DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (2 page)

Footsteps on the pavement.

‘Just let him clear away the cups, okay? Because I’m not too keen on dirty cups. So what d’you reckon? Be a bargain, really: couple of minutes, the old in-out, and there’s ten in your hand and off you go.’

The hairless chin. The rinsed-out eyes.

‘Can’t give you more, sugar, as times are hard, but it’s the thought that counts, I’ve always said. Billy won’t mind. That right, Billy?’

‘Feel free, my son. You do your stuff.’

‘Hear that, did you? Billy says fine, so we’ll just have a quickie. Being as it’s Sunday, and as you’re passing through.’

He leaned towards her. The urgent Mervyn hiss.

‘So how about it, sweetheart?’

At which propitious moment, the street door was shoved open and a gust of cold air swept across the floor and came licking round her ankles. She glanced over. A dark-haired guy in a black leather jacket was standing just inside, and a vague, unsettling recognition began growing in her brain: He’s mine, she realized. The one for me. And suddenly, as if from nowhere:

‘Move it, Joe. You’re blocking my way.’

A mammoth form, a mound of pink and shining flesh, had rolled benignly through the door. Sixteen stone of fat and gristle, and a shock of carrot hair. Breasts, she thought. He’s got generous breasts. She stared at him, tried to guess his age. Maybe sixty, give or take, which is almost dead to a girl like her. Almost buried, the way she saw it. But even so, a man who mattered, a man who had significance. You could sense the tension breaking out, the air become electric. He unbuttoned his coat and approached the table.

‘Shift yourself, Billy. There’s a good lad.’

The skinhead got up and the big man sat down. He flicked some breadcrumbs to the floor.

‘Evening boys.’

Cigar-stub clamped between his teeth. A confident man, the way he acted. Would have a bob or two, which always helped. Mervyn took the envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table. The fat man laid his hand on top, as if making a benediction, as if communing with his private god.

‘All been counted?’

Mervyn nodded, and the man slipped the envelope inside his coat. His eyes went flicking round the table.

‘Everything all right, then?’

‘More or less,’ Mervyn said. ‘Carlo’s upset.’

‘That a fact?’

The man half-turned so he was facing the bar.

‘You not happy, son?’

The owner shrugged.

‘Come on, Carlo, don’t be shy . . . ’

‘I got business problems. Too many overheads.’

‘You ought to sack the waiter, I mean he’s bone fucking idle.’

Carlo tried to smile. Managed a baring of the teeth.

‘I went round the doctor. Got some pills.’

The big man shifted on his seat.

‘You want to stay away from pills, you mark my words. They’re garbage, see? Full of shit and chemicals. Very bad news are pills, old mate.’

‘But I got worries, Henry.’

‘We’ve all got
them
, pal. So what are yours?’

‘This place, isn’t it. I mean half the profit getting skimmed, so I feel like I’m working for nothing, see.’

Henry shook his head.

‘I take your point, believe me. But you know what they say, right? Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’

A sympathetic shrug.

‘Specially not a borrower.’

Carlo stared at the floor.

‘I could give up the business.’

‘You most certainly could.’ The sound as he sucked on a hand-rolled cigar. ‘But the debt, like the struggle, continues.’

‘I’m getting stress here, Henry. You know what I’m saying?’

The fat man sighed.

‘That’s because you work too hard. Because you don’t know how to delegate. You want to be like me, see? Be more relaxed, try and take things easy. You want some good advice? Close up tomorrow, motor down to Sussex for the day. Have a holiday, old son, cause you deserve it. Get away from all the riff-raff, breathe some decent English air. I mean it can’t be bad, can it?’

He turned back to the table.

‘It’s okay,’ he announced. ‘He’s happy now.’

He slid the sugar-bowl away from him. There were brown smears inside where one of the boys had dipped in a wet spoon, and he’d always found such things distressing.

He glanced at Mervyn.

‘So here we are, then,’ he murmured. ‘Right, Merv?’

‘Right.’

Henry squinted at the girl.

‘She’s looking bored.’

‘Boss?’

‘Your lady friend . . . ’

‘She was waiting for her coffee.’

‘Well she’s had it, now.’

‘You want her to leave?’ Mervyn, ever helpful. ‘Want her chucked outside?’

‘Manners, Merv.’

