The Night the Rich Men Burned (7 page)

7

Had a couple of drinks, which was a couple more than he intended. Now going to visit a friend of his. Well, friend’s the wrong word. Old associate. They knew each other a long time ago. Back when they both had hair and good health. Been a while since Arnie Peterkinney had either of those. At least as long for Roy Bowles. Roy’s a few years older than Arnie, mind you. Roy is sixty-six, Arnie three years younger.

Been a while since they had any kind of a conversation. Shouldn’t be an issue. You go a long time without talking to people, but they don’t forget who you are. They sure as hell don’t forget what you’ve done. Not if they’re any kind of smart. And Roy Bowles is all kinds of smart. That’s why he’s lasted so long in this business. So long since the police even looked twice at him. He knows what he’s doing, and always has done. That’s why he’s the right man to talk to.

There’s a reason why it’s been a long time since Arnie spoke to Roy Bowles. Since he spoke to anyone in the business. Arnie takes no pride in some of the things he did to make money back in the day. Nothing too extreme. He avoided the worst of what could be done, but he made some extra money doing things decent people should frown upon. He always thought he was decent. Always wanted to be. Spent most of his life doing legitimate jobs, working hard. But no great training, no great brain at work and no great luck. So he lost jobs. Never his own fault, but shit happens. Had to find some way of making money. On a few occasions he helped out old friends he shouldn’t have been friends with.

One of those old friends was Roy Bowles. Roy was always sneaky. The quiet guy. You never quite knew what he did for a living. You knew it was illegal, and you didn’t ask more than that. Arnie knew. It was guns. Always was. Bowles has been handling them for the best part of forty years now. Selling them to all kinds of scum. Doesn’t care about the consequences, because the consequences have nothing to do with him.

Arnie didn’t sell them for Roy, he collected them. When someone was selling a gun to Bowles, Bowles wanted a layer of protection. An employee who could go and pick the gun up from the seller. Someone smart enough to handle a nervous seller and tough enough to handle a dishonest one. There was never rough stuff for Arnie. Willing seller, willing buyer. But Bowles was a wary soul. So Arnie worked for him a couple of times over the years. Never for longer than he had to. Always glad to leave. You don’t get a slap on the wrist for handling guns.

Now he’s going back. Not for himself. He’s approaching Roy’s house to scrounge a job for someone else. Ringing the doorbell. Good lord, it’s late. Should not have stayed in the pub. Needed to steel himself for this. It’s going to be awkward. Begging. Never mind, one thing he learned about Roy is that Roy is not a fan of sleep.

Door’s opening. A look of surprise from Roy.

‘Arnie.’ A pause. ‘Good to see you.’ Sounded almost like a question, the unconvincing way he said it.

‘Roy. Too late in the day to have a quick conversation?’

They’re in Roy’s living room. He’s insisted on making a cup of tea for them. Not what Arnie’s bladder needed. They’re sitting, talking a little about old times. Small talk. Tiny, in fact. Neither one of them cares at all about the conversation.

‘So what brings you here in the dead of night?’ Roy’s asking.

‘I knew you’d be up,’ Arnie’s shrugging. ‘That never changes.’ Roy used to be up all night, even when he was married. Even when he was married with a kid. Arnie would get phone calls from him at two o’clock in the bloody morning. That was the nature of his business. Not many people want to buy or sell guns in the middle of the day. It was a night-time pursuit, and Roy lived accordingly. ‘I need to ask you a favour.’

Roy’s frowning a little. Not easy to spot the frown on that lined face with the beady little eyes, but it’s there. That was how Arnie used to start the conversations when he was looking for work. Roy remembers those reluctant conversations. Arnie hating the job but needing the money. Roy uncomfortable at having such an unhappy employee. He has a good memory. Another part of what makes him good at his work.

‘Don’t worry,’ Arnie’s saying with a knowing smile, ‘it’s not for me.’ He remembers those conversations too. Arnie knows he’s too old and too long out of the business to work for Roy now. Things have changed since he last did a job for Roy. Must be close to twenty years. Close to ten since they had more than a passing word to say to each other. Now he turns up looking for a favour. Yeah, he knows how that looks. ‘It’s for my grandson.’

Roy’s nodding a little. Non-committal. He doesn’t know anything about Arnie’s grandson. Didn’t know the boy was old enough to work. Better hear it out. You never know. Sometimes you end up unearthing a gem from these kinds of conversations. Rarely, but sometimes. ‘Go on.’

