The Point (9 page)

“Ach, like a wee Russian doll.”

“Right enough, yeah.”

He nodded for a bit and waited for another conversational gambit to occur. She filled the gap.

“Have you no kids, yourself?”

None that I know of,
he thought. “No, haven’t met the right girl yet, you know?”

“Oh, waiting for Miss Right? Very romantic.”

“Aye, I’m straight out of a chick flick, so I am.”

A static crackle cut through their flirting. They both jumped a little.

“Send him in.” It was O’Rourke speaking through a cheap intercom, brief and brisk as per.

Bernice rolled her eyes then pushed a button on the little speaker. “Okey dokey, Richard,” she said in a sing-song voice.

Paul gave her a little wave and strode into the office. O’Rourke sat in his high-backed leather office chair; a heap of beef and gristle. He nodded slightly and pointed to a visitor’s chair. They had company. As he sat, he noticed the other guest was bound and gagged.

“What the fuck is this?” Paul asked.

“Meet Charlie,” O’Rourke said.

Charlie stared at Paul with pleading bug-eyes. Sweat and tears streaked his bloody face. Paul shook his head and looked to O’Rourke for an explanation. O’Rourke raised a big, meaty finger to his lips, then used it to click on the intercom.

“Bernice, take yourself out for a long lunch today. You’ve been working very hard this week. Lift twenty quid out of the petty cash tin and have a treat on me.”

“Ah, thanks, Richard. You’re a real sweetie.”

He grunted, flicked off the intercom and waited until the clip-clop of Bernice’s departing heels faded into the distance.

“You want a beer, Paul?” O’Rourke asked.

Paul wanted to get the hell out of the office but, since running away was likely to be considered bad form, he nodded for the beer. O’Rourke reached down to his side and Paul heard the rustle of a plastic bag. The big man straightened and plonked a six-pack of Harp lager onto his desktop. He peeled one from its plastic ring and tossed it to Paul, who caught, cracked open and chugged it. Paul wiped his sleeve across his lips and burped into his fist.

“Thanks. Lovely and cold.”

O’Rourke nodded and smirked. “I’d say Charlie would enjoy one too.”

Charlie shook his head.

O’Rourke tugged another tin from the pack. “I insist, Charlie.”

Charlie jerked in his bindings and managed to move the chair a fraction of an inch. Very little payoff for what looked like a shitload of effort. His ribcage rose and dropped like a sewing machine needle as he fought to regain his breath. Paul wanted to tell him to relax, but it wouldn’t do Charlie any good and he doubted it would have impressed O’Rourke. He took another swig of beer.

O’Rourke launched the beer tin at Charlie. It bounced off the poor fucker’s forehead. Paul managed to stop himself spraying his own beer over O’Rourke’s desk. Charlie made little keening noises, muffled by the cloth gag. O’Rourke rumbled a sadistic laugh and pulled another beer.

“You dropped that one, Charlie. Must try harder,” O’Rourke said.

The next tin thumped off Charlie’s chest. Paul winced. Charlie hitched for breath. O’Rourke grinned. He pulled another tin. Charlie croaked guttural protests from the back of his throat and hummed through his nose. He blinked wildly to clear his eyes. A huge lump had already formed across his forehead. Paul squirmed and sweated. O’Rourke cracked open the tin and gulped greedily from it.

“What the fuck is this?” Paul asked, struggling to steady his voice.

“Bit intense for you, Paul?”

Paul looked to Charlie again. He’d stopped struggling against the ropes and cable-ties. His eyes were closed and his breathing slowed. A bloody mucus bubble expanded and contracted in his nostril.

Paul shrugged. “Depends what he did, I suppose.”

“Ten out of ten, Paul. Good man.”

Thank God,
Paul thought.
And, Jesus, please keep me out of that chair.

Charlie’s nose-bubble popped as he snuffed a deep breath and coughed into his gag. Paul was sure he would choke but poor Charlie managed to clear his airway and swallow whatever had clogged it.

“So what did he do?”

“Charlie here has run up a bit of a debt. He’s a gambler who never learned when to hold or fold ’em.”

“Big money?”

“Very big. And he’s been avoiding me for a few months now. Couldn’t let it go on.”

Paul shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “You, um... you going to kill him?”

O’Rourke chuckled; the dry rumble of a boulder rolled from a tomb entrance. “I haven’t decided. On one hand, killing him means writing off a bad debt. But it also sends out a strong message to other weasels with bad ideas brewing.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you decide, Paul?”

“What?”

“You decide. Should Charlie here live or die?”

Paul tilted his beer to his lips and took a slow sip. His mind raced. Obviously, O’Rourke had hauled him in here to test his mettle, but killing some poor bastard with a gambling problem? It was too hardcore. Paul decided straight out that he wouldn’t suggest Charlie die. What he needed to do was come up with a good reason to keep the guy alive. He set his tin between his legs and resisted the urge to rub his sweaty palms on his T-shirt.
Be cool, be cool, be cool.

