Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [31]
"Don't have any money, Eff."
"But you will. Lots of it. You can pay him then."
"You know," he said. "You've got a real head for business."
The Spaniard whimpered. Made gagging noises. His voicebox vibrated beneath Park's fingers.
Carlos didn't look as if he was going to be a threat. Too busy choking.
Park let go and Carlos doubled over, coughing like a sick dog.
Park waited patiently, although he was tempted to knee him in the chin to help straighten him up again.
Eventually Carlos unbent of his own accord. His eyes were bloodshot.
Park said, "Two grand."
"You can't offer el dinero," the Spaniard wheezed. "I am not who you think I am. This Expurgator, he is not someone I know. Dinero or no dinero."
"Three."
Carlos paused. "Why you think I have a gun?"
"I spoke to my son." A lie. "Richie said you'd let me borrow it."
"Four." His voice sounded just fine.
"Three five."
"Si." The little man put his hand behind his back, reappeared with a gun. "I could have shot you when you were strangling me."
"But you didn't." Park wrapped his fingers round the gun, eased it out of the Spaniard's grip. "You need balls to shoot someone."
Carlos smiled. His lips trembled under the strain of holding it. "Money?"
Park aimed the gun at the Spaniard's forehead. Kept his arm steady. "And now I can shoot you."
"But you won't." Carlos was sweating.
"You saying I don't have balls?"
Carlos said, "Three thousand five hundred. Cash. Now."
"Like fuck."
"Is my gun. We had a deal."
"Your gun, eh?" Park lowered it. "Where's your receipt?"
"I have no receipt. I don't buy no Glock in a supermarket."
"I think I'll keep it, then."
"But is mine. You don't understand. Is a Glock. Is very difficult to find a Glock in this city."
"Yeah?" Park walked away. Stopped. Said, "Tell you what, I'll give it back to you when I'm done."
"If you don't," Carlos reached into his pocket and took out his cigarettes, "I will send someone to fetch it."
Savage Night
8:30 PM
Vehicles
PHIL PAUSED AT the traffic lights. Polished off his beer, tossed the bottle. Clink. A big pile rattled around on the passenger seat, dripping onto the upholstery. He didn't give a shit, though. Grabbed the last one and cracked it open.
The car lurched forward. Shit. He wrenched the handbrake on. Fine. No problem. He shouldn't be driving, so he was told. Well, fuck 'em, he'd drive if he wanted. His head wasn't throbbing, not at the moment.
He'd taken a real whack that night, though. Hell of a lump.
"As big as an ostrich egg," the doctor had said. Young guy, neat beard, liked to grin.
Phil had tried to sit up, but the doc eased him back down.
"Not yet," the doc said. "Just going to take an x-ray." He showed his teeth.
"Of the egg?"
The doc didn't reply.
Phil couldn't understand why the doc had lied. Ostrich eggs were massive and the lump on his head was never that big. Didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it.
Anyway, the swelling had gone down now.
Phil slugged some more beer. His skull still felt tender but at least it was back to its normal shape. No longer felt like somebody else's.
"No lasting damage," the doc had said.
Well, maybe, but Phil was finding it hard to think straight. Mind you, he always did, if you asked Tommy. His brother thought Phil was stupid. Told him so, as often as possible. Oh, not straight out: "You're thick as mince." Not since they were kids, anyway. He was more subtle these days. Little digs. But enough of them and they scoop out a hole big enough for a body to fall into.
Phil felt himself topple forwards, heard the blast of a car horn, jerked himself upright.
Tommy was the brains, you see. Phil was the muscle. Phil did what he was told. Which was fine. If that's what people thought, there wasn't much Phil could do about it. Everybody had their own opinions. Didn't really matter. An opinion wasn't right or wrong, by its very nature. Just an opinion, eh?
Phil's opinion was that Tommy was nothing. Not without Phil. Which was why Phil was behind the wheel when he shouldn't be. For Tommy's sake.