I Love My Smith and Wesson by David Bowker

spunk in eye.’” He waited for a laugh that never came. Then added: “It’s a shame, really.”
    Chef glanced at him sharply. “What’s a shame?”
    The Philosopher shrugged. “Nothing. Just that whenever me and the girlfriend go to the club, Malc always makes us welcome. Not in a crawling, arse-licky sorta way. I think the guy means it.”
    Chef nodded. “Now you know how I feel. I’ve known him all his life. He used to play dirty doctors with my own daughters.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what, though. He’s no fucking Tom Jones.”
    Chef agreed. “But you can’t box a guy for singing out of tune.”
    â€œEveryone I know says he’s a nice bloke.”
    â€œFuck nice,” snarled Chef. “Nice doesn’t build a business. Especially our kind of business. I mean, he won’t even let us stash knock-off at the club. They’ve got this massive loft down there, just lying empty. But he thinks that if he’s found with stolen goods on the premises, Madonna won’t agree to play a gig there.”
    â€œMadonna wouldn’t play a fucking gig there anyway.”
    â€œTry telling Little Malc that.”
    â€œSomeone’s gonna box him. I can see it coming.”
    â€œYeah. I just don’t want it to be me. I owe his father that much.”
    The Philosopher gave a slight nod. Secretly he was thinking, But you killed Little Malc’s father, boss. It’s common knowledge. You set him on fire. Then you fucking shot him.
    *   *   *
    Malcolm Priest’s house had always been the center of operations for the Priesthood. Priest’s sudden disappearance had not altered that fact. Although Chef had a house of his own in Hyde, where his resentful wife and work-shy son resided, he rarely went there. Now that he was the undisputed leader of the Priesthood, it felt right to sleep in Malcolm Priest’s bed. Just as a cannibal devours his enemy in the hope of possessing his enemy’s spirit, so Chef believed that sleeping in Priest’s bed and eating at Priest’s table would give him Priest’s authority and power.
    So far, that was how it had worked out. Chef had assembled a new inner circle of disciples to replace those butchered by Rawhead. Profits were up. Because Chef was less headstrong than his predecessor, he enjoyed a more cordial relationship with the Greater Manchester Police. In exchange for a small percentage, Clive Bosworth, the new chief constable, let Chef run all the drugs, porn, and whores he wanted. The only thing Bosworth didn’t like was guns, so Chef didn’t sell them. It was a nice, civilized arrangement.
    The only turd in Chef’s swimming pool was Little Malc.
    The only shark, the one human being Chef feared, was Rawhead.
    But Chef hadn’t thought about Rawhead in a while. Not until that morning, when Bryan Edwards brought a heavy-duty brown paper envelope into Chef’s study.
    Bryan, a charming but dishonest young man from Rusholme, had once been on Malcolm Priest’s hit list. But when Priest died, Chef declared a general amnesty. Partly because killing is bad for business but mainly because Rawhead had murdered all of his best men.
    This was good news for Bryan, who found himself promoted overnight from hanger-on to the inner circle, the seventy pounds he’d stolen from Malcolm Priest’s house a distant memory. Chef was careful to warn Bryan that any further pilfering would result in the loss of his bollocks. And Bryan struggled to justify the faith Chef had shown in him. His trainers and Man City shirts were a thing of the past. Now he wore bespoke suits and creamy silk shirts from King Street.
    â€œI’ve found something out, boss.”
    Chef, who’d been checking his offshore bank account on-line, was irritated by the interruption. He tossed his head backward, silently inviting Bryan to surprise him. Bryan opened the envelope and