“Here’s the thing,” Paul said, impressed that he spoke without squeaking. “There’s no real gain for you if Charlie dies. Like you said, a dead Charlie is a bad debt written off. You also said killing him sends out a strong message. I disagree. Who’s going to spread this message? Me? Don’t think so. At this stage I’m implicated in the murder, so blabbing about it will only get me scooped. You’re not going to chat about it either, are you? Will Charlie? Not unless he goes through a medium.”

O’Rourke pinned Paul to his seat with a steady, unflinching gaze.

Paul continued. “So let him go this time, under the proviso that for every additional week he avoids payment, you’re taking a toe, then a finger, then an ankle... you get where I’m going, like.”

“I’d say Charlie will be very grateful that you’re arguing his corner,” O’Rourke said.

“Arguing his corner? Pfft. Fuck that. I’m looking out for
you
. This Charlie fellah doesn’t mean anything to me. He’s just some eejit who got himself into a mess.”

“Really?”

Paul stood slowly. He turned in a half-circle and threw a kick from his hip. His shin crashed into Charlie’s chest. Charlie toppled backwards in his chair and cracked the back of his head on O’Rourke’s carpeted floor. Paul rounded the toppled heap and soccer-kicked Charlie’s skull. He pulled it slightly on contact, but Charlie’s unconscious head whipped to the side. Paul spat on him.

“When he wakes up, tell him he’ll get a lot worse if he runs to the cops on either of us.”

“I’ll do that, Paul.”

“Did you want me for anything else, Mister O’Rourke?”

“I told you. Call me Richard.”

“Anything else, Richard?”

“No, Paul. I’ll call you later. I’ve some new addresses for you. Bigger payers.”

Another raise,
Paul thought. “Okay, Richard. That’ll do well.”

Paul gave poor Charlie another glance on the way out. His chest rose and fell steadily. Paul kept the relief from his face.
You’re lucky I’m a clever bastard, Charlie. Very lucky.

A Lead

Mad Mickey shifted his arse cheeks but it did no good. He just couldn’t find a comfortable spot on the wall in front of the house on his favourite corner. It was too cold, too hard, too high. He missed his van. Couldn’t wait until he got it back. Until then, he’d have to put up with pins and needles in his hole.

Big Dave sucked hard on a fag as he ambled up to Mad Mickey. He looked like he might be smiling though, in fairness, it was hard to tell. With the big wide jaw and sloping forehead, Dave was a man who always looked angry, even at the best of times.

“They found your van,” Dave said.

“Yeah, where?”

“Just outside Newry.”

“So we know where he is, then.”

“Well, we know he’s somewhere near Newry. He’ll not have burned it in his own back garden, though.”

Mad Mickey lit a spliff. “He burned it?”

“Afraid so.”

“Fucker.” Mad Mickey puffed on his joint and held the smoke in his lungs until it burned. He coughed out a cloud of brownish-bluish smoke.  “Okay, it’s a start. Get in touch with anybody who owes us a favour in the surrounding towns. We’ll catch him yet.”

And then I’ll set fire to his balls.

The Chinese Connection

The bell above the door sounded a gentle ping as Paul pushed it open. A friendly face greeted them at the counter of the Welcome Inn Oriental takeaway. The man was Chinese but his accent pure Belfast. Paul hoped he wasn’t an Antrim Road Triad. Brian followed behind Paul. He slurped on a huge ice cream cone he’d bought on the way to the takeaway.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to pick up something for Mr O’Rourke.”

“Who?”

Paul sighed for dramatic effect and pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket. He unfolded it slowly and cleared his throat before he read from it.

“The Welcome Inn Oriental Takeaway, collect six-hundred quid from Jimmy Ching.”

“Oh,
that
Mr O’Rourke?” Ching said. “I told him to fuck off last month. I have my own protection. I don’t need his.”

“Look mate,” Paul said. “You’re on the list, pay the fucking money and let me get on my way.”

“Get out of my establishment.” He reached under the counter and pulled back a meat cleaver. In one swift motion he sank it into the counter top with a deep thud. His hand disappeared again and came back with another one. “I have a blade for each of your heads.”

Paul and Ching locked into a stare. He didn’t think the guy was bluffing. He’d kill the two of them without a second thought. Paul’s mind went blank but he didn’t break eye contact. Inspiration would have to hit him soon.

Then, Brian stepped past Paul and threw his ice cream. It hit Ching in the face, blinding and distracting him. He dropped his cleaver as his hands went to his face.

Paul vaulted the counter, stood on the dropped cleaver and pushed Ching backwards. Ching slammed into the wall. Paul could see Brian climb over the counter in his peripheral. Brian grunted as he yanked the first cleaver from the counter top. He tapped Paul’s shoulder and Paul turned to be greeted by a death stare from his little brother. Paul shrugged and returned his attention to Ching.

“You should probably hand over the money, mate, or me and my partner will get to work on you with these cleavers.”

The shell-shocked man pointed towards the till. Paul hit the sale button and the drawer popped open. He slowly, deliberately counted six-hundred from the pile of twenties. This done, with a smile, he scooped out two-hundred in ten pound notes.