Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [80]
I started to back out of the car. The pro took a step back to let me out and he should have taken two, because by then I was in his face, inside his reach, the .38 grinding into his throat, my arm around his neck, pulling him onto the barrel.
“I’ll kill you, you cunt. I’ll fucking kill you!” I was snarling, grinding teeth, eyes wild. We were forehead-to-forehead, close enough to kiss, and I couldn’t give him time to think. His first instinct had to be that I’d lost it, that I was willing to do whatever it took, and that he was first in line for whatevering. “Drop it or I will blow your fucking head off.”
There was a dull clunk, his gun hitting snow. I didn’t breathe. I ground my forehead into his, in case he tried to butt me.
“Put your hands behind your head. Real fucking slow.”
He did it, fear in his eyes. He’d been in this situation before, from the other side of the gun, knew the procedure.
“On your knees. Real slow.”
He started to dip, bending his knees. When his forehead reached the level of my nose, I swung my knee full force into his groin. He went down squealing, sprawled out on the snow, face down. Buckled as he was, he still reached for his gun; I didn’t make a game of it. I drew a boot on the side of his head, connected so well he ricocheted off the car door. He curled into a ball, groaning. I flicked his gun away with the side of my foot and booted him again, this time full in the face, crunching bone. He scrabbled to one side, a giant roach as he tried to crawl under the car. I moved away, picked up his gun, checked the safety catch. It was off. I put the .38 into my pocket. His gun was heavier, but not so heavy I couldn’t carry the extra weight.
“Get up. On your knees.”
He tried, blood pumping from his face, a pink stain seeping into the snow. I thought of Gonzo in the toilets of the kebab house.
“Get the fuck up! Now.”
He pushed himself to his knees, leaning back against the car door, whimpering. I moved in, inching it, hooked an arm around his throat, dug the gun into the side of his neck. He lurched to his feet, staggered forward. I went with him, then jerked my arm tight around his throat.
“You know, I’ve never done this before. And that’s not good news, because it means I could do anything, anything at all. The smallest twitch, a trip or a stumble, and the gun’ll go off and your head’ll come off with it.” I tightened the chokehold again. “Hear me?”
He grunted.
“One step at a time. Go.”
He went. I pushed him through the cinema doors, across the foyer, holding him close. We went up the rickety stairs side-by-side, which was awkward, but we managed. I pulled him up short on the tiny landing outside the projection room.
“Move and I’ll do it. And I want to do it. You know I want to do it. Yeah?”
He nodded.
“If everyone plays ball we’re out of here. Nothing stupid and everyone walks away. Hear me?”
Again he nodded.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
We pushed through the projection room door. The Ice Queen turned to greet us and her smile died so fast it went happy. Tony Sheridan started up off the tea chest. Katie looked up, still sobbing, a bewildered expression creasing her face. No one spoke. I realised they were waiting on me.
“Get up, Katie. Over here.”
She stood, tottering, made to move towards the door. Without looking, Helen Conway put out a hand to bar her way.
“I’ll kill him,” I said, tightening my chokehold on the pro. “Don’t doubt it.”
Katie made to brush past Helen Conway’s arm, cradling her warped hand, but the Ice Queen was made of sterner stuff. So was her voice. The husky chuckle was gone, replaced with a monotone you could have knocked sparks off.
“I wouldn’t, honey,” she warned Katie. “He’s the one we want. Don’t pick the wrong side now.”
Katie hesitated, looked at me. I looked