couldn’t know that, of course, but he still grinned at the gesture, seeming to dismiss it. His eyes bored into Chib’s.
‘Better not have scratched the paint,’ Chib warned the man. ‘Respray could end up costing you an arm and a leg.’
The man eased himself off the bonnet and stood with his hands either side of him, fists bunched.
HATE and HATE.
‘You were not expecting me, Mr Calloway?’ The accent was foreign. Stood to reason. ‘I represent some people, Mr Calloway, people you should know better than to disappoint.’
By which he meant the Norwegians, the biker gang from Haugesund. Chib had known there’d be some trouble there.
‘You owe your friends for a shipment, Mr Calloway, and you have not been forthcoming.’
Johnno had taken half a step forward, but Chib swiped a hand against his shoulder. ‘I’ve already told them the money’s on its way,’ he rasped.
‘Repeatedly so, Mr Calloway, but it is hardly a sustainable bargaining position, is it?’
‘Chewed a bloody dictionary,’ Glenn snorted, Johnno adding a low chuckle.
The Hell’s Angel turned his face towards Glenn. ‘You mean because I speak your native language better than you yourself do?’
‘You don’t just come barging up to Mr Calloway!’ Glenn barked back. ‘You show him some respect!’
‘The same respect he has displayed towards my clients?’ The question sounded genuine.
‘You’re not part of the gang, then?’ Chib interrupted.
‘I am a collector of monies due, Mr Calloway.’
‘For a percentage?’
The man shook his head slowly. ‘I work for a straight fee, half of it in advance.’
‘Do you always collect the other half?’
‘So far.’
‘First time for everything,’ Johnno spat, while Glenn pointed out some marks on the BMW’s bonnet. The man ignored the pair of them: he had eyes only for Chib Calloway.
‘Tell them,’ Chib said, ‘the money’s coming. I’ve never let them down before and, frankly, I’m insulted they’ve sent you.’ He looked the stranger up and down. ‘A grocer’s boy running their errands for them.’ Chib decided a wagged finger might even be in order. ‘You report back to them, and we’ll talk again next week.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Calloway.’
Chib’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’
The man offered a sliver of a smile. ‘Because by next week they’ll have had their money paid in full.’
Johnno’s face broke into a snarl and he lunged forward, but the man sidestepped him neatly and grabbed his wrist, twisting until Johnno buckled in pain. Chib noticed that there were spectators: the manager from the bar had been told by a couple of pavement smokers to come look. Kids bunking off school had stopped their BMX wheelies to follow the entertainment. Glenn was ready to wade in but Chib stopped him. He’d never liked playing to an audience. Not since schooldays . . .
‘Let him go,’ he said quietly.
The stranger held Chib’s gaze for a few more seconds and then pushed Johnno’s arm away. Johnno was left sitting on the roadway, rubbing at his injury. The look the stranger was giving Chib said it all: Johnno and Glenn were as much use as infants in a playground when the artillery comes calling.
‘I’ll be sticking around,’ the man was saying. ‘I need to hear from you today; tomorrow at the latest. After that, the talking will all be over - do you understand?’
Johnno took a petulant swipe with one foot, trying to make contact with the stranger’s shins. The man ignored him and handed Chib a folded scrap of paper. It was a row of digits: a mobile phone number. When Chib looked up, he was walking away, making to cross the park.
‘Hey!’ Chib called out to him. ‘What’s your name, big man?’
The stranger paused for a moment. ‘People have a habit of calling me Hate,’ he called back over his shoulder, striding past the serried ranks of BMXs.
‘That figures,’ Chib muttered to himself. Glenn had
‘Better not have scratched the paint,’ Chib warned the man. ‘Respray could end up costing you an arm and a leg.’
The man eased himself off the bonnet and stood with his hands either side of him, fists bunched.
HATE and HATE.
‘You were not expecting me, Mr Calloway?’ The accent was foreign. Stood to reason. ‘I represent some people, Mr Calloway, people you should know better than to disappoint.’
By which he meant the Norwegians, the biker gang from Haugesund. Chib had known there’d be some trouble there.
‘You owe your friends for a shipment, Mr Calloway, and you have not been forthcoming.’
Johnno had taken half a step forward, but Chib swiped a hand against his shoulder. ‘I’ve already told them the money’s on its way,’ he rasped.
‘Repeatedly so, Mr Calloway, but it is hardly a sustainable bargaining position, is it?’
‘Chewed a bloody dictionary,’ Glenn snorted, Johnno adding a low chuckle.
The Hell’s Angel turned his face towards Glenn. ‘You mean because I speak your native language better than you yourself do?’
‘You don’t just come barging up to Mr Calloway!’ Glenn barked back. ‘You show him some respect!’
‘The same respect he has displayed towards my clients?’ The question sounded genuine.
‘You’re not part of the gang, then?’ Chib interrupted.
‘I am a collector of monies due, Mr Calloway.’
‘For a percentage?’
The man shook his head slowly. ‘I work for a straight fee, half of it in advance.’
‘Do you always collect the other half?’
‘So far.’
‘First time for everything,’ Johnno spat, while Glenn pointed out some marks on the BMW’s bonnet. The man ignored the pair of them: he had eyes only for Chib Calloway.
‘Tell them,’ Chib said, ‘the money’s coming. I’ve never let them down before and, frankly, I’m insulted they’ve sent you.’ He looked the stranger up and down. ‘A grocer’s boy running their errands for them.’ Chib decided a wagged finger might even be in order. ‘You report back to them, and we’ll talk again next week.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Calloway.’
Chib’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’
The man offered a sliver of a smile. ‘Because by next week they’ll have had their money paid in full.’
Johnno’s face broke into a snarl and he lunged forward, but the man sidestepped him neatly and grabbed his wrist, twisting until Johnno buckled in pain. Chib noticed that there were spectators: the manager from the bar had been told by a couple of pavement smokers to come look. Kids bunking off school had stopped their BMX wheelies to follow the entertainment. Glenn was ready to wade in but Chib stopped him. He’d never liked playing to an audience. Not since schooldays . . .
‘Let him go,’ he said quietly.
The stranger held Chib’s gaze for a few more seconds and then pushed Johnno’s arm away. Johnno was left sitting on the roadway, rubbing at his injury. The look the stranger was giving Chib said it all: Johnno and Glenn were as much use as infants in a playground when the artillery comes calling.
‘I’ll be sticking around,’ the man was saying. ‘I need to hear from you today; tomorrow at the latest. After that, the talking will all be over - do you understand?’
Johnno took a petulant swipe with one foot, trying to make contact with the stranger’s shins. The man ignored him and handed Chib a folded scrap of paper. It was a row of digits: a mobile phone number. When Chib looked up, he was walking away, making to cross the park.
‘Hey!’ Chib called out to him. ‘What’s your name, big man?’
The stranger paused for a moment. ‘People have a habit of calling me Hate,’ he called back over his shoulder, striding past the serried ranks of BMXs.
‘That figures,’ Chib muttered to himself. Glenn had
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