The Charlie Cobb Series

Chapter 4

4

I put my left shoulder through the door. It flies off its hinges. I run along the dark, narrow hallway, into my small, untidy kitchen. I fling open the cupboard under the sink. I reach up blind for the pre-loaded sawn-off. I tear it out of its gaffer tape fixing and bolt back out into the hallway.

“That won’t be necessary, Charlie.”

A man’s voice. Well-spoken. Coming from the living room. I pause with my finger on the trigger and look to my immediate left. Mr Murphy sits facing me in my favourite recliner chair, right leg crossed over the left. A black, fifties-style hat perched on his knee. Silver hair. Tailored navy suit. An expensive overcoat and a fortune in Rolex around his wrist.

Should have known it was him. Only two people call me Charlie. And one of them’s Connaugh Murphy.

Everyone else calls me Breaker. It’s a historical thing. You can probably guess why.

I pause with the sawn-off. I notice Murphy’s PA, Laura, perched in a grey trouser suit and cream raincoat on the end of my worn brown sofa.

The two goons from the walkway amble in. Hands by their sides, empty of weapons.

I tut at them. “Why didn’t you two clowns say something?”

“They don’t speak much English,” Laura says in a light Dubliner accent.

No doubt she picked the lock. She acts like she floats above it––what, with her pinned-up black hair and wouldn’t-melt face––but Laura here comes from the gutter, just like me.

Oh, and she doesn’t date ‘the help’. I already got the door in the face on that one.

I lower the sawn-off. “Cheap labour. Not like you, Mr Murphy. Where’s Col and Trev?”

“Dumb shits are in the nick. Thought they could do a bit on the side. And you know what it’s like now. Not many takers for protection work. They all want to be personal trainers. Tans. Haircuts. All that bollocks.”

Murphy might have upper class delusions, but he still swears like a bastard.

As the goons brush past me into the living room, I look at the damage to the latch. I shake my head. “Busting in my own door. That’s a first.”

“I’ll have a man come fix it,” Murphy says. “Laura, sort it out will you?”

Laura takes out her mobile and retreats to the window. Speaks quiet into the handset.

“Come in and take a seat,” Murphy says.

Take a seat in my own living room? How kind of you, you Irish prick.

I drop onto the sofa and rest the sawn-off on my lap. Murphy sits to the right, the goons stand inside the doorway of the room.

I check my watch.

“Somewhere to be?” Murphy asks.

“Daughter’s birthday tea.”

“How old is Cassie now?”

“Nineteen."

“University?”

“Criminal Psychology.”

Murphy rocks forward with laughter. “She ought to be an expert already, growing up around you.”

He settles back into the chair.

“So who needs hurting?” I ask.

“No one,” Murphy says. “I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

“I don’t like salaried work, you know that.”

“I was thinking more of a partnership.”

“As in?”

“Exclusivity rights,” Laura says, coming off the phone and standing arms-folded in the window.

“What’s that mean?”

“You work on behalf of my organisation,” Murphy says. “Just mine. No one else.”

These bosses. They always use this corporate lingo. The shirts. The suits. As if they can buy class off a peg.

I need all of a second to think about it. “Sorry, Mr Murphy, but you know me. I’m like Switzerland. Rudenko runs his empire. You run yours. And I keep the peace in the middle. I don’t think anyone wants another war.”

Murphy leans forward in my chair. “Haven’t you heard? They found a witness. That fat Russian f**k’s going down. Any day now.”

I act dumb. As if it’s news. Seems even more important the kid doesn’t squawk, now I think about it. The last thing I want is to be Murphy’s newest fist puppet. I’ve done more than my fair fill of that.

Murphy throws out his arms. “Come on, Charlie. Look at this place. I could put you up in a plush apartment. Views over the city. Or somewhere leafy, if that’s more your taste. Cassie's tuition fees can’t be cheap, either.”

I blow the air out of my cheeks. “Twenty-odd grand a year . . . She works part time, but . . . you know."

“Look," Murphy says. "When Rudenko goes down, there’s going to be a void. And I intend to step into it. So one way or another, you’re going to be working for me. You can either dine at the table or feed off the scraps.”

Laura saunters across the room and checks her hair in the mirror over the electric fire. “Not much call for a peacekeeper when there’s only one side,” she says.

“Think about it,” Murphy says, rising to his feet and fixing his hat just so. He walks towards the living room doorway, entourage in tow. He stops. Turns. “You’re not as young as you think, Charlie. You don’t want to be one of those sad old granddads, still thugging around.”

I put the sawn-off away as they leave. I retrieve the balloon and watch them from the balcony. Murphy and his crew take off in that spotless Mercedes. Right on cue, a locksmith van parks up below.

Murphy’s a proper operator. He doesn’t do things on the cheap like Rudenko.

Yeah, the man makes a damn good argument, with or without Rudenko in the picture. The problem is, I’m a stubborn bastard. And I promised the Russian. Maybe after tomorrow, I’ll reconsider. Can’t live in this shithole forever.

Tomorrow me and Frogger get to that kid. We’ll see if Murphy still wants me after that.