A Fistful of Knuckles Read Online Free PDF Page A

attention. And that goes for
all
of you!’
    All the men had stopped working out and were staring at the unwelcome visitors, clocking at once that they had a couple of coppers amongst them – Sam’s leather jacket and Gene’s voluminous camel hair coat were as much giveaways in this place as bobby’s helmets and badges.
    The atmosphere tightened. Sam set his face, determined not to show that he was intimidated. But Gene, who thrived on machismo like a rosebush thrives on quality shit, hooked his thumbs into his belt, thrust out his chest, and squinted slowly round at the men who surrounded them.
    Please, guv – don’t antagonise them,
Sam silently willed him.
Keep it cool, keep it calm … no need to wind anyone up …
    ‘Right, you faggots,’ Gene declared. ‘Stop eyeing up each other’s arses and pay attention. I’ll keep it simple so as not to confuse you. My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Hunt, CID, A-Division – you know, the police. And this here’s my retard nephew tagging along on work experience.’
    Sam kept his face fixed, maintaining what professional dignity he could.
    Dermot, the pug-nosed trainer, leant casually on the ropes of the boxing ring and said: ‘And what can we be doin’ for you fellas, then? Lookin’ to put a spot of muscle on yourselves, are ya?’
    Gene fixed him with a look and said; ‘Denzil Obi, the Mixed Race Widow.’
    ‘What about him?’ said Dermot. ‘Denzil’s not here.’
    ‘No,’ said Gene. ‘No, he’s not. He’s gone to that big, stinky gym in the sky.’
    A ripple of tension ran through the men. Dermot straightened up, his face serious. ‘What you talkin’ about?’
    ‘Denzil Obi was found dead in his flat this morning,’ said Sam. ‘Beaten to a pulp.’
    ‘So it’s a not social call but a murder enquiry,’ Gene declared. ‘Any of you monkeys feel like having a chat? Eh? Anyone here know enough words to tell us anything?’
    Silent faces stared back at them.
    ‘One at a time, lads, no need to rush,’ growled Gene.
    Sam looked from one to the other, and it was then that he noticed a lean, wiry man – more sleek and well-toned than bulked-up and brawny – who was sporting a spider tattoo on the base of his neck, almost identical to Denzil’s. For a fleeting moment, Sam and the man with the tattoo made eye contact – and then the man looked nervously away.
    At that moment, Gene spotted the man with the tattoo, and at once strode towards him.
    ‘Oi! What about you? Eh? Knew Denzil, did you?
Eh?
Speak up, lad! Or would you rather chat about this under the lights down at the cop shop?’
    ‘Hey, constable, you lay off Spider!’ Dermot protested.
    ‘I don’t like spiders – I squash ‘em,’ said Gene. ‘Or pull their legs off and flush ‘em down the plug hole. But only if they ignore me – you get my drift? Eh? Spider?’
    Spider gave Gene a glowering look. He tightened his fists. Gene tightened
his
.
    ‘I said lay off ‘im!’ Dermot cried. He ducked under the rope and waddled aggressively towards Gene on his short, stocky legs.
    ‘Look, out, Sam,’ said Gene, looking down at Dermot. ‘Looks like I’ve upset the Lollypop Guild.’
    Dermot planted himself protectively in front of Spider: ‘Let him be, constable. Him and Denzil were buddies – that ain’t no secret. Real close.’
    ‘Best friends?’ asked Sam.
    ‘Like brothers,’ said Dermot.
    ‘Faggots, were they? Nancy boys? Like to dip your wick in the ol’ chocolate pot, eh Spider?’
    ‘Officer, you’re out of line!’ the Irishmen cried. ‘You’re
well
out of line!’
    ‘What you gonna do about it?’ asked Gene, leaning down so that his face was level with Dermot’s. ‘You gonna get Sleepy and Bashful to give me a going over?’
    ‘Guv, please,’ said Sam quietly, trying to calm the situation. The atmosphere was tense beyond belief. The men in the gym seemed ready to rush them.
    Maybe the machismo in the air’s gotten to him,
San thought.
Maybe he can’t