roamed over Presley’s
face, as though attempting to commit every detail to memory.
“Wait there.”
Oh, for the love of God!
The muddy-brown eyes became
just a dark slot in the doorway for a third time. Another couple of minutes
passed by before the sound of a heavy-duty bolt sliding back came from the
other side. The slab of steel slowly cracked open. A dark corridor stretched
out before him.
Muddy eyes gave way to a burly
lump of muscle. The doorman stepped away from the door, his firearm drawn and a
look of menace etched across his face.
“Moses will see you now,” the
heavy said. A hand big enough to crush Presley’s face pushed the door shut
before sliding the bolt back into place, sealing them both within this tight
corridor.
“That way,” the heavy ordered,
waving his gun towards the opposite end of the passageway.
Perkins took the lead. The
hallway was littered with empty food wrappers and drinks bottles. A few used
syringes – dark-brown liquid staining their dirty barrels – lay scattered about,
along with hundreds of scraps of tinfoil, wrapped into small balls, enough to
cover the floor like a glittering carpet of stolen dreams.
Several doorways lay open to
reveal empty rooms, each cold and bleak. Impossible to believe that they had
once held warmth and happiness, at a time when the building had sheltered
hard-working families.
“Stop,” the heavy demanded.
Presley halted.
“Up against the wall.”
“What?”
“Against the wall, now.”
Presley turned, “Is that
necessary, considering what I’m here to buy?”
“Just do it.”
“Okay,” he huffed, turning
towards the decaying, bare wall. He laid his hands out, palm-flat, and then
spread his legs. A moment later, the heavy’s shovel-like hand began to pat him
down.
“Okay, you’re clean,” the man
said. “Follow me.”
The heavy led the way up a
short flight of steps and along another barren passageway. He stopped outside
the only room to have a door still hanging from its hinges and rapped on it
twice.
A thin, reedy voice screeched
from the other side. “What now?”
The heavy cringed slightly, as
if the voice had shattered his eardrums. He pushed the door open to reveal a
small office beyond. Stretching out before them was a table that almost spanned
the entire room from wall to wall. An assortment of firearms, ranging from
small homemade zipguns to larger, polished assault rifles, were laid out across
the table’s surface. And a skinny balding man sat behind them, grinning
foolishly, Presley thought, like a man displaying his prize-winning home-grown
vegetables.
“Who we got here?” he asked, in
a voice straight out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
“Fella looking to open up an
account,” the heavy answered.
“Really, Timothy?”
Perkins turned towards the
heavy – Timothy – and shook his head in slight bemusement. The guy looked like
a Brutus, or Butch or Bulldog, not a Timothy.
“An account, hey?” echoed the
skinny guy. He hopped off his oversized chair and walked around the table,
barely squeezing past one of its wide edges. He stood in front of Timothy with
his hands clasped together tightly, his face almost serene in its poise. Then,
his hands parted and one opened out to slap Timothy hard across his face.
“Are you totally fucking
stupid?”
“Gee, Moses, what did I do
wrong?” Timothy asked, tears welling in his eyes.
Moses brushed past the heavy
and stopped in front of Perkins. “You a cop?” he asked, scrutinising the
unfamiliar face of his mysterious visitor.
“No,” Perkins replied. “I’m not
a cop.”
“You wearin’ a wire?” Moses
asked, leaning his face to within inches of Presley’s, but tipping a look
toward Timothy’s. “You check him for a wire?” Moses asked over his shoulder.
“Yeah boss, he’s clean,”
Timothy said.
The scraggy face hovered in
front of Presley’s for a moment longer. Despite the man’s name, there was
nothing remarkably wise or divine about
face, as though attempting to commit every detail to memory.
“Wait there.”
Oh, for the love of God!
The muddy-brown eyes became
just a dark slot in the doorway for a third time. Another couple of minutes
passed by before the sound of a heavy-duty bolt sliding back came from the
other side. The slab of steel slowly cracked open. A dark corridor stretched
out before him.
Muddy eyes gave way to a burly
lump of muscle. The doorman stepped away from the door, his firearm drawn and a
look of menace etched across his face.
“Moses will see you now,” the
heavy said. A hand big enough to crush Presley’s face pushed the door shut
before sliding the bolt back into place, sealing them both within this tight
corridor.
“That way,” the heavy ordered,
waving his gun towards the opposite end of the passageway.
Perkins took the lead. The
hallway was littered with empty food wrappers and drinks bottles. A few used
syringes – dark-brown liquid staining their dirty barrels – lay scattered about,
along with hundreds of scraps of tinfoil, wrapped into small balls, enough to
cover the floor like a glittering carpet of stolen dreams.
Several doorways lay open to
reveal empty rooms, each cold and bleak. Impossible to believe that they had
once held warmth and happiness, at a time when the building had sheltered
hard-working families.
“Stop,” the heavy demanded.
Presley halted.
“Up against the wall.”
“What?”
“Against the wall, now.”
Presley turned, “Is that
necessary, considering what I’m here to buy?”
“Just do it.”
“Okay,” he huffed, turning
towards the decaying, bare wall. He laid his hands out, palm-flat, and then
spread his legs. A moment later, the heavy’s shovel-like hand began to pat him
down.
“Okay, you’re clean,” the man
said. “Follow me.”
The heavy led the way up a
short flight of steps and along another barren passageway. He stopped outside
the only room to have a door still hanging from its hinges and rapped on it
twice.
A thin, reedy voice screeched
from the other side. “What now?”
The heavy cringed slightly, as
if the voice had shattered his eardrums. He pushed the door open to reveal a
small office beyond. Stretching out before them was a table that almost spanned
the entire room from wall to wall. An assortment of firearms, ranging from
small homemade zipguns to larger, polished assault rifles, were laid out across
the table’s surface. And a skinny balding man sat behind them, grinning
foolishly, Presley thought, like a man displaying his prize-winning home-grown
vegetables.
“Who we got here?” he asked, in
a voice straight out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
“Fella looking to open up an
account,” the heavy answered.
“Really, Timothy?”
Perkins turned towards the
heavy – Timothy – and shook his head in slight bemusement. The guy looked like
a Brutus, or Butch or Bulldog, not a Timothy.
“An account, hey?” echoed the
skinny guy. He hopped off his oversized chair and walked around the table,
barely squeezing past one of its wide edges. He stood in front of Timothy with
his hands clasped together tightly, his face almost serene in its poise. Then,
his hands parted and one opened out to slap Timothy hard across his face.
“Are you totally fucking
stupid?”
“Gee, Moses, what did I do
wrong?” Timothy asked, tears welling in his eyes.
Moses brushed past the heavy
and stopped in front of Perkins. “You a cop?” he asked, scrutinising the
unfamiliar face of his mysterious visitor.
“No,” Perkins replied. “I’m not
a cop.”
“You wearin’ a wire?” Moses
asked, leaning his face to within inches of Presley’s, but tipping a look
toward Timothy’s. “You check him for a wire?” Moses asked over his shoulder.
“Yeah boss, he’s clean,”
Timothy said.
The scraggy face hovered in
front of Presley’s for a moment longer. Despite the man’s name, there was
nothing remarkably wise or divine about
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