The Evil And The Pure (35 page)

“
I remember,” Phials snorted. “Now you can see that what I said at the time was true — two million’s peanuts for a wonder drug like this. But that’s irrelevant, since you no longer have a stake to sell.”

“How do you fuh-
figure that?” Clint asked stiffly.

“The deadline,” Phials reminded him. “Your
only hope of getting in on the deal was to find out if I was hiding the formula from your cousin. He didn’t want to threaten me in case it distracted me from my work, so he sent you to trick the truth out of me. For that he
might
have rewarded you. But now the threat’s been made. The torturers stand poised. You could tell him what you know, but you’d only be saving him a few days. How much do you think he’ll pay for that? How much is a week worth to any man, no matter how rich he might be? Knowing Dave as I do, I think he might toss you a few thousand to be kind.”

“So you’re telling me
this just to spite me,” Clint hissed, shaking with cold rage. “You’re paying me back for what I duh-did with the Tynes.” He stood and spat. “Fuck you tuh-too, doc. At least
I
won’t be duh-dead this time next week.”

“I don’t want to
die,” Phials said quickly, grabbing Clint’s sleeve. “But I
will
be executed, whatever way I play it. Exclusivity is essential if Baby P is to hold its value. Once Dave has the formula, he won’t risk letting me fall into a competitor’s hands.” Clint stared at him suspiciously. Phials let go and lowered his gaze. “I didn’t bring you here to mock you. I want to cut a deal.”

Clint sat slowly, eyes tightening, brain churning. “What kind of a deal?”

“Freedom for the formula.”

“You want me to put in a good word for you with Dave?” Clint frowned.

“No, you idiot,” Phials snapped. “I want you to break me out.”

Clint stared, slackjawed.

“I have contacts in the States,” Phials said quickly. “If you get me out, we can sell the formula ourselves, split the profit fifty-fifty. We won’t make the billions we could if we were manufacturing it, but we’ll be able to demand way more than your cousin was going to pay. Fifty million dollars, maybe more. This is your chance to hit New York in style, as a man of substance. How’d you like to burn a trail through the Big Apple with twenty-five big ones in your back pocket? And a reputation second to none — Clint Smith, the man who delivered Baby P to the world. How do you think Shula Schimmel would view your advances then?”

“You’re insane,” Clint croaked.

“I’m a visionary.”

“Cross
cuh-cousin Dave — are you out of your fuh-fucking mind?”

“This may come as news to you, but your cousin’s small shit, Clint. A big fish in London but a minnow elsewhere.
Baby P would change that, but he’s got no God-given right to it. If you get me out of here and we cut a deal with the right people, he won’t be able to touch us. We’ll be sharks.”

“Even if I
wuh-wanted to…” Clint muttered. “The security here…”

“It won’t be easy. I know it’s difficult. But they won’t be expecting it. They don’t suspect you. We have a week to work on a plan.”

“If it wuh-went wrong…”

“
Then you stand to lose everything. But think of your dreams of Shula and the States, weigh the possible losses against the potential gains. This is your title shot. Have you the balls to step into the ring and put your money where your mouth is?”

Clint said nothing. He was staring off into space, thinking
about twenty-five million dollars, impossible to imagine so much cash. The world would be his. No way he could spend that much in one lifetime. He could gamble, invest, spread it about, do whatever the hell he wished.

“Go think it over,” Phials said. He took Clint’s elbow and guided him to the door. “Run it through the old brain cells. Sleep on it
. Just remember the deadline, and that an offer like this will never come your way again.”

Clint
nodded and let himself out. He stood panting on the other side of the door, white-faced, head whirling. Fast Eddie stared at him. Clint shook himself and pushed on, thoughts spinning, mind afire, thinking
The Godfather
, thinking
Escape From Alcatraz
, thinking Shula Schimmel. Also thinking about the cost of failure, torment at the hands of cousin Dave’s thugs, strung up alongside Phials, maybe fed to the hounds. Terrifying thoughts. But… twenty-five
million
…

On his way to the Church of Sacred Martyrs, having ducked home to get his wares, no reason not to keep his Friday clinic, wanting to stay busy, hoping that if he distracted himself he might find it easier to think clearly. Arriving late, he nodded apologies to his regulars, made himself comfortable, got on with business. Level-headed, the usual patter, whispering professionally as he dealt, no giveaway signs that his brain was shooting off in twenty-five million different directions all at once.

Towards the end
Gawl stumbled into the church, looking rough. He waited for the last of Clint’s customers to leave, then slid in beside the dealer. “How’s the head?” he groaned.

“Fine,” Clint answered softly. Studying Gawl,
calculating. If he was going to bust Phials out, he’d need help. But could he trust the Scot? Did Gawl really have what it took? He’d changed Clint’s life, and Clint wanted to cut him in for a slice of the action, but was he the right man for a challenge this size?

Clint was
considering whether or not to mention his visit to the lab when Kevin and Tulip Tyne entered and passed them by. Gawl dug Clint in the ribs and nodded at the girl. “A tasty piece, right? I wouldn’t mind a crack at a bird like that.”

“Tulip Tyne,” Clint said.

“Ye know her?”

“Yes.” Smiling. “I could introduce you. But it would cost.”

“Ye mean she’s on the game?” Gawl feigned astonishment.

“In a way.” Clint thought again of telling Gawl
about Baby P, then decided against it, wanting to mull it over before committing. He stood. “I fancy a pint.”

“Will ye tell me
about the girl?” Gawl asked.

