Nightmare City (5 page)

‘
He could be a doorman,’ Conroy laughed.

Rider gave Conroy a sidelong squint. There was something not
quite right about this but he couldn’t pin it down. ‘Ron, you’re
lying about something here. I can tell when you ain’t telling the
truth. Your nostrils flare when you talk.’

‘
Eh? I am not lying, John,’ Conroy said earnestly, his
nostrils flaring. Instinctively he put his hand over his nose,
realised what he’d done, then self-consciously pulled it away. ‘So
what about it? Me and you again?’

Rider sighed, leaned on the outer wall of the enclosure,
resting his weight on his hands.

‘
There’s a few things,’ he said easily. ‘First I don’t like
you. I don’t like your cop connections or your political ones ...
they give me the creeps. I wouldn’t go into any deal with you
because I don’t think I could ever trust you after the way you
shafted Munrow.’

‘
Hey, business is business, John. Not that I’m saying I did
shaft him. What is important is that I never shafted
you.’

‘
Hm, maybe not - but whatever, I don’t like drugs and I won’t
entertain them. It took me five years to get off the sods - and I
still want to mainline, even now, stood here, and if I go in with
you, I’ll slide back. I want to stay clean. And, as I said, I don’t
fuckin’ believe you for some reason. You’re a sneaky bastard and
you’re up to something. I can feel it in my piss. So the answer’s
no. And you know me. I say something - I mean it.’

Conroy hardened. His jaw line tensed and relaxed a few times.
‘I want in to that gaff of yours, John. Now I’ve asked you nicely.
Don’t make me tell you. Nobody says no to me these
days.’

Rider stood slowly upright at this. He considered the words
uttered by Conroy and their implication.

He spoke, but did not look at Conroy because he felt that if
he did, he wouldn’t be able to resist tipping the bastard over the
wall in with the gorilla.

‘
You’ve obviously forgotten who you are talking to. Don’t ever
threaten me and don’t try something you’ll regret.’

Conroy made no response.

Rider, becoming angry, raised his eyes to the sky and said,
‘Do you understand?’

Again nothing.

Rider’s head swivelled. He looked at Conroy who was standing
there as rigid as stone.

Then Rider saw the reason for Conroy’s lack of
acknowledgement.

The muzzle of a gun was being pushed hard into the back of
Conroy’s head, just under the point where the hair band held his
pony tail. Rider, though rusty in such matters, recognised the type
of gun immediately – a K frame .357 revolver, six shot, constructed
of stainless steel. He was close enough to read the words
Smith
&
W
esson
stamped on
the barrel. It was a type of gun he had once owned illegally, once
used and once dealt in. He knew what kind of damage it was capable
of inflicting on a human being.

Rider’s eyes followed the barrel to the hand, to the arm, to
the person who was holding the gun.

He was a tall guy, youngish, dressed sportingly in a black
Reebok tracksuit. He had dark, unkempt curly hair and a three-day
growth on his face. Thin, gaunt, he looked as though a good meal
would have killed him. His eyes were wide and watery, almost no
colour in them, and he sniffed continually. He looked high and
excited.

A couple of metres behind him stood a similarly dressed male
who was no more than a teenager, dancing on the balls of his feet,
agitated. He waved a semi-automatic pistol loosely in front of him,
pointing in the general direction of Rider.

Rider’s eyes locked briefly with Curly.

‘
You finished your little speech, hard man?’ he demanded
wildly of Rider. ‘Eh? Eh?’ With each ‘Eh’ he jammed the gun harder
into Conroy’s skin.

‘
Yeah, finished,’ said Rider. His eyes took in both men as he
half-turned to see better.

‘
Good, fuckin’ good,’ snorted Curly, really hyper.

The only thing in Conroy’s favour was that these men were at
the peak of a score. People like that made mistakes. They also
tended to kill other people, too.

‘
What’s happening?’ Rider said, hoping to establish a dialogue
to give him time to think.

‘
Can’t you fucking see? We’ve come to kill this cunt.’ He
rammed the gun into Conroy’s head again.

Conroy let out a little squeak.

