‘Shut up, Gallen,’ said Simon, hand reaching for his pistol.
‘You office guys sure like violence for a bunch of pansies who spend their lives avoiding it.’
The 9mm handgun came out, and found its level at Gallen’s forehead. He looked back, making himself control his heart rate. ‘Safety’s on, Simon. Use your right thumb.’
‘Fuck you, Gallen,’ said Simon. ‘The whole war-hero thing doesn’t impress me.’
‘I need the news, not the weather,’ said Gallen, flinching from a piece of spittle. The 9mm’s barrel pressed into his forehead and he relaxed, knowing he’d beaten the spook, or whatever he was.
‘You could die here today.’ Simon’s face twisted. ‘Medals or no medals, it doesn’t worry me.’
‘Where’s Kenny?’ said Gallen.
‘Mind your business.’
‘You got nice legs, Simon. You do ballet?’
The pistol slapped across Gallen’s left cheek and blood flowed freely out of his left nostril.
‘I said, shut up, Gallen!’
Gallen had won: the office boy was losing it. Now he wanted him slightly closer.
‘That’s a real sissy slap, Simon,’ he said with a smile, as the blood ran onto his lap. ‘Back home there’s girl hockey players with more stand-up than you.’
A cloud formed under Simon’s face and he stowed the 9mm in his belt as he reached forward and grabbed Gallen’s hair. Simon’s fist drew back; as he readied to throw the punch, Gallen leaned to his right and hooked his right leg, sweeping it back hard against the outside of his assailant’s left knee, dropping Simon to the mat.
Rolling his left leg across Simon’s body as he fell to the lino, Gallen kneeled over him and ducked into a punch that glanced off his left cheek. Using his momentum, Gallen threw a fast head-butt directly into Simon’s front teeth.
Hearing the teeth snap and the involuntary gasp of pain, Gallen used the brief moment of shock to force his manacled hands down behind his hips to Simon’s belt. Grabbing the handgun, he rolled away and sprang to his feet.
Fumbling with the weapon, trying to get the safety off from a back-to-front position, Gallen turned away from Simon and aimed the pistol. The first shot went off before he had full control and the bullet hit the plasterboard. As Simon panicked and tried to crawl backwards on his ass, Gallen felt his hair being grabbed and a barrel being forced into his eyeball.
A deep voice told him to drop it.
Gallen’s adrenaline was peaking but the man behind the weapon had killed before, judging by his voice.
Dropping the 9mm to the floor, Gallen stood straight, panting as he looked at the man behind the pistol.
‘Shit,’ he said, looking at the big dark face as he caught his breath. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. ‘Royal Enterprises, huh?’
‘King of Chev,’ said Ern Dale. ‘And don’t you forget it.’
CHAPTER 53
‘I didn’t kill Bren,’ said Gallen, fast as he could.
‘I know,’ said Dale, eyes steady.
‘You know? Then what’s this about?’ said Gallen, nodding at Simon Smith.
Several yards away Simon groaned as he found his feet, gingerly touching his mouth, which was bleeding down his shirt.
Dale shook his head. ‘It’s about boys and men, right, Gerry?’
‘Story of my life.’ Gallen sniffed back blood. ‘Where’s Kenny? We’ve got things to do.’
‘Kenny’s gonna be spending some time with me, Gerry.’
‘He works for me, Ern.’
‘Have a seat,’ said Dale, trousering the pistol and walking to a picnic table with three steel-framed chairs around it. ‘Maybe you can help me.’ Pulling a chair out for Gallen, he yelled across the room, ‘Simon, get us some coffee and bring those cookies you hidin’. The chocolate ones.’
Simon left the room, dripping blood.
‘That’s some fancy fightin’, Gerry,’ said Dale, lighting a smoke. ‘Takes me back to the old days and those instructors at Bragg. Made us fight with wrists tied up, with ankles tied up. Hated that trainin’.’
‘Fort Bragg?’ said Gallen. ‘That’s Army. Green Berets?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Thought you was Corps? Thought Bren was in your footsteps?’ Ern Dale laughed. ‘No, Bren knew if he walked into an Army recruiting office, I’d know before the day was out.’
‘So he joined the Marines?’
Dale shrugged. ‘I told him, Gerry. I told him, Son, one Dale, in one war — that’s enough for Uncle Sam. I gave up my youth for that shit, and I ain’t giving up no son for that too.’ He looked away and when he looked back his eyes were wet and his face was hard. ‘And he goes out on one job for me, and…’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘His funeral’s tomorrow, Fairmount. Fourteen hundred. Bren would want you there.’
‘Fairmount?’ said Gallen. He would have expected Dale to be buried at the military cemetery. ‘Not Fort Logan?’
‘You think that’s selfish, Gerry?’ said Dale, a challenge more than a question.
‘Just surprised.’
Ern Dale played with his fingers. ‘Yeah, well. He’s in the military section of Fairmount. You be there?’
‘I’ll try. If I get out of this alive.’
‘Then be straight with me and we all walk away. My word on that.’
‘Shoot,’ said Gallen as Simon arrived with a thermos flask and two plastic mugs. He poured the coffees, his face a mess of drying blood.
‘Black and one,’ said Gallen, not taking his eyes off Simon, who threw a handful of sugar sachets on the table and dropped the cookies.
‘Hands,’ said Dale, pointing at Gallen.
Simon started to argue, but Ern Dale’s sudden eyeballing worked faster than a TV remote. Snipping Gallen’s wrists free, Simon took a seat away from the table and sat with his 9mm on his lap.
Dale’s face changed as he turned to Gallen. ‘So, where’s the money, Gerry?’
Gallen poured the sugar into his coffee. ‘What money?’
‘Don’t be clever, Gerry. I don’t want you, just the dough.’
‘I don’t know enough to be clever, Ern,’ said Gallen, picking up Dale’s disposable cigarette lighter and using it as a swizzle stick in the coffee. ‘This about Durville money? Oasis money?’
Dale’s nostrils flared and he offered Gallen a cigarette. ‘You want me to believe you spend all this time with Kenny and you don’t know about the money? Shit, Gerry. Soldiers only talk about two things, and the other one’s women.’
Gallen shrugged. ‘I mean it, Ern: what money?’
‘A lot of money, Gerry,’ said Dale. ‘That’s what money.’
Gallen’s mind was doing backflips. Kenny had told him on the plane that he was going to deal with the Royal Enterprises connection. But he only said it once the company was connected to Denver— and, thought Gallen, to Ern Dale. Who was Dale working for? He had to tread carefully because a lot of money and a lot of ignorance was a dangerous combination. He didn’t want to mouth off and get someone killed.
‘Tell me, Ern.’
‘No,’ said Dale, sipping the coffee. ‘You tell me, Gerry. Where’s the money? Where’s it stashed?’
‘You think I’m running around in the snow, getting shot at, ‘cos I’ve got a stash?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Dale. ‘But I know something belonging to my friends is now in the possession of a certain Canadian shooter.’
‘Your friends?’
‘Let’s just say that Kenny goes out to do a little job for some important people and he don’t come back with what he should come back with.’