Parting Shot

Tony Morrissey drummed his fingers impatiently on the glass counter as he waited for the store owner to appear with the monthly payment. People called it protection money, the law labelled it demanding money with menaces, but as far as Tony was concerned, the money the firm collected was like paying insurance. Bars, shops and bookmakers, paid so that bad things didn’t happen to them. The owner of the pawn brokers reappeared. He had an envelope in his hands and an anxious expression on his face. The guy slid the envelope over the counter. As Tony picked it up, the guy spoke.

‘I’m afraid it’s a little light.’

Tony simply shook his head.

‘It’s been a quiet month. We’ve not had many customers.’

Tony slowly adjusted the cuffs of his designer suit, his gaze never leaving the squirming store owner. Then Tony smiled, and shrugged.

‘Hey, times are hard, I get it.’

The guy sighed, in relief, nodding in agreement. Tony slammed a hard fist into the guy’s face. The guy crumpled behind the counter. Tony peered over, jabbing a finger at the sobbing man.

‘You pay double next month or I’ll burn this shop to the ground, with you in it, you hear me?’

Through his sobs the guy nodded. Tony turned and swaggered towards the front door, pausing only to help himself to a silver watch on display that caught his eye.

Tony had been working for notorious Manchester gangster, Dale O’Rourke for over five years. He had risen through the ranks of the firm, becoming a senior member. He was known to be reliable, hard-working and a good earner. He also had a reputation for being unafraid to knock a few heads together to get results.

Tony found Dale at this usual corner table in Mario’s café in Salford. The gang boss would hold court in the greasy spoon café, drinking endless cups of tea, and treating the place like it was his office. Dale did have offices, and many other premises across Manchester and Salford, but favoured the surroundings of the run-down café.

Dale shook Tony warmly by the hand. Tony slid into the seat facing him. A waitress appeared and placed a chipped mug of tea in front of him. Tony nodded, thanks love.

‘How’s it going, Tony?’ asked Dale, opening his hands wide, in a gesture that reminded Tony of a priest giving a sermon.

He gave Dale the details of how his small part of the operation was going, what business had been sorted, what still needed taking care of, and any scope for new opportunities to earn.

When he had been sufficiently brought up to speed, the gang boss nodded. The meeting was over. As Tony got to his feet, sliding back the plastic chair, Dale clicked a finger, a thought had just occurred to him.

‘I need you to pay a visit to a lad called Jake Roberts. He’s a weed-head, lives in the Northern Quarter. He’s been underselling marijuana to half of Manchester, by all accounts.’

Tony didn’t speak, waiting for his boss to finish with his orders.

‘Go and see this feller, explain that anything that goes down in this city, comes through me. I’m a reasonable man, tell him, if he wants to sell weed, then he buys the stuff from me.’

As the waitress returned with a fresh cup of tea and bacon barm for Dale, Tony headed for the street.

He crossed the road, to his Range Rover, parked on double yellow lines. A traffic warden was in the process of issuing a ticket.

‘It’s alright, mate. I’m going now. Keep up the good work, though, yeah?’

Tony unlocked his car, but the traffic warden shook his head.

‘I’ve already issued the ticket, sir.’

Tony spun to face the traffic warden. He stared at the skinny man in his ill-fitting black uniform. He spoke in a low, grumbling whisper.

‘Seriously, mate, you don’t want to be putting my car in your book. I’ll pay the fine but you will pay big time.’

‘It’s not a book, sir, it’s all done online.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Trevor.’

‘Well, Trevor, I suggest you unclick whatever button you’ve pressed.’

Trevor pointed to his handheld tablet and spoke.

‘There is actually a cancel option.’

‘There you go, Trev, mate. Have a good day, pal.’

Tony gave Trevor a wink and climbed in his gleaming black vehicle. As he pulled out into the traffic, he grumbled to himself, I have traffic wardens.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside the address in the Northern Quarter. This area of the city had once been rundown, a place you didn’t walk alone at night. These days it was the coolest part of the city, hipster’s paradise, full of stripped back, trendy bars, coffee shops and quirky restaurants. Tony wouldn’t have been surprised to find they served soup on a slate in these restaurants.

He knocked gently on the door of Jake Roberts’ flat. Moments later a guy with long hair and a wispy beard peered around the door.

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m here to see Jake.’

The guy looked Tony up and down, the suit, the dark overcoat, the Italian shoes. He clearly didn’t look like Jake’s usual punters.

‘You police?’

Tony laughed.

‘That’s my car over there, and this,’ he raised his arm. ‘is a Rolex. Think I could afford that on a copper’s wage? Tell Jake I’ve come to talk business.’

The door closed shut again. Tony hovered on the pavement. A group of people passed by, no doubt on their way to buy over-priced coffees and rustic food so they could boast on social media of how wonderful the cuisine was and how their friends simply must try it.

