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

fella’s jaw.”
    â€œMmm, yummy,” agreed Fats.
    â€œThat’s a bit unfair,” said Rawhead, addressing the Scot. “I’ll have you know I give a lot of money to your charity.”
    â€œWhat fucking charity?”
    â€œThe Jimmy Krankie Benevolent Society for Little Scottish Spastics.”
    Before Rawhead had finished speaking, the Scot took a direct swipe at his face. Rawhead stepped back, caught his wrist, and yanked him down the step. While the Scot was still struggling, Rawhead hit him once in the mouth. The Scot went down, shaking his head as if in repeated denial.
    The fat man charged and caught Rawhead off guard with a surprisingly fast right to the gut. Rawhead blocked the follow-through and butted the fat man in the exact center of his angry red face. The fat man lost his balance, slipped, and landed on his back, gasping for breath.
    Rawhead started to walk away. Spluttering threats and fragments of teeth, the little Celt ran after him. Rawhead glanced back, saw something flashing in the Scot’s right hand. Rawhead never found out what it was. Unhurriedly, ignoring an approaching taxi, Rawhead unfastened his jacket, withdrew the Ruger Blackhawk, aimed at the ground in front of him, and fired. The Scot ran right into the bullet, which penetrated the instep of his right foot.
    Roaring in pain and fury, the diminutive doorman hopped sideways, fell off the curb, and landed in the path of the taxi. He bounced off the bonnet and landed in the road. The taxi driver braked and swerved and ran over him again.
    A woman in the taxi screamed. Rawhead walked on briskly, stepping aside so as not to collide with two teenage boys who came sprinting past him in their eagerness to inspect the damage. The way they were running, you’d think they’d never seen an accident before.

Four
    But if you want me, if you do need me,
    Who waits, at the terrible door, but I?
    â€”“THE TERRIBLE DOOR” HAROLD MONRO (1879–1932)
    At two minutes past eight, the big man with the long, melancholy face opened his heavy-lidded eyes. Every night, in his dreams, he was John Stavri, a little Greek immigrant boy. But when he awoke he was always Chef, leader of the Priesthood, the most powerful gang in Manchester.
    He was in Malcolm Priest’s bedroom in Malcolm Priest’s large, comfortable house in Knutsford. As usual, Chef had slept alone, his long, large-boned frame filling the queen-size bed. There was a knock on the door. Then the door opened and in walked the Philosopher, one of Chef’s most loyal men. The Philosopher bore Chef’s breakfast on a tray: orange juice, porridge, a pot of tea, butter, and toast. Normally, the Philosopher would have left the tray on the bedside table.
    Today he hovered.
    â€œFireworks at the club last night.” For a big man, the Philosopher had an unlikely voice. It was like a jockey’s voice, high and nasal. “Someone got shot.”
    â€œWho?” The hope in Chef’s eyes was unmistakable.
    â€œNot Little Malc. Scotch Harry.”
    â€œIs he dead?”
    â€œNo. But he’ll never dance the Highland fling again.” The Philosopher laughed at his own joke.
    Chef eyed him sternly. “Did they get the gunman?”
    â€œHe fucking legged it.”
    â€œNothing to do with Little Malc, then.”
    â€œPossibly not. More likely just another drunk twat who’s cracked out for the weekend.”
    Chef smiled as he stirred his tea. He liked the way the Philosopher talked. The way he said “possibly not” when he meant “fuck knows.” It created the impression, at least in Chef’s imagination, that he had quality people around him.
    â€œIt’s only a matter of time,” said Chef. “Someday soon, someone’s going to box the guy. He’s trouble.”
    The Philosopher scratched his arse reflectively. “Confucius say, ‘Sooner or later, man who mixes with wankers will get