For Everything a Reason (9 page)

Chapter
Seventeen

The few colours that had been present in the alleyway
earlier leeched away with the arrival of dusk. A thick, impenetrable greyness
now filled the alley, as if the dark clouds above had become too heavy to
remain aloft, falling suddenly to earth to fill every corner with gloom.

Presley Perkins followed the
tight channel of buildings and arrived once again at Moses Prey’s hideout. He
rapped against the steel door. Like earlier, the small opening slid open and a
set of eyes appeared framed by the darkness on the other side.

“I’m here to see Moses again,”
Perkins said.

The eyes blinked a couple of
times, as if their owner was trying to figure out something of a complicated
nature. “Wait there.”

Presley huffed like a child,
reluctant to play the same waiting game twice in one day. The eyes returned
almost as quickly as they’d left and the deadbolt from the other side slid open
with a muffled squeal.

The door opened to reveal
Timothy’s bulk. “Moses is busy with another client.”

“But I brought more money –
look,” Presley whined. He dug deep, withdrawing two handfuls of cash.

Earlier, after his escapades in
Central Park, Presley had visited a small backstreet pawnbroker. Having
already emptied the bag of its contents, including a purse with fifty dollars
tucked neatly inside, he presented it to the broker as an unwanted Christmas
gift.

The broker’s eyebrows had
lifted. “You’re a bit late for swapping presents.”

“I’m a busy man,” Perkins had
replied.

“Looks like a lady’s bag to
me?” the broker said.

“Who the hell are you, the
fashion police?” Perkins scolded.

The broker had examined the
handbag, muttering under his breath as he did so, and had eventually offered
thirty bucks for it. Knowing that the bag was worth at least ten times that
amount, Perkins had snatched the measly sum out of the thief’s hands and
stormed out of the store.

Now, Timothy stepped back to
allow Presley entrance. “I guess he could fit you in.”

“Thanks,” Presley said, with
mock sincerity.

He made the same trip as he’d
done that afternoon, the bleak emptiness of the building even more depressing
now that it was illuminated by the unforgiving harshness of fluorescent lights.
The discarded balls of crushed foil glittered against the darkness of the
floor, radiantly, as if each ball had actually trapped the soul of its user inside.

They climbed the single flight
of steps together, and then Timothy led Presley to Moses’ room of business. The
door was already open, and voices could be heard coming from within: Prey’s
high-pitched squeal and two others, deep and threatening.

They entered to see Moses Prey
handing over a shotgun to a young black thug. Hands that looked as if they
could break skulls in two took the weapon gently, like a father holding his
newborn child for the first time.

The black kid’s companion
turned to see both Timothy and Perkins enter. “Hey – who’s the white hobo
motherfucker?”

The shotgun holder turned also,
his face flipping from wonder to worry instantly. “What’s this?” he demanded,
spinning the weapon in his hands.

“Now gentlemen,” Moses said.
“This is just another client – like you two, here to invest in his future.” He
flashed them his most enigmatic smile - a mouthful of rot and decay.

“Fool smells like my ass,” the
companion said.

The other laughed. “Yeah Bro,
you been takin’ a bath in horseshit or what?”

The young thugs broke into
laughter, revealing gold-capped teeth and silver fillings.

Perkins just stood there,
unwilling to engage them, simply eager to pay for his merchandise and then get
out.

The shotgun holder
misunderstood his silence as fear. “No worry, Bro, we ain’t gonna bite, we not
too fond of horseshit anyhow.”

They cracked up again, Timothy
joining in this time. Only Moses stayed quiet, his eyes shifting quickly from
one face to the next. With enough weapons to fight World War III laid out before
him, he watched nervously, ready to intervene if the situation got out of hand.
Then, Moses did something that was completely out of character and without
sense. Understanding that events would run smoother if dealing with just the
one client, he reached out to grasp the Derringer’s two casings, which stood
upright on the table.

“Here,” he said, tossing them
over to Perkins. “You can sort payment out with Timothy.”

Presley caught them in his
hand. Again, he was surprised by the size of the casings, heavy too.  

