Author of Pain- Minor Mayhem Page 4

  "Good to see you too, Mary. Find the place alright?" Whitaker shot back. He was desperately trying to keep his voice steady and his gaze firm, his best court room façade, but he knew the old hag could see right through it. This was only the second time he'd met Mary but that was two too many.

  Mary barged past him and dumped her shopping bags onto the sofa. She glanced around the hotel room with a look of mild disgust. "Yeah, I found the place alright. Who the fuck is Marcus Carver when he's at home anyway?"

  Whitaker shrugged. "An artist's agent I represented once. Think he's dead now. It was the first name that came into my head. If he isn't dead, he can sue me if he likes. Besides, you told me not to use my real name."

  "I did?" Mary seemed genuinely surprised. "Hmm, must have had a good reason." Then she seemed to remember. "Sharks!" She added.

  "What?" Although he barely knew the woman, Whitaker had already grown accustomed to her way with words. She would throw random sentences around and then it was up to you to arrange them into some semblance of order or meaning.

  "What do you mean, what?" She said and waddled over to the mini bar, which Whitaker had been attacking with a vengeance all day. She helped herself to a gin.

  "Mary," Whitaker took a moment, he had to keep calm, had to remember that what this raggerty old dear knew about the people who were after him and Larry could save his life, and more besides if the rumours were true. "I don't have a lot of time."

  "Huh, no shit," Mary snorted, and downed the gin in one, which made her pull a face. "Do you have my money?"

  Whitaker gestured to an envelope on the table. "Five thousand. Now what exactly am I buying? Apart from your lovely company of course."

  "Protection, knowledge, a crash course in the world as it really is. Standard stuff, should help, maybe, if you start thinking straight and lay off the fucking booze." With this she uncapped another mini gin and downed it. "You must have a clear mind, Whitaker. I can only help you so far, given the shit you're drowning in right now, you and McCulloch. Pair of dumb shits that you are. You know I could have sold you out for ten times that much?" Mary abandoned the mini bar and picked up the envelope of money. She felt the weight of it in her hand. "Hmm, tens and twenties, good boy."

  "So why didn't you?" Whitaker suddenly wanted her gone, he was desperate, yes, but had he really sunk this low? Taking protection advice from a bag lady?

  "I'm neutral," she said. "Wouldn't have been fair, let them find you in their own way if that's the way it has to be. You've hired me, I'll do my best for you, then I'm gone. You people can fight it out amongst yourselves. I don't give two shits if you're dead by the end of the day, but if that's the case, it won't be because of me. I'll have done my bit, fair and square." She tossed the envelope into one of her bags and then dumped the contents of one of the others onto the table.

  "That's very reassuring, thanks." Whitaker watched as she rummaged through the various charms and trinkets she had in the bag which were mixed in with what looked for all the world like the contents of someone's rubbish bin.

  "Where is it?" Mary said frowning, she picked up what looked like a minute metal dream catcher, twirled it, then threw it back amongst the crap and shook her head impatiently.

  This drove Whitaker over to the mini bar, he took out a vodka popped the cap and sipped it. "What's all this about sharks anyway? Don't tell me Jaws is after me too?" This brought a smile to his face, the first one in what felt like weeks. He finished the vodka and tossed the empty into the waste basket.

  "What?" Mary grunted. "What the fuck have sharks got to do with anything?"

  Whitaker turn to face her. She had laid out several of the trinkets, which ranged from what looked like charms off a charm bracelet a couple of old coins and another of the dream catcher things, on the coffee table by the sofa and was now stuffing the rest back into the carrier bag. The vodka soothed him a little. "You brought the fuckers up," he said. "Now what are those things for?" He gestured at the trinkets.

  She gathered them together and gave him a sideways glance. "Now I'm gonna tell you a bunch of stuff, Whitaker." She said her tone serious. "Trust me you won't believe half of it. But that doesn't matter, just follow my instructions to the letter, and you may live a little longer."

  "Am I gonna need another drink?"

