I Love My Smith and Wesson (16 page)

“That's right,” said Keith. He nodded at Brando. “And if we don't leave on the stroke of midnight, that nigger's suit turns back into a grass skirt.”

They pressed forward. Rawhead pushed them back. Now Keith was standing at his little brother's side.

“Hey. Who're you fucking touching?” demanded Chris. “Hands off, you fucking pleb.”

Rawhead stood firm.

“Acting the big man, are you?” said Keith. “You couldn't take my three-year-old kid.”

“Just show me your invitations,” said Rawhead calmly.

“Oh, grow up, you cunt,” said Chris.

“We don't need no spacko invite,” added his brother. “We rule fucking Salford.”

“But this isn't Salford,” said Rawhead patiently.

“Bring me Sirus. Now,” demanded Keith. “I want to talk to him.”

“He's in hospital,” said Brando.

“Who asked you?” said Chris.

“Yeah? Who asked you?” echoed Keith. “You fucking chimp.”

“Good night, gentlemen,” said Rawhead with an air of finality.

Chris was about to take a swing when he glanced to his left, saw a police car slowly approaching. Instead, he got out his mobile to call back his driver.

“I don't blame nigger boy,” said Keith Medina, looking directly at Rawhead, “because no way would he have thought of this all by himself. So that just leaves you.” He leaned forward and with laudable accuracy spit on Rawhead's left shoe. “You are fucking dead, my friend.”

Nine

That evening, all in fond discourse was spent,

When the sad lover to his chamber went,

To think on what had past, to grieve and repent

—“THE DEJECTED LOVER,” GEORGE CRABBE (1754–1832)

Billy fully intended to abandon his TV series. He really did. He longed to be an artist again and write just for himself and his only fans, Rawhead and the ghosts of other dead artists.

All television had going for it was large audiences. Nobody reads novels, but at least a novelist only has one editor to contend with. It seemed to Billy that in television the writer was accorded no respect. He was like the poor peasant who grows the food but is not invited to the feast.

In a television script meeting, everyone except the writer had a better idea. Before a script exists, no TV executive alive has the faintest idea how to write it. But when the writer has delivered the first draft, virtually any dimwit who happens to be walking past the producer's office is invited in to comment on the writer's script and scribble all over it with red ink.

Yet the evening after the disastrous meeting, Billy logged onto his computer and found five e-mails waiting for him. Two of the messages invited him to enlarge his penis, one invited him to lick a fat girl today, the fourth was from a credit card company, and the fifth was from his agent, Fatty Potts.

Thought you should know that George Leica phoned. Brad Pitt didn't like the book; Nicole says she's too busy. George says we shouldn't be downhearted, it's early days yet.

Best Wishes,

Fatty.

The message contained an underlying hopelessness that made Billy's cheeks burn. His stomach churned as he felt his Hollywood dreams receding. Two percent. That was what George had told him. Only 2 percent of published novels get optioned by movie companies. Of the books optioned, only 2 percent ever turn into films. It was always going to be a long shot. But Billy had believed, truly
believed,
that his dreams of fame and riches were about to be fulfilled. Hadn't God given him talent for a reason? Not just to bring light and meaning into a wretched world, but to make Billy rich. Having kept his beloved son, William Edwin Dye, waiting for so long, surely the creator would get his act together this time?

Now Billy saw the truth. The Lord wasn't rooting for him. God didn't even know who he was. To God, Billy was just another of those nasty little talking monkeys that he'd invented for a joke, one rainy afternoon in heaven.

*   *   *

This was how Billy ended up occupying a suite high in the Malmaison hotel, gazing down on a dirty brown river and miles of derelict buildings when he should have been writing. He had a house in Prestbury with a big fat mortgage that he'd stupidly believed would be paid off this year when Brad Pitt said yes to the part of hell's emissary in the movie of
Unholier than Thou.

A day before, in Billy's imagination, Brad Pitt had invited him to his beach home in Malibu. In reality, Brad may not have owned a home in Malibu. But in Billy's fantasy he did. Billy had played with Brad's children and shared his ice-cream cone while they discussed their next project. In the fantasy, Brad had laughed wildly at one of Billy's jokes. Then he had placed his hand on Billy's shoulder and said, “Man, you are like the brother I never had.”

