This is the nineteenth part of a fiction serial, in 799 words. It may contain some swear-words.
Frankie gets a payoff.
After dropping off the things he had bought in Essex at the Leyton warehouse, and making sure everything inside was working, and clean and tidy, Alan headed back to Gloria’s flat. Because he hadn’t registered the car yet, and had no intention of doing so, he couldn’t apply for a council permit to park on the estate. Instead, he left the car on a single yellow line on the street behind. He would move it later, so it didn’t get clamped. Meanwhile, if he got a parking ticket, it would first go to the company in Solihull for payment, and eventually pitch up at Frankie’s house.
That made Alan smile.
The kid on the bmx bike was still on the corner. As he spotted Alan walking in his direction, he kicked the pedal, intending to leave. Alan called out to him to stop, waving a fifty-pound note that the boy could see. That stopped him. “Whoever you’re working for, tell them to get it back to Frankie to meet me here in his car at eight tonight. I’ll be outside. Okay?” The boy nodded and reached out for the money, riding off as fast as his legs would turn. Then Alan walked to the Londis shop, where he bought a loaf of bread, some butter, and four pints of milk.
Back in the flat, he packed some more stuff into his suitcase, then rolled up the duvet and pillows from his bed before stuffing them into a bin-bag. In the bedroom, he got the jiffy bag out, checked the Ruger pistol once again, and added a pile of twenty-pound notes into the top of the padded envelope. With an hour or more to kill, he sat and watched the news on TV, drinking Black Label from a tumbler. At five to eight, he was dressed in a suit and overcoat, waiting on the corner outside. Carrying the well-stuffed jiffy bag, he was wearing a pair of Sealskin brand gloves he had bought in the camping shop. Not that smart, but warm and comfortable.
One of Frankie’s many luxury cars turned up, and he walked over to it. The big black guy got out and opened the back door. Frankie was inside, sitting behind the driver’s seat. The black guy pressed a hand against Alan’s chest. “Arms up, please. You know the drill”. He was very polite, and Alan held the jiffy bag aloft as the man patted him down to make sure he wasn’t carrying any weapons. Then he nodded at the envelope. “What’s in there?” Alan smiled, peeling back the opening to reveal all the twenties. “What you boss is here for old son”. When the big man nodded, he got in the back next to Frankie. “Let’s go for a drive somewhere quiet, Frankie. Ive got something for you”.
As the car drove off, Frankie held out his hand, a smug look on his face. Alan shook his head. “Not so fast, I want to talk about this first, I want some assurances”. Obviously content that he had the upper hand, Frankie Toland pulled his hand back. “It’s obvious you are planning a job, and all I am asking for is my fair share”. The car was heading east, along the Balls Pond Road. Halfway down, the driver turned into a housing estate and drove into an underground car park that provided shuttered parking for the residents. Then he turned off the engine.
Alan put his hand down inside the padded envelope and lifted it up level with the top of the driver’s seat. “This is just a sweetener, Frankie. Something to keep you off my back for now. I’m not sure the job will happen, but if it does, you can be sure you will earn well out of it”. He glanced at the driver, noticing the huge roll of shiny fat above the too-tight collar of his shirt, just below the base of his skull. Frankie shifted in his seat, keen to get the money. Alan reached down further, his gloved finger finding the trigger.
He shot the bodyguard twice in the back of the head. Firing through the padded envelope with the short silencer attached, it still made a loud crack inside the vehicle. The small-calibre bullets weren’t powerful enough to exit the skull, but they bounced around inside the man’s head, tearing up his brain.
Frankie was turning already, grabbing the door handle, hoping to escape. Alan shot him twice through his left eye, watching as Toland’s left leg jerked in some kind of spasm, trapping his shoe under the seat in front.
Making sure the ejected cartridges were inside the jiffy bag, Alan waited just long enough to be certain that both men were dead.