Chapter Sixty
We rode to Parel, and the abandoned mills district. The information from the Tuareg put Concannon’s drug operation in a vacated factory complex, rented out in small private spaces.
The place was a ghost town at night, meaning that many people reported seeing ghosts in the vast network of factory huts after dark. Men and women had lived, worked and died in those acres for two generations, before the mills closed. You know what ghosts are? Johnny Cigar once said to me. Poor people, who die.
‘It looks deserted,’ Oleg said, as we parked the bike and walked toward the rows of grey, silent factories.
‘It mostly is, at night,’ I said. ‘He’s working from the fourth building. Factory 4A. Keep your voice down.’
We were keeping to a chain-link fence line, shadowed by billboards advertising get-broke-quick schemes for property and the stock market.
‘At the very least,’ Oleg whispered, ‘it’s damn good material for my writing.’
I stopped, and stopped Oleg with a palm on his chest.
‘Writing?’ I whispered.
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you a journalist, Oleg?’
‘Chert, net,’ he whispered.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means Hell, no, in Russian. It’s like the opposite of chert, da.’
‘You’re teaching me Russian, now?’ I whispered. ‘Are you a fucking journalist or not, Oleg?’
‘No, I’m a writer.’
‘A writer?’
‘Yes.’
‘A Russian writer? You’re kidding, right?’
‘Well, I’m a writer,’ he whispered. ‘And I’m Russian. So, I guess that makes me a Russian writer, if you want to think about it that way. Are we still going to the fight?’
I had my hands on my knees, leaning forward into a decision. I was trying to decide if I’d rather face the two-plus-two in factory 4A on my own, or with a Russian writer. It wasn’t an easy decision, but maybe that was just a writer thing.
‘A Russian writer,’ I whispered.
‘You’ve got something against Russian writers?’
‘Who hasn’t got something against Russian writers?’
‘Really? What about Aksyonov? Everybody likes Aksyonov.’
‘Fuck you,’ I whispered.
‘What about Turgenev? Turgenev is funny.’
‘Yeah. As funny as Gogol.’
‘Gogol wasn’t strictly Russian,’ Oleg clarified, whispering hoarsely. ‘He was a Ukrainian Cossack. One of the great Cossack writers.’
‘Enough.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Oleg whispered, his hand on my arm. ‘Are you a writer? That’s it, isn’t it? Ha! How funny, two writers, engaging on a quest together.’
‘Oh, shit. ’
‘By the way,’ he asked. ‘What is our quest?’
With the Russian, it might be possible to surprise the three men, let me have it out with Concannon, and get out again without anyone getting hurt but Concannon, and me. Without Oleg, I’d have to cut Concannon’s men, which was why I wanted Oleg with me. But he was a writer. A Russian writer.
‘Then there’s Lev Luntz,’ Oleg whispered hopefully. ‘I love him.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ I whispered back.
I straightened up, and looked around. The long, wide street had nature frontage on one side with a railway line behind. The Nissen hut factories on our side were silent, stretching away from us like so many burial mounds.
There was no-one in sight, and even the wandering pariah dogs were scouting other ranges. It was peaceful, in the way that dangerous places are if you’re not scared of them. I was channelling that peace, because I was scared, and I wanted to stop Concannon without more blood, but I didn’t think it would be that easy.
‘By the way, why me?’ Oleg whispered. ‘Why not your friend Didier, or someone else?’
‘You really wanna know?’
‘Of course,’ he said, searching my eyes. ‘It could be good material.’
‘Because I’ve got friends who’d go with me, but they might get hurt, and I’d feel bad about that, but I won’t feel bad if you get hurt. You see that, right?’
‘I see that,’ he whispered, grinning happily. ‘And it’s a very good reason. If I was in the same spot, I’d buy your life, too.’
‘I’m not buying your life, Dostoevsky. I’m buying your time, in a fight. Are we clear?’
‘Clear,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m glad we had this talk.’
