They wrestled messily on the floor, each trying to get on top of the other, snatching hair, wrists, ears. Tom grabbed at the man’s clothing; the man grabbed at his skin, which was infinitely more painful. The man got on top of him; Tom found a stubbled cheek against his clenched teeth and bit hard, tasting blood, feeling sick that he’d done it, less than human. The yowl that came from his opponent was just as animal.
And suddenly a gun was pressed against his face – cold and hard and frightening. Tom stopped fighting and let go of the man, who turned out to be Mr Stanley.
Of course it did. Who else would it be?
The man with the gun was the Weasel. He smiled down at Tom. ‘Mr Patrick. How are you?’
Tom spat Stanley’s blood out of his mouth. ‘Not great,’ he panted.
The Weasel’s smile widened.
‘Bastard bit me!’ said Stanley, clutching his cheek. He drew his arm back but the Weasel put up a hand.
‘Not yet,’ he said.
Tom twisted his head to look around the room. ‘Where’s Lucia?’
Stanley sat back on his haunches so Tom could see her lying on the floor beside her dressing-table, apparently out cold.
‘Is she okay?’
‘Why don’t you worry about how you are? And how you’re gonna be?’ said Stanley, as he stood up.
‘How did you find me?’
Stanley grinned. ‘It’s always easy to follow a man who’s following his dick.’
Tom said nothing.
‘Where’s the money?’ asked the Weasel.
Still Tom said nothing.
This time the Weasel stepped on Tom’s face and pressed it sideways against the wooden floor so he was staring at Lucia’s bare, still foot. He dug the barrel of his pistol into Tom’s ear. He flinched more in anticipation than in pain.
‘Where’s the money?’ the Weasel said again, calmly.
‘And the bolt,’ Stanley reminded him.
‘Yeah. The money and the bolt.’
Tom felt helpless. Helpless and stupid. He couldn’t lie, much though he wanted to. He knew that anyone else he accused of having the bolt would be in mortal danger.
‘I’ve got the money. I don’t have the bolt.’
‘Bullshit,’ said the Weasel, sounding amused. ‘We were watching the hotel. We saw you fall out of Mrs Munro’s window. Smooth technique, by the way.’
These were the men who’d shot Lenny Munro.
Stanley kicked him in the ribs to speed things along, and when Tom got his breath back, he said, ‘In my jeans.’
Stanley snorted in derision and picked them up. The Weasel took the gun out of his ear but kept up the pressure on the side of his face. Tom watched Stanley pat down the pockets and pull out slabs of cash. Then he did the same with his leather jacket. ‘Is it all here?’
Tom decided they wouldn’t miss the cost of a KFC bargain bucket, so he nodded with difficulty under the Weasel’s shoe.
Stanley dipped his hand into the jeans pocket again and drew out the bolt. He squatted down and waggled it in front of Tom’s squashed face. ‘You don’t even have the sense to hide it.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘You’re such an asshole.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
Stanley stuffed the bolt into his own pocket.
The Weasel pushed Tom onto his side, wound a plastic zip tie around his wrists and pulled it tight. ‘Okay, then,’ he said. ‘On your feet.’
Tom rose, achingly. It seemed to be all he’d done lately. He longed for a time when he was just suspended from work, on a losing streak at cards, and his girlfriend had dumped him. They seemed like halcyon days.
The Weasel gripped his biceps. ‘Come on.’
‘Can I get dressed?’
‘No.’
Stanley bundled the jeans and jacket – still full of money – under his arm. ‘Where you’re going you won’t need any clothes.’
‘Swimming?’ Tom asked, but without any edge.
He glanced back at Lucia, but was dragged roughly out of the apartment and into the cold of the deep blue dawn.
Stanley’s Thunderbird was parked near by and he jingled his keys in his hand as they approached it.
