Death & Back

Chapter 2

2

Going straight is tougher than it looks, especially during lunch and dinner service. I've been waiting tables at Gastronomy for a week. And I still haven't figured out how to work the card machine.

But I can't complain. In fact, I'm pretty damn lucky.

I only got the job because I was walking down the street when the previous waiter stormed out. He quit on the spot right in front of me. Threw his apron down on the pavement.

I picked it up and stepped inside. Asked the owner, Chef Dubois, if he needed a hand. I lied about my experience and he was desperate.

So I got the job.

Well, a week's trial at least. And I've been working my arse off ever since, taking every shift the little Parisian bastard will throw at me.

Up until this gig, finding work was impossible.

My C.V. is basically a sheet of paper with a name on it. I've got no qualifications. No education. You can't exactly put enforcer work down in your employment history. And what am I supposed to put under skills? Breaking legs? Hanging people off buildings? Negotiating wholesale drug deals? No, you can't put any of that down.

And I doubt doing metalwork in Strangeways prison counts as a job.

So when Dubois bollocks me yet again in the kitchen, I take it on the chin.

"Pointer," he says, "table two are still waiting on their wine."

Shit, I forgot.

"Yes, chef," I say, sliding a pair of empty plates onto a counter. "On it, Chef."

"You're still on trial Pointer," he reminds me as I fly back out of the swing doors.

Yeah, the guy's got me by the balls.

I grab table two's bottle of wine off the bar top and weave through the packed restaurant.

My name's Pointer, for now. Trev Pointer. Or Trevor James Pointer, according to my new passport. Not that Dubois has a clue who I am, but it's best to be careful. Keep my head down. Don't give the police or Rudenko's mob a sniff of my whereabouts.

I sort table two out with the wine and hurry over to another table where a young kid is playing with his ice cream. He's got a haystack of blonde hair and a look in his eye that says trouble. While mum and dad deal with a wailing tot, he scoops some ice cream on the end of a spoon and flicks it at me. Next thing I know, I've got caramel vanilla running down my nose. I smile and wipe it off. He flicks some more. It splats on my cheek. Again, I wipe it off. I'd like to teach the bleeder some manners. But I laugh and ruffle his hair. As I lean over the table and gather the dirty dishes, he tips the melted remains of the ice cream into my apron pocket.

"Oh Ollie, don't do that," his mum says half-hearted.

"It's alright," I say. "Boys will be boys."

I walk away with a stack of dishes, ice cream dribbling down the front of my pants.

Dubois is on me in a flash. "Pointer, you're dripping all over my floor."

The guy is worse than the cops, with his big black quiff and beady little eyes watching your every move. At five-six, he's almost a foot shorter than me. I could knock him into the ground with one thump of my fist, but you can't do that in the real world. The rules are different. The bullies are the little men with a string if letters after their name.

Besides, I’m not that man any more. It’s my new mantra.

"Sorry, chef," I say, biting my tongue. "I'll get a mop."

I tell you one thing, ice creaming a man's pants would not stand in the underworld.

The rush continues for the rest of the evening. Being on my feet all day is a shock to the system. In my old profession, there was a lot of sitting around. In cars, bars, mafia fronts—either waiting for the phone to ring or something to happen. And just when it's quietening down in the restaurant, a hen party bundle their way in late. A dozen forty-something women in pink t-shirts and tutus. One of them wearing a tiara. Another carrying a giant inflatable d**k. They play merry hell with me. Slapping me on the arse, talking dirty.

I play along with a smile. Lift the bride-to-be down when she gets up and dances on the table. Laugh at their mucky jokes and try and keep 'em quiet with food and wine. They tip me well and leave. I lock the restaurant door behind them. Wipe the tables down with Piotr, a spotty young kid with shaved blonde hair and glasses. We stack the chairs upside down on the tables. I head into the kitchen to grab a broom from the store cupboard.

The kitchen is empty of cooks. Only Dubois still here. He's stood by the back fire exit door with two burly blokes in dark suits. One in navy, the other in black. Both with white, open-neck shirts underneath. They're short on hair, but big on gold jewellery. Ugly too, like ex-boxers.

Dubois hands over a brown envelope full of cash.

The man in a navy suit rifles through the notes with a finger. "You're two hundred short," he says, in a deep cockney voice.

"It's the usual amount," Dubois says.

"The premium's gone up," the bloke in black says. "Twenty percent."

"Come on," Dubois says. "This is all I've got—"

"Relax, Franky baby," the guy says, tapping a hand against Dubois' cheek. "We'll get it off you next month."

I open a utility cupboard and pull out the broom. I can't help staring.

The guy in navy glances over. "What are you looking at, Tinker Bell?"

Dubois turns. Waves me away.

I close the cupboard and walk out of the kitchen. The two men eyeball me all the way out of the door.