The big boss smiled, showing neat yellow dentures. He held out his hand.

‘Henry,’ he announced, and squeezed her palm. ‘They call me the Fatman, but I don’t mind.’

‘Donna,’ she said.

The skinhead sniggered.

‘Donna Kebab.’

The Fatman pointed at the boy in leather, who’d pulled up a chair and flipped it round, and now sat quietly straddling it, all bulging crotch and faded denim.

‘That one’s Joe, as you’re asking. My boy,’ he said, ‘my Joey-boy.’

He leaned across and cuffed him lightly on the head. Joey-boy, with his pale blue eyes and his near-black hair. Looked like such a wild young man. You looked at Joe, and you wouldn’t know that he lived in a basement flat, and slept in a single bed, and ate from tins and paper bags, and held his essence in his hands, and loathed himself with the pure and utter certainty of one who knows he can’t be wrong. But he looked like such a wild young man.

‘He’s everything to me. That right, lads? My driver, gofer, faithful friend. He’s the baseline, the constant point of reference, my poor but honest Joey-boy. He’s where I started from, and I keep him by my side to measure just how far I’ve come.’

The flesh of his neck seemed to quiver slightly when he turned his head, as though it were almost liquid, as though you could almost spoon it up and have it for dessert.

‘Will you look at her watching, eh? Giving us the eyeball. Like she thinks she’ll sum us up. You’ve told her all our little secrets, have you? Filled the girly in? Because she’s looking pretty eager, frankly, looking pretty hopeful. So what I’m wondering, see, is does she know we’re bad boys? Think she knows that? Eh, Joe? Eh?’

He leaned his bulk towards her, and she was suddenly aware of a milky smell, an infant scent surrounding him that made her think of baby-food and nappies.

‘D’you know that, sweetheart? They tell you, did they?’

The pale, grey tongue between his lips. The odour of milk and drooping age.

‘Speak to me, darling. Just open your mouth.’

She slowly uncrossed and recrossed her legs, taking her time, for she’s in no great rush. A single, fluid movement in black, velvet skirt and slingback shoes. She stubbed out her fag and looked at him. For the very first time since he’d come inside, she took a good look at the Fatman.

‘Hello, Henry.’

‘Hello, sugar.’

‘You saying you’re bad?’

You could see him relax, you could feel him unwind.

‘I’m fucking evil.’

‘What’s your line, then?’

‘Have a guess.’

‘You’re sort of in business.’

‘Well put there, darling, because sort of in business is what I am.’

‘What kind of thing, exactly?’

‘Little bit of this,’ he said. ‘Little bit of that.’

He removed the cigar-butt from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers.

‘Let’s just say that I’m involved in various enterprises, I have my finger in various pies, I’ve pushed my thumb in a number of rectums.’

He paused to search for the perfect phrase.

‘Venture capital, kind of thing.’

‘Like a bank,’ she suggested.

‘That’s right, sweetheart. I lend people money, then I ask for it back.’

She plucked a speck of cotton from her sleeve.

‘Is that called financial services?’

‘No, darling . . . ’

He shoved the cigar-stub back in his mouth.

‘It’s called demanding money with menaces.’

He bent towards her. The small, wet mouth beside her ear.

‘I don’t need the money,’ he confided. ‘I do it for the menaces.’

The milky breath in her face.

‘You were telling us about your bloke, I think.’

‘Haven’t got a bloke.’

‘But you’ve had a bloke.’

‘One or two.’

‘Tell me about the last one,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the last one who touched you where you’re tender.’

The plump, warm hand that brushed her thigh.

‘Was he like Merv, or was he like me?’

She shifted her weight on the seat, moved fractionally away from him.

‘Afraid I’ve got to go now, Henry. Another time, perhaps.’ Apologetic shrug. ‘It’s been nice, though . . . ’

‘Hasn’t it.’

He sighed his Fatman sigh and leaned back in the chair, spreading slightly over the edges, oozing contentment from his open pores. A profoundly happy man.

‘So you’re off, then, are you?’

He watched her bend and pick up her bag.

‘Got a nice flat?’

‘Might have.’

‘That’s grand,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’ve got a home,’ he said, ‘because some people haven’t, see. I mean dosser-type people. You seen them, right? Spit a lot, because they’ve got TB. Crap on the pavement and ask you for money. Ought to lock them up, you with me, Merv? Cause they’re a blight on the city.’