  "Shit, yeah. And pour me one too." She said, "And where's my champagne and lobsters anyway? The service here is shit." With this she stretched out on the sofa and made herself at home. "You should try the London Hilton, now that's a fucking palace."

  If she kicks her shoes off I'm going out the window, Whitaker thought as he watched her make herself at home, and once again the ghost of a smile played on his lips. Christ, that's twice in one day, he mused, maybe I should keep this loon around for comic relief.

  "Christ with egg in his beard! What are you grinning at man?" Mary snapped. "I asked you about my lunch! I'm trying to save your soul here fancy pants, the least you can do is feed a girl."

  The smile evaporated right off Whitaker's face, along with the soothing effect of the vodka, at the word; soul. He felt cold, his mouth suddenly dry. Now he remembered why Mary was here, forget her eccentric dress and comic foul mouth. This woman had knowledge of a world Whitaker knew nothing about, but one he was now up to his neck in. 'Supernatural shit', she had called it when they first met. Although the sane side of his brain wanted to laugh off comments like that, it had only confirmed what he already knew. He'd pissed of the darkness and now it was out there somewhere, looking for Larry McCulloch, and the best way to find Larry? This idiot right here in the Armani suit.

  He physically shivered, suddenly cold as his mind drifted to a freezing November night last year, of sitting in the relative warmth of his Mercedes looking through a frost covered windscreen at six haunted faces standing in a Polish field in the middle of nowhere, lit by the cars headlights waiting for those around them to decided their fates. Six lives (and that word again – souls) saved, albeit unknowingly, by a con man and his greedy hot-shot young lawyer.

  Whitaker shivered again and realised that while he had zoned out he had wrapped his arms tightly around himself, for comfort or warmth he didn't know. He tried to speak but the words got caught in his dry throat. Mary was staring at him with a perplexed look on her face, she had put her feet up on the table, but thankfully her shoes were still on.

  The mismatched pair looked at each other for what seem like an age, and then Mary suddenly jumped to her feet, her face a blaze with recognition. "Sharks!" She announced to the room at large. "Christ with a crew cut! Sharks!" She clicked her fingers together for punctuation. "They can find you through your name. That's why I told you to use an alias."

  "What?"

  "Your name! It's like sharks; they can sense movement in water from miles away, or the merest drop of blood and all that discovery channel shit. It's the same with your name, Larry too I imagine. That's one of the reasons for the false name. If someone uses your name, even thinks it, it sends out ripples of psychic energy, they can lock onto it, follow it to its source, like a shark. You'll need something to block this." She examined the trinkets on the table and frowned. "Fuck all here for that. Hmm." Whitaker could almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she pondered.

  "Fuck," Whitaker whispered to himself in disbelief and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fore-finger and screwed his eyes shut. When he opened them again he half-expected, hoped, she would be gone along with all this madness. "What?" He said again, it was all his brain could conjure up.

  She held up a finger to silence him. "One second." She put her fingers into her mouth and began to pull at one of her front teeth.

  Although she didn't seem to feel any pain, Whitaker winced for her as she tried to wrench the tooth free. "Mary, for Christ sake..."

  She glared at him, her eyes watering then with a soft 'pop' pulled out a bloodied gold tooth. She held it out to him with a gap toothed grin. Whitaker stared at it incredulously. "Fuck that!"
He said.

  She rolled her eyes and spat out a mouthful of blood onto the insanely expensive carpet. "Don't be such a big girl's blouse, Whitaker. You can clean it first!" She lisped. "That's worth more than five hundred on its own. Calved it myself, take a look."

  With this she tossed it to Whitaker who caught it without thinking and was surprised at its weight. He shuddered, rolling it around the palm of his hand, and was about to throw it in the waste bin when he saw it was covered in an intricate pattern of lines, shapes and symbols, carved by a master craftsman, or woman in this case.

  "Don't worry," Mary said. "You don't have to get it inserted or anything," she laughed at this and spat out more bloody saliva. "Just keep it with you, it's got a pretty good range. Should block any ripples from your name. You can use your name, and any one close to you can, and you should be ok. Or at least I think so." She waddled over to the mini bar, trailing lilac, and took out another small bottle of gin, she took a drink and swilled it around her mouth before spitting it out in the vague direction of the waste bin.

