Dead Money (8 page)

"Who is he?"

"He's a big player in the comps, reckons he's shit hot. I noticed him about – not like you could miss him. He looks like he belongs in one of them Bollywood films. Big stupid ‘tache, plenty of bling. Which amounts to him being fuckin' loaded and ripe for the picking."

"What're you talking about?"

"Stevie knows this bloke from Cheetham Hill. Says he owns a bunch of clothes factories up there. He's got little Indian women hand-stitching Nehru jackets until their fingers bleed, man, he's a prick. Plus he buys in all these shop-soiled or wholesale copy designer labels and punts them on to other Pakis who think they're gangsters. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is this bloke's fuckin' gilded. And he plays poker like a three-year-old."

"And?"

Beale licked his bottom lip. "And I am in a game with him this Saturday."

"Good for you. You did alright last night, did you?"

"Better than alright, considering it was supposed to be my turn."

"I don't follow."

"Stevie and the rest of them, they're fuckin' hustlers, man. I was supposed to be the mark last night until I caught them at it. They're running a system for the new blood. Anyone they think they've got tells on, they're inviting into these games and the three of them work as one. Except they didn't reckon on me. I saw through that bollocks an hour in, and I played that back at them. Their fuckin' tell was when they worked together."

Which would have been a big one if he'd been looking out for it. Mostly tells were a flick of the eye, the way a guy checked or bet, the way he raised, the pitch of his voice when he was bluffing. It was body language under the microscope, so much so that some players invented tells for themselves to cover for the real ones. Eye rubbing, chip flipping, touching his nose, ears, lips. One bloke I knew, you had to count his teeth. Bigger the grin, the bigger the bluff.

When you knew the tell, you knew the man. And Beale was convinced he had all three of them licked.

"So where does Ahmad come into this?"

"He's the next mark."

"And you're in the game."

"I'm in on the scam, yeah. Four against one is going to work better than three."

"They just let you in on it, did they?"

"After I told them what I'd do if they didn't, yeah."

"Which was?"

"Sell the lot of them out to their managers. Fraternisation, potentially illegal activity to boot. Something like that, they might even take their licences away."

"And they're happy about this?"

"Fuck difference does that make?"

"I'm just saying, there might be two marks at the table."

Beale leaned back. "I lose, they lose."

"So it's win-win for you."

"That's right."

"Well, then." I hoisted my pint. "Congratulations."

"So, you coming or not?"

"I'm not going back to Miles Platting."

"It's not over there this time. I'm having it at my place."

"So you don't need me there."

"Come on, moral support, man."

"No way. This is your deal. I don't want anything to do with it. If I'm honest, I didn't want anything to do with last night, either. You've got Henderson breathing down your neck—"

"Fuck him."

"What, you think this is going to be your new career? You're not a con man, Les, you're a double-glazing salesman." I finished off my pint, checked my watch. I could make it back home in time to see Cath without too much grief. "So do what you want, but I'm not interested."

I stood up. Beale frowned at me. "Where you going?"

"Home. I'm knackered."

"Come on, man. Stay for another one. I'll get ‘em in."

"No," I said. "Can't do it. Got to go."

He started to say something else, but I left. I'd had enough, and I was too tired to play nice. I turned my jacket collar up against the rain. Saw his silhouette in the frosted glass. He looked lonely. He probably was. As far as I knew, he had nothing outside of me, the doors and the clubs. He had a wife. He had a daughter, I think. I didn't know their names. He might have mentioned them to me at some point – and now I came to think of it, I was pretty sure there'd been a divorce a couple of years back – but if I was honest, I didn't give a shit. The truth of the matter was that Beale was a hard man to spend time with even when he was on his best behaviour. And tonight, I couldn't be arsed with it. He'd tried to keep me in there with another round, and for the first time in years I'd told him no. Another round meant another one after that, and one more after that meant chasing the beer with something amber. And once whisky made it to the table, the seal was well and truly broken and the night well and truly gone.

That wasn't me. I didn't need that the way Beale did. I had other things to keep me occupied. I was better than him. I had control. I had it all sussed.

And looking back, that was probably my biggest mistake. Because no matter how much you think you have it figured out, you don't. There's always something waiting in the shadows to bite you in the arse.

8

Inside the car, I had the music turned up as high as the heater, the drum beat a siren call to the lead foot. Outside, it was pitch black and pissing down. The nights were coming in colder now, just in time to choke the mild, wet autumn that had in turn choked our sales.

I thought about giving Lucy a call, seeing as I'd already told Cath I'd be out late. In the unlikely event that Cath checked up on me with Beale, he'd back me up. He didn't have much of a choice. Who else would listen to his bullshit about the card system that had him banned from all the Stanley clubs in Manchester, his Triad conspiracy theories, or about Jimmy Henderson's inferiority complex (and obvious steroid abuse) that led to him doling out the shittiest leads to the best salesmen?

