Water trickles down bare brick walls. A naked bulb lights up the scene. Upstairs, the roar of a nightclub rages against the sunrise. Down here, a man in a chair, stripped to the waist. Narrow chest hitches. Blood drips from his chin, as a mouth formed of broken teeth and ragged flesh works. Me, right hand wrapped in a leather belt, looms over him. Questions ring in the air, urgent, insistent.
From the corner a figure merges with the light. Eddie, hair smoothed back like a Wall Street banker. Eddie Main Chance, they call him, for good reason.
‘Where’s the money?’ A sibilant hiss. He would offer the apple, this one. His eyes, malicious pinpricks. Money. It’s always about the money.
Frank looks up, slew eyed. Eddie slaps him, once.
‘The money. Where is it?’
My fist pulses. The belt creaks.
‘What money?’ Frank’s words are mush. The scars dotting the crooks of his elbows tell the truth. Well, a truth. Frank enjoys a good time. Even better at someone else’s expense. This will get ugly. Wrong. Uglier.
‘Hit him.’
I’m a good dog. I hit Frank. Blood and spittle explode from his mouth. His head whips one way, so I punch it the other. Something in his face breaks.
He’s breathing harder now. There’s panic in his eyes. I look at Eddie. His head shifts fractionally. I step away. He leans forward. Watches Frank’s face like he wants to crack a code.
‘I gave you an envelope. You say you delivered it. But my man said he never got it. Where’s my money?’
Frank has been Eddie’s number two since Eddie got his start. Stuck to him like glue. Like a brother. Cain and Abel. We’re about to find out that history repeats.
‘I don’t have it.’ Frank screws up his mouth and spits blood at Eddie’s feet. That earns Frank another smack.
‘Gordo said he never received it.’
‘Then talk to Gordo, you fuck.’
‘Gordo’s vanished,’ Eddie said. ‘You tied up a loose end there.’
It takes me a few seconds to realise the braying sound Frank makes is laughter.
‘Idiot. You fucking idiot.’ He shakes his head. Blood spatters the ground. ‘I’ve been loyal to you ever since we started this thing. Lied for you. Killed for you. Why the fuck would I throw all that away for five lousy grand?’ He speaks to Eddie like he’s a four year old.
Eddie looks at me. Trust and Eddie are like strangers in the night. He squats in front of Frank. Frank looks up. He knows. We all know what comes next.
‘Don’t do this, Eddie. Something is off. You’re being played.’ Frank stops, exhausted, wrung out. His words are a performance, a last little dance. His head drops. Eddie rises smoothly, his face set, his eyes silver in the light.
‘Finish him off. Not too quick, mind. Make him earn his way into Hell.’ Eddie turns on his sharply polished heel and leaves the room. For the two seconds the door is open, the music from upstairs sounds like the choir of the damned.
I turn to Frank. He looks at me. My eyes narrow, and then understanding floods his face. Too late, Frankie boy.
Crime is about building networks. Getting the merch from Point A to Point B, with money greasing the way. I’m not just the muscle. Eddie’s been busy building his little empire. But he hasn’t been as busy as me.
What do the kids say? Can’t stop. Won’t stop.
I do as Eddie says. After all, Eddie’s the boss.
For now.
~ fin ~
Robert Mammone lives in Melbourne, Australia where his employment in a bank is hopefully undermining capitalism. He writes mostly horror and fantasy fiction but has been an avid reader of crime fiction in recent years. Donald Westlake is his God, and James Ellroy his personal Saviour.
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