  Whitaker held up the tooth to the light. "Now I can safely say I've seen it all."

  Mary grunted at his side. "You ain't seen or heard shit yet," she said, taking another drink, this time she swallowed and smacked her lips.

  Ripples from your name? Charms made out of gold teeth? All of a sudden, Whitaker felt like he was the subject of some elaborate reality TV prank show. Not felt, wished. He felt faint all of a sudden. He vaguely heard the knock at the door and for a second mused that maybe it was the prank show host about to burst in to reveal all and tell Whitaker it was all a joke and he was free to go home and back to his gilt edged life.

  But if it was the host, then he was doing a damn good job as disguising himself as room service, Mary instructed the kid to bring in the lobster and champagne and then get the hell out, he even though he heard her threaten to pull out another tooth if the kid wanted a tip.

  Evidently he didn't, judging by the speed in which he exited. Mary was mumbling something as she sat down and attacked the lobster. But all Whitaker could hear was the blood rushing through his ears and his stomach doing back flips. He looked down at the blooded tooth in his sweaty palm.

  ***

  Later, after she had demolished the lobsters and drained most of the champagne, Mary would tell him everything she knew about the darkness that was coming and what lay in wait for him inside it should it ever catch up and smother him. And as she spoke, Whitaker could feel the last vestiges his of sanity slowly slipping away.

  SIX

  The door to Mitch's late night café and bar opened and the last two bar staff came out into the cold night air and walked briskly off together down the deserted street. Bill Fraker watched them from the grateful warmth of his BMW parked discreetly in the shadows on the other side of the road as they turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  This was the part that always gave Fraker butterflies, every time no matter how many times he had done it, those moments of calm, alone with his own thoughts when his mind would wander unbidden to the any number of scenarios, (hardly any of which leaned towards the positive) that could play out in the next ten minutes or so.

  And it was usually around this time, stuck in a car at three in the morning waiting for the impending violence, that Bill Fraker thought about getting fit again. After all he was no spring chicken anymore, he would be forty eight in two months, and the thirty-six inch waistband of his trousers was beginning to dig into his belly again. And he had vowed to himself once that he would never buy a pair of trousers over that size, so that meant one of two things: Elastic waistband or dropping some poundage.

  He leaned across to the passenger side and clicked open the glove compartment and reached inside. The first thing he felt was the hip flask, newly topped up an hour ago and for a second Fraker thought about taking a swig, just to calm the nerves but cursed to himself and pushed it aside. That bollocks was for amateurs. He would need a clear head and only after they were safely back in the car and away would he allow himself a drink, to toast the end of another successful night. Successful because he still had a pulse.

  After further groping, his fingers finally found the cold metal of the berretta and Fraker took the pistol out and rested it on his lap. Now all he had to do was wait for Charlie, who as usual had gone to take a piss at the most inopportune time.

  Fraker had unofficially taken on the role of Charlie Walker's mentor over the last six months due to the fact Charlie's dad had been diagnosed with cancer and had to retire. Just as Charles Walker senior had done for him twenty odd years ago when he had first got sucked into this life of crime. Charlie was a good kid really but he was only twenty four and was a little too much into the whole 'gangster' (but pronounced with an 'a' at the end apparently) lifestyle for Fraker's liking.

  Charlie had already been a part of things on a very low level before his dad's illness, working behind the bar at one of the clubs or chauffeuring people about for the boss, Mister Lyne, all of which had been legal up to a point, but was still kept quiet about around Charlie's dad at the time until his cancer had taken him out of the business and into a hospital ward. So now that no one had to tiptoe around Walker senior, Charlie had taken the next step up into the real world. It was a running joke that Charlie's dad didn't know anything about his son's involvement with the firm.

