Bad Men (2 page)

Zero threat.

Pearce ignored Slim and asked Fat Boy,
"What are you doing in my house?"

Suit, tie, gleaming shoes. Fat Boy even had a briefcase. Thug, or accountant? Bit of both? Definitely not the hard man he was pretending to be. Pearce wouldn't have been surprised if Fat Boy cut himself with his knife. Maybe that's how he got the sore lip.

Jesus. Pearce was pissed off with himself. If he'd been paying attention when he'd opened the door, he could have splattered Fat Boy all over the carpet. Now he'd have to wait and time this right. Pearce chewed the inside of his cheek. He'd slipped up. He was getting casual, and that would never do.

Fat Boy said, "We believe you might be able to help us."

Poncey language. Could be a lawyer, right enough. "I doubt it," Pearce told him.

"
Well, we thought we might stay a while. Have a little chat."

"
I don't feel like talking."

"
Just listen, then."

"
I don't feel like listening either."

"
Now, that's really too bad. We were hoping you'd cooperate."

"
You finished?" Pearce asked him.

"
Finished?" Fat Boy said. "Haven't even started." He turned to Slim. "Flash?" he said.

Flash? What kind of name was that? Some kind of street name? Pearce should get one of those. What could he call himself? He couldn't think of anything. ‘Pearce' would have to do.

Flash marked the end of his dry shave by tossing the hunting knife into the air. It landed point f
irst, puncturing a floorboard. That was the kind of pansy-arsed showy bollocks that might have impressed a three-year-old. Probably been practising it for days, too. But if you wanted to create an impression, you didn't lob a knife in the air and watch it fall. No purpose in that. Flash watched the blade quiver for a bit, smirking. "I've heard you're a pussy, Pearce," he said. "Went soft when your mummy died."

How fucking stupid was this scrawny prick? Mother of Christ.

"
Heard you got shot in the stomach," Fat Boy took over. He was much bigger than his friend, but he certainly wasn't any smarter. "Didn't have any appetite for violence after that." He grinned, looked at Flash. "Get it? Shot in the stomach. Lost his appetite."

"
Nice one," Flash said. "That's very funny. Don't you think so, Pussy?"

Pearce said nothing. He had no idea why they were trying to provoke him.

"
I asked you a question," Flash said.

Pearce stared at him and said,
"You're a dumb fuck."

"Hear that?" Fat Boy said. "Pussy's mad."

"
Better watch we don't get scratched, huh?"

The pair of buffoons were so busy laughing they didn't react when Pearce dived off the settee. At arms' stretch he clawed at Flash's knife, managed to grab the handle and pluck it out of the floorboard before Flash took a step towards him and said, "Hey!" But by then it was too late.

Pearce brought the blade up between Flash's legs. Straight through the seam of his low-slung jeans, thrusting the blade through a good few inches. Almost hit home. It was close. Fuck, yeah, it was close. Pearce reckoned there'd been a fair chance of him screwing up. But life was all about taking chances, wasn't it?

"
What was that about getting fucking scratched?" he said.

"
Ah, shit." Flash looked down between his legs, his face turning pale green.

Unusual, but Pearce had seen it once before. Happened in prison to an eighteen-year-old who
'd wanted to show what a big man he was and ended up smoking more skunk than he could handle. His face may have turned green, but everyone called him Whitey after that.

Flash shouted, "Dad?"

Crying for his daddy now, poor kid. Pearce wondered if he shouldn't just let go, get out of the way before Flash spewed all over him. Nah, fuck it. He'd take the chance, but there was no harm in issuing a warning. "Puke over me," he said, "and I'll get really pissed off." He applied a little more upwards pressure. "You wouldn't like that." Then just a bit more.

Flash yelped.

Touching skin now.

"
Lose it," Pearce said to Fat Boy.

Fat Boy looked at his hand in surprise as if the last thing he expected to see there was a knife. He glanced around, bemused.
"Where shall I put it?"

Jesus Christ. "Over there," Pearce said, indicating a safe area away from himself and his hostage.

Fat Boy tossed the knife. "Let my brother go," he said. "Then we'll tell you why we're here."

"
Not interested," Pearce said, wondering how these two could possibly be brothers.

Fat Boy said, "Dad!"

Jesus, they were both at it. Pearce tensed his arm and Flash squeaked and Fat Boy shut up. "I'll deal with you in a minute," Pearce said to Fat Boy. Looked up at Flash, said, "Ever wondered what it feels like to have your happy sack sliced in two, Flash?" He paused to give Flash a moment to think about it. "Course, I might miss. Not get the middle of your ball-bag. End up cutting one of your nuts in half. That'd hurt, don't you think?"

Flash was making a mewling noise. Pearce was tempted to ask him who the pussy was now but he restrained himself.

Fat Boy
's jaw had descended. Poor fucker looked like he'd been hit in the face with a stiff cat. Repeatedly.

