TWENTY TWO

Rudlow snapped open his cell.

‘Yeah?’

Furlong’s voice: ‘Got something. Little no-mark that’s friendly with our guy. Goes by the name of King. Picked him up round Tomb Street, heading towards Vegas. Mouthy little bastard.’

‘Good. Keep him fresh ’til I get there. And Furlong?’

‘Boss?’

‘Go easy.’

‘Sure thing, boss. You know me.’

‘That’s why I’m telling you to go easy.’

Rudlow snapped the cell shut, sat up.

‘Trouble?’

He turned round finding Dolly on the edge of the bed. She wore a red satin garter, one stocking removed to reveal the tattoo on her thigh. It was the profile of a showgirl behind a dark blue fan, flamingo feathers in her hair.

‘Lab boys came back on that puke I dug out of Geordie Mac’s carpet,’ Rudlow told her.

‘Charming.’

‘Turns out it belongs to some local yahoo named Kenny Fee. Lives with his mom over in Queen’s.’ He tightened the knot on his tie. ‘We ran the place over, his mom squealing at us the whole time ‘bout how her boy’s done nothing wrong, ‘bout police brutality.’ Rudlow frowned, ‘Didn’t get nothing.’ He pulled the braces up over his shirt, looked to the ground for his shoes. ‘Thought the lead had gone dry, but Furlong picked up his buddy. We’re putting the screws on him.’

‘That’s my boy,’ Dolly quipped. ‘Always catching the bad guys.’

She leaned forward, found her stocking, rolled it up her leg, attached it to the garter belt. Relaxed back on the four poster. An old jazz song played softly in the background and Dolly hummed along with it absently. In the low lights, Rudlow thought, she looked very beautiful.

‘Dolly,’ he called.

‘That’s my name,’ she said, ‘Don’t wear it out.’

‘You got anything on this kid? King, you call him.’

Dolly reached for her cigarettes. They were resting on the ivory bedside, next to an old bronze lamp. She lit up, inhaled, breathed out slowly.

‘King, you say?’ She thought for a moment, Rudlow noticing how her lipstick had stained the end of her cigarette. ‘Matter of fact, one of the girls said a guy called by last night. Mouthy. Southern accent. Tried to sell her some crack. Didn’t catch his name, but you know what they say,’ she inhaled again, held it, exhaled. ‘If the cap fits –’

Rudlow glared at her.

‘And you didn’t think to tell me?!’

Dolly smiled, eyelashes fluttering, cigarette poised in one hand.

She crossed one leg over the other, took another drag, said, ‘You didn’t think to ask.’

 

King looked up, face bloodied and lip torn.

He was sat on a chair in the middle of a small, dark room. Beside him was a desk made of faux wood. Above him burned a bright spotlight. There was a fly circling the light, annoying him, annoying the three men towering over him.

‘Where is he?’ one of them asked.

A plain clothes goon, squat and overweight. He smoked a cigarette, his voice coarse and gravelly.

‘Don’t know what –’

The man reached quickly, grabbing a tuft of King’s hair, tilting his head then pressing the cigarette against his cheek. The burn made King grit his teeth, but he’d be damned if he was going to let this fucker hear his pain.

Goon pulled his hand away, the stubbed cigarette hanging for a moment against King’s face before falling away.

‘Where is he?’

‘Don’t –’

A punch across the mouth.

King stifled his moan, shuffled in his chair.

The fly came down from the light, settled on his cheek, flew off again.

Drool leaked from his split lip, a few teeth loose. King spat onto the grey, concrete floor.

He looked up at the man, ‘Said I didn’t know. You deaf, bro?’

The middle guy stepped forward. Punched him in the stomach. Followed through with a boot to the groin.

This time King did react: ‘You fuck!’ he moaned, falling from the chair and curling up on the floor.

The pain surged through him like electric, tearing at his groin.

‘Just tell us and you can go.’

‘I’ve already told you,’ he gasped, ‘I don’t know what you –’

The middle guy reached for King, lifting him up by the collar, pulling him close to his face, ‘If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to kill you. Do you want that? Want to die for this guy?’