  Charles Walker senior had worked as a gangster all his adult life, but rightly so didn't want this kind of life for his two kids, Charlie and his sister, Kate (the brains of the family). And so genuinely thought that Charlie was an estate agent and would often brag about how well he was doing, even though everyone else knew Charlie was off driving some dodgy judge around or running errands for the boss. No one ever said anything out of respect for him, that and of course the fact that mister Lyne had made it very clear he would maim anyone who did personally. The joke had soured recently though, now that Charlie's dad was, although no one would openly admit it, dying.

  ***

  At last a familiar skinny frame appeared out of an alleyway up the street from where Fraker was parked and began ambling down towards him. Charlie was mouthing something to himself as he approached and Fraker knew he was doing what he always did at this time, going over his lines ready for the fun and games about to kick off.

  Fraker got out of the car and concealed the pistol under his jacket as Charlie finally reached him. "Take yer time, sparky, no rush." Fraker said sarcastically.

  Charlie shrugged. "Hey, when you've gotta go, you've gotta go." Fraker passed him the pistol, which Charlie put in the back of his trousers.

  "Very 'Gangsta'." Fraker snorted.

  "Huh? Are we on then?" Walker said vacantly looking across at the café.

  "Only about five minutes ago. What was the hold up, couldn't you find it?" Not waiting for a response, Fraker started purposely across the road and over to the café. Walker had to jog to keep up. Fraker could hear the kid whispering to himself over and over; "Look at this Mitch, look at this Mitch."

  The older man exhaled despairingly as they reached the door and turned to him. "Christ Charlie, that's my line."

  "Huh?" Charlie looked blankly at him for a moment then the mist seemed to clear. "Oh, yeah."

  "Jesus," Fraker gave him his best steely stare and backhanded him on the chest. "Charles, look at me. Focus. Are you set?"

  Charlie jumped up and down on the spot a couple of times, psyching himself up. "I am set," he said firmly and let out a few short sharp breaths. "Set," he added for emphasis.

  Not entirely convinced, Fraker turned and knocked hard on the café's door, there was silence for a moment, then someone on the other side shouted, "We're closed!" Fraker didn't answer and hammered on the door again, this time more insistently. He could feel heartbeat increase at the sound of footsteps approaching from the other side and resisted the urge to take his pulse by the vein in his neck which was throbbing now.

  'Got to get fit,' he thought, 'one of these
days I'm just going to keel over.' Bizarrely the thought made him smile slightly, imagining Charlie's face as he just drops dead, leaving him to deal with the guy about to open the door all on his own. The sound of keys in the door and a bolt being thrown back snapped Fraker out of it and as the door opened he made a fist...

  There was no two ways about it, Charlie Walker was watching a master at work and it never ceased to amaze him. He leaned casually against the bar and watched as Fraker calmly helped the bar's owner, Mitch, get unsteadily to his feet. The poor fellow was coughing and spluttering, still reeling from the almighty punch Fraker had just landed square on his nose seconds before which had sent him sprawling to the floor knocking tables and chairs all over the place in the process.

  "B, Bill, Bill no wait..." Mitch pleaded nasally half blinded by tears and shock.

  Fraker picked up one of the over turned chairs. "Sssh, Mitch, come on, calm down. Here give me your hand." Fraker said softly and helped Mitch to his feet. "That's better, come on, take a seat." He guided the dazed bar owner over to the chair and sat him down, then he took a chair for himself, swivelled it around so it was backwards and sat on it facing Mitch with his arms resting casually on the backrest.

  Charlie watched all this while desperately trying to keep a straight face. He'd seen it dozens of times and it never got old. Fraker studied Mitch silently for a moment, letting the chaos of their entrance settle somewhat, then he frowned as if noticing Mitch's busted nose for the first time.

  "Here Mitch, your nose is bleeding." Fraker pulled out his handkerchief and handed to Mitch who took it with a trembling hand.

  Classic, thought Charlie. Every time they did this he would always take mental notes of the way Fraker moved and the soothing tone of his voice. Bill Fraker was a big intimidating man, they could have easily gone in shouting and screaming, smashing the place to pieces. But Charlie knew Fraker had learned throughout the years that this was always the best approach, or at least the one he preferred.