Last Rites

Thirty-seven

Valentine was high. Why wouldn’t he be? The Dutchman had shown up as arranged half an hour before and was, right then and there, at the back of the room talking weights and training regimes with Leo. And the two cases he and his brother had brought with them, slightly battered and leather-bound, were right there under the table, close against Valentine’s feet. Two kilos of cocaine, all handily separated out into clear bags with a resale price of five hundred each; which would be broken down farther by Valentine’s crew; fifty-pound bags that the small-time scufflers like Jason Johnson would peddle on street corners, in pubs and clubs, on high-rise walkways and through the iron railings of schools.

Twenty thousand Valentine had paid over, throwing in another five as a sweetener, keep the Dutchman coming to him and not Planer. Twenty-five in all and nothing compared with the sixty the contents of those cases were worth to Valentine out on the street. Thirty-five thousand profit and all he’d done so far was cut open one of the bags and lift a taste of the powder to his tongue, rub a little across his gums.

Sure he was high. Wouldn’t you be?

He was calling back toward the kitchen in search of chicken and dumplings, when the knock came at the door. The Dutchman’s hand moved inside his jacket, fingers touching the grip of his Glock 9mm, the 17L, the kind that doesn’t set off metal detectors at airports.

Leo shook his head and grinned. “Stay cool. It’ll be the kid.”

“Which kid?”

There were two others sitting with the Dutchman’s brother, and one of them got up and checked through the blinds before unlocking the door.

Dressed up for the occasion in his best leather jacket, new Pepe jeans, Raymond gingerly walked in. Valentine had hoped the Dutchman would have been long gone by this time, but what did it matter? This youth already close to pissing himself, acne pits all over his sorry face.

“You Ray-o?”

Raymond nodded.

“Come on in. Get over here. Someone get our visitor something to drink.”

One of the men threw Raymond a can of Red Stripe, which he fumbled and caught; another relocked the front door.

“Sit.” Valentine said, pointing at the vacant chair opposite.

Raymond sat.

“You want something to eat?”

Raymond shook his head.

“Curried goat, all kinds.” Valentine laughed. “Dog, if you lucky. You should give it a try.”

Raymond thought he was being sent up, but wasn’t sure. A woman, small and with her hair in a net, came out from the kitchen with a plate of food and set it down in front of Valentine. It smelled good. Valentine took the top from a bottle of red pepper sauce and sprinkled it liberally over his supper. Raymond was beginning to wish he hadn’t said no.

He popped the can and drank some beer instead. One of the men passed a large spliff to Valentine, who drew on it deeply, holding the smoke in his mouth, before passing the joint across to Raymond. It was strong enough to make him cough and Valentine laughed again, but pleasantly. This was okay, Raymond thought, this was going to be all right.

“So, little brother,” Valentine said, “you got something to trade.”

“Yes.”

“With you. You got it with you?”

“Yeh.”

“Some kind of weapon, I understand.”

“A Beretta. Chrome-handled. A.38.”

Valentine raised an eyebrow high. “Nice.” He held out a hand. “Best let me see.”

Raymond hesitated, Valentine watching him closely to see what he would do.

“I want eight hundred for it, cash,” Raymond said.

Laughter and whistles all round.

“Boy,” Valentine said, leaning forward. “I say one thing for you, you may be one ugly little fucker, but you got some balls.”

Raymond could hear the breath, squeezing out of his lungs. “Eight hundred,” he said again.

“Six fifty, that’s your price. Seven tops. You tell me why I should pay over the odds.”

The words came tumbling out in a rush, not the way Raymond had practiced it at all. “It’s the gun from the Forest, the one you used on Jason. It’s worth eight hundred to you, make sure it don’t fall into the wrong hands. Got to be. Gotta.”

Valentine sat back and shook his head. “Ray-o, boy, your balls ain’t just brass, they big as a house.” And glancing over his shoulder toward Leo, he said, “Count me out eight hundred, why don’t you?” Leo winked at Raymond as he set the notes, fifties, on the table between them, Raymond thinking he’d tell Sheena the price had been two fifty.

“Now,” Valentine said, “time for you to show me yours.”

Raymond’s mouth was too dry for him to speak. Slowly, he reached round to the back of his jacket and pulled out the Beretta.

“Set it down.”

Raymond placed it next to the money.

“That loaded?” Valentine asked.

Raymond shook his head.

“Leo.” Without looking back, Valentine reached a hand over his shoulder and Leo slapped a full clip into it; before Raymond knew what was happening, Valentine had pushed the clip into the pistol and snicked the safety off with his thumb.

“Oh, Jesus,” Raymond said and felt his insides start to melt.

The tip of the gun barrel was only inches from his face. “Thing about Jason Johnson,” Valentine said. “I never did get quite close enough to that skinny bastard. Which must have been why I missed.”

Raymond closed his eyes and started to jabber meaningless sounds. When the barrel end touched, cold, against his forehead, immediately above the bridge of his nose, he shouted “No!” and in the middle of his shout he heard, or thought he heard, a double click.

Nothing happened.

Raymond forced himself to open his eyes.

Valentine was sitting there with the Beretta in one hand and the clip of ammunition in the other, a fat smile all over his happy face.

“Jesus,” Raymond breathed. “Jesus, oh Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“There,” said Valentine, barely able to contain his laughter. “Didn’t your daddy tell you it was good to pray?” And he reversed the pistol so the butt was toward Raymond. “Your turn. Maybe now you should take a shot at me.” He tossed the clip high through the air toward Leo. “Long as we all know it ain’t loaded.”

By now, everyone was laughing and even Raymond, who had long since learned it was important to be able to take a joke, especially if you were on the wrong end of it, laughed along with the rest.

They were still laughing when the door to the restaurant came crashing in and two men followed through fast, both dressed in black from head to toe, black balaclavas covering their faces, narrow slits for the eyes. One was armed with a shotgun, the other with an Uzi submachine-gun.

“What the fuck …!”

Raymond half-rose, three-quarter turned, the Beretta still in his hand.

A burst from the Uzi hurled him back and across the table in a clumsy cartwheel. Five bullets threaded through him, neck to pelvis; he was probably dead before he hit the floor.

“What the …”

The man nearest to Valentine smacked the barrels of the shotgun hard across his head and Valentine cannoned off the wall and sank down to his knees, spitting blood.

At the back of the room, the Dutchman moved his hand carefully away from the handle of his semi-automatic and stood to attention.

“Okay,” one of the men said, his voice strong but muffled. “The money. Who’s holding?”

First the Dutchman and then Leo emptied their pockets: close to thirty thousand between them. With the eight hundred Raymond had scattered across the floor and what the others were carrying, there was close to thirty-two all told.

“That’s it,” Leo said. “That’s all there is.”

“Is it fuck!” one of the men said and the other one lifted the suitcases, one at a time, up from the floor. They took one each and backed toward the door.

“Stick your head out too soon, you’ll get it shot off.”

Nobody moved, not till they’d heard the roar of a powerful engine, the squeal of tires. And all the while, Raymond’s blood spread slowly across the stained and pitted floor.