Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [8]
Eric McCracken was alive yesterday lunchtime. And Smith had known he was going to die. Which could only mean that Smith had killed him.
Fuck, no. There had to be some other explanation. But Tommy couldn't think of one.
On cue, the phone rang.
"Well?" Smith said.
His voice no longer sounded whiny. Maybe Tommy was getting used to it. "Why did you have to do that?" Tommy asked.
"Demonstration."
"Of what?"
"What I'm capable of."
Tommy didn't want to think too hard about that. "What exactly do you want?"
"I told you that already. You're going to have to start paying attention."
"For Christ's sake, tell me what the fuck you want."
"You need to control your temper. It could get you into trouble." Silence. Then: "Let's start with fifty grand."
"I don't have that kind of money."
"Don't bother with your shite, pal."
"It's true." Damn, it was such a lie.
"Jordan's at his brother's, right?" Smith said. "Hope he's safe there. Wouldn't want Fraser dosing him up with cocaine."
How did Smith know about that? The muscles round Tommy's mouth tensed, started to quiver. But, sod it, Fraser's coke problem was hardly the best kept secret in the world.
"Nice lads," Smith said. "Fraser takes after you. And Jordan's got your mother's eyes."
Tommy shouted down the phone: "You go anywhere near my family and I swear to God—"
"What did I tell you about that temper?"
Tommy gulped air, saying nothing, a buzzing in his temples.
"Better," Smith said. "Speaking of your mother, very nice arse on her. For her age."
"You sick fuck." Tommy felt a familiar burning sensation in his stomach. He squeezed the receiver. His mother was seventy-one, for Christ's sake.
"You're in control here," Smith said. "Your choice. Fifty grand."
Tommy forced himself to breathe slowly. "If I refuse?"
Smith made a strangled sound which Tommy guessed was a laugh and then said, "Just think about your children, Tommy."
Afterwards Tommy had considered going to the police, but Smith had proved with McCracken that he wasn't messing about. Before long, he decided to tell Phil about it. Nothing else for it. Anybody else in the family would have freaked and you couldn't blame them. But Phil just said, "No problem. We'll sort this Smith tit out in no time."
Which is why Phil was lurking back at the bus station, hoping he'd get an ID on Smith—no reason for him to be wearing his ski mask again. If they could ID him, steps could be taken to ensure he didn't cause any more trouble.
***
IT WAS WARM inside the taxi and it smelled of cheap air freshener and something sweet that might have been cannabis.
Tommy had been told to leave the money in a locker at the bus station, flag down a taxi and deliver the key to a pub.
And that's exactly what he was doing.
The driver eyeballed him in the rearview. Big bastard, dark shadows under his eyes. "Youupherevisiting?"
He had a strange accent. Transatlantic Scots. And he spoke ridiculously fast.
Then, when Tommy realised what he'd been asked, he couldn't be bothered explaining that he wasn't 'up' from anywhere, and neither was he visiting. Let the driver assume what he wanted.
"I'm from Philadelphia originally," the driver said. Waited for a reply, but didn't get one and carried on anyway: "Name's Duane Shweerski. Came over here couple years ago. Made some porn movies. The work dried up." Pause. "Drive cabs now."
You don't say.
Tommy smiled, nodded.
Shweerski didn't need any encouragement, though. Rattled on at length, glancing in the mirror every now and again, tapping a fingernail against his chin as he talked. Only stopped when he had to change gear.
He came to the end of his monologue, paused for a second or two to catch his breath, and said, "Going out at the weekend?"
"What's it to you?"