‘
Oh, right. I see,’ said Rider, nodding his head. He lifted
both hands in an open-palmed gesture. ‘You do what you gotta do,’
he said to Curly, who he had now sussed as a rank amateur, as was
his pal behind him. Professionals don’t talk, they act. If they had
been pros Conroy would be splattered by now. Rider guessed this was
their first direct hit and it wasn’t easy. He knew. ‘I won’t
interfere. Not my business.’ To Conroy he said, ‘Sorry, pal.
Nothing personal.’

Conroy’s mouth sagged open in fear. His eyes were bursting out
of their sockets. ‘You twat,’ he managed to breath.

Rider shrugged.

Curly’s thumb went to the spur of the hammer and pulled it
slowly back.

Rider watched it, fascinated. He saw the firing pin come into
view, the cylinder rotate the next bullet into position.

This was the only chance. He took it.

At the exact moment the hammer locked into place he lunged at
Curly.

With his right hand he palmed the gun away from the back of
Conroy’s head as though he was slamming a door shut.

What he couldn’t prevent was Curly’s forefinger from pulling
the trigger, but this happened as the muzzle of the gun cleared the
danger area of Conroy’s skull. The bullet discharged just inches
away from Conroy’s ear.

Rider continued with his self-propelled momentum, pushing the
gun further away, his fingers closing over the top strap and
cylinder of the gun, gripping tightly, and twisting it easily out
of Curly’s hand. At the same time he stepped into a position which
put Curly between him and the other gunman.

Suddenly disarmed and disorientated, Curly staggered back a
couple of steps. This should have been a simple hit, no
complications. Now things had changed.

For a start, there was no gun in his hand any more.

Behind Rider, Conroy sank to his knees, holding both his hands
over his left ear. From such close range the shot had almost burst
his eardrum.

Rider eased the gun into the palm of his hand and looked down
his nose at Curly, in the way the lioness had earlier surveyed
him.

Before he could say anything, Curly made a bad
decision.

He threw himself to the ground and yelled, ‘Shoot ‘em, Jonno.
Shoot the cunts!’

Jonno, his almost-adolescent companion, was as bewildered as
Curly. He dodged and weaved on the spot, trying to get a shot in
without hitting Curly - but was slightly off-balance and wide
open.

To be on the safe side, Rider shot Jonno once.

He didn’t want to kill the poor kid - even though he knew that
if the gun was loaded with magnum shells it wouldn’t matter where
the hell he hit him, he’d probably die from shock if nothing else -
so he aimed in the general area of the youngster’s legs.

It wasn’t a magnum. He could tell from the recoil.

The .357 slug slammed into the outer part of Jonno’s right
thigh with an audible ‘slap’ as the flesh burst, ripping through
the muscle and lodging by his thigh bone.

Jonno screamed and dropped his gun. His hands went to the leg
and clamped round the wound as he lowered himself to the ground.
Blood spurted out between his fingers. He was shivering already as
the shock waves pounded up through his abdomen.

Curly looked up at Rider, who pointed the gun at
him.

‘
No, don’t, please,’ he gasped desperately.

Rider was about to enjoy some sport with Curly, but this was
quickly curtailed when someone shouted, ‘Oi!’ from a distance. Two
people who looked like zoo officials approached
cautiously.

Deciding enough was enough, Rider ignominiously heaved the
half-deaf Conroy to his feet and dragged him out of the zoo whilst
waving the revolver about so people would keep their
distance.

There were one or two questions Rider wanted to put to
him.

Henry leaned back in his chair, laid down his pen and picked
up the statement he had written about his little altercation with
Shane. He reread it thoroughly once more. If it came to the crunch,
he hoped it would answer all the questions.

He was satisfied with the content, but winced when he came to
the feeble excuse for not putting an entry onto the custody record.
It wouldn’t hold water if the Police Complaints Authority ever got
involved.

‘
Morning, Sarge - sorry, Inspector.’

Henry glanced up. Derek Luton was standing there, smiling and
very smartly dressed.

‘
You coming to the briefing, Henry?’

‘
Yep, certainly am.’ Henry laid the statement carefully in his
desk drawer and stood up. ‘All psyched up for this,
Degsy?’