“Yes. In the pub.” Walked out
of the church, confused, afraid, looking nothing like a man who held the future of the world in the palm of his hand.

In the pub with Gawl, drinking slowly, not much of a thirst, weighing up all of his options. Gawl unaware of the young dealer’s state of mind as they discussed the Tynes. Clint told him about their sexual games — Gawl fascinated. Clint told him about their relationship with Phials — Gawl wondered if there was an angle.

Clint didn’t mention his visit to the lab,
but by the end of the night he’d made up his mind. He didn’t want to hit Gawl with this while he was inebriated. Wait for morning, take his proposal to Gawl, see what his friend had to say about it when they were sober and thinking straight.

Rolling out of a
pub shortly after midnight, dizzy from beer and shorts, but not drunk, careful not to drink too much and spill the beans before he was ready. Gawl asked if he wanted to head to a club. Clint declined. Gawl’s head still tender from the previous night’s pub crawl, so he didn’t argue. A cab home, drop Gawl off, on to Clint’s flat. Clint fished out his mobile when he was indoors. Dialled the lab. One of Phials’ minders answered. Clint asked for the doc. Moments later he was on the phone. “Yes?”

“
I want to put Baby to bed,” Clint giggled.

“Are you drunk?”

“No, just tipsy.”

“
Tipsy’s not bad but sober’s better. Phone again in the morning when your head is all the way clear. Or better still, drop in and see me.”

“I will,” Clint promised and cut the connection.

Clint didn’t think he’d sleep, but he did, and his dreams were the sweetest ever. Got dressed in the morning and walked to Gawl’s, roused him at what, for the Scot, was an ungodly hour. Gawl standing in the doorway, a sore head, scowling.

“Tony Phials contacted me yesterday
and asked me to visit him at the lab.”

Gawl’s s
cowl disappeared and he stepped aside, inviting Clint in, the pact not yet struck but both men already smiling, the dangerous deal done in all but deed.

THIRTY-NINE

Nothing was going right for Kevin. Looking to make more appointments but finding it difficult to hang on to regular customers,
never mind make new connections, many of his contacts out of town or low on funds or just not keen at the moment. Then Tulip caught a cold and was confined to bed for a few days, weak when she was recovering, not fit for anything.

Dan B
owen giving him grief at work. Kevin took some sick time off to look after Tulip, which irked his boss. Making Kevin work weekends and nights, threatening him with dismissal if he refused.

Gas bill. Electricity bill.
Medicine
(inclucing real medicine for once) for Tulip. Kevin’s dreams of moving to the countryside swiftly evaporating, wondering if he’d have to sell the apartment and move to an even smaller, less attractive flat. Savings dwindling, little coming in, Kevin growing desperate.

So
when Clint surprisingly rang him on Saturday evening, Kevin didn’t hang up immediately or chew him out. Instead he listened, grunting occasionally, as Clint apologised for the Phials cock-up then told him about a friend who’d like to try the sister and brother partnership. He couldn’t afford to pay as much as Phials, but Clint would consider this a favour and do all he could to repay Kevin and Tulip any way possible, set them up with a string of wealthy clients if Kevin could see his way clear to do business with him again.

“Well?” Clint asked at the end
after several seconds of silence.

“Where?” Kevin
asked.

“Your place.”

“No. We never entertain here. We always go to the client.”

“I know, but that won’t work this time.”

“Why not?”

“He has a
wife, so he can’t do it at home.”

“
Then let him hire a hotel room.”

“
He can book a room if you insist, but that will have to come out of the money he’s paying, so you’ll have to do it for even less. If you’re OK with that, it makes no difference to me.”

Kevin thought about that, then
thought about his bank balance. Wanted to let the customer come to them, but wary of going down that route and attracting the attention of their neighbours. “He can deduct fifty for the hotel room.”

“That mi
ght not be enough,” Clint said.

“It will have to be. Book a room and let me know.
” Then Kevin hung up and went to tell Tulip. She wouldn’t like it. She’d probably pretend to still be sick. But they needed the money. And Kevin had the familiar itch that always demanded to be scratched. He’d persuade her.

FORTY

Gawl spent Saturday quizzing Clint a
bout the lab. How many cameras and where? How many guards and where? How many windows and where? Were they wired? Any roof entrances? Was there a garden out back where Phials could go for fresh air? Any way into the cellar from outside?

Not keen on the idea of breaking
out the chemist — too much could go wrong. But he agreed with Phials that Clint could expect nothing more than loose change if he went to his cousin with this now. Trying to figure another way for them to make a profit. He considered tipping off one of the Bush’s competitors, selling the location of the lab to them, leaving them to do the dirty work. But how to get their story taken seriously? Clint had no samples of the supposed wonder drug, and neither man could expect to be taken at his word.

“We need the formula,” Gawl grunted. “Get
Phials t’ write it down. We can slip something into his grass, finish him off, take the formula, sell it ourselves.”

“Kill him?” Clint didn’t like the sound of that. “He’s my friend.”

“Don’t talk shite. He’s an ally or an obstacle, but he’s no fucking friend. If we get the formula, we won’t need him. A lot simpler that way.”

“But he wo
n’t give it to us,” Clint argued. “Even if he did, who could we sell it to? He has contacts in the States. Who do we have?”

“We could sell it t’ yer cousin,” Gawl suggested.

“He’d kill us,” Clint sniffed. “Even if he agreed a deal, we’d only get a couple of million tops. Phials is promising us twenty-five million dollars, maybe more.”

“A fair chunk,” Gawl chuckled. His eyes narrowed. “Maybe too much.”