Dangerous Dealings

'I'll be there at eight in my uniform,' Elizabeth assured him. 'And whatever you do, don't forget to bring a toothbrush.'

'Ah,' Sean said as he unlocked the room and went in, 'dinner is served. What delights do I have to look forward to today? No, don't tell me. Let me guess. Fish, chips and curry sauce. I'm right, aren't I?'

'The curry sauce had run out,' said Pat. 'You'll have to make do with tomato or brown.'

Sean sighed as he opened the newspaper wrapping. It was Friday's T&A and he didn't notice the headline:

TWO DEAD, TWO CRITICAL

'I got you a cake as well,' Pat said. 'Don't say I'm not looking after you.' Then, as Sean applied generous amounts of salt and vinegar: 'I don't know if our problem's solved or not.'

Sean was slapping the bottom of the ketchup bottle, trying to get more onto his chips. 'What are you on about?'

'Your mate's done one from Airedale. Apparently the police went to interview him but he'd already disappeared.'

'How do you know?'

'A confidential source told me.' Pat tapped the side of his nose.

'A confidential source!' Sean snorted. 'Does this source wear a uniform and benders, by any chance?' Then, not waiting for a reply that wasn't going to come, 'If he hasn't been interviewed I'm home free. So get these frigging chains off me.'

'What if he's on his way here?'

'What?'

'What if Huyton's taking the law into his own hands? He looks like the sort who would.'

'Naw,' went Sean. 'He wouldn't dare. Would he?'

*****

Huyton reckoned it was a bit early in the day for the local dealers. Or maybe they'd retired after his previous visit. Casting around he could see plenty of Asians, but none of the type he wanted to see. The streets were full of law-abiding citizens. Young mothers with kids; lads playing twenty-a-side cricket with an old tennis ball; girls playing some sort of hopscotch . . .

Then he saw a brand-new BMW and grinned. Walking up Highfield Lane he'd seen a lot of cars parked outside houses, precious few of them new. That BMW was probably worth all of them put together. He seriously doubted its owner worked in a corner shop.

The fancy motor was parked a hundred yards father up the hill, on the same side of the road as some football and rugby pitches. Huyton approached it as casually as a man of his build could, humming innocently. The driver had his window down and was sipping from a can of Coca Cola as he read his newspaper.

'Hello, hello, hello,' said Huyton, 'so you're the man with the coke, are you?'

The driver looked at him calmly. He didn't seem at all perturbed. 'You shouldn't have come back,' he said.

Huyton frowned. He couldn't remember this guy from the other day. And why wasn't he scared? Surely the bandages added to his threatening appearance. Surely they didn't make him look like a wimp.

'Get out of the car, Abdul,' he growled.

'I am Nasir, not Abdul.'

'Fair enough, Nasir, get out of the car.'

The guy shook his head. For a moment if seemed he was going to decline. Then he reached for the handle and opened the door. 'Really,' he said, 'you shouldn't have come back. Everyone in the area's looking out for you. The wrong sort of people are offering a reward.'

'Fuck "the wrong sort of people", kidda, get your arse out of the car.'

Nasir was tall but thin, and smartly turned out. Huyton felt underdressed in comparison. 'I'm badly in need of money,' he began, 'and a shooter. And you are going to get me both.'

Calm as ever, Nasir smiled. 'The shooter's right behind you.'

Huyton tried to spin on his heel but he was too slow. He dimly realized he'd been snuck up on but, before he could do anything about it, something exploded against his right ear and he knew no more.

Chapter Seven

(26th August 1988)

Danny Painter didn't send Sean and Pat an invitation; it was more of a summons. Pat, who had never previously met the man, was concerned to be included. Danny Boy had quite a reputation in town. Given any say in the matter, Pat wouldn't have wanted a guy like that to know he even existed, never mind be eager to see him.

Sean was also uneasy about the situation, and he had met Danny on a couple of occasions. As he pointed out to Pat, however, whatever it was they'd done couldn't be terminal. 'If it was serious he wouldn't have sent us a polite message, would he? We'd have woken up with horses heads in our beds.'

'Can't we just ignore it?'

'And emigrate somewhere he can't find us? Like maybe Rio? Sorry Pat, but guys like Danny don't bother about extradition treaties. If he wants to see us, we have to see him. That's just how it is.'

Not in the slightest reassured, Pat accompanied his mate to The Painters Arms. Ten thirty on a Friday morning and there were drinkers at the bar: five of them and they didn't look like regular customers; they looked more like a seasoned hit team. The barkeeper was clearly expecting the two new arrivals. While the five drinkers glared daggers, he begrudgingly said he'd show them to "Danny's Office".

The office was large and well-appointed. Not that Pat wasted time studying the décor. Deciding to only speak if spoken to, he studied the man behind the massive desk.

Yep, he was scary all right.

'Morning gents,' the man said. Then, gesturing with the largest cigar Pat had ever seen, 'Please take a pew.'

