Wolf Tickets Read online

  WOLF TICKETS

  Ray Banks

  This one's for Ken Bruen, Chester Himes and Joe Lansdale.

  With apologies ...

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2012

  copyright © 2010, 2012 Ray Banks

  First published in Needle Magazine, issues #3-#5, 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Ray Banks has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Cover photo: Giles Chiroleu

  Visit Ray Banks at:

  www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-18-7

  Version 2-1-3

  Also by Ray Banks

  Novels

  Dead Money

  The Cal Innes Quartet

  Saturday's Child

  Donkey Punch

  No More Heroes

  Beast of Burden

  Novellas

  Gun

  California

  Also by Blasted Heath

  Dead Money by Ray Banks

  Wee Rockets by Gerard Brennan

  Phase Four by Gary Carson

  The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson by Douglas Lindsay

  The Unburied Dead by Douglas Lindsay

  The Man in the Seventh Row by Brian Pendreigh

  The Killing of Emma Gross by Damien Seaman

  All The Young Warriors by Anthony Neil Smith

  Keep informed of new releases by signing up to the Blasted Heath newsletter. We'll even send you a free book by way of thanks!

  "Another one I like is wolf tickets, which means bad news, as in someone who is bad news or generally insubordinate. In a sentence you'd say, 'Don't fuck with me, I'm passing out wolf tickets.' I think it's either Baltimore Negro or turn-of-the-century railroad use."

  —Tom Waits, Playboy Magazine, 1988

  PART ONE

  GET NORA

  COBB

  I was on a halfway nash across Asda car park when I heard this whiney little security prick pipe up behind us.

  High voice going: "Sir? Sir, if you could just ... Excuse me?"

  I had a bottle of Cherry Coke, one of them white poverty bracelets and a fistful of Freddos in my jacket, and I never paid for item fuckin' one. They were small time hobby-steals, hardly worth the bother, except this twat wasn't letting us out of his sight. Didn't need to turn around to know which one it was, either – I could tell by the sound of his footsteps that he was that Security with legs too short for his body. He was built like a tall dwarf, young and freakish, and his feet made this little pattering sound when he walked. Old Security, they never bothered us much – they knew better. It was just the young cunts with something to prove who tried it on.

  "Okay now, you hold it." Bit more gravel in his voice, like he'd only been messing before and he was pure serious now. "You stop right there or I'll call the police."

  So I stopped. And I turned. There he was, one hand in his pocket, trying to square us up. I looked at the cardboard creases in his new white shirt, wondered why his mam hadn't bothered ironing them out.

  He cleared his throat. He said, "I think you have some items there that you haven't paid for."

  I shook my head. "Nah."

  "Would you turn out your pockets for me, please?"

  I was friendly about it: "Fuck off."

  "If you don't turn out your pockets, you know I'm well within my rights to search you."

  "And I'm well within my rights to knock you on your arse you so much as breathe on us."

  Security held his hands up. His fingernails were minging, all hacky and bit to the quick. I put one hand in my jacket pocket, felt around for the sock.

  "There's no need to be aggressive, sir."

  "I'm not being aggressive. I know my rights."

  "Then I'll have to ask you to come back into the shop—"

  "I think I already telt you to fuck off, didn't I?"

  "Now you are being aggressive."

  "You want us to sign it for you, son? It's simple enough. Whatever you stick near us gets broke off, capisce?"

  Security looked around him. Midweek morning, there was nobody about. He rubbed his tongue across his bottom teeth. He breathed out once, hard, through his nose, made a sound like a baby bull. He took a good long look at us, weighed it up.

  Me against him, me all flabby and old and him as gym-wide as he was tall.

  On paper, it was a fuckin' no-brainer, even if Security hadn't reckoned himself tidy as, which he did. So, being a daft bastard, he made a grab for us. And me being prepared, I was ready for him.

  There's an old saying: it's better to have a size thirteen sock with a clutch of double-As in the toe and not need it than ...

  You know the rest.

  Brought my hand out my pocket, let the sock drop. A dull clicking sound as the batteries hit the toe. Security frowned, hands out. I hefted. He opened his mouth. I lashed the cunt across the eyes.

  He made a noise like "Ah-yah!" then dropped and rolled. Didn't have time to say much else before I stepped up and took the sock to the back of the bastard's ankles, double-whap. Then he started screaming, so I had to kick the wind out of him, else he'd have the fuckin' polis round in no time. Took a couple goes, like, on account of I was wearing my Golas and they're proper shit to kick with, but I managed in the end.

  He breathed grit for a while. I stepped back, caught my breath and then hockled on Security.

  Said, "That's what you get for trying to poof up a war hero."

  Then I patted my arse like the bird in the ads and did one.

  FARRELL

  God, that fucking noise.

  I woke up on the couch with a crick in my neck and a hangover that felt like the day of reckoning. Looked down. Stripped to boxers and Docs. Somewhere in the flat, it sounded like a deaf person was fighting for her life.