‘They’re a fucking disgrace.’

‘But you got a home, sugar, and you’re laughing. You got a room, you got no problem.’

The piggy eyes were focused on her face.

‘And if you haven’t, we can fix you up. Just ask us nicely and we’ll sort something out.’

He passed a hand across his scalp. Smoothing down the dry, red hair.

‘So which one you want, then, the boss or a lackey?’

A millisecond’s hesitation, and she flicked a glance at the leather-boy. Mervyn grunted, Billy sighed. There was a ripple of disappointment, a collective recognition of pleasure postponed.

Henry smiled thinly.

‘I know that look,’ he said. ‘I think she likes you, Joey. You’re well away there, son. Got your entrance-ticket for that one, if I’m not being too crude, as I sometimes am.’

A sudden frown.

‘Excuse me, ladies.’

He hawked up phlegm and spat it smoothly into a pale blue handkerchief.

‘That’s better,’ he grunted. ‘Clear out the old lungs.’

He allowed himself a brief, admiring glance at the glob of creamy sputum, then shoved the hankie back in his pocket. He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder and heaved himself up.

‘Be needing you in the morning,’ he said. ‘Come round at ten.’

‘I’m down the gym.’

‘You some kind of nancy, now? Stuff the gym, son. Just be on time.’

He buttoned up his coat.

‘If you’re still on speakers, you can bring her with.’

He motioned Merv and Billy to follow, then took her hand, brushed it with his lips.

‘You made the right choice, believe me. Picked a winner, frankly. Got some style, my Joey-boy. Knows how to treat the ladies. Always splashing out, he is: a burger here, a milkshake there. You be a good girl, you’ll get porridge for brekker.’

‘I quite like porridge.’

‘Thought you might.’

He was squeezing her fingers, holding them tight.

‘So time to say goodnight, then, is it?’

‘It’s been a pleasure, Henry.’

‘More than that, darling. It’s been delightful.’ A joyless smile. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

She eased her hand away.

‘Keep well,’ she urged. ‘And look after those lungs.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

His bleak, unblinking eyes.

‘Sweet dreams, sweetheart.’

She patted his arm.

‘And you, Henry.’

* * *

CHAPTER 2

She woke up in an unfamiliar bed. An acid, grey light was seeping through the curtain and the air smelled damp. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Her bones felt stiff. A rasping noise, a kind of rhythmic grating, seemed to fill the room, a familiar, early-morning sound which she couldn’t quite identify. She rolled on to her elbow and saw Joey standing by the sink, scraping black bits off burnt toast. It’s an encouraging sign for girls like her, because they like a man who’s good in the kitchen, they like them when they’re handy.

‘Sleep well, did you . . . ?’

He had his back to her, was speaking over his shoulder. Looking good, she thought. Stonewashed jeans and crew-neck vest, and he was looking pretty good.

‘Not very. How about you?’

‘I was on the floor, wasn’t I. Bad for my back.’

She allowed herself a sympathetic yawn.

‘But good for your character.’

He dropped some crusts into the pedal bin.

‘Only I was wondering, see, cause you were making these sounds all night.’

She frowned at the pillow.

‘What sounds?’

‘You know.’ He shrugged. ‘Sort of . . . air-sounds.’

‘Oh.’

She let this filter through her skull and settle in her brain.

‘You saying I snore?’

‘Not as such.’ His neck went pink. ‘Not exactly.’

‘That’s all right, then, cause if we’re being personal, here . . . ’

‘I know, okay?’

‘I mean, that bog you’ve got . . . ’

‘I
know
, all right?’

He came back out holding two large plates heaped with charred and cooling pieces of bread.

‘Want to clean it, do you?’

The clear blue eyes and the broad Joey grin. He’s mine, she thought. He’s the one for me.

‘Think I’ll pass,’ she said.

A flat and muscular stomach, like the ones you see in magazines, and he hadn’t shaved, which always helped. Could do a lot worse, she told herself.

‘Because I’m not too partial to chores and things. Domestic stuff . . . ’ she pulled a face, ‘ . . . not really
me
.’

‘But you could try,’ he persisted.

‘I could,’ she agreed. ‘But I think I won’t.’

He put the plates on the table and pulled up a chair.

‘You having some, are you, or you just want to watch?’