‘Want to get something to eat?’ Mike asked him.
‘Sure, why not.’
‘Noodles?’
‘Sounds good to me.’ Chris jerked a thumb back the way they’d come. ‘You think he’s okay?’
‘Barranco? Yeah. Just shellshocked. Probably never seen so much hardware in a single day.’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t look happy.’
Mike snorted. ‘Well he bloody should be happy. That’s the biggest single credit-card payment I’ve ever made.’
‘You didn’t buy any toys for Echevarria yesterday?’
‘On account.’ Mike grinned at him. ‘Sixty-day cancellation clause.’
‘You route that stuff through Sally Hunting as well?’
‘No way. Total account separation, remember. Anyway, Sally doesn’t get her commission unless the money clears. Wouldn’t want—‘
The BMW’s phone lit up with a priority call. Mike made a quiet gesture at Chris, and answered.
‘Yeah, Bryant.’
‘Mike. It’s Troy. That stuff about Faulkner you ran past me? Something came up.’
‘Right, he’s here with me, Troy. Tell us what you got.’
There was a brief pause. ‘It’s better we meet. I don’t want to talk on this line. Can you come out to my place?’
Mike glanced across at him. Chris nodded.
‘We’re on our way.’
Troy’s house seemed strangely quiet in the early evening light. It took Chris a moment or two to understand that he was comparing it with memories of the last time he’d been here, when the party was in full swing. He got a determined lock on his creeping paranoia, and followed Mike up to the front door.
The worry must have shown on his face. Mike grinned encouragingly at him.
‘Be alright,’ he said.
Troy Morris answered the bell by securicam before he opened up, ushered them in as if there was a storm coming, and then threw every bolt and security device the door had before he spoke again. The anti-tamper unit whined rapidly up to full charge. Mike looked at Chris and raised an eyebrow.
‘Little jumpy, aren’t we?’
‘You’d better come through,’ said Troy. ‘Someone I want you to meet.’
In the lounge, a thin black man in his early twenties sat twitching restlessly in one of Troy’s armchairs. There was a scar across his lower jaw and his clothes said zone gangwit. He surveyed the new arrivals without enthusiasm.
‘This is Marauder.’ Troy told them. ‘Marauder, this is Mike Bryant. Chris Faulkner. Friends of mine.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever.’
‘Mike, Chris, you want to sit down? Get you a drink?’
Mike Bryant nodded, most of his attention fixed on Marauder. ‘Some of that Polish vodka you keep in the freezer. Small one.’
‘Chris? Single malt, right?’
‘Yeah, if you’ve got it. Thanks.’
‘Aberlour or Lagavulin? Or I’ve got Irish.’
‘Lagavulin’s good. No ice.’
‘Marauder?’
The gangwit rolled his head once back and forth, slowly. He said nothing. Troy shrugged and went out to the kitchen. They sat and waited.
The silence stretched.
‘Who you run with?’ asked Mike suddenly.
Marauder lifted his jaw. ‘Fuck’s it got to do with you?’
Chris tensed. Neither he nor Mike were carrying, and Marauder looked street enough to be a problem in a straight fight. He checked Mike out of the corner of his eye, but saw no signs of impending violence.
‘Just curious,’ said Mike lazily. ‘Just wondered what kind of fuckwit outfit lets its soldiers get strung out on the merchandise.’
Marauder sat up. ‘Hey birdshit, you want to fuck with me?’
‘You don’t understand.’ Mike Bryant’s voice was patient. ‘I’m a suit. I represent the establishment. I wanted to fuck with you, you’d be in a penal hospital donating a kidney to society and your momma’d be out on the street, evicted and giving blowjobs to pay your post-op. Sit down.’
The gangwit was up out of his chair. On the way there, he’d magicked a blade out between the knuckles of his right hand. He brandished it.
‘Hey, fuck you, birdshit.’
‘I’d put that away as well, if I were you. Touch me, and I’ll have your fucking house bulldozed. That’s a promise.’
Marauder dithered, rage etched into his stance. If Mike had got up to meet him, Chris reckoned the gangwit would already have slashed at him.
‘Ernie, put that fucking thing away before I take it off you myself.’ It was Troy, back with a tray of bottles and glasses and an exasperated look on his face. ‘What do you think this is, the Carlton Arms lounge bar? This is my fucking home.’
‘Ernie?’ A huge grin lit up Bryant’s face. ‘Ernie?’
‘You behave as well, Mike. You should know better.’ Troy nodded at the gangwit, who looked away and snicked the blade back out of sight. He lowered himself onto the front edge of the armchair. Chris felt the tension leaking slowly out of him, and breathed again. Mike examined the nails of his right hand. Troy Morris hadn’t even put down the drinks tray.
‘That’s better.’
‘Call yourself a black man,’ muttered Marauder weakly. ‘Fucking line up with them every time, you’re nearly birdshit yourself.’
‘Ah, belt up.’ Troy wasn’t even looking at him any more. He handed drinks round and parked the tray on a coffee table. Settled into the remaining armchair with a whisky of his own, and gestured. ‘This fine example of urban youth has a story to tell. I told him you’d pay him.’
‘Well.’ Mike looked up at the ceiling. ‘That seems fair. Let’s hear it. Ernie.’
There was a sullen, hate-filled pause. Everyone looked at Marauder.
‘Going to cost you,’ he said finally, looking at Chris.
‘Two hundred.’ Chris told him. ‘That’s a promise. Maybe more, if I like it.’
‘You ain’t going to like it at all,’ the gangwit sneered. He seemed to be getting back his poise. ‘You’re Faulkner. Knew that ‘cause I seen you on the TV. Big popular driver, right. Well, turns out you ain’t so fucking popular after all. Turns out someone thinks you’re a fucking sellout.’
Chris felt his guts chill. ‘Go on.’
Marauder nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s it. Crags Posse got the word. Jack a wagon, put a sicario behind the wheel. Someone paid out fifty grand to have you bunnied.’
‘That’s not so much.’
‘It is around the crags, Alike,’ Troy said sombrely. ‘You can get a sicario hit on Iarescu’s patch for a grand, grand and a half. Maybe five, if they have to go into town.’
‘Well, expenses.’ Mike gestured. ‘Jacking the car.’
Marauder sneered again. ‘Wasn’t no fucking jack, birdshit. That guy, he knew they were coming. Iarescu sent a sparkman and datarat up to Kilburn to wire that wagon two days before it was jacked. Fucking suit knew, man, they paid him for it.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Chris asked him.
‘Defector. I run with the Gold Hawks—‘
Mike Bryant threw up his hands. ‘Well, why was it such a big fucking secret before, you’re telling us now like it was nothing? Fucking—‘
‘Mike, shut up.’ Chris looked back at the gangwit. ‘Yeah, the Gold Hawks. And?’
Marauder shrugged. ‘Like I said, defector. The sparkman, he came over. He’s black, the Crags are a birdshit gang, they only ever tolerated him for the wirework. He’s got a new girl in Acton now, suits him to get out from under Iarescu. He told me this shit couple of nights ago. I heard Troy was asking, so. Like that.’
Troy leaned forward. ‘Now tell them what the sparkman was doing to the wagon.’
‘Yeah. Said they put in a frequency jammer.’