Today Billy was no brother to Brad. He was not even an insignificant boring cousin whom Brad had never particularly liked. In Brad's personal universe, Billy was nothing. Brad Pitt, the handsome, talented fucker, thought Billy's work was shit. Furthermore, if Billy had been able to get hold of Brad at that moment, he would have given him a damned good kicking.

Suddenly the TV series about gangsters looked like Billy's sole source of income. His fifth novel,
Not Dead but Creeping,
was about to be published, hardly a cause for celebration. People weren't exactly going to be queuing round the block for a signed copy.

Once again, Billy's dreams had turned to shit. It was like climbing the tree of life only to find a waiting noose.

His suite was like a gilded prison cell. With its modernistic arty decor, the hotel seemed to be pretending it wasn't in Manchester. Billy wasn't fooled.

As a child, he'd sometimes visited the printing works in Ardwick that his dad managed. The building stank of ink and rats and commanded a panoramic view of poverty and desolation. The Malmaison, for all its charm, overlooked a similar landscape. It was like staying overnight in his dad's printing works, this time with room service.

Billy phoned Reception to ask what the nearby river was called, but no one knew. The worst thing was, no one offered to find out.

“Is it the Cuntington Canal?” Billy asked the assistant manager.

“I honestly couldn't say, sir.”

In the distance lay the railway station. Late at night, Billy heard the trains rattling in on the wind. Drunks shouted and sang in the street below.

It was lonely in Billy's tower. Rain spattered the windows in sad little spurts.

Because someone else was paying, Billy ordered the most expensive items on room service. Prime Scottish sirloin with
pommes frites,
accompanied by icy cold Perrier-Jouët. Vanilla rice pudding and a glass of aged Calvados. Then a box of chocolate truffles.

One by one, he squashed the chocolates against the bathroom mirror. This was Billy's idea of trashing a hotel room.

He sat down to write. This is what he typed:

I
NT.
B
ONEHEAD'S
H
OUSE.
N
IGHT.

JOHNNY, clutching a knife, descends the steps leading to the dark cellar. The cellar door is shut. JOHNNY stands beside the door and listens. From within, the sound of manic laughter. JOHNNY reaches for the door handle and turns it with agonizing slowness. The laughter continues. JOHNNY pushes the door open, afraid of what he might be about to see.

Golden light shines on JOHNNY's face. His fear turns to amazement. Inside the cellar, a pleasant little party is in progress. A dozen people, including BEASTLY, THE SURGEON, and TERRY THE POLICEMAN are sitting on comfortable sofas, sipping wine. The laughter comes from Johnny's missing publisher, DAN PERRY, who is eating a giant cream cake. In the center of the room stands BONEHEAD, juggling with oranges. At the sight of JOHNNY, everyone falls silent. Only BONEHEAD, who continues to juggle, seems unconcerned.

BONEHEAD

Hi, John. Get yourself a drink, will you? I've got my hands full, here.

JOHNNY

But …

BONEHEAD

Yeah?

JOHNNY

All these people …

BONEHEAD

What about 'em?

JOHNNY

Well … they're alive!

The onlookers laugh and nod.

BONEHEAD

(Mildly exasparated)

Of course they're alive. What do you take me for?

JOHNNY

A murderer?

More laughter. TERRY THE POLICEMAN comes up to pat BONEHEAD's arm.

TERRY

There's something you should know about this man … this man …

(Emotional)

 … this man is a saint.

The others applaud. BONEHEAD looks bashful.

BONEHEAD

Hey, folks … just because I like saving lives doesn't make me special.

 

Little Malc kept phoning Chef, asking for a meeting.

“What about?” demanded Chef.

“I'll tell you when I see you.”

“Tell me now,” said Chef. “Then I'll know whether it's worth going out of the door for.”

“It's worth it.”

“What is it, then?”

“Meet me and I'll fucking tell you.”