  Took me a moment to piece it all together. It was Nora's pet sound: Dido. In particular, "Hunter", a tune that had almost eclipsed "I Will Survive" as the tear-streaked fuck-you karaoke anthem of the bingo-winged divorcée, the kind of woman, the only thin part of them was their mascara. Dido was big about ten years ago; I didn't need a comeback right now.

  I rolled off the couch onto the floor. Something kicked me in the back of the eyes. A Bushmills night, Guinness back. Jesus, what a way to break a drought. Couldn't remember the last time I'd had a proper drink, and there we were last night, Nora pushing me into one after the other. Celebrating something, must have been, but I couldn't for the life of me remember what it was.

  I did remember her trying to get my boots off.

  Remembered saying – no, Jesus, singing – "I die with my boots on!"

  But I couldn't think straight, not with that racket. I tracked it through to the kitchen and the portable CD player that'd been turned out to face the living room. Stabbed at the buttons with one finger, used my fist like a hammer, then grabbed the player and launched it across the room.

  A crash that sent white lights flaring behind my eyes, then silence.

  I took a moment to myself, eyes closed, pinching the bridge. When I looked up, the first thing I saw through the black bugs was the note on the fridge.

  I plucked the paper from under the Hello Kitty magnet, read it:

  Sean,

  By the time you read this I will be gone.

  Don't try to find me because I won't be found. Just accept that it was time to say goodbye. So before you get too angry you should know I took some stuff.
<
br />   The money – because you owe me.

  The jacket – because I like it.

  The coke – because things go better with it (ha!)

  Everything else in the flat is yours. Hope you like the music. Like the song, I have to be a HUNTER again. I hope you understand. If you don't then fine. Fuck you.

  Love always,

  Nora

  XOXOXO

  P.S. Take care of Heinz for me – I know you will.

  Right. Okay.

  I slapped the note face down on the kitchen counter. I went through to the bedroom, tore back the carpet by the window, lifted the one loose floorboard and stared into the hole.

  Nothing.

  Put a hand down there to have a double check – nothing but fluff. I got up and went to the wardrobe. On her side: a ratty dressing gown and chicken slippers. On my side: everything I owned. Almost. Like the note said, I was minus one jacket. I grabbed the dressing gown from the hanger, flung it out the window, watched it drop like a slow suicide.

  Treacherous.

  Fucking.

  Hoor.

  The dressing gown landed in the canal, spreading on the green water. I watched it until it buckled under, then I threw on some jeans and a T-shirt – same outfit Nora always said made me look like a cruiser – and took one of the chicken feet slippers with me into the kitchen. My gut churned; it needed something. I dropped the slipper on the counter, went through the cupboards until I found the last variety pack of Coco Puffs. Ripped off the top, palmed the bottle of Bush and poured the dregs into the cereal.

  An old pick-me-up, handed down by my old man. I upended the box into my mouth, crunched the cereal down. Hair of the dog, sugared up. Nothing better to get the sleep out of your eyes, even if it did taste rotten. The mixture stayed down, but not without a struggle. I slung the empty box in the bin, then put hands on the fridge freezer and walked it a couple of steps away from the wall.

  Peeked behind. Allowed myself a smirk.

  She'd missed the .22 taped to the back, thank fuck. Much as I'd trusted her, women like Nora demanded a man keep an insurance policy.

  I ripped the gun from the back of the fridge freezer, knocked the dust from it, then grabbed the slipper and headed downstairs.

  Could've done with that coke right then. A gram would've cut through the hangover nicely. But she'd taken it along with everything I held dear, and I didn't have time to call Angry Steve.

  It was one more annoyance to cap off a long list of 'em.

  The jacket wasn't an annoyance. The jacket was much more than that. A one-off, that jacket, a genuine rarity. Couldn't buy 'em in shops, no sir. That jacket was issued to the Italian cops. It had been stitched to last. Yeah, mine had a bullet hole in the shoulder, but it had also weathered like a good Zippo, and I had to admit, in a certain angle and a certain light, I looked just like Franco Nero in it.

  And then there was the money. Twenty large. Not a lot in the grand scheme of things, but enough to make that bastard behind the eyes kick up a notch when I thought about it.

  I pushed out through the fire exit, went looking for Heinz. He was chained to the wall down by the garages. The dog was some kind of mongrel – fifty-seven varieties and all of them mean as hell. He'd looked like a skinned fist when he was a puppy and he hadn't gotten any prettier with age. Soon as he saw me, a low growl sounded somewhere deep in his throat.

  We went way back, me and Heinz. He'd spilled my blood before. Wouldn't be surprised if he'd developed a taste for it.

  "Nasty fucking mutt, aren't you, eh?"

  Nora loved him. Always spoiling him with treats and pets and kind words. Loved him more than she ever loved me.

  Take care of Heinz for me.

  I tossed him the chicken slipper. Heinz launched himself at it, shook it between his jaws, growling louder and looking right at me as he did it. I watched him, tried a smile, and as soon as his head went down for another chew, I stepped up and put two in his skull. Heinz didn't make a sound, but he did glare at me for a count of three before the fire went out and he dropped to the concrete.

