The Charlie Cobb Series

Chapter 2

2

It’s bouncing down with rain. Sky painted black. I’m parked outside Dimitri’s,. a Greek restaurant Rudenko bought to rinse the cash he was making from a crystal meth network. He doesn’t say that, of course. Keeps his cards close to his chest. But if he liked Greek food so much, he wouldn’t order the doner pizza and chips every time.

Anyway, it’s a rundown place on the outskirts of the city. One of a terrace row of takeaway joints. I wait to be summoned, Neil Diamond cranked up on the stereo to play over the rain. “Love on the Rocks”. I sing at the top of my lungs. It gets to the good part, the big chorus. I let it rip. I’ve got big lungs. A baritone voice. I could have been a crooner, but the gangs on my estate got to me first.

Just as the song’s reaching its peak, a fist pounds on my window. I stop singing and dive for the stereo controls, spinning the volume to zero. I wind down the window. Fat, cold raindrops bounce in off the door sill.

Frogger leans in and fixes me with those big, wide-apart eyes that earned him his nickname. “What you singing to?”

“Metallica,” I say.

I’m not ashamed of my Neil Diamond fan club membership. But it doesn’t do me any favours mentioning it. If this arsehole ever finds out, I’ll never hear the end of it.

Besides, I can't have the underworld thinking I'm soft.

“The boss is ready for you,” Frogger says, stepping away from the door. He pulls his red hoodie over his head.

I open the door and get out.

“You still driving this piece of wank?” he asks, snorting and spitting phlegm on the pavement.

I look down a few cars and see his blue Nissan Skyline with the big spoiler and gold wheel trims. “You still driving the pig magnet?”

“Like I give a toss,” he says. “They know who I am . . . Come on.”

I follow Frogger inside. It’s warm and takeaway-bright. Smells of lamb and chip oil. It’s a dinky place with a few tables and chairs on either side as you approach the counter. The lino’s a dirty blue and white check in need of replacing. The menu board over the counter shows illuminated pictures of sick-looking meat.

Dimitri keeps the restaurant empty when Rudenko’s around. Hardly matters if the place makes money or not. The big cheese himself sits on the middle booth on the right-hand side. Sure as a bear shits, he’s halfway through his doner pizza and chips. A fourteen incher. The fat bastard must be nervous about something.

After ten years of working for a guy, you get to know his habits. And he pigs out more than usual when he’s nervous.

Me and Frogger stand dripping on the lino. I see Rudenko’s personal bodyguard sitting to the left. A cueball in grey sweats taking up the entire table. A burger demolished down to crumbs in front of him on a wax wrap. He stares at me every time I come to see his boss. As if he’s trying to put the fear into me.

Nobhead.

Rudenko sprinkles the pizza with salt. Doesn’t bother looking up. “Sit down.”

Frogger takes the chair on the inside of Rudenko. I sit across from the boss. The chairs look play school compared to the four of us sitting on them.

Freddie, Rudenko's bodyguard, is the biggest. Six-nine tall and a long walk around. I’m next in line. Six-five and solid. Frogger’s six-three. Six-four if he didn’t hunch. He’s lanky and wiry like a coat hanger.

Rudenko’s big too, but only in a circle. He’s five-nine, tops. And that’s in those Cuban heels. Makes him stand taller next to his blonde giraffe of a wife.

“The usual, Frogger?” Dimitri shouts from behind the counter.

“Just the meat,” Frogger says, in a nasal Mancunian accent. No trace of his Lithuanian family in his voice. Only the shaved, sandy hair and angular features.

“You want anything?” Rudenko asks me between gobfuls of chips. He chews with his mouth open. Breathes through his nose. A suntanned face that greases itself.

“I’m good,” I say, checking my watch. “Out for a meal in a bit.”

“Your daughter?” Rudenko asks.

“How’d you guess?”

“Cause you’re a Billy No Mates, that’s why,” Frogger says, snorting.

Rudenko looks sideways at Frogger. Frogger shuts up. His tray of doner meat slides into the picture. He shovels the meat in like he's gone feral.

“Let’s talk business,” Rudenko says. “We’ve got a big problem. The trial.”