The guy with the hair reappeared and ushered Tony inside. Stepping across the threshold was like entering another world. Tony was a villain, a gangster, he prided himself on that. He also considered himself a shrewd and successful businessman. His success afforded him a certain lifestyle and so to be suddenly plunged into the squalor of this grubby flat turned his stomach. The place reeked of stale cigarette and marijuana smoke, sweat and rotting food. On the hallway table instead of maybe car keys or any recent post, was empty beer cans and plastic cider bottles. The floor was littered with rubbish that nobody had bothered to pick up. Tony stepped over an empty pizza box and followed the guy down the hall. This lot shouldn’t be worried about a visit from the drug squad, it would be pest control that would be kicking the door in.

Tony was shown through to the kitchen. Like the rest of the flat, the room looked like the before version on a television make-over show. A lad was leaning on the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to boil. The guy with the hair pointed.

‘Jake, this is the feller.’

The guy with the hair headed back down the hall. Tony heard the front door slam shut behind him. The guy had no doubt gone to sell weed to waiting punters. Jake ran a hand through his shoulder length hair.

‘Namaste, brother.’

He pointed to the stack of dirty mugs in the sink.

‘Want a brew?’

Tony shook his head.

As Jake poured waiter into a stained mug he spoke.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I work for Dale O’Rourke.’

Tony paused, letting the words sink in. Jake reeled as though he’d been struck.

‘Now, I know that you know who that is. And let’s just say, Mister O’Rourke thinks we may have a little conflict of interests between our business and your activities.’

Jake stopped stirring his tea, tossing the teaspoon across the worktop. He shook his head in disbelief and outrage.

‘Who does Dale think he is, sending his lackey in here, issuing threats?’

‘Easy, son.’ growled Tony.

‘I sell ganja to some of the university lot, that’s all. It’s none of his business.’

‘It is exactly his business. You’re stepping on toes here, and you really need to tread very carefully.’

‘He can’t tell me what to do.’

‘I think he can. But, Mister O’Rourke is offering to sell you the product at a reduced rate. You can sell this to your student friends.’

‘How very generous of him.’ Jake spat.

‘He’s making you an offer. You could use a friend like him, and you really don’t want him as an enemy.’

‘Tell him he can shove his offer.’

Tony winced, theatrically, sucking the air into his cheeks, at the audacity of Jake’s response.

‘I will pass your message on, but there will be repercussions.’

Jake reached behind him, sending cutlery clattering across the kitchen top. He held a large knife, wielding the blade out in front of him, eyes wide.

Tony stepped back, moving with the practised grace of a prize fighter. He kicked an empty drinks can out of his path.

‘What have you been smoking, Jake? This cannot go unpunished.’

Jake charged at Tony, slashing at the air in front of him. Tony raised an arm to protect himself, the blade slicing into his forearm. Jake continued his assault, maniacally wielding the knife. Tony ducked, weaved and side-stepped. He reached for the pistol tucked into his waist-band.

As Jake swished at him, Tony took quick aim and pulled the trigger, three times. One two three. Jake looked stunned as the bullets tore into his chest. He let go of the knife and tumbled to the floor. Tony stood over him, Jakes blood slipping onto the dirty lino. Jake stared up at Tony, shock and anger on his face, blinking hard. His breathing was a deathly rattle. This wouldn’t be long. Both men knew Jake was dying.

Tony tucked his pistol away, still watching the fallen drug-dealer. Jake raised a trembling hand, pointing a finger at his killer. Struggling to breathe, he managed to speak.

‘You… will be… next.’

Before Tony could respond or argue with the threat, the life left Jake’s body.

Tony walked beside Dale, through the Salford streets. As they passed the betting shops and charity stores, people would bid the gang boss good afternoon. Dale would nod and smile in response. He reminded Tony of a New York mafia boss walking the streets of Little Italy.

‘What happened?’ Dale asked.

‘Things got heated. The guy just lost it.’ Tony paused. ‘I took care of it.’

Dale nodded, thinking about the next moves like a chess player. Taking care of business in their world meant only one thing. It meant taking someone out.

‘I’ll sort this out. You just carry on with the business.’ Dale said eventually.

Tony was to carry on earning and Dale would sort the mess out. Tony had no idea who would clean this up, or how it would be done. Would Jake’s body stay in-situ, to be discovered and reported to the police? Would he simply vanish, with only a handful of Manchester villains knowing how the drug-dealer had ended up? Dale didn’t volunteer the details and Tony knew better than to ask.

As they neared the café, Tony voiced the concern that was niggling at the back of his mind.

‘When he was dying, Jake said I’d be next.’

‘Was it bravado, an idle threat?’

‘I don’t know. There was something about the way he said it.’

Tony wanted to add that the threat had rather unsettled him, but in their world you kept your mouth shut and your feelings to yourself.

