Mickey shrugs. ‘She’s owes me a favour, or a bullet, I can’t remember. Let’s find out.’
‘Mickey…I was wondering when the rats would start scurrying,’the voice on the other end answers.
‘Yeah, look Delilah, I need a name. Someone’s been movin’ weight against the Sanchez’s.’
‘Calling me at this hour? Either you’re desperate or lonely.’
Mickey smirks, his eyes flickering between me and Waylynn, before he answers.‘Bit of both. Thought I’d hear your voice before the town wakes.’
‘Flattery won’t save you. What do you want?’
‘If you help me out, Delilah, I’ll owe you something…’his voice drops.
‘Intimate?’she interjects.
‘Yes,’he sighs.
‘Oh, Mickey, you already do, I just haven’t decided how to collect.’The line crackles, and Delilah’s voice begins to soften. She says something else, but the words thin into static and interruption. Mickey leans in, his brow furrowing, catching fragments, and his jaw tightens. Then he chuckles, but there’s no humour in it.
‘You’re tellin’ me Fat Tony, Anthony Salerno? Thought that fossil died years ago!’
He hangs up, the phone landing on the prop-up table with a thud, the sound echoing through the cramped surveillance van like a gunshot. Rain drums against the roof, and Waylynn still hasn’t spoken. She just stares at Mickey, eyes locked like a Doberman scenting blood. Her posture is still, and her gaze pure predator. Her jaw clenched, fingers twitching near the holster she never admits to carrying. The tension in the van thickens as I watch her for a beat, then – snap – I click my fingers sharply in front of her face.
‘Oi,’ I clip. She flinches, just slightly, like a wolf yanked back moments before the pounce.
Mickey returns the look with a furrowed brow. ‘What’s her problem?’
I don’t answer right away. I shake my head slowly. ‘It’s best you don’t ask.’
Mickey scoffs, but doesn’t push. He knows that tone. The kind that says there’s a story buried here, and whatever it is, it’s not his to dig up.
‘So Fat Tony is still alive...’ I comment. Anthony Salerno was into everything – numbers, loans, building sites. He even had his fingers in boxing matches. Real old-school muscle, but he“died”of a heart attack in ’92.
‘He’s not just alive – he’s slicin’ meat down Bethnal Green. He’s got a Butcher’s shop, plain as day. Goes by the name The Meat King.’
‘How original.’
Fat Tony was thickset, with shoulders like a slap of beef and hands that look like they’ve never held anything gentler than a meat cleaver.
The shop’s facade is modest. Frosted windows. A chalkboard sign that reads: “Today’s Special: Lamb Shank£11.99/800g”.
The van idles at the curb, coughing diesel into the damp air. Mickey drums his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the side mirrors and the butcher shop’s fogged windows.
‘Stay in the van,’ I say, as I pull the side door open. Mickey doesn’t argue. He knows better. I step onto the pavement, Waylynn following close behind, heels clicking like gunshots on the wet concrete.
We push through the door just as a customer shuffles out, clutching a brown paper parcel. She takes a quick glance at me, smiles, and then looks away fast. The bell above the door gives a half-hearted jingle as she steps out, and we step inside. The air hits us; it’s coppery and primal, with a sharp undertone of bleach to mask the truth. It mingles with the blood, creating a scent that is both clean and corrupted. It coats the back of my throat like old grease.
A swinging door creaks open, and Fat Tony emerges from the back room cradling a coil of fresh sausages. His apron is smeared, stiff with dried blood and slick in places where today’s gore hasn’t yet dried. The fabric, once white, is now a patchwork of crimson, yellow fat stains, and blackened streaks of rot. It’s just a canvas of carnage. I remember in the early days, when every crimson splash on his clothing meant questions, every smear on his boots meant trouble. He’d scrub his knuckles until they bled. But now? Cops don’t ask questions anymore. They nod, maybe crack a joke about a “rough cut” and move on. He’s legitimate now. A licenced butcher. He’s not hiding anymore. And the blood? That’s just part of the uniform.
Fat Tony’s forearms glisten with sweat, fingers black-rimmed, and his expression routine – until his eyes meet mine. He freezes mid-step. The sausages sagging slightly in his grip.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Tony mutters, his voice thick with disbelief.
His eyes flick to Waylynn, then back to mine. The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, not quite a snarl.
‘Hello, Anthony.’
‘Heard you disappeared,’ he says, laced with suspicion. ‘Like smoke. One minute you’re blowing up London, next – poof. Gone.’
