The Girl Who Tweeted Wolf (19 page)

Like, he really cared about me, you know? I still believe that. Even now, he gives me a smile when he walks past the table.

So, we had our garden party, some kinda drug cocktail cooking in the kitchen. Brief crisis when one of the games machines broke, bad too, but we did it. The first of Mr Hairy’s guys turned up at midnight, and it turns out they’d asked for me specifically to work the bar. Felt good to know they liked me.

They came through, leading these dogs on leashes. I’ve never been a dog person, so I might not be the best guy to ask, but
fuck me
. Huge beasts, evil, salivating, most of them muzzled and going for their owners every step of the way. That’s what was happening out back, of course — dog fighting. The animals slashed into each other, and any that died in the battles got cooked up and served on cheap steak night.

I hear that last part doesn’t happen so much anymore — hygiene inspections, y’know?

My job was nothing to do with the dog fights out back — I barely even saw them, thankfully. Don’t enjoy dogs, not a fan of extreme violence either. As far as I was concerned, simple bar gig. Served drinks, made conversation with the patrons — happily not many of them were scary bald clones — and kept the queue moving along.

Unsettling when someone comes into the bar with dog’s blood smeared up to the knee, but that’s part of the job. I think that’s why I did well in that assignment, to be honest. Just looked at everything and thought:
Oh, it’s that again.

Not that bothered about what the fuck’s going on, as long as I don’t have to look at it. I can work the job, a tacit support staff co-conspirator, help your animal-maiming event run with a swing.

Looking back, maybe that was the problem with those days, you know? Willing to let anything go as long as we kept having a nice life. And the world fell apart because the government took the same approach with the bankers as I did with the scary Polish gangfucks. Whoops, shite, twiddly-dee, you know what I’m saying?

Maybe you don’t, you’re young.

Anyway, point is: I did a good job. They brought me in for the next few events and paid the shit out of me. I think sometimes they didn’t read me right, though. They thought I liked the bad fuckery, thought I was one of them, when I was just bored and greedy. But that’s probably just me trying to blame someone else for what happened next.”

*****

“So, in case you’ve not being paying attention to my thrilling fucking adventures, I became refreshments bitch to the criminal classes, while my girlfriend lay at home sick. Would any of this have happened if she hadn’t been ill? I don’t rightly know. Steph cared more about consequences, but she wasn’t some kitten-hugging charity giver either.

So she wouldn’t say
‘Danny, stop doing crime, it’s bad and wrong,’
but might’ve managed
‘Danny, stop doing crime, it’s dangerous.’
And as we’re close to finding out, that second one was a fair point.

Doesn’t matter, she didn’t have a chance because I did all the crime while she was asleep. But one day, Steph woke up. She was on some new medication or something, managing her energy better. After a couple of months basically comatose, she was in the world again.

Since I was spending most of my spare time in The Left Hand at this point, I took her down there. Truth be told, I was so used to drug-passing, prisoner beating scumbaggery, I didn’t realise how odd she’d find it.

Maybe I shouldn’t have pointed everything out quite as gleefully, I admit.

Credit to her, she was fantastic. Chatted to Micro for a bit, did the mutual mockery thing people do when they meet through someone’s boyfriend and pretend they’re ganging up on him. It’s annoying, but you can see why it happens.

So yeah, all great. Until we were left alone, and the inevitable happened.

I didn’t tell her I’d turned down legal office work more than once in the last few weeks, I imagine that would’ve been the last straw. So Steph asked whether I could find something less crimey. Even if it paid less, she said, she’d be able to return to work soon, so it wouldn’t matter.

So there we go. I could’ve made a decent excuse about making sure we had enough money, but she even ruined that for me. Selfish bitch.

You ever wish for something, then feel bad just for wanting it? And then the bad feeling never goes away, because the genie’s out of the bottle. He floats around your head, threatening to grant your wish by existing.

I found myself thinking: wouldn’t it be nice if she just stayed in her damn sickbed? I’d had such fun while she was asleep.

Didn’t say that out loud, obviously. We were out in the pub, wasn’t really the place. But I could feel it pressing at me, this lingering annoyance about her ruining my fun. Then she went for a piss and, again, didn’t have a good phone to check because it was the fucking stone age. So I sat, clenched the old fists a bit.