‘Keep your eyes peeled. You get word of any payback or reprisals from these hippies, you let me know.’ Dale said.

The boss headed back to his table in the café.

For the rest of the day, as Tony went about his business, he kept a look out. He watched for anything suspicious, checked he wasn’t being followed when he drove down Liverpool Road. He circled the block before pulling up at his destination, watching the pavements and the cars behind him. Being a powerful figure in the Manchester underworld, Tony usually swaggered down the streets like he owned them. Today, he moved quickly, glancing over his shoulder, making sure no would-be assailant was creeping up behind him.

That evening Tony was heading to a city centre casino for a meeting with a guy he considered a business associate. The police would deem him a fellow criminal, but to Tony he was a sound lad who had an interesting investment proposition. As he crossed the busy pavement, a man passing by bumped into him, slamming hard into his shoulder. Tony spun on his heels.

‘You should watch where you are going.’ snarled Tony.

Tony was taken aback to discover the guy had long hair hanging over his eyes and a spliff dangling from his smiling lips. The look of the guy and the pungent tang of marijuana brought back images of Jake’s death. His last words went through his head. You will be next.

Tony marched quickly away, heading for his meeting. When he glanced back over his shoulder the guy had vanished.

All through his meeting, Tony wondered quite what was happening. Was gang-war looming? Had a contract been put out on his head?

On his way back to the car, Tony’s hand hovered near his pistol, his eyes scanned the street at the people passing him. He felt like a soldier on manoeuvres in hostile territory.

The following afternoon, Tony was on his way to a pub on Deansgate. When he arrived at the pub, he noticed a man across the street. The guy had long hair and wore a green army coat. He stared intently at Tony. Tony gripped the butt of his pistol and made to cross the busy street. He stepped out between a delivery van and a black taxi cab. A double decker bus trundled by, obscuring Tony’s view of the far side of the pavement. As soon as the bus had rolled by, Tony darted for the pavement. He stared around in confusion. The guy was gone. Tony shook his head, still looking around for him. There had been a guy watching him. There had been, hadn’t there? Was his mind playing tricks on him? Were these dope heads stalking him, waiting for the moment to strike? Or was he seeing things?

On the way home after meeting his contact, Tony wondered if Dale had underestimated these weed-heads. Maybe they were more organised than they had thought. Maybe despite their scruffy, dishevelled appearance, they were a shrewd business outfit with a crew to rival their own.

Two days later, when Ton returned home, he tossed his car keys on the fireplace as usual. He recoiled in shock when he saw the freshly rolled joint on the mantelpiece. Tony couldn’t take his eyes from the spliff. His heart pounding, he leaned on the fireplace for support. They had got into his house. They were playing mind-games. Clearly the last words of Jake Roberts had been a threat, and the placing of the joint in plain view was their way of sending a message. They were saying, we can get to you.

Tony went through the house, pistol on hand, ready. He moved from room to room, finger on the trigger. He crept quietly, swinging his gun out in front, ready to take out whoever had the audacity to break into his house. If he found someone then he would let them have it. No questions. No explanations. No what are you doing in my home? It would be game over.

The place was empty. The intruder was no longer on the premises. He breathed hard, still reeling from how things seemed to be slipping out of his control.

Satisfied that his house was empty, he sat down at the kitchen table. He would have to tell Dale about this. If Dale gave the go-ahead, then they could go after the weed-sellers and nip this in the bud once and for all. Yes, they should send a clear message to this lot, and anyone else in the city who had a mind to challenge them. They were in charge.

At that moment, he saw a figure move past the window. He darted across the kitchen and charged through the patio doors. The figure, a man in a long dark overcoat, was rushing towards the bottom of his garden.

Tony rushed after him, calling out for him to stop. The figure kept going. Tony levelled his pistol and fired three quick shots. The shots rang out, jarring in the quiet afternoon.

The bullets tore into the man’s back. Tony felt a strange sensation in his shoulder. He felt like he’d been kicked by a horse. The intruder stopped still, his back to Tony.

Tony reached to feel his injured shoulder. The guy turned to face him. Tony stared in disbelief. This could not be happening. This was just impossible. The pace face of the man in front of him, was his own. The face was pale, losing blood from the gunshot wounds to his face. Shots that Tony had fired, and so it seemed, wounds that he had also received. Tony glanced down at his hand, his fingers were covered in the blood seeping from his wounds. When he looked up, he was alone.

He felt weak, light-headed. He dropped to his knees, on the hard paving tiles. How could this be? How had he shot himself? Had there been an intruder at all? Had any of this actually been happening?

The only thing he knew for sure was that, somehow, in some way, he had shot himself with his own pistol. He was dying.

As he slumped to the floor he finally understood Jake Roberts’ last words. It had not been a threat, but a curse.

By Chris Platt