And this was how Moses had made
his mistake: by permitting a client to take hold of the ammunition, whilst in
possession of the weapon, allowing both to come together, instead of Timothy
handling the rounds until all were safely outside.

“Gentlemen,” Moses said,
gathering the attention of the gang-members to him. He spread his arms like a
preacher ready to deliver his sermon. “Let’s get back to business, shall we?”
They turned back to Moses, the dishevelled fat guy behind them instantly forgotten.
Moses continued to rant, explaining how all good pilgrims should come and visit
this Mecca, this Holy Land.

Presley withdrew the Derringer
and clicked open the loader. He slipped both rounds inside and then clicked the
weapon shut. The brief noise that resulted pulled at the group’s attention.

Moses stopped ranting, his
oversight now apparent to him. Timothy stared at the small weapon, his
similarly small brain unable to register just what amount of damage the weapon
could do. And the two black kids burst into rancorous roars of laughter at the
pitiful pistol in Presley’s oversized hand.

“Dude is packin’ real heat
there, Bro,” one mocked.

The other, who now had a
handful of green bills, nodded animatedly. “Hope that’s all his fat white ass
is packin’.”

“Maybe he’s over-compensating
in size, ‘cos his dick’s too small,” the other retorted.

This set them both off again.

And that was it. Something
inside of Presley Perkins snapped. Having once flirted with some of the most
powerful figures of the criminal underworld, rubbing shoulders with made men,
feared men, real hard men, and sharing in the fear and respect that their
actions had instilled into others, Presley just stared back at them, no longer
willing to suffer the indignity of their ridicule, and sick now of the cowardly
existence he’d been forced to endure.

“Hey, Bro, we just jokin’ with
ya,” one snickered.

“Yeah, we don’t mean to pound
against your fat white ass,” the other said.

They broke into laughter again,
fuelling Presley’s rage with fire. The words came out of Presley’s mouth before
his brain had time to catch up. “Why don’t you shut your big black lips?” he
said, his whole body trembling with rage.

The laughter ceased
immediately.

The thugs froze, too shocked to
speak at first. In the next second their mouths burst open and a blue streak of
expletives poured out. Their insults came so fast and so many that Presley
could only catch the occasional single word or short phrase as they beat
against his ears.

“Fat ass!”

“Motherfucker!”

“Honky bitch!”

“Hairy Moby Dick
look-alike-whore!”

Finally, the young blood with
all the cash stepped forward and threw a crumpled bill towards Presley’s face.
“Go take a bath, bitch,” he ordered. 

The crushed dollar caught
Presley unexpectedly in his right eye. Already sore from the pepper spray, the
contact unleashed a searing jag of fresh pain. Instinctively, he reached up to
rub at the sudden pain found there, using the same hand that held the pistol.

The kid holding the shotgun
misunderstood the abrupt raising of the Derringer as a threat. He panicked and
brought his own weapon up, aiming it directly at Presley’s midriff.

Moses Prey had just enough time
to cry, “Wait!” before the room turned instantly sour with a mixture of
gun-smoke and guts.

The kid with the shotgun pulled
his weapon tight. His face flipped between rage, fear, and then back to rage
again as he pulled the trigger. A hollow clank followed as the trigger fell
against an empty chamber.

Too late.

Presley caught the act of
aggression through tear-filled eyes. He jabbed his arm out, levelling the
Derringer straight, and fired. In such a small space the noise sounded like the
burst of thunder. The .357 calibre bullet caught the kid across the forehead,
tearing flesh and bone as it went. Scraping across the hard surface of the
youth’s skull, the bullet changed direction, ever so slightly, and hit Moses
Prey flush in the face. The dealer’s face imploded, folding inwards instantly,
before reforming into a macabre portrait of bright reds and brain matter, as it
spattered against the wall behind.

The black kid went down
heavily, his skull split into two. His pal bolted towards the door.

Timothy’s handgun was already
out and, as the kid rushed by, he shot him at point blank range. Three holes
the size of fists burst from the kid’s chest. Then, in a heap, the kid
skittered across the floor. He finished half-in and half-out of the doorway. A
brief shower of green bills fell all about them.

