Jude
Tool greets me with a wide, toothy grin, shoving shotgun shells into a sawn-off. The bar is empty apart from a few old-timers sitting in the corner drinking whisky in the dancing-mote half-light and a few new-timers pouring the whisky for the old men. Tool leans an elbow on the bar as he loads his weapon.
“Got everything you need, man?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply, patting the holsters hidden near my waistline, just under my shirt. “Don’t know why you’ve always got to be so loud, Tool.” I gesture at his sawn-off. “Anyway, I thought you preferred—”
Tool rolls his eyes. “A few times, man, a few times I used a hammer—and once a wrench—on some really nasty pieces of shit. Rapists and pedophiles and all that. Thought they deserved the special treatment.” He cracks the sawn-off, loading it, and drops it into a duffle bag at his feet. “And just ‘cause of that, I have to spend the rest of my life with the word Tool tattooed on my forehead.”
I gesture at his head. “There’s no tattoo there.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” He scowls. “Funny man. You know what I mean. What about you, with your Judas Kiss?”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “It’s just a punch,” I say.
“Just a punch? Ha! Last time I punched a man—and trust me, I do it often enough—I didn’t fly through the air like a ninja.”
“I don’t fly through the air. I just throw my weight into it, is all.”
“I’d do that, but I’d end up breaking my knees. I think there should be a warning on cake, man: Don’t eat if you like your knees. Mine are shot to hell.” He pats his rotund belly affectionately. “Anyway, shall we get going? The van should pull up any second—” Tool grins. Outside, the screech of tires sounds.
“Who’ve we got with us today?”
“We’re the seniors today, man. The rest are green kids. Shouldn’t matter, though. I’ve heard this Barry asshole is a real monster, but no one’s too much of a monster for us, eh?”
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “We’ve got it handled.”
We walk into the street, and then directly into back of the van. On the side of the van are the words: Sandwich Service! Sandwiches Direct to Your Office! Tool and I sit on one side, opposite three men who I haven’t learnt the names of yet. You get plenty of new fish in this business. The cold truth is most of these men won’t be able to cut it. They’ll be dead, in prison, or running in a couple of years. It takes an iciness to survive this life, the ability to freeze your veins, which most men lack.
What about you? Your veins aren’t frozen anymore, are they? Not with Emily.
I ignore the voice and listen as Tool drones on, which he tends to do before any job. The van cruises through the city, the only light the dim glow through the porthole-like back windows.
“Have you all heard of this Barry guy?” Tool asks. He goes on before anybody can reply. “Because I have, and let me tell you, he sounds like a real piece of shit. He sounds worse than that, even. I don’t know if the boss told you, but this man’s a kidnapper, a torturer, and a rapist—of children. That’ll give you some idea of the kind of man we’re dealing with. I also talked to some buddies of mine last night, you know, to get a lay of the land. Man, man, the shit they told me would make toes curl.”
“Like what?” an eighteen-year-old kid with freckles and a mop of brown hair asks.
“You don’t want to know, kid,” Tool says. “But I’ll tell you anyway if you’re so damn curious.” The van goes over a bump. We all jostle in our seats and then sit back down. “My buddy’s got a buddy who’s got a sister. This sister, well . . . she can’t be the brightest light in the world, let’s just say that. This Barry asshole seduced her, took her on loads of nice dates, all that stuff. And then one day, out of the blue, he just beat the shit out of her. The man told my buddy that his sister was on life support for a while, multiple breaks, fractures, punctured lung. She still has health troubles now. So, ladies and gents.” He winces, and then chuckles. “So, gents. We’re dealing with a man who does not deserve to breathe. Never forget that. Hold it close. Push it deep into your mind. This. Man. Does. Not. Deserve. To. Breath.”
The brown-haired kid laughs, and Tool’s eyes dart to him. “Something funny, kid?”
The van goes over another bump. We’re all thrown up—and then down.
“N-no,” the kid whispers, holding his hands up in a show of peace.
“You laughed,” Tool says through gritted teeth. “You fuckin’ laughed at me.”
“N-n-no, I’m . . . I’m s-s-sorry . . .”
Tool leans forward, staring daggers at the kid.
I clap Tool on the back. “Leave off, Tool,” I say. “Look at him. You’re scaring the poor bastard.”
Tool lets out a laugh and rocks back in his seat. “I’m just fucking with you, kid. You’re my teammate. I don’t friendly fire. We’re about to meet the real enemy. Got some intel he’s going to be at a certain hooker’s apartment.” Tool strokes his sawn-off. “I don’t think he’s going to get the happy ending he’s looking for.”
Everybody laughs, the tension dissipating.
I clench my fists—my palms still sore from last night—and think of the moment I saw Barry pull Emily into his lap. The fear on her face. The fear on my woman’s face.