Typically, that was when Mr Joseph Hairy popped in for a chat. In case I wasn’t clear, Mr Hairy wasn’t
that
hairy, it was a close-cropped style. But he insisted on hanging around with all these bald guys, so looked like a gorilla in comparison.

So, says Joseph, since I’ve been so okay with all the work so far, was I interested in coming with him the next day for something a bit more hands on? Nothing violent, he stressed, and the money was… well, let’s just say not only does crime pay, it pays better than most temp jobs.

Well, fucked if I’m going to miss out on anything. Hell, if I’m about to be forced off this gig by Steph, might as well finish on a big one, you know?

Yes, I say. Abso-fucking-lutely. Sounds good.”

*****

“Now you’re probably expecting me to say we ended up going on a hit or dealing drugs or whatever, but no, nothing so exciting. I wasn’t suddenly some slick mafia wanker — remember, I didn’t even use hair gel — I was a barman, and Mr Hairy wasn’t an idiot. You don’t take the refreshments jockey on a hit-and-run mission, unless you’re a moron in a fucking terrible movie.

No, the gig was simple: a potential business associate was coming to town, offering him a cheap deal on something — you gotta assume drugs, but I wasn’t dipshit enough to ask — and he was going to meet her to do intros, have a chat, negotiate terms.

My role? I was hospitality — take her coat, offer her drinks, show her where the pisser is, that sort of thing. Turns out, at this level of middle class crime, people expected a bit of the old luxury reception package. I guess it makes sense — especially back then.

Nowadays, get the feeling it’s more scuzzy and clinical, those bells and whistles cost money. I was paid a
lot
for this, can’t imagine they have the same cash to throw around on superficial shit nowadays. Plus, y’know, a lot of it has moved online and there’s no wining and dining there. Just ones, zeros and pictures of fucking.

Apparently Mr Hairy didn’t have a decent hospitality chap in his entourage. Made sense considering they were all photocopies of the same grumpy bald bloke. So he asked Micro for my services, and the big man was up for it. Even gave me paid time off for the evening without docking my holiday.

I rolled up that evening to meet Joseph, told Steph I was going to work as usual. I’d have been fucked if she decided to pop in and say hello. Based on her reaction the previous night though, I reckoned I was safe.

And the venue for this luxurious champagne reception? Why, it was the back office in The Left Hand, of course. So if Steph popped by, I could’ve always dashed out to greet her, though not sure Mr Hairy would look kindly on me shirking my duties.

I was at the bar, cleaning the big wine glasses specially. I’d gone out and bought a couple of good bottles of red — Micro refused to let our standard stuff be served to an important guest. I was also resisting the temptation to serve the building queue of customers. Christ, the kid filling in for me was a useless prick. Too busy growing new spots to pull any pints.

But Joseph, smile still thin and scary, said I should be ready to leap into action at any moment. No slipping away to do anything else — he’d taken me off Micro’s payroll for the night so he could have my full attention. The meet-up was running half an hour late, but nonetheless, hardly my place to question the boss. So I cleaned the wine glasses for the fourth or fifth time.

It was coming up to nine o’clock, and I was torn between boredom and the smug feeling of being paid to do nothing. Was also a little chilly, because it was late and we were standing at the front of the pub, so got a blast of breeze every time the door opened. On Mr Hairy’s insistence, I was wearing a suit jacket, which I’d smuggled into my bag to hide from Steph.

She would definitely have asked why I was dressing up so fancy to work in London’s stickiest drinking hole. Every customer who entered the pub that night was thinking that. One or two even asked if the bar was closed for a private function. Joseph gave them a curt ‘
No!’
and demented glare until they got the message and fucked off.

Past nine and a couple of pissed kids were yelling
‘Oi, penguin!’
at me. Just as I started to crack, Joseph’s phone beep-beeped, and it was time.

‘You are pouring the wine now,’ he growled, pointing at the bar where the glasses sat, shining. I’d stopped washing them after the sixth or seventh round, for fear they might break. That’d piss Micro off.

Barely time to pick up the bottle and get two glasses poured, when the crappy doors to The Left Hand drifted open. So lightly, I thought it might be the wind, but it was her:
Vivia LaMorte
.