For a second, both Presley and
Timothy stared at each other. Presley’s gun wavered. Timothy took a quick look
towards the body of his boss, and then whined hysterically.

“You fucker! You killed Moses!”

“Wait!” Perkins offered.

“You gonna have to pay for
that,” Timothy cried.

Presley saw the gun draw
towards him. He ducked instinctively and dived for the exit. A chunk of masonry
the size of his head exploded above him. In the next instant, he was back in
the corridor and running for his life.

He tore through the passageway,
expecting a bullet to rip though his back at any moment. He reached the stairs
landing before the first shot came. A barrage of bullets peppered the wall to
his right. He dropped to all fours and skidded to a halt, as another hail tore
the wooden banister at his side into a thousand pieces. Presley chanced a look
behind him. Timothy was at the other end of the passageway, coming fast now,
having traded his handgun for a fully-automatic assault rifle.

Presley scrambled forward, and
then took the stairs on his front, sliding down quickly like a kid would do on
his belly. Wooden splinters ripped through his jacket as he careened downwards.
He almost lost the Derringer halfway down, as it slipped from his hands, but,
having already succumbed to the laws of gravity, it bounced and clattered to
the foot of the stairs. Presley snatched it up quickly once he’d arrived there.
He jumped to his feet and then took the ground floor passageway at full speed.

With half the distance covered,
he heard the rat-tat-tat of bullets from behind, and then felt them explode
into the floor directly at his heels. Changing direction, he threw himself into
one of the empty rooms.

“Where you hiding?” Timothy
yelled from the hallway.  

Presley heard the boots stop,
followed by loud gunfire, somewhere behind him. Frantically, he searched the room
he now found himself trapped in. Just a few pieces of rotten furniture filled
the room: an old sofa, with its guts hanging out of its underbelly, lay to one
side, and a round table with multiple scars scratched into its top was propped
along the wall closest to him.

He tried to visualise how far
the main door was from his current location. At least ten yards, he realised
with sickening certainty. Would he have chance to distract his hunter and then
make a break for freedom? Not a chance! The heavy-duty bolt that held the door
tight would take precious seconds to slide free, giving Timothy all the time he
needed.

The words, “You’re gonna pay!”
echoed around him.

He pushed himself against the
wall. The wall, now little more than a barrier of mush, almost gave way under
the additional strain of his weight. Holes dotted it at irregular intervals
like ulcerous sores, black and raw, and the plaster around them was flaking
away like sheets of dead skin. He glanced back at the table and sofa, and then
towards the wall again.

An idea formed – the only one
available to him.

He reached over to grab the
table, dragging it over to him. Another clatter of bullets sounded. Now, as the
room beyond was torn apart and, under the cover of fire, Presley hammered
furiously against the wall. With little effort he punched through into the next
room, ripping open a large tear. Wasting no time at all, he opened out the hole
large enough to fit through. Then, pulling the table, he slotted it into the
gap. Now, hopefully, his escape route would go unnoticed at a glance. If not?
He could kiss his aforementioned fat ass goodbye.

Heavy footsteps thundered
towards him. They moved with more caution, now that Timothy sensed he was
closer to his prey. Presley laid himself as flat as he could, hugging the floor
with his hands over his head. Another hail of bullets cut the room up adjacent
to him, some punching holes through the wall at his side in an explosion of wet
plaster and wooden splinters. The assault lasted just a few seconds, but the
damage was devastating. Half the wall lay in ruins, allowing Presley to see
clearly into the next room. Timothy stood there with white plaster dust and
grime covering his face, and the assault rifle at his side expelled a weary
breath of gun smoke.

For one terrible second,
Presley thought their eyes met through the remains of the wall, but, in the
next moment, Timothy turned on his heels to re-enter the hallway.

Presley got to his knees,
pushing the table out of the way as he did so. He crawled through the hole and
then scrambled deeper into the next room. Belying his size, he skipped
soundlessly to the doorway and cautiously stuck his head out.