“I thought that was a dead end,” I say. “Prosecution didn’t have a witness.”

“Not until last night,” Rudenko says.

“Kid saw us do it,” Frogger says. He turns his jaw to the ceiling and lowers a strip of meat into his big, cartoon mouth.

“They saw you do it,” Rudenko says, slurping on a foam cup of black coffee. “I was just standing there. But they want the big fish, you know? Not the little worm.”

”If you’d hired me in the first place," I say, "none of this would be happening.”

Rudenko shrugs. “Cashflow.”

“Anyway,” Frogger says. “How’d we know some kid’d be hanging around the tunnels on the estate?"

One thing I forgot to mention about Rudenko. He’s been on trial for a couple of months, out on bail. Something to do with a bookmaker, shot in the head and left in an unused sewer tunnel that runs under a large block of flats.

I know it well. I grew up around there.

Used to stash my money and drugs in that tunnel when it was still working. I’d stick a peg on my nose and plastic bags on my trainers. Go in and hide the gear where no one ever looked.

But that’s when I was a dealer. I’m a changed man now. What they call a fixer.

And yeah, I might lose a client if he goes down. But there’ll always be people who need straightening out.

People the likes of Frogger and Freddie can’t handle.

“So I suppose you want me to do something about this kid,” I say.

“You suppose right,” Rudenko says. “I’ve got a man on the inside. They’re keeping him in a hotel for two days before he takes the stand. If the kid testifies . . .” Rudenko straightens up in his chair. Punches the centre of his chest. “f*****g heartburn.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, as Rudenko returns to his pizza. “Just give me the details, and I’ll sort it.”

Rudenko wipes his mouth with a serviette. Nods. “'I'll have the hotel and the room number tomorrow. Somewhere in the city centre. Frogger will come with you.”

Oh, no, no, no.

Ever had to work with someone you’d happily see fed alive and into an industrial mincer? Now imagine that fucker is a walking disaster who turns everything into a hurricane of s**t and you’re the one left holding the mop. Yeah, that’s Frogger.

“I’m a one-man show Mr Rudenko. You know that.”

Rudenko shakes his head. “No. You take Frogger. He’s your contact with our man inside. And anyway, it’s a two-man job."

“Sorry, Mr Rudenko. But you know my terms.”

I hear a screech of chair legs across lino. Freddie casts a shadow as he gets to his feet.

I turn to my left. “Don't make me get out of my chair, cueball."

Freddie stomps over regardless. It's like that scene in Jurassic Park. When the T-Rex is coming and the water in the cup is bouncing.

I get to my feet. My chair in one hand behind my back. Before the big man can lay a knuckle on me, I swing it around and up in both hands. Hard and fast.

The rim of the metal seat cracks the underside of Freddie's nose. He staggers back and collapses against his table. It flips up sideways and spills a large coke down his front. He clutches his nose in both hands. Blood all over the place.

I return the chair to the floor and sit on it. Frogger smirks and carries on eating. Rudenko doesn't bat an eyelid.

“I’ll do it if I can bring in my own man,” I say, before pointing at Frogger. “But I’m not working with that.”

“I’m not jizzing my pants about it either,” Frogger says, shaking up a bottle of mayo.

“Do it or don’t do it,” Rudenko says. “It’s still getting done.”

“Well good luck then,” I say, standing.

I start to walk away.

“Double your usual fee,” I hear Rudenko say.

“Triple,” I reply, pausing on my way out. “And I plan the op.”

Freedom’s a seller’s market. Rudenko soon caves in. “Fine.”

“And cash up front, this time,” I say. “p*****t for this one and you owe me for Kavuk.”

“Frogger will have the money. You’ll get a call tomorrow. Just don’t f**k it up.”

I turn, a hand on the door. “When do I ever?”

Rudenko chews it over. He grunts. “I suppose that’s why I let you rob me blind. You’re worse than my wife. Now get the f**k out of my restaurant.”

I step out into the rain, reeking of chip oil.

A job with Frogger. That’s all I need. Still, one kid. A guy on the inside. How hard can it be?