Dead at First Sight

54 Tuesday 9 October

Tooth strode out of the blustery wind into the Stag pub and a smell of stale beer and old carpet. He was fifteen minutes early. He was always early.

Early gave you advantages. Time to look around, check out the faces and the body language, locate the exits.

The pub wasn’t busy. A handful of men were seated at the bar. A group of three men sat around a table, and one banquette was occupied by a couple, a glum-faced man and a hard-bitten brunette. All of them studied him, some overtly, some surreptitiously. It felt like he’d entered some private members’ club for lowlifes, where no one was welcome, and which only a total loser would ever want to join.

There were plenty of big watches, gold medallions and vulgar rings on display, and just about everyone in here looked like they might be up for a fight with little provocation.

He spotted Eddie Keys in seconds. A tattooed mass of advanced muscle and less advanced brain. Dressed in a leather flying jacket, holding a straight glass of beer in his hand, the pair of slim, dark glasses perched on his head made him look about as stupid as stupid gets. He was talking to a guy beside him who was the wrong side of seventy, with a fake tan and orange hair.

Tooth strode over to the bar, his military posture as ever adding a few inches to his short stature, and eased himself onto a stool next to his date. There was no acknowledgement. He waited a couple of minutes, then ordered a double Jim Beam on the rocks from the barman, an old guy with a seen-it-all face. Without a sideways glance Tooth said, ‘Thought you were meant to be buying me a drink?’

‘I gotta take a piss,’ his date said. ‘Know what I’m saying?’

‘I gotta take one, also.’

‘Wait two minutes.’

Tooth obliged, paid for his drink and drank half of it. Then he walked across and into the stinky Gents toilet. He sidled up to the next urinal to Eddie Keys. Moments later, Keys dug his hand inside his jacket and handed Tooth a carrier bag. A very heavy carrier bag.

Tooth stuffed it into his belt and closed his jacket over it. ‘What do I owe you?’

‘Nothing. Sorted. Now fuck off.’