The Big Ask by Shane Maloney Page B

cluster of men loitered in front of the Stuhl Holdings shed, hands in the pockets of their work jackets. One of them detached himself from the group and advanced to meet me, a mobile phone in his hand. It was Frank Farrell, the Haulers’ welfare officer. Up to some skulduggery, no doubt.
    â€˜Morning, Murray,’ he declared cheerfully. ‘Or is it still last night?’
    â€˜Bit of both,’ I said, nodding towards the group of men. ‘Attending to your members’ welfare, are you?’
    A figure emerged from the building. He was wearing a stylish woollen overcoat and the splash of a too-bright tie showed against the white of his shirt. His features were indistinct in the murky half-light but there was something familiar about them.
    â€˜Who’s that?’ I asked.
    Farrell followed my gaze. ‘Him? That’s Bob Stuhl’s son, Darren.’
    As I narrowed my eyes, straining for a clearer view, headlights swept the man’s face. No doubt about it. It was Steve McQueen, the truculent party-boy who’d rammed my head down the toilet at the Metro.
    â€˜Did you say Darrell or Darren?’
    â€˜Darren,’ said Farrell. ‘Bob Stuhl’s got him familiarising himself with company operations down here.’
    â€˜Hey, Darren,’ I called.
    He sauntered over, answering to his name. As he closed the twenty paces between us, my pulse soared. Play it cool, Murray, I told myself.
    Darren Stuhl’s skin was pasty and razor-scraped. By the look of it, he was hungover and not long out of bed. He glanced at me without a glimmer of recognition. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he demanded, his tone peremptory, managerial. He slid back his plush cashmere cuff and looked at his watch. He was an important man with important things to do.
    â€˜Forgotten me already?’ I said.
    He peered at my face for a couple of seconds, then shrugged.
    â€˜The Metro,’ I reminded him. ‘Friday night.’ For all my efforts at cool, the words had a squeezed, slightly hysterical tone.
    A memory began to take shape somewhere in Darren’s recesses. His eyes flicked to Farrell, then back to me. He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘So what?’
    â€˜Two grand’s worth of dentistry, that’s what,’ I blurted. ‘You knocked out my front teeth, you arrogant prick. And now I know who you are, I know where to send the bill.’
    He gave a contemptuous snort. He had better things to do with his time, it said, than stand in a car park listening to the pathetic bleating of some wild-eyed loser. ‘Your teeth look okay to me, pal,’ he said. ‘It’s your head needs fixing.’
    As he turned away, I felt a flush of humiliation. ‘Before you go,’ I said, putting my hand on his sleeve, ‘I think you owe me an apology.’
    He stared down at my hand like it was freshly extruded from a dog’s rear end. It occurred to me that his overcoat was worth more than all the teeth in my mouth. When he tried to jerk his arm away, I grabbed a handful of the fabric. ‘Say you’re sorry, Darren.’
    â€˜Get rid of this idiot, Frank,’ he ordered.
    Farrell stood blank-faced, immobile as a statue.
    Darren put the palm of his free hand on my chest and shoved. Not a smart move. I saw red. I saw purple. I saw a seething mass of ugly vengeful images that erupted up out of my guts and blew the top right off my fragile self-control. Lashing out, I smacked him across the chops. He reeled back, even more astonished than I was. Then he took a swing.
    This time, I was ready. I dodged, grabbed his lapels and sent him sprawling onto the ground. I stared down at him, reckless with rage. If this jerk thought he could assault me with impunity, just because Daddy was worth a couple of hundred million dollars, he had seriously underestimated the mettle of Murray Theodore Whelan.
    â€˜C’mon,’ I urged, beckoning him to his feet. ‘Have a go, you