John Harvey - Last Rites

Preston was watching a scratchy kung-fu movie when Cassady arrived bearing gifts-a bottle of Black Bush and two Melton Mowbray pork pies. “Tonight,” he said, breaking the seal on the bottle.

“What about it?”

Cassady blew the dust out of two glasses and tipped in the whiskey. “We do it. What else, sure?”

“How about this other business?” Preston asked, a sip or two later.

“What business is that?”

“That bastard prison officer, sticking his nose in.”

“Oh, that,” Cassady said casually. “That’s sorted.”

The man standing in the doorway of Raymond Cooke’s shop needed to stoop several inches to avoid banging his head on the lintel. His shoulders were so wide, Raymond thought he might have to lean, first to one side, then the other, so as not to collide with the frame as he came through. His name was Leo: it was stitched in crimson lettering, high on the right side of his cobalt-blue Tommy Hilfiger jacket; he was wearing loose gray warm-up pants and Converse basketball boots. There were two gold studs in his left ear, one in his right; a heavy gold chain around his neck. His hair had been shaved till he was completely bald.

“Ray-o? You the one they call Ray-o?”

And with a grin, he stepped into the shop. Raymond didn’t think he was there to buy a reconditioned microwave oven.

“Ray, yeh, that’s me. Ray or Ray-o, doesn’t matter.”

“This your business, huh?”

“Yeh, yeh.” Raymond watched as Leo wandered between the piles of second-hand or stolen goods. He wiped the palms of his hands down his jeans; already he was patched with sweat.

“What can I …? I mean, was there anything special …? Maybe something you want to get shot of? Sell?”

Leo spun faster than Raymond could follow and a finger longer than any he’d ever seen poked hard against his chest. It was all Raymond could do not to stumble backward.

“That’s a joke, yeh. You’re jokin’, right? Get shot of. Got to be a joke, yeh? Clever bastard.” Each syllable of the last two words was accompanied by a jab of the same finger at his chest.

Raymond just looked back at him, open-mouthed; he hadn’t realized what he’d said.

“You the one,” Leo said, “been spreading the word, want to see Valentine? Got something special for him, that you?”

“Yes.” Raymond blinked and blinked again. The sweat was running into his eyes. “Yeh, that’s me.”

“Fine.” Leo’s face was suddenly all smiles. “You know Cassava? That eatin’ place?”

Raymond couldn’t picture where it was and then he could. “Yeh. Least, I think so. Never been in, mind. But, yeh.”

“Tonight. Two-thirty. Drew, he see you there. Bring what you got to sell. Okay?”

“Yes. Okay. Course. Half two.”

Still smiling, Leo pointed his index finger at him, crouching in the doorway. “What you want to get shot of.” And, aiming at Raymond’s heart, he fired the finger like a gun, lifting it toward his mouth so that he could blow away the smoke before stepping back out into the street.

Valentine was high. Why wouldn’t he be? The Dutchman had shown up as arranged half an hour before and was, right then and there, at the back of the room talking weights and training regimes with Leo. And the two cases he and his brother had brought with them, slightly battered and leather-bound, were right there under the table, close against Valentine’s feet. Two kilos of cocaine, all handily separated out into clear bags with a resale price of five hundred each; which would be broken down farther by Valentine’s crew; fifty-pound bags that the small-time scufflers like Jason Johnson would peddle on street corners, in pubs and clubs, on high-rise walkways and through the iron railings of schools.

Twenty thousand Valentine had paid over, throwing in another five as a sweetener, keep the Dutchman coming to him and not Planer. Twenty-five in all and nothing compared with the sixty the contents of those cases were worth to Valentine out on the street. Thirty-five thousand profit and all he’d done so far was cut open one of the bags and lift a taste of the powder to his tongue, rub a little across his gums.

Sure he was high. Wouldn’t you be?

He was calling back toward the kitchen in search of chicken and dumplings, when the knock came at the door. The Dutchman’s hand moved inside his jacket, fingers touching the grip of his Glock 9mm, the 17L, the kind that doesn’t set off metal detectors at airports.

Leo shook his head and grinned. “Stay cool. It’ll be the kid.”

“Which kid?”

There were two others sitting with the Dutchman’s brother, and one of them got up and checked through the blinds before unlocking the door.

Dressed up for the occasion in his best leather jacket, new Pepe jeans, Raymond gingerly walked in. Valentine had hoped the Dutchman would have been long gone by this time, but what did it matter? This youth already close to pissing himself, acne pits all over his sorry face.

“You Ray-o?”

Raymond nodded.

“Come on in. Get over here. Someone get our visitor something to drink.”

One of the men threw Raymond a can of Red Stripe, which he fumbled and caught; another relocked the front door.

“Sit.” Valentine said, pointing at the vacant chair opposite.

Raymond sat.

“You want something to eat?”

Raymond shook his head.

“Curried goat, all kinds.” Valentine laughed. “Dog, if you lucky. You should give it a try.”

Raymond thought he was being sent up, but wasn’t sure. A woman, small and with her hair in a net, came out from the kitchen with a plate of food and set it down in front of Valentine. It smelled good. Valentine took the top from a bottle of red pepper sauce and sprinkled it liberally over his supper. Raymond was beginning to wish he hadn’t said no.

He popped the can and drank some beer instead. One of the men passed a large spliff to Valentine, who drew on it deeply, holding the smoke in his mouth, before passing the joint across to Raymond. It was strong enough to make him cough and Valentine laughed again, but pleasantly. This was okay, Raymond thought, this was going to be all right.

“So, little brother,” Valentine said, “you got something to trade.”

“Yes.”

“With you. You got it with you?”

“Yeh.”

“Some kind of weapon, I understand.”

“A Beretta. Chrome-handled. A.38.”

Valentine raised an eyebrow high. “Nice.” He held out a hand. “Best let me see.”

Raymond hesitated, Valentine watching him closely to see what he would do.

“I want eight hundred for it, cash,” Raymond said.

Laughter and whistles all round.

“Boy,” Valentine said, leaning forward. “I say one thing for you, you may be one ugly little fucker, but you got some balls.”

Raymond could hear the breath, squeezing out of his lungs. “Eight hundred,” he said again.

“Six fifty, that’s your price. Seven tops. You tell me why I should pay over the odds.”

The words came tumbling out in a rush, not the way Raymond had practiced it at all. “It’s the gun from the Forest, the one you used on Jason. It’s worth eight hundred to you, make sure it don’t fall into the wrong hands. Got to be. Gotta.”

Valentine sat back and shook his head. “Ray-o, boy, your balls ain’t just brass, they big as a house.” And glancing over his shoulder toward Leo, he said, “Count me out eight hundred, why don’t you?” Leo winked at Raymond as he set the notes, fifties, on the table between them, Raymond thinking he’d tell Sheena the price had been two fifty.

“Now,” Valentine said, “time for you to show me yours.”

Raymond’s mouth was too dry for him to speak. Slowly, he reached round to the back of his jacket and pulled out the Beretta.