  I waited. You never knew with dogs like Heinz. You could put two in them and still miss their brain. I watched him twitch it out, watched him wind down. And when the blood pooled wide enough to confirm his passing to a better world, I left.

  There you go, Nora-love. Taken care of.

  COBB

  The biddy behind the counter at the Spastics shop, the one with the milk bottle lenses and the thick Selleck, probably knew that I twocked stuff but she didn't mind, or else she didn't say nowt about it. After all, charity began at home and all that.

  Trouble was, it wasn't the biddy watching us. There was this new girl, would've been sexy if she hadn't been carrying about a hundred extra pounds, and she was eyeing us like I was made of chips. She reminded us of someone, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I gave her a wink, anyway – beggars and choosers, and I was beginning to think the next woman who got lucky with Jimmy Cobb would get a wax dart for their troubles.

  She took the wink and looked away.

  Fair enough. This wasn't the time or the place for romance. If I was honest, I was a bit put off because of the musty smell, and I could never work out if it came from the biddy herself or the racks of dead man's pants over in the corner. I sniffed, rubbed my nose, and wandered round to the paperbacks. Cocked my head as I walked, checked out the spines. Looked like most of the books were about the search for the perfect man or the perfect pair of shoes, so I straightened up and headed for the CD shelf.

  The usual suspects on there. Dance Mix '97. The Best Party Album in the World Ever ... Part 10. Now That's What I Call Music 28. Checked the tracklisting, there was Stiltskin, Haddaway and The Brand New Heavies.

  Now That's What I Call Shite, more like.

  Another one, peeking out from the corner and covered in dust. Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes, Josef Locke. The name rang a bell, then I remembered – they'd made a film about him, had that fat bloke from Deliverance in it, the one that squealed like a pig. Had a fair voice on him in the Locke film, mind. Must've had lessons. Or else been dubbed over. Films were lying bastards.

  I looked at the back. "Soldier's Dream", "It's a Grand Life in the Army", "A Shawl of Galway Grey". All fine tunes.

  I checked over my shoulder. The biddy and Fat Lass were talking. I pushed the CD into my pocket and moved round to the dead man's pants.

  Spring was the best time for charity shops. Winter took care of the old and the weak so come March and April time, there was a load more new stock. Tell you, some of it was proper decent gear, too. And if there was a class of person who knew how to buy clothes that wore, it was the fuckin' elderly.

  I pulled a pair of grey tweeds from the rack, felt the material. Made to last centuries, but it'd grate your balls to ribbons if you ever went commando.

  I put the trousers back and took a hat from the shelf next to them, popped it on my head. I said to Fat Lass, "What d'you reckon?"

  She frowned at us like she didn't know what to say. Then she said, "Too small."

  I looked at myself in the mirror. Took off the hat and slung it off to one side, went back to the books. My nose got itchy. I had a rummage, pulled out something grey and wiped it on a Lee Child.

  "Do you mind?" It was Fat Lass.

  "You what?" I said.

  "This isn't a hostel, you know."

  And click, that's who she reminded us of – that Kirstie off of the telly, the one that went around trying to sell people houses. Had to say, like, I wouldn't have kicked her out of my pit back in the day, but I couldn't get to grips with her now, not since I found out she was a raging fuckin' Tory.

  "I know it's not a hostel," I said.

  "It's a shop."

  I nodded.

  "So ..."

  I nodded again. Probably beginning to look a bit simple, but I didn't know what this wifie's crack was.

  "So, if you're not going to buy anything, I suggest you leave."

  "
It's a free country, pet. I can browse if I want."

  "I know about you," she said. "I know what you do. And apart from the fact that it's deplorable behaviour, it happens to be illegal."

  I remembered the snot. "Oh, you're a Jack Reacher fan, are you?"

  Her lips thinned, which given the size of her was a miracle in itself. Next to her, the biddy trembled. Couldn't tell if she was scared or excited.

  "If you don't leave right now," she said, "I'll call the police."

  "You what?"

  "You heard me."

  "You serious?"

  "Incredibly."

  "That's not very charitable."

  "Elsie, hand me the phone."

  I waved at her. "Alright, alright. Fuck's sake. I'm going."

  She watched us all the way to the door. I shook my head, couldn't get my brain round it. What kind of world was I living in where they give you the shaft in a charity shop? Right enough, I managed to get a CD out of it, but still, where was the common decency in folk?

  Tell the truth, I blamed Thatcher. Or that new cunt, the one that looked like he walked out of the fuckin' Beano.

  I took the long walk back home. Nipped to the corner for forty Berkeley Menthol and a litre bottle of Glen Rotgut. When I got back to the block, I took a second to prepare for the stairs. It was a long way, and I didn't trust the lift. Six floors up, I leaned against the wall for a minute, then went another six. Got in, kicked the door closed behind us, cracked the bottle of whisky and sparked a menthol. Took my jacket off, dropped to the settee and coughed through the dust I'd stirred up. Swig of the Rotgut, swilled it round my mouth like one of them wine connoisseurs before I swallowed it down.