I Love My Smith and Wesson by David Bowker Page A

took out a bound A4 manuscript.
    On the top sheet was typed the word:
    GANGCHESTER
    â€œWhat’s this?” Chef gave the manuscript a shove, to show that whatever it was, it was obviously a pile of contemptible shit.
    â€œIt’s a fucking whadyacallit. A TV script.”
    â€œI can see that. What’s it got to do with me?”
    â€œUse your fucking eyes.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSorry, boss. It just slipped out. But look. Just look who fucking wrote it.”
    Warily, as if he were afraid that a jet of sulphuric acid might leap up from the typeface and hit him in the eye, Chef peered at the name under the title:
    WILLIAM DYE
    It took Chef a few seconds to work out that William Dye was Billy Dye. Then a shudder of disgust pulsed through him, as if he’d inadvertently bitten into a dog-shit sandwich. Billy Dye was the bigmouthed little bastard who had started all the trouble two years back.
    â€œTV?” said Chef. “I thought he wrote books. Books that nobody reads.”
    â€œThe guy’s branching out,” said Bryan. “Now he’s going to write TV shows that no one’ll fucking watch.”
    â€œIs someone actually going to make this?”
    â€œLooks that way.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œLarry Crème, no less.”
    â€œWho’s Larry Crème?”
    â€œI don’t fucking know,” admitted Bryan. “But Shonagh reckons he’s very important in telly land.”
    â€œWho the hell’s Shonagh?”
    â€œThis actress I’m fucking. She’s juice. She plays Dorita Green in Coronation Street. You know, Dorita who works behind the bar. It was Shonagh who gave me this script to read.”
    â€œBryan.” Chef leaned back in his chair to survey the scrawny young rogue in front of him.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI’m not in the least bit interested in who you’re shagging or why. I wouldn’t give a toss if you were a stud or a virgin. You can spend the rest of your life wanking into a bucket for all I care.”
    Bryan half-laughed, half-gasped, in surprise.
    â€œAll that matters to me is that you’re loyal. So why are you wasting my time with this shit?”
    â€œFor a very good reason, boss,” said Bryan confidently. “This thing Billy Dye’s written, it’s about gangsters from Manny. About us. Don’t know about you, but I think it’s a bit of a fucking cheek to make a series about us and not ask us to be in it.”
    Chef pondered the point. The fingers of his hands were interlocked over his chest. His thumbs caressed each other like women in prison. “They should have consulted us,” he admitted. “No doubt about that. They haven’t shown respect.”
    Bryan suppressed a smirk. Chef was a strong leader, and few would have dared to cross him. But his obsession with Sicilian honor was a constant source of amusement to his men, all of whom were aware that Chef’s parents were Greek emigrants, greasy café owners from Hazel Grove, near Stockport. Not even a decent greasy café, but the kind that serves your tea lukewarm, with dandruff whirling on the surface.
    â€œHow did it happen?” said Chef, frowning. “That’s what I don’t get. One minute he’s writing spacko books; suddenly he’s in TV.”
    â€œWay I heard it, Dye writes this gangster book that no one wants to publish. His agent sends it to fucking Granada, who think it might make good telly. That’s what Shonagh told me, anyway.”
    â€œWill you fucking shut up about this fucking Shonagh?”
    â€œSorry. Anyway, what do you want to do?” said Bryan. “Do you want Dye saddened?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShould I cut off a horse’s head and stick it in his bed?”
    â€œDoes he keep horses?”
    â€œShouldn’t think so.”
    â€œWell, there wouldn’t be much point, then. Would there?”
    â€œI was just joking, boss.”