Read Online I Love My Smith and Wesson by David Bowker - Free Book Online

wasn’t your cue! That was me telling you about your cue!”
    â€œWell, how the fuck was I supposed to know?” complained the drummer.
    â€œJesus Christ. Take fucking five,” said Little Malc, attaching his mike to the stand and walking off.
    Rawhead got up from the stool and waited for Little Malc to pass. “Mr. Priest?”
    Little Malc turned to look at him. “Who are you?”
    â€œEr, excuse me, Mr. Priest; I heard that you might need a doorman.’
    â€œDid you really.” Little Malc looked Rawhead up and down. “You opportunistic bastard. Yes, we fucking do. Are you any good?”
    â€œI used to work for Tommy Dean in Leeds.” Rawhead passed Little Malc a forged reference.
    Little Malc peered at it. “‘Abraham Stoker.’ Is that your name?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Priest.”
    â€œAre you clean, Abraham? Reason I ask, see, is I can’t use anyone with a criminal record. I’ll get closed down if I do things like that.”
    â€œI haven’t been in trouble since I was a kid.”
    â€œEr, no. Sorry.” Little Malc handed back the letter. “When I say clean I mean fucking clean.” He started to walk away.
    â€œYour dad would have given me a chance,” said Rawhead.
    Little Malc turned round, his eyes narrowing with venom. “What? What did you say?”
    â€œI met your dad once. At Maine Road. When I was a kid, a guy I washed cars for lent me his pass to the director’s box. That’s where I met your dad. He was really a great guy. Bought me drinks all afternoon, really looked after me. He could see I was a little bastard, but he treated me with kindness. So, yeah. I think he would have given me this chance.”
    â€œOh. You do, do you?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Little Malc took out a packet of Rothmans, put one in his mouth, and fumbled around for a light. Rawhead produced a silver Harley Davidson lighter and offered a flame to Little Malc. Little Malc gave a small nod of thanks, inhaled smoke, and stared into a corner. “You’re a slick twat; I’ll give you that.” Little Malc stepped back and looked sideways at Rawhead. “And you really want a job, do you?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Little Malc nodded skeptically. “Standing on a door, arguing with drunken pricks who want to know why they can’t come in wearing their underpants over their fucking heads?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œYou realize it’s only five quid an hour? No sick pay, health insurance, or paid holidays?”
    â€œI don’t care. I want to work, Mr. Priest.”
    â€œOK. Tonight at eight. But only because I’m fucking desperate. Understand? You’re on trial. If you’re late, you’re sacked. If someone lays you out, you’re sacked. If you start any trouble or try bad-mouthing difficult customers, you’re out.”
    â€œThanks, Mr. Priest.”
    â€œAnd no weapons. If I ever catch you carrying a gun or a knife you’re also fucking out. Is that clear, Abra-fucking-ham ?”
    â€œAbsolutely, Mr. Priest.”
    *   *   *
    Rawhead’s first night passed without serious incident. He worked the door with a young black kid called Brando, a sullen bodybuilder with a bad attitude. A coachload of Liverpudlians arrived. Two of them, both men in their twenties, didn’t have tickets. Calmly, speaking softly and politely, Brando refused them entry. Rawhead stood back and watched, interested to see how the kid performed. One of the Scousers claimed that Brando’s refusal to admit them owed nothing to their lack of tickets and everything to the fact that they came from Merseyside.
    â€œYou think we couldn’t buy a couple of poxy tickets if we wanted to?”
    â€œWell, why didn’t you?”
    â€œYou Manchester cunts think you’re better than us.”
    Brando aped astonishment. “What do you mean I said you