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I allow myself a wry smile, then glance at the screen of the phone he holds up. I can’t read it and keep an eye on the road.
“Read it to me.”
“It’s a text to Jenna, dated three days ago. From someone called Gregory. It saysI got an offer. ABB.”
I furrow my brow. “ABB. What does that mean?”
“Dunno. Jenna answered him, though. With one of those smiley face emojis. She goes on to say:I got the stuff you need. When will I see you?”
“Hmmm?” I slant him a glance. “Sounds weird.”
“There’s a reply, from this Gregory.Thursday.And she tells him to come in the back way.”
“Is that it?”
“Not quite. She then tells him she found his shirt in her bathroom.” There’s a silence while we both mull over the possible implications. “Do you think I should tell Tony?”
I answer without hesitation. “Fuck, yes. It may be nothing, or he may know what it’s about already. Let’s not be jumping to conclusions, but he needs to know. Oh, and Rome, don’t say anything to anyone else. Okay?”
“Course. Like you say, it could be nothing…”
Top Pocket could never be describedas salubrious. A converted cinema, it now houses a couple of dozen snooker tables, several pool tables, and a television lounge with a fifty-inch screen for watching football. The place gets busy when there’s a decent international tournament on, but most of the time it’s quiet, which is the perfect environment for the illicit transactions conducted most evenings. Sex is bought and sold freely, along with drugs, stolen merchandise, and the occasional high-end motor.
We pull up in the dilapidated parking area and get out. The men cluster around me for instructions.
“Okay, so, we don’t know for sure he’s in there,” I begin. “I’ll go in first, with Rome, to check. Give me three minutes, then, if we’re not back out of there, I want you all to enter separately, in twos and threes. Spread out around the edges of the hall. You job is to make sure he gets no help from the rest of the punters, but I don’t see why he would. Felix Fuller is hardly Mr Popularity, but there’s always someone who fancies a go, especially if they’ve had a few drinks. Hopefully, if they realise what firm we’re from, they’ll have the good sense to keep their heads down, but remember, we’re not on our own turf here.”
Most nod. Our soldiers understand their jobs; this is a well-rehearsed scenario.
“We have two targets. Fuller and his hired muscle, a meathead by the name of Charlie Carlyle, aka Bulldozer. I’ll point them out. Rome and I might be able to take them on our own, but Bulldozer’s a massive bear of a man, so we may require a bit of assistance. That’s you, Jimmy, and you, Marcus. The rest of you concentrate on keeping everyone else out of it. Got that?”
A chorus of “Sure, boss” reassures me that we know our roles.
“Right, then. Three minutes.”
Rome and I swagger through the entrance and make a show of strolling casually through the smoke-filled room. The ban on smoking in enclosed spaces is largely ignored here. Despite the fog, I’m delighted to spot Fuller at one of the tables attempting to sink an easy red. He misses and stomps off to the bar, scowling.
I can’t see Carlyle, but after a couple of minutes he emerges from the toilets sporting a telltale smudge of white powder on his upper lip.
Fucking idiot.
I nod to Rome, indicating with my eyes the two men we’re after. He returns my nod, but we wait until the rest of our posse is in position before we make a move.
The only person who seems to have any inkling of something wrong is the girl behind the bar. I assume it’s because she’s sober, her head isn’t full of product, and she appreciates the significance of a dozen strange men entering the snooker hall with seemingly no intention of playing or buying drinks. I lay my finger vertically across my lips to warn her to keep quiet and stay down once it kicks off. The almost imperceptible bob of her head tells me she understands.
When our backup is in place, Rome and I head across the room towards Bulldozer. Even coked up to the eyeballs, he’s the dangerous one. We need him down and out and in no position to protect his boss.
I come to the conclusion he’s even bigger and nastier than I remembered, so I catch Jimmy’s eye. He and Marcus begin to close in as well. We’re almost alongside the brute when, befuddled as he is, his spidey senses kick in. He whirls around swinging a snooker cue around his head and tries to brain me with it.
I duck and head-butt him in the solar plexus. It’s a blow that would normally fell a man, but The Bulldozer just grunts and swings again. He succeeds in smashing the cue on the edge of the table and is intent upon stabbing me in the face with the jagged end before Jimmy swipes his legs from under him. He topples to the floor with a crash.
There’s a scuffle. Fists and feet fly, and somehow The Bulldozer is on his feet again. Fuller is running round the brawl yelling encouragement to his warrior but offering not much else by way of assistance.
I’ve soon had enough of scrapping with this monster of a man. We’ll be disposing of him before long anyway so I cut to the chase. I pull out my handgun and shoot him through the knee.
There’s a roar of pain, but incredibly he still thinks he might get to his feet and carry on the fight. I disabuse him of that notion by shooting out his other kneecap. He’s still shrieking and yelling obscenities, but a least he stays down now.
Realising too late the peril he’s in, Fuller decides to make a run for it. He’s halfway to the exit when Rome tackles him to the floor and delivers two or three sharp and punishing jabs to his chin. It’s enough to convince the slimy arsewipe that he should give up while he can.
