs. On the landing at the top
she was faced with one door, which she opened.

Beyond was a sparsely furnished room, with simple, whitewashed
walls; it had been a storeroom previously. There was a door in the
opposite wall next to which sat Bussola’s second bodyguard, an
overweight guy with a heavy moustache but hardly any other hair.
His ample ass was stuck in a plastic stacking chair, his nose in
his porno mag. At the sound of the door opening he looked up and an
expression of vague annoyance crossed his face.

He thought it was his buddy from downstairs and was ready to
give him a roasting for leaving his post.

The sight of the thin, waif-like girl puzzled him.

‘
I’ve come to see Charlie Gilbert,’ Tracey said.

‘
Who?’ As he said the word he remembered it was the name of
Bussola’s pal. ‘Get the fuck outta here,’ he said, dismissing her
with a gesture.

‘
No.’

He stood up and walked towards her. Tracey timed it right,
ducked to his left and darted to the door, skimming past him with
ease. He made a grab for her but ended up embracing
himself.

Before he could stop her, she was through the door.

The bodyguard swore and roared at her.

The commotion caught the attention of the two naked men in the
second room, but the third person in the room continued to struggle
to try and free herself from her ordeal.

Bussola was situated at the rear of the young girl, slamming
into her. He yelled angrily, ‘What the hell’s going on? Get her
outta here, you fool!’

Gilbert was positioned at the other end of the girl. He held
her head down in a vice-like grip, forcing her to fellate his
flaccid penis. He simply looked up, unconcerned at the
interruption; his eyes were glazed over a drug-induced
euphoria.

Tracey didn’t hesitate.

She flew across the room at Gilbert, screaming, ‘Bastard!
Bastard!’ Her arms flailed like some sort of medieval instrument of
war.

Then she was on Gilbert, punching and pounding him madly, five
years of hatred which had been growing inside her like a malignant
tumour, now given a cathartic release.

Gilbert rolled with the blows. Other than to raise his
forearms defensively, thereby letting go of the girl’s head, his
brain was unable to coordinate a proper response; within seconds
Tracey had punched him over a dozen times around his head and
chest.

However, Bussola, who always kept a clear head, disengaged his
cock from the girl’s anus and threw her roughly to one side. She
sprawled awkwardly to the floor where she immediately scuttled to
one corner of the room, cowering, shivering with fright and
pain.

Bussola and his overweight bodyguard both laid hands on Tracey
at the same time. They dragged her away from Gilbert and flung her
against the wall, her light weight proving no problem for them. The
bodyguard moved in and laid into her, landing a devastating punch
on the bridge of her nose. Her coke-frozen nostrils flattened as
easily as crushing an empty match-box. She gurgled, blood gushing
down her face and chest, and sank to her knees, holding her face in
her hands.

Once down there the bodyguard kicked her in the side of the
head, making her jerk as if he was kicking a marionette. He
continued to boot her remorselessly around the head and upper
torso, watched by Bussola and Gilbert.

‘
Everyone! Front door now! Go, c’mon, move it!’ Kruger growled
urgently into his microphone.

He had quickly considered and discarded the idea of trying to
force an entry through the window, mainly because it was thick
glass and would take a long time to break - and he didn’t have the
right equipment anyway.

He ran back along the catwalk, leapt on the fire-escape
ladders and heaved them from their fastenings. He put a foot on the
bottom rung, stepped on and the ladders dropped quickly through the
walkway to ground level. He jumped off.

Myrna was right behind him. She jumped the last five feet,
hitting the ground running.

They sprinted side by side down the alley, Kruger silently
cursing his knee which clicked loudly every time his foot jarred
down, sending a searing pain up through his thigh.

By the time they reached the front of the shop, the other
three had arrived. They looked cool and ready for anything. Kruger
knew there and then his recruitment and selection process was spot
on.

‘
No time for a detailed explanation, people,’ Kruger shouted as
he approached them. ‘Assault and battery taking place in the
upstairs back room. You may need your weapons drawn - but nobody’s
obliged to follow me,’ he finished off.

He rammed his right shoulder against the front door of the
shop and tried to burst it open. It
didn’t
budge. He measured a few steps backwards, eyed up his target area
and flat-footed the door by the lock. Still nothing. He increased
his effort and on the second kick it gave a little; on the third
the door splintered open with a crack. Kruger rushed through like a
charging rhino, having drawn his Sig which he held high in his
right hand.

