Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Chapter 21

Antonio's concern for me is touching but it’s cost me long seconds. As I emerge, blinking against the sunlight, Wonder Boy has vanished.

Fuck!

Have I lost him?

I spin, scanning all around, seeking my quarry, ignoring the curious stares of passers-by…

… The line of parked cars…

Doorways…

… along the block…

… the other side of the street…

Zip. Nada…

Then, sprinting across the street, dodging the traffic, I make it to the corner: the clothes store I used as my lurking spot when I first came here.

How long did he hold me up?

Twenty seconds?

Thirty?

How far can the bastard have gone?

Then, I see him again, tall against the crowd.

He emerges from the next door along from Antonio’s, a small hair-salon-cum-barber-shop. Shoving something into his pocket, he turns my way…

The clothing store?

It appears Santa Claus is doing his rounds, collecting his gifts from all the little boys and girls on his list, regardless of whether they’re naughty or nice.

Hastily, I move on, cross the street to merge with the hubbub of people, then double-back on myself to wait, watching the store entrance as he enters, strolling in as though he owns the fucking place.

Own the people… Own the place…

Angling a bit, looking through the plate glass windows, I see him inside, looming over a shop-assistant, not much more than a teenager.

He’s much taller than the girl he’s intimidating. An arm to either side of her, smirking, he has her trapped, enclosed between his chest and arms, and the wall. Even from here, I can see the way her face is screwing up, close to tears.

I’ve seen James stand over Jenny with that same gesture; using his height, looking down on her, moving in on her space as he cages her with his body. But it’s different between them; easily seen for the game it really is. And where both understand…

…and accept…

… the rules.

This is the real thing…

If that were Jenny…

My gut tightens…

Then, inwardly, I chuckle.

If that were Jenny, Wonder Boy would have a knee in his groin and a knife/broken-bottle/metal-comb at his throat. The only time anyone ever took my daughter down, she was nine months pregnant. Even then, it took two strong men and a hypo of tranquilizer to pull it off.

As I watch, the girl ducks, then slides away from Wonder Boy, making for the counter, Stabbing at the till, she snatches cash from the drawer and, face contorted, thrusts it at him, yelling something I can’t hear.

I’d love to take him on.

You just try to intimidate someone who knows how to handle it…

I’ll wipe that smirk from your face…

…

It’s not the time…

Instead, I tuck it away for future reference, adding it to my list of To-Dos: Teach Asshole a lesson he won’t forget…

A minute later, he re-emerges, again stuffing his pocket…

Always the pocket…

…. Never the attache case…

… before sauntering to his next stop: a tobacconist a couple of doors along.

This time, I follow him inside. He’s already at the counter, exerting his charm, but both he and the girl serving fall silent as I point to the first brand I recognise… “Vinte, por favor. E um isqueiro…” … push the coins at her, then, pocketing a packet of twenty and the lighter, exit again.

Crossing the street, I stand in clear view, making a show of opening the packet, unravelling the plastic wrap, taking one out then, as I’m about to light up, Wonder Boy reappears. He doesn’t even look my way as, taking a sharp left, he strolls off into the crowd.

I watch for a few seconds, letting him get a little distance as I slip the cigarette back into the pack, when I realise there’s a beggar, rheumy-eyed, standing beside me, holding his hand out, looking at the cigarette.

I pass it to him, then offer up the lighter, the yellow-tipped flame flickering in the breeze. The beggar inhales deeply, smoke drifting from his nostrils, then gives me a small bow and a crack-lipped smile. “Obrigado, senhor.”

I touch my forehead… “My pleasure...” … then turn to follow…

Shit!

Where is he?

Wonder Boy’s nowhere in sight, lost in the milling crowd.

Have I lost him?

I break into a sprint, then at the curious stares coming my way, drop to a jog…

Where…?

Aahhh…

… There...

… Wonder Boy looks back and around, then ducks into a side-street

Furtive…

Dropping to an amble, I switch on my Mr Tourist face, coming to a halt by the alley. Loafing by the end, I fish my props out of their pocket, light up and, blowing smoke, stare up at a billboard advertising some local theatre performance, all the while sneak-peeking sidelong down the alley…

… where I see Wonder Boy tipping out his pockets and counting bills.

I count with him…

One… two… three... … twelve… thirteen… fourteen… … nineteen… twenty…

Finished, he peels two notes from the wad, sliding them into a wallet. The rest, he rolls, snaps an elastic band around, then jots a note on a pad. Then, the roll of notes and the pad go into his attaché case. Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

Fingers in the till?

Crime barons tend to value loyalty highly. Creaming ten per cent from the top won’t be well-received if he’s caught…

When he’s caught…

I smile to myself…

He sniffs, apparently clearing his nose, clips the case closed, then swaggers back towards the main street.

I snap my attention back to the theatre poster, then as he emerges, give him a fifty-yard start. With a final puff from the cigarette, I toss the foul thing into the gutter and follow.

We don't go far, this time just to the end of the block where a wide doorway gapes open under roller shutters. Inside, a car, an expensive model, is jacked up and from underneath, a pair of blue overalled legs stick out. A hand gropes in the oily concrete, grabs a spanner and disappears underneath again.

I keep my distance. I don’t need the details. This is another of the addresses on my list.

*****