There were two chairs in front of the desk and the barman had already made his exit. Glad Danny was seeing them on his own, Pat followed Sean's lead and sat.

'Good to see you again, Sean. How's your lovely mother?'

'She's neurotic; same as always.'

'That must be something to do with having you for a son.' Then, turning to Pat, 'And you must be Padraig's lad. It's good to meet you.'

'I am.' Pat was surprised his dad knew someone like this. And all the family talk was unsettling. Was it Painter's way of making veiled threats? 'It's good to meet you, too,' he mumbling, hoping he sounded sincere.

Introductions over, not bothering with the handshakes, Danny got down to brass tacks. 'I need to talk to you about business,' he began, addressing them as one. 'Business generally and Class A drugs in particular.'

'I don't do Class A,' said Sean. 'The most I ever have is the odd reefer. Isn't that right, Pat?'

Pat shivered inside and stared at his feet. Sean wasn't so much a liar as a prevaricator. He could normally be relied on to blag his way through the most awkward of questions. That pathetic effort was way short of his usual performance.

'I don't mean using,' Danny said patiently, 'I mean dealing. And I don't give a stuff about the odd reefer; I'm talking coke and heroin.'

'Honest to God, Danny,' said Sean, leaning earnestly forward in his chair, 'I'm sticking to what we agreed last time we spoke.'

Pat shut his eyes at that. He hadn't known an agreement was in place. And, whatever it was, he was sure Sean had broken it.

'I've been watching you, you know?' Danny pointed his cigar in Sean's direction. 'And there isn't anything that happens in Bingley without me knowing. Care to review your assertions?'

Pat looked at his mate, gauging his reaction. So far their host had been civil and calm. That was more frightening than shouting and swearing. It was to him, anyway. Sean seemed to be finding it unnerving too. He got more earnest than ever.

'Honest to God, Danny,' he said, 'I don't do Class A. And I've never done a drug deal in my life.'

'Spare me the semantics. These last few months the streets have been full of new dealers. And they ain't working for me.'

'They're not working for me, either.'

Danny sighed as a produced a stack of black-and-white photos. 'What have you got to say about it, Mr McGuire? You're the muscle end of the operation, aren't you?'

'I don't know any dealers,' Pat said truthfully. 'Although I agree, just lately there seems to be a lot of them about.'

'Recognize this guy?' Danny slid one of his snapshots across the desk. It was Huyton. He was easily recognizable, even with half his head blown off.

'It's Huyton,' Pat said quickly, before Sean could lie and get them into even deeper shit.

'Is that what he's really called? The police can't conclusively ID him.'

Pat was still frowning at the photo. It looked professional. Turning it over, he saw it was stamped on the back by the West Yorkshire Coroners' Office.

Fucking hell, he thought, what is this?

'Anything to add, Sean?' Danny filled his lungs with cigar smoke. 'You'll be doing your civic duty if you tell me. I'll pass it on without naming you. Or the fact you tried to stab him to death the other night.'

'No I did not!' Sean was blustering now, not blagging. 'Whoever told you that is lying.'

To Pat's surprise the fearsome Danny Painter simply smiled at the outburst before pulling again on his cigar. There was something indulgent about the way he was regarding Sean; it was almost paternal.

Have I been spending too much time with Dee? Pat wondered. Am I suddenly getting insightful and intuitive?

Sean stopped protesting and tried a disarming grin. Danny grinned back at him and Pat took the opportunity to look for resemblances. At first glance their faces were nothing alike. But looking at them more closely, around the eyes . . .

Al Dwyer, the man Sean called "Dad" had died six years earlier. Pat had known him very well. He used to take Sean and himself to football matches from time to time, and the odd rugby match. He'd been a good bloke and Sean's mum, Dianne, was a good woman.

Straining his memory, Pat tried to recall any similarities in appearance between Sean and Al. But no, it had been too long. And DeeDee was almost three years older than her brother. She would have been toddling about when he was conceived. Surely Dianne wouldn't have . . .

'I told you the police couldn't conclusively identify this guy.' Danny held up another graphic black-and-white picture. 'They've found plenty out about him, though. He's been on the drug scene for a while. Recently Madchester got too hot for him. Before there they're assuming he was at home in Merseyside, quite probably Huyton. Nobody knows why he picked on Keighley, but he turned up there last week, turning over dealers. That's what he does: he turns them over or kills them. With that in mind, will you now tell me what he was doing in Bingley?'

'He turned me over,' said Sean. 'He mistook me for a dealer and stole my wallet.'

'So why is everyone else in town telling me otherwise?'

'About the dealing?'

'Yes, son. About the dealing.'

Sean sighed. 'Okay, so this guy I know wanted to borrow fifteen grand. Back around Easter, it was. Except he already owed me a grand from last year. He was a bad credit risk, see? When I said sorry, he started begging. This other guy, a guy from Bradford, had a deal for him. Fifteen grand and he could cut it and move it in no time, turn it into fifty or more, easy.'

'What was it?'