‘He’s nineteen. He’s a good kid. Sharp as they come. Needs to find some work though. You know how it is out there. There’s nothing at all. The boy’s living with me. It’s not where he wants to be. He’s desperate to get out into the world and do something, but . . .’

That’s half the story. The half that Roy Bowles needs to know about. He doesn’t need to know that Arnie’s worried about the boy. Hanging around with halfwits like Alex Glass. Half-witted friends are no big deal. Where they lead you can become a big deal. As soon as Arnie heard mention of Marty Jones, he knew he had to do something. So here he is, doing something. Finding an alternative. Not a big leap up from Marty, but better. If Oliver insists on working for someone that isn’t above board, it might as well be someone reliable. Someone who isn’t going to end up inside, with Oliver in the next cell. Marty is a disaster waiting to happen.

‘So he’s looking for work. What’s he done?’

This is where it starts to get awkward. Having to admit that Oliver’s in no way the best person for the job. Times like this, so many people looking for work, Roy could have his pick. ‘Not a lot so far. Like I said, he’s a kid. But he’s a smart kid. A good judge of a situation. Sharp, you know. Clean record. I know I’m his grandfather so you’d expect me to say this, but he’s a kid who’s worth a chance.’

Arnie’s opinion was always solid, but that’s not worth anything now. Arnie doesn’t know the business now. And he can’t be a proper judge of his own grandchild.

‘Does the kid know you’re here?’ Roy’s asking.

‘No, he doesn’t.’

‘So how do you know that he wants to work for me?’

‘He’s desperate to make a start,’ Arnie’s saying. Thinking of him, hanging around people like Marty Jones. Sure, Arnie hasn’t been around the business much these last twenty years. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t know about Marty and his kind. A fucking pimp. That’s not the worst of it. A bloody debt collector too. Preying on the weak and vulnerable. Snaring them in a money trap and bleeding them dry. Ruining their lives. Anything is better than that. ‘The boy will be thrilled with a job with you, Roy, I know it. He’ll take the chance if you give him it. He’s a good long-term option.’ Throwing in the reference to long-term, because he knows Roy will like that.

Roy’s pausing, thinking about it. His is a small operation, always has been. There are some who try to go industrial, but that doesn’t work in a marketplace this size. You work in a city with just over a million people in it. That means the number of people who would ever buy from a man like Roy is relatively small. They want something cosy, trustworthy, long-lasting. Industrial doesn’t reassure them. Only way you can sustain industrial is to be national, and Roy’s never wanted that. He’ll stick to his territory. Besides, you go industrial, and you get noticed fast. So he’s always stayed small and that’s always worked for him. One or two people helping him at any one time. No more than that. Right now, only one employee. Could do with a second.

‘You know how it works, Arnie. I can’t promise him regular work. Little stuff, now and again. I’ll pay reasonable, I always do. Tell him to come round and see me tomorrow. I’ll talk to him then. If that goes well, if I think he’s up to it, I’ll have something for him. Nothing regular to start, but we’ll see.’

‘Thanks, Roy. I do appreciate this.’

‘You were lucky with your timing. I’ve only had one fellow helping for the last couple of months. I don’t like using him as much as I do. I’d rather split the workload, safer that way. Draws less attention to each one. Still, I’m not guaranteeing anything until I’ve spoken to him.’

Arnie’s out of the house. Walking down the street, wishing he had enough money for a car. His poverty embarrasses him. He’s always been a grafter, but he’s had health problems. Lack of circulation in the legs making them painful and bloated. Angina. Damaged lungs too, apparently, you can throw that one onto the list. Lifestyle. That’s what the doctor said. Hard living, Mr Peterkinney, he said smugly. Bastard. He was right, but still a bastard.

Sixty-three years old and what does he have for all that living? A dead wife, a feckless son and a dependent grandson. No money, no job and no prospects. A small, damp flat, no car and a long walk home on his bad legs. He won’t let this happen to Oliver. His son he did nothing for. But then, his son did fuck-all for himself. Ran off, left his wife and kid. Then the wife ditches Oliver with Arnie when the kid was thirteen. Good kid, but not what Arnie wanted in his life.