Flash looked even more likely to throw up. And threats weren't going to stop him. Sod it. Pearce raised himself onto one knee and eased the knife out of Flash's trousers. A look of relief spread across Flash's face. His cheeks looked less green in no time. The transformation was short-lived, though.

Pearce balled his fist and slammed it into Flash
's crotch.

Flash bent over, wobbled, toppled to the floor. After a second, he made a gagging sound and his cheeks puffed.

Pearce left him heaving while he strode over to Fat Boy.

Fat Boy hadn
't moved an inch. Still wore that stunned look. Pearce placed Flash's knife on the floor, sure he no longer needed it, and smacked Fat Boy as hard as he could on the side of the head. Fat Boy rolled to the side, hovered on the edge of the settee, then hit the deck like the useless fucking fat sack of shit he was.

Pearce glanced at Flash, but he was no danger. Thumping a man in the gonads usually knocks the fight out of him. The skinny wee shite had dragged himself into the corner where he was curled up, moaning. He caught Pearce's eye and cried out for his daddy again.

Pearce picked up his dropped towel and draped it round his waist. He grabbed Fat Boy's briefcase and snapped it open. Inside was a picture. Nothing else. Full-length body shot of a blonde teenage girl: shades, cropped top, bit of a belly on her but that was okay, shorts, sandals, arms folded under ample breasts, pierced ears, nose, bellybutton and God alone knew where else. She wasn't Pearce's type, but he could see how Fat Boy might find her attractive. She was young, though. Probably no more than eighteen.

On the back of the photo was a phone number.

"
Excuse me," said a new voice. A man's voice, mature, local accent. "Mr Pearce?"

Pearce smiled. There he was again. Not paying attention. He turned to look at the man who'd stepped into the sitting room. Did a double-take. This guy had a piece of raw meat where his nose should be. Which maybe wasn't quite so bad, since it drew attention away from the wrinkles crosshatching the corners of the old man's eyes, the grooves chiselled into his leathery cheeks and the lines running from the corners of his mouth to the point of his chin.

"
Come in," Pearce said. "Open house today."

"
My name's Baxter."

Pearce listened to Baxter breathing. Trace of a wheezy rattle. Sounded like he smoked too much. "You got a surname?" Pearce asked.

"
Baxter
is
my surname."

"
You got a first name, then?"

"
Jacob." He held out his hand. Pearce stared at it, but didn't move. "I'm a bit late," Baxter said, looking around. Fat Boy was still out cold. Flash was hugging himself, groaning more quietly now. Pearce gave Baxter no encouragement, but he went on, "I was supposed to stop Rodge and Flash getting hurt."

Rodge
? Well, Fat Boy was full of surprises. Might as well call himself Pansy. Pearce said, "You seem to have failed on that score."

"
I was outside." Jacob pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "My boys were supposed to call for me if things got hairy."

Now Pearce knew who he was. Dad.
My boys.
A real family get-together. Pearce said, "They did."

Baxter tutted. "I'm a bit slow, now and then," he said. "No fun getting old." He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and said, "You mind?"

Pearce replied, "As long as you don't mind me coming over to your house and pissing on your carpet."

Baxter frowned, which wasn't a pretty sight, and, judging by the old guy's reaction, hurt his nose a bit. He tucked his fags back in his pocket.

Pearce put the photo back in the briefcase and slammed the lid shut. "Baxter," he said, "I don't take kindly to people breaking into my home and threatening me."

"
I know. I'm sorry about that. Really, I am. If there was any other way …"

"
Fat Boy and Slim here could have knocked first."

"
Didn't they? Look, I'm sorry …"

"
No matter. I taught them some manners."

Flash shouted,
"Cunt!"

Pearce looked at him, looked at the briefcase. Well made, sturdy. He stepped over to Flash, landed a swift blow with the edge of it to the rude little fucker's head. Flash moaned. Pearce hit him again and Flash stopped moaning.

"
Mr Pearce," Baxter said, grabbing his arm, "please don't hurt them."

"
Bit late for that."

"
We need your help. That's all we want. Just some help with a little problem."

"
You could have asked."

"
We wanted to see if you could handle yourself first."

"
This some kind of test? These two? Don't make me laugh. They've never been in a fight in their lives, have they?"

"
Not quite true." Baxter was silent for a while, then when Pearce didn't prompt him, he said, "Rodge is a bouncer."

"
Yeah? Could have fooled me."

"
He's not used to people fighting back."

"
How long's he been a bouncer? A week?"

"
He's very good at his job. Just got a pay rise. Look, they're game lads. Good lads, my boys."

No way was Rodge a bouncer, but Pearce let it pass. "You shouldn't let them loose with knives. They might hurt themselves."

Baxter said, "Can we talk money?"

"
We can always talk money." Pearce wondered what was coming. "How much?"

"
Four grand."

"
What do you want me to do for four grand? Mow your lawn?"

"
It's all we can raise."