Chef didn't care for the way Little Malc sounded. A bit pushy. More confident than usual. “What?… What is it?… No, let me guess. Your balls have finally dropped. You're pregnant with Tony Bennett's love child.”

“I just want to talk to you. Face-to-face. That's what business associates are supposed to do, isn't it?”

“Stop fucking around. If you want something, tell me what it is and I'll think about it.”

“It's business.”

“What kind of business?”

“The kind of business you don't fucking discuss over the fucking phone.”

*   *   *

Chef kept putting him off, but Little Malc was persistent, phoning every day until the big man caved in.

They met in the Moroccan at lunchtime, sitting down together in the back room where the private parties were held. Chef was flanked by the Philosopher and Average. Average was a thick-limbed ex-biker with long hair, rings, and amulets. His real name was Andrew Aspin, but they called him Average because he looked like a bear. Not Yogi Bear, who was smarter than the average bear. This guy was strictly average, hence his name.

Little Malc turned up with a big, solemn tool whom he introduced as Stoker.

Chef had already heard about this Stoker guy from the Medinas, who wanted an example to be made of him. They said he'd insulted them. Either Chef made him pay or they'd do it themselves. All Stoker had done, as far as Chef could tell, was bar the Medinas entry to the club. It wasn't enough to maim a guy for.

Right away, the Philosopher and Average started needling him.

“Hey. Average,” said the Philosopher, “I think the new boy here's been seeing Sidney.”

“Eh?” said Little Malc.

“Sidney Scud. The Sadhouse Stud. Lick his lollipop and win parole.”

The Philosopher and Average chortled comfortably. Little Malc didn't know what the fuck they were talking about.

“They're saying your friend here looks like a convict,” explained Chef.

“They should fucking know,” retorted Little Malc.

Stoker behaved as if Chef's boys hadn't spoken. It was as if a couple of houseflies were trying to intimidate a lion. Although Chef didn't like to admit it, the guy was impressive. He looked fit but carried himself like he had nothing to prove. Not a bully or a braggart—Chef despised men that acted tough. This guy seemed different.

Little Malc was looking different, too. He was wearing a dark, funereal suit and seemed to have stopped dying his hair, allowing the gray flecks to show at the neck and sides. Apart from a few perfunctory wisecracks with Average and the Philosopher, Little Malc maintained a steady emotional distance. The man at his side, Stoker, said nothing at all. When it was time to order the food, he just shook his head and poured himself a glass of water.

Chef noticed that the back of Stoker's left hand was disfigured. Chef, who had set fire to a few men in his time, could see the hand had been burned. On his right hand Stoker wore a gold ring in the shape of a skull. Something about that ring troubled Chef. For the life of him, he couldn't think what.

“I've been doing a lot of thinking,” announced Little Malc, his face very serious. “My dad set up the Priesthood with you. And he always said that one day, when it was time to retire, I'd take over his share of the business.”

Immediately Chef saw what was coming. “He may have said that to you,” he said calmly. “He never mentioned it to me.”

Little Malc carried on as if Chef hadn't spoken. “So there's my dad. OK, we never found his body, but we all know where he is. Floating on a cloud in the big Blue Swoon. Meanwhile, down on earth, you're in control of the skew, the card games, the porn, the drugs, the whores, the free gifts, the anonymous donations. You're worth fucking millions. And all I'm thinking is this: When do I get mine?”

The room went deadly quiet. The Philosopher and Average were staring at Little Malc with thin smiles on their faces. Stoker was staring down at his glass of water.

“You already got yours,” said Chef. “You got half-shares in this place and the club. You never had to work for these things; they just fell out of the sky into your lap. Just be fucking grateful. The economy is in trouble. Average has got a brother who hasn't had a job since 1989. That right, Average?”

Average gave a somber nod.

Little Malc smiled. “Don't give me that. The economy hasn't harmed your fucking business.”

“Just leave it,” warned Chef.

Little Malc didn't want to shut up. He was just getting started. “My father shared the profits with you. That's right, isn't it?”

“Don't raise your voice to me. I don't talk to people who raise their voices.”