The Big Whatever by Peter Doyle Page A

was in the kitchen, reading a Phantom comic. The girls were off somewhere.
    I chopped up a couple of lines right there on the kitchen table, stood aside and bid Stan and Jimmy to go for it. They did just that.
    â€œWell,” I said, “you want?”
    Stan glanced at Jimmy. Jimmy said nothing, but thenhe moved his head in the shiftiest, most minimal nod you’ve ever seen.
    Hello, I thought, who’s in charge here?
    â€œWhere’s it from?” said Jimmy.
    â€œI made it. I mean, I had someone make it. A chemist.”
    Jimmy went back to his comic.
    â€œAll right Mel,” said Stan after a few seconds, “leave us an ounce.”
    I could sense Jimmy to the side, watching.
    I’d hoped, expected, Stan would want an ounce, and had one already weighed out. I dropped it down in front of him.
    â€œYou haven’t asked me the price,” I said.
    Stan looked at me lazily. “No.”
    â€œAll right, no need to go strange. I’m hip. This one’s on the house. But then we’re square, agreed?”
    Stan smiled. “Sure thing, Mel.”
    I took my leave. I had calls to make. As I got in my car and pulled out, a bloke was walking stiffly down the street. Young and bulky, Leisuremaster slacks and brown shoes. Bad haircut. A cop? Could be.
    I drove on at moderate speed, careful not to look at him. In the rear view mirror I saw him turn into Stan’s gate. I pulled around the corner and walked back just in time to see the door open. Stan shook hands with the squarehead and invited him in.
    I drove home rattled. Maybe it wasn’t the Man. Maybe it was just some guy, some underworld cat. Yeah, and maybe I was King Zog of Albania. Old Mel’s radar does not lie. What did it mean? A bust? Didn’t figure.
    As I parked and walked towards my flat, I was still distracted. So distracted I didn’t see the two men in the lobby waiting for me until one of them had belted me a beauty, twisted my arm behind me and pushed me to the floor, his knee rammed into the middle of my back.
    ICEBERG MEL
    â€œSeñor Parker.”
    I craned my head up off the tiles.
    â€œOh, Alex. Hi,” I said, cool as I could manage. “Get this cunt off me, will you?”
    Which earned me a sharp punch in the kidneys.
    A long pause. Then a sigh.
    â€œAll right, Barry, let him up. Open the door, Mel.”
    I got up slowly, looked around. The heavy was an ape-like young fellow, easy six and a half feet tall. Sweaty, with a deranged look in his eyes. Watching me with a half-grin, itching for me to make a move. Not without my trusty .38, boyo! Which was inside.
    I dusted off my threads and fished for my front door key. The goon grabbed my wrist and twisted my arm again.
    â€œRelax, Igor,” I said. “If I make a play, you’ll be the first to know.”
    He laughed, but not in a pleasant way.
    Alex slowly shook his head. “If only you knew.” To the ape he said, “Get him inside, and we’ll get this over with.”
    Not a good thing to hear, my young dharma bums.
    Five minutes later we were sitting around my kitchen table. They hadn’t found my gun, which was well stashed, but they’d found my money and the speed – half a pound of it in a plastic bag, now sitting between us on the table.
    My faithful readers, you’ll remember Alex, aka ‘the Greek.’ Let me tell you a little more about him. He came from a true gangster family. Hard bastards. No peace and love and kindness at all. Very big on the vendetta. Knives. Blood oaths. Alex himself was more into hanging out at Push pubs, taking drugs, listening to rock music, getting laid. A short, slightly rotund bloke with olive skin and curly hair, still sporting that bushy hippie beard. A jolly fellow at heart, not cut out for high-stakes crime.
    But I was digging a different Alex now. Not interested in getting anything from me. No questions, no demands, like that I maybe should make some sort