‘
Can’t effing wait,’ he said, rubbing his hands together
enthusiastically.

Henry slid his jacket on. They walked towards the door. ‘I
hear it was a detective from NWOCS that got blasted,’ Henry
said.

‘
Yeah, believe so.’

‘
Name been released yet?’

‘
At the briefing, I think,’ said Luton.

‘
I heard Tony Morton telling FB he would deploy his whole team
for this. You could end up working with one of the
elite.’

‘
I’ll try not to wet my keks,’ laughed Luton.

Just before they reached the door the phone rang on Henry’s
desk. ‘Shit. I’ll see you up there.’ He about faced and walked
slowly back, hoping it would stop ringing before he got to it. It
didn’t.

Rider was in the bar of his newly acquired club. It was dark
and cool but smelled of old tobacco and spilled beer, beer which
had permeated into the carpet, making each tread a sticky one. The
whole place was suffering from neglect and bad management, needing
gutting and refurbishing.

Rider sighed and let his eyes skim over the place. It was huge
- a former casino, though the last time a roulette wheel had spun
was in the early 1960s. Beyond the bar, dance floor and eating
areas was a warren of corridors and rooms going up three floors.
Rider wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. It was
going to cost a lot to get it up and running properly, but the
joint had real potential.

All it needed was cash and dedication.

Jacko the head barman was polishing glasses. He had come with
the place - as had a few other staff - was a good worker and very
proud of his territory behind the bar. It was the only area in the
whole club that was spotless.

Rider had only known Jacko about six weeks but had been
impressed by him from the start. He appeared honest, loyal and
committed to the place. He and Jacko had taken to each other and
Rider had no hesitation in keeping him on. A good bar manager could
be the lynchpin to the whole operation, and Rider knew a good one
when he saw one.

The rest of the staff he sacked. They were lazy, idle,
incompetent and dishonest.

He drank the last of his third gin and put the glass on the
bar. Jacko came, picked it up and wiped underneath it.

‘
Another, boss?’ he enquired.

Rider shook his head. He was relaxed now. He’d gone through
that lightheaded, nervy phase that always seemed to affect him
after a confrontation. Jacko took the glass away.

Conroy returned from the pay-phone in the entrance foyer, made
his way to the bar and told Jacko to get him a Bell’s. He scowled
into his drink as he tipped it back down his throat then proffered
his glass for another, this time a treble. His head was
throbbing.

‘
Left me fuckin’ mobile in the car,’ he said. ‘Just phoned the
driver to tell him to pick me up.’

‘
How’s the ear?’

It was clanging like Big Ben.

‘
I’ll survive.’

He took a mouthful of the whisky, ran it round his mouth,
swallowed and gasped. He stared at the smooth liquid for a moment
and at length said, ‘Haven’t seen that move for a while,
John.’

‘
Mm?’

‘
Disarming - yanking a gun outta someone’s hand. Used to be
your party trick, that, dinnit?’

‘
Not especially,’ said Rider. He had done it twice before,
though the gun hadn’t gone off on those occasions. He was getting
slow. ‘One day I’ll miss and some fucker’ll get blown
away.’

Conroy appraised Rider critically.

‘
You never lost your bottle, did you? All you did was become a
drunk.’ ‘I got out of it, that’s all. I’d had enough.’

‘
Everyone said you’d lost your bottle.’

Rider squirmed uncomfortably. Conroy was getting under his
skin and he didn’t like it. ‘A few things happened. I got a
conscience, I got pissed off looking over my shoulder for cops all
the time, wondering when you were going to grass me up. I saw how
bad the whole scene was and I realised I needed to get out of it
before it killed me, or I ended up as a lifer. I was thirty-five, a
junkie and a piss-head. I suddenly thought, "Let’s get outta here
and try to get to forty-five, preferably not in a prison or a
coffin". Now I’m just a piss-head, got a life of sorts, some brass
and no ties to bastards like you. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t loan
people money at extortionate rates. I don’t beat people up any more
just because they’ve looked at me funny, and I don’t get other
people to maim or murder for me.’