‘Well, here’s another talk. If you go near my girlfriend, I’ll cut you.’
‘You’ve got a girlfriend?’ he whispered, incredulously.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well . . . ’
‘If you make a Russian-writer move on her, I’ll cut you.’
‘I got the cutting part the first time,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not something you forget.’
He was grinning at me, and I couldn’t read it. He was either a pretty happy guy, wherever he was, or there was something he knew that I didn’t know.
‘What?’ I frowned.
‘You’ve really got a girlfriend?’ he asked.
‘Keep your Russian epic away from her.’
‘I got it, I got it,’ he grinned.
‘What are you grinning about?’
‘It’s just so much fun, to do some shit worth writing about with another writer. We should work on a short story together, after this. I’ve got some great ideas.’
‘Will you cut it out. We could get seriously fucked up here. This Irish guy’s crazy, and tungsten hard. Stay sharp.’
‘Okay, okay, take it easy. I’ve got twelve thousand bucks invested in this. Let’s fuck up the Irishman and his friends, and get drunk.’
He started sprinting toward factory 4A, alone. Russians.
I sprinted after him and caught him outside the entrance. We slipped around the side of the huge, curved hut to sneak a glimpse in a raised window.
Concannon was there with two men, playing cards on the bonnet of an immaculate red Pontiac Laurentian, partially obscured by a silver dust cover.
‘Are you good?’ I whispered.
‘Good for what?’ Oleg whispered back. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘We walk in through the door and I challenge the Irishman.’
‘Don’t you think we should sneak in?’
‘If I was a sneak-in guy, I would’ve brought a gun.’
‘You didn’t bring a gun?’
I opened the door and walked into the empty factory. Oleg was a step behind me as we crossed the floor. We stopped a few steps from Concannon and his friends.
The Afghan’s hands were in his lap. The Indian’s hands were in his lap. I didn’t know if they had guns or not.
I knew where Concannon’s hands were. They were applauding.
‘You’re more fun than a drunk nun,’ he applauded. ‘I heard you were dead. I see it was just a vicious rumour.’
‘Let’s do this,’ I said. ‘Just you and me, alone.’
‘Is it a fight you want, boyo?’
He was still grinning. I’d learned how much you can come to dislike a happy grin.
‘I want you to stop all your shit, and stay away from me, and my friends. If you agree to that, I’ll sit down, and beat your ass at poker.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Cold stars filtered through wet light glittered in his eyes.
‘Then it’s you and me, right here, right now, and we’ll settle this, once and for all.’
He leaned back in his plastic chair, and smiled.
‘Put your gun on him, Govinda,’ he said quietly.
It was the Indian guy who had the gun. The Afghan stood up, his cards still in his hand.
‘Yes, boss,’ Govinda said.
‘Get up, Govinda, and stand beside his friend.’
‘Yes, boss.’
Govinda stood up, and moved away from the car.
‘Keep your gun on the Australian convict as you walk, lad,’ Concannon warned. ‘He’s a naughty one. If he moves an inch, shoot him.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Govinda said, smiling at me.
His eyes shone like opals in the half-light of the factory. When he reached Oleg, he shoved the gun into his stomach. Oleg was still smiling. It looked like I was the only guy in the place who wasn’t smiling.
‘I come in here, man to man, and you pull a gun?’ I said.
He was stung, because we both knew I was right. The fight was rising in him, fast.
‘Just a little insurance,’ he said, controlling his rage.
‘You do this the wrong way, Concannon, we won’t be the only ones who die.’
I said it for the benefit of the paid hands, the Afghan and Indian henchmen.
‘Govinda will certainly die,’ I said. ‘And the Afghan, too.’
I turned to the Afghan.
‘Salaam aleikum,’ I said.
He wouldn’t reply.
‘Salaam aleikum,’ I said, insisting on one of the kindest Islamic teachings, that a genuine greeting of peace should always be met with an equal or better greeting.
‘Wa aleikum salaam,’ he said, at last.
