I Love My Smith and Wesson by David Bowker Page A

been packing a gun. That was naughty. I told you not to. All I can say is thank God you didn’t listen. Otherwise I’d be dead and me kids would be orphans. Well, I suppose they’d still have a mother. So maybe orphans isn’t the right fucking word.… Anyway, you get me drift.”
    â€œYou want me to work for you?”
    â€œYeah. If you want it, you’re guaranteed a job on the door of my club for life.”
    Rawhead laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh.
    Hurt appeared in Little Malc’s eyes. “OK, then. Tell me what you want. Don’t just fucking snigger. I’ve got half-shares in a restaurant, too, you know. The Moroccan in Deansgate. I’ll give you a job there, if you’d rather. How does headwaiter grab you?”
    â€œListen. In a year or so, you won’t have a restaurant. You won’t have a club, either, if the drug dealing carries on.”
    â€œWhat drug dealing?”
    â€œAre you kidding me? Those scumbags the Medinas are playing you like a flob.”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œA flob. A flobadob. A flowerpot man.” Rawhead sighed to convey his immense weariness. “You’re supposed to be in the Priesthood and you don’t even know Priesthood slang?”
    â€œAh. But who said I was in the Priesthood? I’m not. I’m a business associate of the Priesthood.”
    â€œYou’re nobody’s associate, Malcolm.”
    â€œAll right. Fuck off, then. Don’t work for me. See if I care.”
    â€œNo. I’ll work for you.”
    Little Malc looked distinctly skeptical. “What as?”
    â€œI’m going to be your mentor.”
    â€œWhat kind of mental? You mean like a spackhead?”
    Rawhead wondered whether Little Malc was putting on an act or really was this stupid.
    *   *   *
    When Rawhead explained it, Little Malc grew to like the idea. Rawhead—or Stoker, as Malc knew him—would act as his bodyguard, his financial adviser, and his personal trainer. It sounded like value for money. “But it’s the bodyguard bit that’s important. How do I know you’re any good?” he asked. “OK, you shot that crazy bastard. No offense, but it don’t prove a thing. At that range, you couldn’t have fucking missed.”
    â€œOK,” said Rawhead. “Come with me.”
    They drove into town, to an Irish pub called the Peggy Gordon. It was smoky and crowded. A sign on the door read: NO BIKERS, LEATHER JACKETS, ETC . When Rawhead and Little Malc walked in, the bar was full of men in overalls.
    A TV above the bar was showing rugby. Rawhead ordered two pints of Guinness extra-cold from a barman who looked as if he was auditioning for Darby O’Gill and the Little People. He had red hair and a scar above his nose. When he saw Rawhead, his eyes darkened. He had worked rough pubs all his life and knew trouble when he saw it.
    â€œWhat’re we doing in this fucking shithole?” said Little Malc.
    â€œWhy? Don’t you like the Irish?”
    â€œI don’t care one way or another,” mumbled Little Malc. “Protestants, Catholics, they can all blow the living fuck out of each other for all I care.”
    â€œYou think the Irish are a violent people?”
    â€œNo more than most.”
    â€œHow do you feel about Catholics in particular?”
    â€œI’m not bothered one way or the other. But I think it’s time they stopped propping the pope up. I wish they’d just let the poor old cunt lie down and die.”
    To Little Malc’s amazement, Rawhead suddenly shouted, “Hey! My friend here says the pope is a poor old cunt!”
    Little Malc sputtered beer down his chest. “Jesus!”
    â€œWhat’s that?” said Rawhead, pretending to listen to Little Malc. “He says Gerry Adams wears a dress and bakes fairy cakes.”
    It was the barman who attacked first. Roaring like a warrior, he pulled a wooden