He emerged from the darkness, still tasting the blood in his mouth from the punches he’d exchanged the previous night. Cars were parked closely together, nose to nose as if mirroring the confrontational nature of the previous evening. No quarter asked or given.
The poster on the wall opposite bore the image of a television personality, according to the legend beneath the man’s face. It may not have been his best day as the face appeared perfectly suited to radio.
He winked at the television star as he passed by. The early morning mist was beginning to clear and the workmen’s breath no longer steamed in the air. Metal poles clanked and canvas flapped as the team of men expertly constructed the market stalls in readiness for another day’s trading.
He knew this city. It had been his home for many years, but even an absence of less than four years he was slightly detached from his environment. Out of kilter. He detached himself, trying to view his surroundings through the eyes of a stranger and could still glimpse the familiar elements as if viewed through gauze.
He took a deep breath of what the locals presumably termed fresh air and could discern the tang of salt from the river, but the pervading aura of decay was overwhelming.
He walked on, an illuminated sign above a chemists’ shop flashing the time, date and temperature in turn marking out his route. Beyond him was the balcony on which The Beatles had once stood before adoring hordes, but he turned to the right, cutting through Matthew Street where once the Cavern Club had stood and lengthened his stride. The sound of the stall workers faded into the background and he reflected on the similarities between his former empire and the humble stalls erected every week, rain or shine, on these cobbled streets. Buying and selling. The basis of virtually every aspect of human endeavour. Buy at a low price and sell for a profit. The narcotics trade was no different, but illegality maximised profit and had made him rich beyond the conception of most people while still in his teens.
His own business would never have operated in full view like the market traders. It would be tucked away in dingy back alleys, where only those in the know could find it, each transaction marked by mutual suspicion and strictly cash on the nail. Customers paid in advance and the transfer of the product itself involved a third party, detached from both buyer and seller, minimising the risk.
It had been many years since he’d involved himself in the day-to-day involvement of the business. Before he’d been sent to prison, he’d been the man at the top of the pyramid, reaping the rewards with minimal risk.
His last major deal had involved months of negotiations with East European gangs who had a direct line to uncut cocaine. Heroin, for so long the mainstay of his empire, had become less attractive as public opinion and the media put pressure on law enforcement. Cocaine was still regarded as a minority drug for middle class users and the full effects of the new craze for crack cocaine had yet to be noted. He’d seen the appeal of a cheap and massively addictive product to the housing estate dwellers who formed the epicentre of his business and had negotiated hard for a regular supply at the right price.
The hard-faced men from Albania, Turkey and the Balkan States drove a hard bargain, but they needed a reliable source for their product and a deal had been struck. A Serbian had attempted to take over the deal at an early stage; killing two of the men sent to oversee the arrangements, and prompting his own involvement. Morale received a boost when the troops on the ground saw the commander in chief’s involvement. He’d personally castrated the Serb leader and his followers; feeding the man’s genitals to his own dogs and leaving a single man alive, if only just, to pass on the intended message.
They had been good times and he yearned for more of the same. The men who’d usurped his position at the top wouldn’t be easily persuaded to step aside, but he was elated at the prospect of confrontation. Killing was always a pleasure and killing with a purpose was the best kind of all. He worried a loose tooth, tasting the blood at the back of his throat, and relished the prospect of the day ahead. By nightfall he’d be one step closer to where he wanted to be. Men would die today. There would be extreme violence and death would not come easily to the losers. He had no intention of being amongst their number.
Good heavens. It’s really lovely to find someone so happy in his work !!!