‘What’s your name?’
He opened his mouth to speak, but Concannon cut him off.
‘Don’t tell him that, you heathen half-wit. He’s just fuckin’ with your mind, don’t you see? He’s gone native, so he knows native talk. But it’s all just to fuck with your fragile heathen minds. Watch a master, while I fuck with his mind.’
He stood up and walked around the front of the car to stand close to me.
‘If he does anything at all,’ he said to Govinda, ‘shoot his friend. I’ll help you cut the body up meself, later on.’
‘Yes, boss.’
He stood opposite me, swaying from side to side slowly, his lips pressed into the shell of a smile.
‘I know what you want to know,’ he said, standing close to me.
‘I want you to stop. That’s all.’
‘Ha! No, you don’t. You want the answer to a very important question.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘A question,’ he sang at me. ‘A question, a question.’
‘Spit it out.’
‘Mind my words, Govinda!’ he commanded, looking at me. ‘If he makes a move on me, kill his friend. I’ll take care of this cunt.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘You only really want to know one thing,’ he said, leaning in close. ‘Did I fuck her, that sweet little American girlfriend of yours, before I left Ranjit with her that night, or didn’t I?’
Veins worked their clotted way upward from my clenched jaw through my eyes and into my forehead. I was sweating with the rage to hurt him. It was something else, something different, something I hadn’t brought through the door with me. When he put Lisa in the room, I was fighting for her.
‘You know, Concannon,’ I said, biting back to make him fight back. ‘If the Great Famine didn’t starve the English out of you, it’s because you’re really just an Englishman, with an Irish accent.’
He rushed at my throat, but I dodged away and backed off toward the car.
‘Why don’t we just do this?’ I said, loosening up. ‘My guess is, you’re all talk. Let’s find out, and get this over with. If you kick my ass, and you’re prepared to shake and be friends, I’ll be happy to admit you’re the better man. If I win, you stay the fuck away from me and mine. Sound fair to you, Govinda?’
‘Yes, boss,’ he answered automatically.
‘Shut up, you fool,’ Concannon snapped.
‘I think your gunman has his conscience on safety,’ I said. ‘Let’s do this without a gun, Concannon. Sound fair to you, Govinda?’
‘Shut up!’ Concannon shouted. ‘Shut up everybody!’
He looked me up and down for a while.
Am I right? Am I right, now, when I look back to that smile on my enemy’s face, and see reluctance, in a man who loved to fight?
‘Okay, if it’s a fight you want, Convict, then you’ve come to the right place. You don’t mind if I play a little music, do ya? I always play music, when I’m beatin’ a man black and blue. I’ve been thinking of bringin’ out an album, of my favourite hits, like.’
He snapped on a disc player, connected to speakers in the car. Irish music kicked from the red Pontiac. Concannon shaped up, his hands in front, on guard.
‘Let’s have at you, then,’ he said.
I ran at him, falling to the ground, and punching at his thigh, exactly where Abdullah had shot him. I got in two hard shots as I passed. He yelped in pain, and dropped his knee.
I scrambled up, and shoved in under his guard, reaching up for one of his eyes. I let him swing at the back of my head. I felt the blows hit, but didn’t feel any pain. I closed my fingers, digging into his eye socket.
He jerked away quickly. I scratched one socket enough to make him close it, blinking blood.
One eye closed, one knee bent, he swung at me in a combination from habit, just as Naveen had warned me. I dodged, ducked, and came in close enough to put my fingers in his collarbone. I pulled it down, putting all my bodyweight in a dead fall to the floor. The bone came loose and he screeched, his arm swaying in the pain.
Prison fighting isn’t about fighting. Prison fighting is about winning, and dead.
‘So, it’s like that, is it?’ he asked, trying to dance away from me, and rubbing at his eye.
‘Yeah. It’s like that.’
He danced back again, but I dropped to the floor and grabbed at his balls, twisting as I fell. I didn’t let go. He fell awkwardly, trying to protect his legacy.
