I Love My Smith and Wesson by David Bowker Read Free Book Online

and food arrived, delivered by a charming blond woman who gave him a full twenty-eight-tooth smile. “It’s turned into quite a nice day, really,” she said. “Enjoy your meal.”
    Rawhead nodded sullenly, making her flustered, so that she spilled his coffee. While she went back to get him a replacement, two men sat down at a neighboring table. They were studying the menu. Rawhead stared at them for a few seconds before realizing that one of them was Little Malc, now wearing a thick jacket. The other guy was a little nervous type with steel-rimmed glasses.
    Rawhead had been asking around. Little Malc had indeed put a price on his head, £50,000 for information leading to his capture or death. This singular act of foolishness had created something of a rift between Little Malc and Chef. Having experienced firsthand the carnage inflicted by Rawhead, Chef had no wish to visit further damage upon the Priesthood by antagonizing a madman. That was the story and Rawhead believed it.
    During his years as the Priesthood’s number one hit man, Rawhead had come to know Chef as cautious and thoughtful.
    As for Little Malc, Rawhead knew next to nothing about him.
    The little man with the glasses went into the bar to order. Little Malc was now sitting alone at his table, a faint smile on his mouth as he watched a squabble between a squirrel and a pigeon. Rawhead couldn’t believe it. Little Malc was either incredibly brave or naive to the point of madness. After offering a reward for information leading to the capture of Manchester’s most prolific killer, he was sitting in a public place in broad daylight without any protection or any apparent sense of danger.
    Rawhead took out the Ruger and flicked off the safety catch. Then he raised the gun over the level of the table and pointed it calmly at Little Malc’s head. He felt absolutely no emotion as his finger closed around the trigger. A man this stupid would be fortunate to die so humanely. You cannot put a price on the head of the Lord High Executioner and expect to live.
    In Rawhead’s mind, it was already done. He could already hear the shattering roar of the Magnum, always louder than expected. He could see Little Malc’s head bursting like a melon, and the bright cascade of blood and brains springing high into the air. One for Little Malc. One for Malc’s friend as he came running out to see what had happened. One for the waitress who had seen the killer’s face.
    Yet still Rawhead hesitated.
    The squirrel leaped at the pigeon, snatched the bread from its mouth, and darted away. Little Malc threw back his head and laughed. Little Malc’s friend walked out of the bar and Rawhead thrust the gun out of sight, just as Little Malc turned to Rawhead and grinned. “Did you see that? Did you see that fucking squirrel? He’d been after that bread for the last five minutes…”
    Rawhead smiled back. Little Malc looked like a milder, less vicious version of his father. He was in his early forties. His teeth were nicely capped; his thinning hair was combed forward unconvincingly. Although Little Malc was built like his hatchet-wielding father, his face was softer and somehow innocent-looking. He turned his attention to the man with glasses, who had brought two beers in tall glasses. Little Malc chinked glasses and drank.
    Rawhead slipped his gun back into his belt. He ate his food slowly and in silence, already planning his next move.
    *   *   *
    Rawhead was living where no one would think to look for him, lodging with a nice old lady in a leafy suburban street in Sale. His landlady’s name was Mrs. Mary Munley. She was slightly deaf and, because she was arthritic, she never went upstairs. Rawhead had the first floor to himself.
    Mrs. Munley liked company, so Rawhead would play cards with her. He called her Mrs. Munley and she called him Victor. The names Rawhead invented for himself always had a horror