King spat, a thick globule of blood landing across the goon’s eyes.

‘Fuck!’ he complained, dropping King to the floor.

The other two men moved in on the felled yahoo.

Suddenly the door opened. A fourth man stood in the light. The others froze on seeing him.

The new guy was tall, slim, wore a long trench coat.

He pulled a hanky from his pocket, handed it to the bettered goon, waited for him to wipe his eyes, steady himself.

‘Thought I warned you before about this kind of thing, Furlong,’ he said. ‘We do NOT do this shit. Do you hear me?’

‘He’s a scum bucket!’ countered Furlong. ‘What does it matter how we treat him?’

‘When we behave like them, we become them. That’s why it matters. Now go and clean yourself up.’

The taller man glared at the other men, watching as they left the room, heads bowed. He stood for a moment, deep in thought, before looking to King. Pulled up a chair, sat down opposite him.

‘You alright?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘I’m good.’

The tall man nodded, face drawn and serious.

‘Chief Rudlow,’ he said. ‘Investigating a murder and drugs pull. You’re a suspect. Simple as.’

King spat a tooth to the floor. Wiped his mouth. Chief goon, eh?

‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘We’ve got SLAM cams saying otherwise.’

King thought about that a while.

‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘They took down them cams. Invasion of privacy and all. Every kid on the street knows that, pal. Try harder.’

‘Okay, here’s the real deal. You’ve been pretty loose lipped around town, Mr –’

‘King.’

‘Mr King.’

‘No, just King.’

‘Doesn’t matter to me. Might matter to the bagman, when he’s thinking of something to write on your death cert, though.’

‘I’m a young man. Healthy, strong.’

‘You’re a dead man if you keep peddling that crack.’

‘What crack?’

‘The crack you tried to sell on Tomb Street. The crack you were telling every Tom, Dick and whore about since killing Geordie Mac.’

‘I ain’t killed no one. And I didn’t steal no crack, either.’

He needed to play this goon carefully. Not get too excited and start running his mouth off. They had nothing on him, save dealing. And he had been smart enough not to keep the goods on his person, stashing it somewhere safe.

He sat quietly, staring Rudlow out.

‘You’ve a friend: Kenny Fee. Can’t seem to find him on the streets. Maybe McBride’s got him?’

King’s face changed.

‘How long you going to hold me?’ he said.

Rudlow leaned forward in his chair.

‘King, you know what McBride will do to you when he finds you? What he’s doing to this Kenny guy right now?’

‘HOW LONG?!’

A line of spittle left King’s mouth, spraying across Rudlow’s coat. It was pink, bloody. The fly was back now, excited by the sudden drama. It settled on the desk next to them. Waited.

Rudlow sighed.

‘Tell you what, we’ll forget about the murder.’

King glared at him.

‘What?’

‘Geordie Mac, Heroin dealing scumbag. I could forget his murder,’ and here Rudlow slapped the fly against the desk, spreading its tiny remains in a red smear, ‘as easily as I forget the death of that fly.’

‘You’re crazy, man.’

‘You’d be facing a charge gun if we pinned Geordie Mac on you. Thirty years if some bleeding heart judge swallowed all that bullshit about what a bad life you’ve had. Out when you’re sixty. How does that suit you?’

King laughed. It was a hollow, spiritless laugh.

But Rudlow continued: ‘We’ll put you back on the street. Stick a mic on you. Wait ‘til McBride makes a move, sings to the mic, then crimp him. We’ll pin Geordie Mac’s murder on him. You can testify, lie, slap him with every damn thing your dirty little hands have gotten away with over the years. Won’t bother me. I want McBride. I don’t care about you.’

King wasn’t impressed. Goon had no hold over him. There was nothing to fear from a man with his back against the wall, his hands outstretched and begging. A needy man was not a powerful man. And Rudlow seemed pretty damn needy right now.

King leaned forward and in a flat, level voice asked again, ‘How long you going to hold me?’