Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

48

Enough was bleeding enough.

Dwyer had to admit it to himself. The solo play was over. Dwyer had been inside. He’d brought Banco some Gatorade, a sandwich, fresh bandages. He’d left some simple saline intravenous fluid and tubing. He’d explained he couldn’t get the more therapeutic stuff without a license, and that he was working on it. He’d left him something else too, a last surprise. It was just under the lip of the kitchenette counter. The mobile phone’s internal clock was timed for fifteen minutes. Dwyer planned on being across town, under the shower nozzle in his shite hole by the time everything was finished. He was just leaving, taking his time, sitting in his car for a bit, making sure he’d thought everything through, when the big pro showed up.

Bugger me, Dwyer thought, another few moments and they would’ve been face-to-face. He watched the big pro go to the door, try something with the buzzer, wait a bit, and then set about letting himself in.

“He’s bumping it,” Dwyer said aloud. It was clear enough to him, even from down the street, what the big pro was doing. He’d seen better, but the bloke wasn’t half bad at it. The man was dogged. He was a hunter.

Dwyer’s anticipation grew as the big pro disappeared inside. Two for the price of one, Dwyer thought. His eye went from building to dashboard clock and back as he waited. And then he heard the muffled crump. There was the sound of breaking glass. Smoke appeared from the far side of the building. Then he couldn’t believe his eyes at what he saw next: the big pro giving a fireman’s carry to Banco’s limp body. Dwyer opened the car door and set a foot on the pavement, ready to run straight at him and put two in his dome before he knew what had happened, but then a series of residents made their way, coughing and frightened, out the front door of the building. It was show enough for Dwyer. He put the car into Drive and took off before the police and emergency services arrived to set up a perimeter.

Now, pacing around his room, Dwyer took out his mobile. Going it alone was one thing, but he’d have to be a frigging idiot to go any further so. He dialed a number from memory and waited while it rang, and then he heard the familiar voice come through.

“ ’Ey?” It was his boy, Rickie Powell, a hard Sandhurst chappie and regular hooligan who’d earned his nickname “Ruthless” many times over.

“Oi, Rickie. Dwyer. Where are ya?”

“Waddy, ya fuckin’ Cambrian! On Ibiza.”

“Work?”

“Nah, ’oliday.”

“Bewt. Which side?”

“Which side? You think I’m in Ibiza Town with all them rich quiffs? I’m in fucking Sant Antoni, getting smeared on cider and porking fat German chicks.”

“Sorry to interrupt your vital mission, but I’m on a damage-limitation job and could use you to rally up.”

“Fucking ’ell. Can do.”

“Tidy.”

“You’re doing me a big favor. These Bavarian twats can drink their weight in beer, I’m goin’ broke …”

It went on like that for another five minutes before Dwyer snapped to and asked, “Can you come in on a blank, then?”

“Not without flying back to Leeds first. Me blanks are in the safety deposit box at the bloody bank-just have my legitimate passport with me,” Rickie told him.

“Come on straightaway, then, no matter,” Dwyer said. “Go and get yourself packed, we’ve got work to do …”