I scrambled to my knees, and hit him as hard as I could. It wasn’t enough, so I hit him again.
He swayed in place, sitting on the floor. He was laughing, and still holding his balls with his good hand. He laughed, rocking back and forth like a baby on a blanket.
‘You cheated, as this man is my witness,’ he said, pointing at Oleg.
‘And that piece of lead you hit me with last time? What was that, Marquess of Londonderry rules? The twenty-four-hour contract you put on my life? That was fair and square? This is your chance to shut up and listen for a change. Leave me alone, Concannon.’
‘You cheated, son,’ he said, trying to laugh. ‘You’ll have to confess that sin, you know.’
‘If you don’t stop coming after me, I’ll have a bigger sin to confess.’
‘You know, boyo, I liked you a lot more when you were dead,’ he laughed, one eye closed and bloody. ‘Govinda, shoot this fucking convict. Shoot the cunt in the head.’
It happened fast. Govinda moved his hand. Oleg pulled a knife, slashed him across the face, and pulled the gun from his hand before shock hit the floor.
Govinda screamed in pain, knowing that his movie-hero face had been recast. Oleg hit him with his own gun, and he was quiet.
The Afghan still had his cards in his hand, like a tiny fan. I had my knife in my hand. Oleg had the gun.
‘If I were you, friend, I’d run,’ Oleg smiled, the gun at his side. ‘No matter how good your hand is.’
The Afghan dropped his cards and ran.
‘You’ve dislocated me collarbone, ya cunt,’ Concannon said, his head lolling to the side. ‘I can’t even raise me arm. If I could, I could knock you out with a single blow, we both know that.’
‘Leave . . . me . . . alone.’
‘Lovely, lovely, lovely Lisa,’ he said.
I hit him again. He went backwards until the floor stopped him, his arms at his sides, but he wasn’t out.
What do I do? I thought. Can I kill him? Not unless he’s trying to kill me. Concannon was lying on the floor with one eye closed and a busted collarbone. He hadn’t even tried to get up. He was still talking, though, and chuckling, as if it was a joke he couldn’t stop telling himself.
Oleg didn’t like it. He wanted to gag him, but I pointed out that the karmic burden would be his, if Concannon choked to death on the gag.
Oleg hit him, instead, and he was good at it. Concannon slumbered, and we left him in the care of the injured Govinda. I warned him that he’d lose more than a cheek, if I ever saw him in the south again.
‘I’m taking your gun,’ Oleg told him. ‘If you want it back, I’ll kill you with it.’
We jogged back to the bike in silence. I stopped him, when we reached it, to thank him.
‘The six thousand from tonight,’ I said, handing him the money. ‘I’ll have the rest, and a bonus, tomorrow. I’ll be at Leo’s at five. What you did back there, I owe you.’
‘I would hate to see that Irishman drunk,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder.
‘I hope I never see him again in any condition. You did really good, Oleg.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling.
‘You smile a lot, don’t you?’
‘I’m happy, most of the time. It’s my cross, but I try to bear it with good humour. I have my sadness, but it doesn’t stop me from being happy. You want to work on a short story with me?’
‘Are you really a writer?’
‘Of course.’
‘Those were some pretty snappy lines, back there.’
‘Lines?’
‘Telling the Afghan to leave, no matter how good his hand was. Telling Krishna that you’d kill him with his own gun.’
‘Russian movies,’ he said, frowning. ‘You mean, you don’t know dialogue from Russian movies? You’ll love it. It’s great material.’
We rode back to Colaba. I shook Oleg’s hand, and left him outside a tourist hotel, on the strip.
Vanity hides in pride. I left Oleg standing by the side of the road, after he’d saved my life, telling myself that I didn’t need anyone, not even a good man like him. But the truth was that I left him because I liked him, and knew that Karla would probably like him as much as I did, or more. It’s a shame, my shame, to admit it, but I left that good man on the street because I was a little jealous of him, and Karla hadn’t even met him.