Dead Man's Grip

ever going to be a gourmet. He didn’t do fine food.
    ‘We’re good, then. All set. Do you want to put your bag down?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘OK. Come with me.’
    Tooth, still holding his bag, followed him along a corridor furnished with a fancy antique table, on which sat ornate Chinese vases, and past a living room that reminded him of an English baronial hall in a movie he’d seen long ago. A bitch in navy velour was sitting on a sofa, smoking a cigarette, with an ashtray full of butts beside her, and a loser was sitting opposite her, watching a bunch of dumb fuckwits playing baseball.
    This is what I risked my life for, gave my all for, so assholes like these could sit in their swell homes, with their fancy phones, watching dickheads playing games on big television screens?
    Ricky ducked into the room and reappeared almost immediately carrying a brown envelope. He ushered Tooth back along the
corridor to the hall, then led him down the stairs and into the basement. At the bottom was an abstract painting, as tall as Tooth, covered in what looked like photographs with weird faces. His eyes flickered with mild interest.
    ‘That’s pretty special,’ the man said. ‘A Santlofer. One of the up-and-coming great modern American artists. You wanted to buy that now, you’d pay thirty grand. Ten years time, you’ll pay a million. The Reveres are great patrons. That’s one of the things my sister and my brother-in-law do, they spot rising talents. You gotta support the arts. Y’know? Patrons?’
    The painting looked to Tooth like one of those distorting mirrors you saw in fairgrounds. He followed the man through into a huge poolroom, the table itself almost lost against the patterned carpet. There was a bar in one corner, complete with leather stools and a stocked-up wine fridge with a glass door.
    The man sucked on his cigar again, until his face was momentarily shrouded in a billowing cloud of dense grey smoke.
    ‘My sister’s pretty upset. She lost her youngest son. She doted on the kid. You gotta understand that.’
    Tooth said nothing.
    ‘You shoot pool?’ the man said.
    Tooth shrugged.
    ‘Bowl?’
    The man indicated him to follow and walked through into the room beyond. And now Tooth was impressed.
    He was staring at a full-size, underground ten-pin bowling alley. It had just one lane, with polished wooden flooring. It was immaculate. Balls were lined up in the chute. All down the wall, beside the lane, was wallpaper that gave the illusion of rows of stacked bookshelves.
    ‘You play this?’
    As his reply, Tooth selected a ball and placed his fingers and thumb in the slots. Then he squinted down the length of the lane and could see that all the pins, white and shiny, were in place.
    ‘Go ahead,’ the man said. ‘Enjoy!’
    Tooth wasn’t wearing the right shoes, so he made the run-up carefully and sent the ball rolling. In the silence of the basement it
rumbled, like distant thunder. It clouted the front pin exactly where he had aimed it, slightly off centre, and it had the desired effect. All ten pins went straight down.
    ‘Great shot! Gotta say, that’s not at all bad!’
    The man drew again on his cigar, puffing out his cheeks, blowing out the heavy smoke. He hit the reset button and watched the mechanical grab scoop up the pins and start to replace them.
    Tooth dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit one. After he had taken the first drag, the man suddenly snatched it out of his hand and crushed it out in an onyx ashtray on a ledge beside him.
    ‘I just lit that,’ Tooth said.
    ‘I don’t want that fucking cheap thing polluting my Havana. You want a cigar, ask me. OK?’
    ‘I don’t smoke cigars.’
    ‘No cigarettes in here!’ He glared challengingly at Tooth.
    ‘She was smoking a cigarette upstairs.’
    ‘You’re down here with me. You do business my way or you don’t do it. I’m not sure I like your attitude, Mr Tooth.’
    Tooth considered, very carefully, killing this man. It would be easy, only a few seconds. But the money was attractive. Jobs hadn’t exactly been flooding in just recently. Even without seeing this house, he knew about the wealth of this family. This was a good gig. Better not to blow it.
    He picked up another ball, rolled it and hit another strike, all ten pins down.
    ‘You’re good, aren’t you?’ the man said, a little grudgingly.
    Tooth did not respond.
    ‘You’ve been to a place in England called Brighton? Like in