'Heroin.'

'Do these guys have names?'

'I'd rather not say. You know how it is; client confidentiality and that.'

'Okay. Go on.'

'There's not much to say. I went with my debtor into Bradford and bought the stuff myself. It came in packages rather than bags. I got six of them.'

Danny asked a few questions about quantity and quality. Pat let them go over his head. The very word "heroin" gave him the creeps.

'So,' Sean resumed, 'I gave my debtor one of the packages. He was back twenty-four hours later with a bundle of readies. I gave him another package, and on it went.'

'And you've kept going back for more? To the guy in Bradford, I mean?'

'Yes. We see him for heroin, someone else in Leeds for coke.'

'And you've never dealt personally? This local guy runs his own network?'

'Correct.'

'So how come you gave Sally a baggie? And how come her friends knew you were the man she should ask?'

Sean's face was comical. 'I store the merchandise,' he stuttered. 'And I see my partner every day. If I know someone who wants a freebie, I can arrange it.'

'Sally?' Pat looked from Sean to Danny. 'Who is Sally?'

'You don't want to know,' Sean said quickly. Then, spreading his hands, 'I don't think I've done wrong, Danny. I said I'd stick to loansharking and buying and selling . . .'

'Loansharking and fencing stolen goods,' Danny amended. Then, finally beginning to look angry: 'You are out of the Class A market as of now, this minute. And you can tell this partner of yours I want to see him tomorrow. Here at ten on the dot.'

'Danny, I . . .'

'Shut the fuck up.' Danny's cigar seemed to be never-ending. He puffed on it a moment before he went on, miraculously calm again. 'I'm not an unreasonable man. I can see your need to reinvest in other areas. And I'm not going to just take your partner off you. No, I'm going to give you the chance to go legit. Have you ever considered the pub trade?'

'I don't have the money to buy a pub.' Sean gestured about him. 'Especially not a place like this.'

'I wasn't offering you a place like this. I was thinking about The Kings.'

Sean's jaw dropped for a record-breaking second time. 'I know it's open to offers,' he said. 'But I still don't have the money.'

Danny stared at him, almost but not quite smiling again. 'Clean up your act and you might have a backer.'

*****

Other pubs were open by the time Sean and Pat left Danny's office. They walked in silence as far as The Queens then, armed with pints of lager, they sat at a table in the deserted back room and compared notes. That is to say, Pat had his go at asking the awkward questions.

'What's this deal you had?'

'Danny was uneasy with the nick-to-order,' Sean replied, still grinning like a Cheshire cat. 'He said he had friends he wanted to protect, so I agreed a few no-go areas.'

'Is that it?'

'I agreed no-go areas for the loans, too. That was it.'

'Why didn't you tell me you shouldn't have been wholesaling?'

'You wouldn't have wanted to know . . . just like you didn't want to be involved.'

'Are you really giving it up?'

'You bet I am. Huyton's put me right off. And besides, I've bigger fish to fry now, haven't I?'

Pat had to laugh. Sean had bought into Danny's proposal hook, line and sinker . . . as he was so obviously supposed to. Apparently Danny already had an option to buy the Kings. Taking it up, he was going to lease the business to Sean for five years on a peppercorn rent. All Sean had to do was run the place and keep out of trouble. Then, five years down the line, he could either buy the pub at today's price else hand it back.

'I'll be buying it,' he'd assured Danny. 'And trust me, I won't buy or sell as much as a paracetamol in the meantime.'

Yes, Danny had him sussed, all right.

'I'm going to need a front man,' he said now, 'an experienced pub landlord. I'd ask Andy, but he's still learning. I wonder if his dad would fancy it for a year or two . . .'

'Who's Sally?' Pat asked again.

'An older woman with tits out here.' Sean cupped his hands a foot in front of his chest. 'She fucks like a rattlesnake when she's had a snort.' Then, frowning, 'I wonder if Danny's been going there as well.'

'It's just as well Danny likes you, isn't it?'

'What are you snickering at, McGuire?'

'I'm not snickering. I'm just observing that you've crossed the most dangerous man around and he doesn't seem to mind. You've always been a lucky bastard, but you've been pushing it, even by your standards.'

'What can I say . . . I can't help being lovable.'

'You can't help being a twat, more like. And why was he asking about your mum?'

'I've always wondered that myself.' Sean shrugged and then laughed. 'And I've always wondered why DeeDee looks totally different to me. Perhaps he knew her before Dad came on the scene.'

'I don't believe you said that.' Pat shook his head, emphasizing his disbelief. He could accept the idea of Sean being born out of wedlock, but not Dee.

Sean laughed again then stood up. 'Come on; let's go check out The Kings. It needs a radical facelift and I want to start planning.'

'Don't get me wrong,' said Pat, draining his pint. 'I'm all for this legit malarkey, but are you really going to give everything else up?'

'Just the Class A,' Sean replied, still grinning. 'I need to keep earning so I can pay Danny off, don't I?'