Stolen Souls

30

HERKUS PICKED UP one thousand pounds in cash from the safe hidden beneath the kitchen sink in his apartment before making his way to the east of the city.

Anger still churned in his gut, but he knew how to control it. Anger at Arturas for not seeing sense and getting out. Anger at the whore for cutting Tomas’s throat. Anger at those idiot brothers for letting this all happen.

The Mawhinneys were low-ranking members of a Loyalist faction headed by Rodney Crozier. Crozier was still in a bad state after being knifed just over a year ago by a rival, yet he managed to keep a firm hold on his people. But Herkus doubted the attempt on his life had been sanctioned by him or any of those who ran his operation while he was laid up. Men like Crozier knew the difference between business and a personal vendetta. If they’d authorized it, they would have sent someone who knew what he was doing.

And Herkus would be dead.

That thought caused Herkus’s mouth to dry. Twenty, ten, or even five years ago, the idea of death had not bothered him. He was young, strong, quick, and brave. Perhaps even foolhardy. If life were to end, it would simply be another adventure, like stepping off the edge of the world.

But then he began to notice the deepening lines on his face, and how his muscular bulk was slowly softening and sagging. How sometimes it hurt his knees to climb stairs, and his lungs had to work harder the higher he climbed.

One night he dreamed of Agne, the wife he had left behind in Lithuania. He awoke with his throat raw and hoarse from screaming. They had married not long after he came out of the army and rented a flat in Vilnius. She talked about children all the time, never stopped, always babies, what she would name them, whether they would be male or female, until it stopped him from performing properly. Every time he mounted her, every time he felt his climax approach, he would see the distant look in her eyes as she thought of the child he would give her. And then he would withdraw, shrunken and defeated, and she would weep as if the child were stillborn.

The day before he boarded the plane for Brussels, they talked about their new life together, away from the grayness of their own country. He promised he would send her a ticket just as soon as he had earned the money. An old friend had told him the businessman Strazdas could offer them a new start in Belgium.

To celebrate, they filled a basket with wine, beer, and good things to eat, and drove out of the city to the forests that surrounded the Neris River. He’d dug the hole a week before, hidden in the dark channels between the trees. She died with a quiet acceptance, didn’t even cry out when he struck her that first time, and he supposed she’d always known it would end this way.

He had liked Belfast at first, but now it grated on him. The rain, the small-mindedness, the damned pompous self-importance of its people who thought their petty little war was more important than anyone else’s. He cursed the city’s inhabitants as he drove, watching them stream along the pavements, in and out of betting shops, pubs, and run-down electrical and clothing stores. None of the big chains that had colonized the city center had ventured out here among the flags, graffiti, and painted paving stones.

The Maxie’s Taxis premises stood sandwiched between Indian and Chinese takeaways on the Holywood Road. Officially, the business was owned by Brian Maxwell. In reality, his brother Gordie ran the place from an upstairs office. He also orchestrated other ventures from the tiny workspace, though none of them generated any paperwork.

Gordie Maxwell did not stand when Herkus entered. He remained on the other side of his chipboard desk, feet up, chair tipped back. His belly stretched his shirt, making it gape between the buttons. Herkus saw the wisps of graying hair, smelled the bitter tang of body odor.

“There was no call to do Sam Mawhinney,” Maxwell said. “All right, him and his brother were stupid cunts, wee boys playing the big boys’ game, but Sam didn’t deserve that.”

Herkus sat down. “He let a whore kill my boss’s brother.” “Your boss’s brother was a big-mouthed ignorant fucker,” Maxwell said. “He put one of my drivers in the hospital for no good reason. There’s not many’ll be sorry to see the back of him.”

“If Arturas hears you say these things, he will be very angry.” “That’s his tough shit,” Maxwell said. “And now I hear Mark Mawhinney had a wee accident this morning.”

Herkus did not respond.

Maxwell shook his head. “A few people were asking around, looking to know where you were. Friends of the Mawhinneys. I would’ve told them you were coming here, only I hate those bags of shite even more than I hate you and your fucking boss.”

“You are a kind man,” Herkus said. Sarcasm was the closest he ever came to humor. “Do you have what I wanted?”

Maxwell picked at his teeth, studied whatever he’d retrieved. “Aye,” he said. He opened a drawer, pulled a large padded envelope from it, and dropped it on the desktop.

Herkus reached for it and poured the contents out onto a newspaper. A dozen nine-millimeter rounds rolled across the inky paper. The plastic bag full of white powder fell between them.

“Not often I’d let anyone pick stuff up from here,” Maxwell said. “That’s what the taxis is for. And I got it quick, too. You understand why I had to charge so much.”

“Yes,” Herkus said. With a gloved hand, he took the roll of notes from his pocket and tossed them across the desk. Maxwell caught them and started counting.

Herkus took the Glock 17 from his waistband.

Maxwell stopped counting.

“Is that a cop’s gun?” he asked.

“Yes,” Herkus said.

“If I’d known it was for a peeler’s gun, I wouldn’t have got you them bullets. Where’d you get it?”

Herkus popped the pistol’s magazine and replaced the two rounds he’d used that morning.

“All right, none of my business,” Maxwell said.

Herkus scooped up loose ammunition and dropped it into his pockets, along with the bag of cocaine. He left the pistol on the desktop, muzzle staring at Maxwell.

“I’m looking for a man,” Herkus said.

“Oh, aye?”

“He uses whores.”

“I know a lot of men uses whores,” Maxwell said. He pronounced it hooers.

Herkus produced the envelope with the sketch and passed it across. “This man,” he said.

Maxwell held it at arm’s length. He moistened his lips with his tongue. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” Herkus said. “But I pay money for him.”

Maxwell shot him a look, licked his lips again.

“Chases whores, you say?”

“Yes,” Herkus said.

“You think he has something to do with this girl that did your man Tomas in?”

“Yes.”

Maxwell stood and went to a small photocopier. “Do you mind?”

Herkus shrugged.

Maxwell slipped the envelope onto the copier’s glass and made a duplicate. “I’ll pass some copies round my drivers, see if the picture rings any bells. All right?”

Herkus nodded.

“And you be careful with that gun,” Maxwell said. “You get caught with them bullets or that coke, you didn’t get them from me, right?”

“Right,” Herkus said.

He stood and went to the door, opened it, was almost through when Maxwell called after him.

“If I turn this fella up for you, how much money are we talking?”

Herkus stopped and looked back into the office. “Good money,” he said. “Buy you a shirt that fits.”