Now, Chloe, you might wonder whether that’s her real name. I had the same thought myself, before I realised it was fucking moronic to even consider it.

Vivia LaMorte doesn’t wear as much black as you’d expect. In fact, she ain’t even that gothy — black nails, yeah, but aside from that, just a red shirt, grey jacket and trousers. The shirt is untucked, you notice as soon as you meet her. She is still wispy and dead-looking, though, which might be where she got the name.

Not important, anyway. Vivia wafted into the bar and I remembered the orders Joseph drilled into me. First thing to say: ‘Can I take your jacket, Ms LaMorte?’

She shrugged it off and handed it to me, ignoring a couple of wolf-whistles from the arsehole armada up the bar.

‘Joseph,’ she gave him a scary smile, much like his own. ‘Lovely to see you.’

Mr Hairy himself had abandoned his tracksuit and put on a jacket and tie. He would’ve looked handsome if not for the humming of evil.

‘You also, Vivia. Would you like some wine?’

She nodded and I handed them both a glass, then Joseph indicated up the room. They walked stiffly past the bar, to the small door leading to the office. I followed, carrying her jacket and both wine bottles, taking great care not to spill the latter on the former.

There’s a strange kick out of trailing along behind important people and disappearing into a private room, isn’t there? I mean, God knows I was walking on air as I did it. For a few more minutes, at least.”

*****

“Once the chat started properly, it hit an odd note.

‘I am admitting, Vivia,’ Joseph says with a patronising smile, ‘I was never seeing you as getting into the drugs. Whores, maybe, but not drugs.’

I don’t pretend to be a mega-success with the ladies, but I’m not sure saying they’d make a lovely brothel madam will ever be a guaranteed vote-winner.

Vivia LaMorte didn’t punch him, although I saw something in her eyes which suggested she’d quite like to. If only I’d paid more attention, eh?

Then again, what else would I
really
have done? That’s the only way I’ve managed to live with everything: tell myself I would
never
have done anything other than what I did. And what did I do?

Exactly what I did in the rest of this story: nothing much. Stood idly by.

We were in Micro’s office. I’d been in here before and it was never half this fucking tidy. Clearly whatever bung Mr Hairy slung his way was enough to make the big man catch up on his filing.

The certificates of managerial excellence and gourmet face-stuffing Micro won over the years were hung all over. Pictures of his surprisingly normal-sized family, paintwork glowing with white — he may even have cleaned the fucking walls.

Joseph took Micro’s big-boss chair behind the desk, forced to perch on the end thanks to the epic arse-dent. Vivia sat on the guest seat opposite and lucky old Danny stood between them. They got straight down to business, without even bothering to send me outside. Did Joseph trust me with his operational secrets, or view me as such a worthless, terrified bumtick that he didn’t care?

It’s definitely the second one.

But, y’know, I wasn’t there to be treated like a big man. I served wine whenever the glasses ran dry, not often as neither of them wanted to get tipsy, and they talked.

Vivia, it turned out, was into the drugs, but not in a skaggy way. ‘Yes, Joseph, it’s nice to finally deal with you as an equal, I must say.’ Red flag number two. ‘I hope we can do business together and put all the past messiness behind us.’ And three.

Yeah, why didn’t I run?

Even Joseph looked uncertain. ‘Well, yes, that was all unpleasant. But let’s be talking about what we are doing for each other now, yes?’

‘Indeed.’ She reached into her handbag. ‘Let’s be doing that.’

Viciously, the cow went for me first. I know I’m the one standing up holding a wine bottle, but surely she can tell I’m a decorative figurine in this meeting, and the dangerous criminal is Mr Hairy?

Apparently not. Vivia was holding a baton, a telescopic bit of rock hard plastic that expanded to twice the length of a police truncheon with one flick. The second movement sent it straight into my balls, which I didn’t fucking enjoy, let me tell you.

I dropped the wine, terrified Micro would bollock me for wasting it, before she whacked me over the head. I wasn’t knocked unconscious, because this isn’t a TV show and Vivia isn’t
that
strong. Still, I was lying down cupping myself long enough for her to give a similar treatment to Joseph. Then she zip-tied both our hands behind our backs, thankfully this time she did the actual crimelord first.