None of the team took the decision to hang back.

They followed him, guns drawn.

Kruger’s cold experienced eyes flitted around the room as he
entered, instantly taking everything in: the phone booths, the
raised dais of the supervisor - and more importantly, Bussola’s
bodyguard who was still in his chair by the door at the back of the
room.

Kruger dismissed the telephone side of things as no threat. He
focused in on the bodyguard. Kruger was surprised to note the guy
hardly moved. Their entry, which had taken three kicks and probably
only ten seconds, had been long enough for any self-respecting
bodyguard to prepare for appropriate action.

This guy, however, made a sloth look slick.

He rose from his chair and reached underneath his jacket for
his piece. His eyes were wide with horror and a ‘silent scream of,
‘Oh fuck’ was on his lips as he thought, This is it. This is what I
get paid for. And I’m too slow and I’m gonna die at the age of
thirty-six.

He was right in one respect. He
was
too slow.

Kruger launched himself across the last six feet of space,
driving his left shoulder into the guy’s lower belly, bundling him
over, flattening him with a football tackle to be proud
of.

All the air gushed out of the bodyguard, all his strength with
it.

Kruger and Dale quickly heaved the man over onto his stomach,
wrenched his hands behind his back. Dale knelt down in the middle
of the guy’s back, driving his right knee down hard between his
shoulder blades, forcing his whole weight onto him, pinning him
down.

Dale then jammed the muzzle of his gun into the man’s ear and
said, ‘Don’t move.’

‘
You take care-a him,’ Kruger said, rising. ‘Rest of you, with
me now.’

With one last flicker of his eyes around the room of stunned
telephonists - most of whom were well into sex-chat - Kruger opened
the door and stepped through.

He took the stairs three at a time, creasing his knee in
agony.

Jimmy, Myrna and Kelly were right behind.

When faced with a situation, it had always been Bussola’s
policy to act first and ask questions afterwards. This was one of
the reasons why he joined in beating up Tracey even though she had
been overpowered within seconds. His other reason was that he was
extremely annoyed at the interruption. He had been having a good
time - and no one had the right to spoil that. This little bitch
had to be made to realise that. Then he might talk to her. As for
his bodyguards ... if the stupid bastards couldn’t keep a little
girl out, what chance was there of keeping someone out who meant
business?

Bussola reached down. He wound his fingers into Tracey’s hair,
got a grip and banged her head repeatedly against the
wall.

The time for talking started. ‘Now then, you little
shit-for-brains, what’s all this about?’ he screamed into her
bashed-up face. Blood was being flicked everywhere.

Even if she could have replied, she did not get time, because
Kruger stepped into the doorway, Sig in hand. His presence was
menacing.

‘
Stand back,’ he shouted. ‘Leave her alone.’

Bussola stopped what he was doing, letting go of Tracey’s
hair. Her head slopped to one side. The mobster stood up to his
full height and coldly turned his big, fat nakedness to Kruger.
Despite his predicament, his erection was still rampant and
twitching against the folds of his big belly. ‘What the fuck?’ he
sneered.

‘
I said stand back and leave her alone,’ Kruger
reiterated.

Jimmy appeared behind him, Myrna and Kelly behind
Jimmy.

Bussola shot a glance to his bodyguard who was standing next
to Tracey, looking impassively at Kruger, weighing up the odds.
‘Shoot him,’ Bussola said.

A smile crossed the bodyguard’s fat lips. Kruger realised he
was about to be tested. The guy’s hand went for his gun, but Jimmy
took the initiative. He weaved past Kruger and pointed his Sig
directly into the bodyguard’s face. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he
breathed. ‘You pull that weapon out nice ‘n’ slow, thumb and
forefinger on the butt, then you throw it across the floor. If you
don’t, I’ll pop ya, babe.’ Jimmy’s finger tightened visibly on the
trigger.

The bodyguard looked at Bussola for guidance. He got
none.

Bussola was too busy eyeing Kruger.

The gun was extracted slowly as per instructions. The silence
of the moment was punctuated by the young girl sobbing in a corner
of the room and the sound of Tracey spitting blood on the floor by
the bed.