No one. I was a patient man, and even I had trouble.

So I could swing by an off-licence, pick up a bottle, see if Lucy wanted to make a night of it. I pulled out my mobile, and scrolled through to Lucy's name.

"What're you doing?"

"Nothing much. Just got off the phone to my dad. He thinks I should find a nice boy and settle down."

"He's right. You should."

"I don't think he meant you, Alan."

"But I'll do for now, right?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"Good. I'll be right over."

I disconnected. I was about to turn the phone off when a shadow dipped the headlights. A flash, and then it was gone. A thud against the bonnet that shook my seat, a crunch, and then the whirr of something going the hard way under the car. I slung my mobile onto the dash and stamped on the brakes, felt the seatbelt dig in. Glanced in the mirror, but only caught a glimpse of the road as it whipped away. I white-knuckled the wheel as the car lost traction and prayed that my arse stayed shut. Double-tapped the brakes like you were supposed to do, but it was too late, didn't take, so I took the rest of the road sideways at speed. Then something caught, everything else went cock-eyed, and the road spun out in front of me. I saw a street light long enough to recognise it before it disappeared again. I couldn't feel anything, knew it was only a matter of seconds before the car flipped. I closed my eyes and held on tight with a lump in my throat that could've been my heart.

Thinking, this is it. This is the end.

No last revelations, no blinding moments of clarity, no clip show of my life flashing in front of me, thank fuck.

God. I meant thank
God
. Better safe than sorry.

And then, just when I opened my mouth to catch a breath, it all shuddered to a halt.

Silence, inside and out. Sounded as if the rain had stopped, but I could still see it snaking down the windscreen.

After a second or two, I heard myself breathing, but that was about it. I didn't dare move in case it all kicked off again.

And then the feeling started to come back, the slow burn cramp in my fists, still clenched tourniquet-tight around the steering wheel. I opened my hands, which sent pins and needles marching through my fingers. As soon as I moved, I switched on the steel band of pain that lashed from shoulder to hip where the seatbelt had snapped into me. I blinked and watched my fingernails until I could focus, and then I breathed out as slowly as I could.

I'd hit something. Or something hit me. Hit the car. Think about it. Darted out of nowhere. Something.

Or someone.

Jesus God, I hoped it wasn't a someone.

Thinking, it was small when it came at me. I barely saw it, so it probably wasn't a person.

Not an adult person, anyway.

I rubbed my face. That couldn't be right. A kid out here in the middle of the night in the
rain
? It didn't make any sense.

But just because it didn't make sense, didn't mean it wasn't true. It was a possibility, and that possibility threw up other possibilities that I didn't want to think about. That I was a murderer, that I was going to prison, that my life as it stood was face down in a puddle out there.

I had to check. I took a moment to steady myself, then put a hand on the door. It was cold to the touch. I told myself it was the temperature that'd put the tremble back in my hands.

Rain hit my leg as I attempted to find my footing. I should've just kept driving. This wasn't important. Whatever it was, I hit it and it probably deserved to get hit. Anything going up against a Rover going at fifty miles an hour is either thick as mince or armour-plated. I mean, taking stock, who was the real victim here? I was the one with what looked like a bloodied dent in the middle of my bonnet. I was the one who'd need to get that washed and battered out. So I was well within my rights to make the choice and walk away.

But I didn't walk away, did I, I walked
towards
. My shadow fell in front of me and stretched up towards the body on the road. I moved closer, up and out of the light, and it became clear what I'd hit.

A dog. Big and black and apparently dead.

I thought about the dog in the Commercial, the one that wouldn't stop staring at me, and how it hadn't been there tonight. But this wasn't that dog. This one had longer hair, matted by rain and something else, something thicker. I circled it at a slight distance. It didn't look too badly mangled, so I didn't want to get too close. If I'd just stunned the bastard, I didn't want to be within snapping range.

I prodded the dog with my shoe; the leather came back bloody. I dunked my foot in a puddle, shook off the rain, and took a step back.

Okay. Positive mental attitude. This isn't as bad as it looks.

I heard someone shouting behind me. Turned to see a figure at the top of the street. Looked male, but I couldn't be sure. A long shadow hung from one hand. It looked like a noose. He stopped, then turned my way. Light caught him. Even at this distance, this bloke was a big bastard. And judging by the empty lead that swung from one fist, he was a big bastard who was – or had been until very recently – a dog owner.

He squinted at me as he approached. "Here, mate, you seen a black dog go by here?"

I moved in front of the headlights. The dog disappeared into the shadows. I pointed off behind the bloke. "I heard something over there somewhere, sounded like barking." I shook my head and tried to look dazed. It wasn't hard. "Tell you the truth, mate, I hit a skid just after that, so I don't know which way it went."