weight off his feet. Roach ghosted along by his side as the woman began fulfilling their order.
“What do you reckon?” Roach asked, nodding in the direction of the youngsters playing darts.
Morris didn’t need to follow his colleagues gaze; he had already suspected the same thing. “Possible,” he muttered, catching the eye of the barmaid. “They look about his age. If he isn’t one of them, chances are they’ll know who he is.”
19
The two hitmen watched as one of the youngsters disappeared through a door next to the bar, through which was a small corridor leading to the toilets.
They both acknowledged him and continued to sip slowly from their pints. The other two youngsters continued a game of darts, their minds set on conversation and laughter rather than the poorly played game.
The old man had sunken himself into the furniture, casually smoking his pipe as he read through the local paper; the barmaid chatted noisily on a cordless phone, trying to catch Morris’s eye, who made a point of refusing to acknowledge her.
“You want to go or shall I?” James Roach asked silently.
“I’ll go,” Morris said quickly. “If you leave me alone then that crazy fucking slut might try talking to me.”
“She seems all right.”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Morris agreed. “She’s fuckable, that’s a fact, but she’s probably been around the block more times than the paperboy.” They both looked at her as he spoke, she was still bellowing loudly into the phone. “Plus, her voice is giving me a headache.” He drained the remainder of his pint and headed for the corridor.
The door to the toilets squeaked awkwardly on un-oiled hinges as Morris strode through. A sickening onrushing smell of stale urine, vomit and cigarettes hit him like a wall and he twisted his face in distaste.
There was only one cubicle inside, the door to which had been violently torn from its hinges in a drunken rage, marks and slashes in the wood remained as evidence to the pointless attack. On the far wall a small window -- jammed shut and smeared -- obscured the view to the outside world; it allowed no air in and no stench out.
The youngster stood at the end of a urinal which stretched along the wall, he had seen the older man enter the toilets and had regarded him with little interest. Morris walked beside him and unzipped his jeans.
“Are you Joseph Steiner?” he asked placidly.
“What?” the youngster replied, taken aback.
“I was told he was the man to go to for--” Morris coughed with a fake notch of anxiety. “You know...”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about mate.”
“Come on mate,” Morris pleaded. “Do me a favour would you? I just got into town and I’m dry. I’m taking the lass and a few mates clubbing tonight, I just need a few pills, that’s all.”
The youngster looked at him suspiciously, his mind whirring with a strained process of deliberation.
“You gonna help me or not?” Morris questioned.
“Who told you about Steiner?”
“A mate of mine, he was out clubbing last weekend, said he scored some great pills off him.”
The youngster regarded Morris again. They both finished urinating and stood by the urinal, their gazes locked.
“You not a bit old for that shit?” the younger man questioned.
“When I take that shit I’m as young as I want to be, you know what I mean?” Morris stated, maintaining his feigned anxiety.
The youngster smiled and nodded silently to himself. He scanned the door of the toilets to make sure no one had snuck in undetected, then leaned closer to Morris.
“OK,” he surrendered, “you don’t look like a cop.” He paused, taking in a deep breath, “Steiner won’t be in here for a while but I can give him a ring. How many do you want?”
Morris suppressed a smile: “Twenty,” he replied promptly.
He picked a mobile phone out of his pocket and began flicking through the phone’s memory to find the number he wanted.
Morris watched as the
“What do you reckon?” Roach asked, nodding in the direction of the youngsters playing darts.
Morris didn’t need to follow his colleagues gaze; he had already suspected the same thing. “Possible,” he muttered, catching the eye of the barmaid. “They look about his age. If he isn’t one of them, chances are they’ll know who he is.”
19
The two hitmen watched as one of the youngsters disappeared through a door next to the bar, through which was a small corridor leading to the toilets.
They both acknowledged him and continued to sip slowly from their pints. The other two youngsters continued a game of darts, their minds set on conversation and laughter rather than the poorly played game.
The old man had sunken himself into the furniture, casually smoking his pipe as he read through the local paper; the barmaid chatted noisily on a cordless phone, trying to catch Morris’s eye, who made a point of refusing to acknowledge her.
“You want to go or shall I?” James Roach asked silently.
“I’ll go,” Morris said quickly. “If you leave me alone then that crazy fucking slut might try talking to me.”
“She seems all right.”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Morris agreed. “She’s fuckable, that’s a fact, but she’s probably been around the block more times than the paperboy.” They both looked at her as he spoke, she was still bellowing loudly into the phone. “Plus, her voice is giving me a headache.” He drained the remainder of his pint and headed for the corridor.
The door to the toilets squeaked awkwardly on un-oiled hinges as Morris strode through. A sickening onrushing smell of stale urine, vomit and cigarettes hit him like a wall and he twisted his face in distaste.
There was only one cubicle inside, the door to which had been violently torn from its hinges in a drunken rage, marks and slashes in the wood remained as evidence to the pointless attack. On the far wall a small window -- jammed shut and smeared -- obscured the view to the outside world; it allowed no air in and no stench out.
The youngster stood at the end of a urinal which stretched along the wall, he had seen the older man enter the toilets and had regarded him with little interest. Morris walked beside him and unzipped his jeans.
“Are you Joseph Steiner?” he asked placidly.
“What?” the youngster replied, taken aback.
“I was told he was the man to go to for--” Morris coughed with a fake notch of anxiety. “You know...”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about mate.”
“Come on mate,” Morris pleaded. “Do me a favour would you? I just got into town and I’m dry. I’m taking the lass and a few mates clubbing tonight, I just need a few pills, that’s all.”
The youngster looked at him suspiciously, his mind whirring with a strained process of deliberation.
“You gonna help me or not?” Morris questioned.
“Who told you about Steiner?”
“A mate of mine, he was out clubbing last weekend, said he scored some great pills off him.”
The youngster regarded Morris again. They both finished urinating and stood by the urinal, their gazes locked.
“You not a bit old for that shit?” the younger man questioned.
“When I take that shit I’m as young as I want to be, you know what I mean?” Morris stated, maintaining his feigned anxiety.
The youngster smiled and nodded silently to himself. He scanned the door of the toilets to make sure no one had snuck in undetected, then leaned closer to Morris.
“OK,” he surrendered, “you don’t look like a cop.” He paused, taking in a deep breath, “Steiner won’t be in here for a while but I can give him a ring. How many do you want?”
Morris suppressed a smile: “Twenty,” he replied promptly.
He picked a mobile phone out of his pocket and began flicking through the phone’s memory to find the number he wanted.
Morris watched as the
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