Now trying to do right by the boy. Find him work. Is this doing right by him? Setting him up with Roy Bowles? It’s the last resort. Arnie spent months trying to find Oliver a legit job. Anything legit. The boy did his fair share of looking too. Just nothing out there. So it’s this or Marty Jones. That’s the only reason Arnie can justify this. The devil or the deep blue sea. Time to send Oliver swimming.

It was a long walk. Tiring and sore. He’s grumpy by the time he puts the key in the flat door and steps inside. Cold inside. Always bloody cold inside. Switching on a light, and standing outside Oliver’s bedroom door. These walls and doors are paper-thin. No privacy. Another good reason to get the boy out of the house. No sound from inside the room. Knocking and opening the door. Switching on the light. Little more than a box room. Not home. Okay, well, he’s a young fellow, can’t tie him to the flat. Out with his mate Glass, no doubt. Having a bit of fun. Fine. Lucky him. Arnie will give him the good news in the morning. For now, he’s going for a long-awaited piss. Narrow little bathroom at the end of the corridor. Then bed. His bedroom larger than Oliver’s, but small, damp and basically furnished. Struggling to sleep. Hoping Oliver isn’t doing anything stupid.

8

Didn’t sleep a lot last night. Doesn’t sleep a lot most nights. Too much to think about. Plenty of work to do today. Bavidge has a small house, in a good area. Tidy, plain, predictable. The sort of house that hardly looks lived in. A house whose occupant has no interest in creating a home. He’s a quiet neighbour, polite and well-mannered to all he meets. Occasional relationships. Never anything that lasts. He has too much sense to try to create a long-term relationship. Not with his work. With his lifestyle. That’s just asking for trouble.

Does get lonely though. One of the reasons he doesn’t much like being at home. Always alone there. He resents the loneliness that closes in on him here. No photos on the walls or mantelpiece. No hints of a hobby. No character. Just emptiness. Better to be out working. Day and night. On the streets, getting the job done. Make the money. Gain the security that comes with success. Then you settle down. Always persuading himself that that’s the plan. That he’ll see it through, and one day settle down with someone. Trying to persuade himself that that’s possible for a person like him. It’s a hard argument to keep having with himself. Cynical reality stamping on hopeless naivety.

A quick breakfast, and out of the house. Consumed by work. Into the car and deciding on his first port of call. Not Jim Holmes. Someone else can deal with that hopeless bastard. Patterson will get someone to fix his door. Patterson will call him and reassure him that they’re doing all they can. Might calm his girlfriend a bit, hearing from the boss direct. The plan to ignore the kids and focus on bigger things won’t be shared with Holmes. He’s probably still sitting on his arse in front of his couch, doing what his girlfriend tells him.

His first job is to drive past the house of Potty Cruickshank. Not exactly a job. A hobby, until there’s a plan. Big place. Old townhouse, where old money lives. Gardens too well maintained to be looked after by their owners. Estate cars and four-by-fours. Bavidge has no intention of doing anything to Potty yet. Leave him alone until Patterson decides otherwise. When that time comes, Bavidge will have to be ready.

For now he’s getting an idea of the man. He’s seen him around. Watched him waddle from the door of a shop to his car one time. Didn’t look intimidating, but Bavidge knew better. The ones who look intimidating aren’t often the ones you should be most afraid of. Big tough muscular guys are not the best fighters. They rely on their muscle. They fight with the confidence of superior size. It’s the little ones, the smart ones. The ones that don’t have limits. The ones that don’t have size to depend on. People like Bavidge. And it’s the ones that come with consequences. Like Potty.

Bavidge has heard all the stories that get told. As with most people in the business in this city, most of the stories are bullshit. The fantastic criminal tapestry of myth, half-truth and possibilities. A lot of the bullshit is spread by Potty and his people. They know how to build and maintain a reputation. But some of the stories are true. Enough are true to make Potty a very scary man. Enough to make him an exceptionally dangerous target. Patterson didn’t say it, but they both know it. If you’re going to take down Potty Cruickshank, then you have to kill him. Leave nothing standing.

Won’t be here though. Too many big houses. Too many people walking their dogs and bossing around their gardeners. Too many people wary of threats and on the lookout for strangers. Big front gardens. Long driveway up to the garage. Potty isn’t daft. He’ll have all sorts of security at the house. Every inch down to the road will be covered. That makes the drive past worthwhile. Knowing that if they have to move in a hurry, this isn’t the place you hurry to.