When Dryden Heppac stole out to meet Lady Sosia Kemble, he always told his wife the same thing. He said he was visiting his friend Sebsen. It was a useful story. Sebsen was the only person to whom Dryden had confided his adultery. He was, and had almost always been, the only man Dryden trusted entirely. He would always supply an alibi if given enough notice. The story was also a credible one. Morran wouldn't believe her husband if he said he was going out to do voluntary work or night school classes or anything else of any redeemable value. She did believe that he was going to waste another few hours drinking bootleg rum, reminiscing about lost childhoods and bemoaning his fate. There were, after all, many more occasions when Dryden did genuinely call on Sebsen and do all of the above. He enjoyed these afternoons so much that the sometimes wondered why he bothered with Lady Sosia at all. Nonetheless, whenever she agreed to meet him he reduced his best friend to a mask again.
The story was useful for another reason. Morran was sharp with him before he left and even sharper when he returned. (He made sure he was always half-drunk and reeking of rum.) She wondered frequently why he couldn't manage a full day's work yet always found the energy to lift a bottle repeatedly to his lips. She lambasted idle husbands who drank through the family coffers. She raised complaints on a great many related themes. Dryden felt in some vague way that he deserved his liaisons with Lady Sosia. They were his compensation for having been cheated by life on many occasions. On a baser level, they were a way for him to treat somebody as badly as the gods had treated him. Yet he also believed, far more vividly and far more frequently, that he was doing wrong. And so he should be punished. Morran was attacking him for the wrong reason, and much more mildly than she would if she knew the truth. Nonetheless, she was given a moral superiority which she deserved.
Dryden didn't know what excuse Lady Sosia gave her husband. Or even if she bothered giving one at all. She boasted that they enjoyed an 'open relationship', whatever that mean, and had even once hinted that she told him about her lover. Dryden didn't know if this was true. He didn't really know anything which occurred before or after they met. He always contacted her to arrange the time and place but Sosia claimed the address he wrote to was owned by an 'intermediate.' That may have been the truth; or it may have been a device to prevent him ever visiting her home. He didn't know how she got to their meetings. He would surely have heard the gossip if an aristocrat's carriage was seen regularly in Jakks Way, where the smartest vehicle was usually a dray cart. Yet it was hard to imagine her walking any distance through the streets. She always arrived before and left after him mainly, he suspected, to keep him in ignorance. He didn't know a great many things about her, including why she kept meeting him.
She did, however. She had even submitted to another meeting in Kiely Alley, despite having declared the flat at that address unsatisfactory. Perhaps she thought he had overcome his qualms and agreed to pleasure her on the filthy cobbles. She followed him inside the tenement block, however, after they had exchanged their usual unaffectionate gestures. He sensed her irritation growing as he led her up the stairs. It built as the route became familiar, as it became increasingly obvious that he was taking her back to the same flat. Curiosity held her in check at first. Perhaps too a fascination that he had finally found the courage to disobey her.
With Sosia, though, petulance always triumphed eventually. When they reached the third floor landing, she stopped dead and issued a crisp,
"Heppac!"
Dryden did not turn round immediately. The landing had always fascinated him. Somebody in the past had actually tried to gentrify it, decorating the walls with murals of roses and lilies. As if it were a respectable building, as if the paintings would be lovingly retouched when they started to fade. The artwork which did come later also entertained Dryden. The words were fairly predictable but, as if to compensate, the variety of spellings were immense. One four letter noun was often attempted with only three letters, the final 'k' omitted. Presumably, like Dryden's surname, it would be pronounced 'fuch.' When Sosia was waiting for him in the flat he would always spend some time staring at the walls of the landing, another part of his mind debating furiously whether he should really enter.
"Heppac," she snapped, "Where are we going? Because I believe I made my feelings quite clear. That flat is not satisfactory." He turned but did not reply. "You were to find a place which met my needs," she continued. "Your message indicated that you had succeeded. Now I find that – and what are you smirking at, Heppac?"
"Have another look at it." He paused, then when she was about to begin another tirade added, "I've made a few improvements."
She opened her mouth but closed it again. A confused frown landed on her face. Then she nodded reluctantly. She was unbalanced. Dryden also felt dizzy as he led her to the flat, but his vertigo came from triumph. Just for a moment he had conquered her. And she was right: the thought of conquering an aristocrat was glorious. He felt himself growing stiff. And just wait until he had shown her those improvements…
They had worked remarkably quickly. Only a fortnight had passed since he gave the two beggars access to the flat. He made sure they were the right type of beggars. Not men made destitute by the fickleness of the gods and the cruelty of economics, men determined to scramble back to redemption. But ones who had drunk themselves into the gutter, who would drink whatever they could while lying there and drink away any chance of salvation. Dryden wasn't looking to give anyone a hand up. He was essentially hiring internal decorators. Still, he hadn't expected them to make quite so many changes in only a fortnight.
The stench of urine, both stale and fresh, struck him as soon as he opened the door. Most came from the rudimentary bed. Even from the doorway, Dryden could see that the tattered mattress was dark with moister. There were, however, also damp patches on the walls, a fresh pool slithering across the floor. The drunks seemed to have relieved themselves wherever they pleased. The chamberpot lay halfway across the room, upturned and empty. Presumably the sight of such a restrictive device had offended their sensibilities. Faeces was less evident in the stench but lingered there as a subtle undercurrent. As he surveyed the rest of the room. Dryden noticed a large lump in one corner and a few brown crumbs scattered around haphazardly. Then there was the vomit. It did not literally cover the ground. A few patches of relatively virgin boards still existed. There were, however, swamps of it almost everywhere, some growing old and crusty, some still possessing the slick gleam of the freshly laid. The engine of this destruction was also in evidence. Overturned flagons, scattered bottles. And a great deal of broken glass, giving the disgusting bog the tang of danger.
The drunks had done splendid work. For a moment Dryden thought they had succeeded too well. Sosia took a step back when he opened the door, pummelled by the physical force of the stench. She tiptoed forward again but her face was creased with disgust. She started shaking. For a second she swayed, as if she were going to faint. This is what the absolute bottom looks like, Dryden thought grimly. He believed she had only imagined it before.
Then whatever urge had perverted her upbringing, her basic human instincts, took over. Sosia took one long stride into the room and another. She looked around, carefully studying the destruction. To Dryden's horror she breathed in deeply, determined to experience every nuance of the bouquet. Finally she whirled round with an expression of pure delight and burst out laughing.
"Oh, Heppac!" she exclaimed. "You have done me proud."
She had always understood him. That was the rope which kept him by her heels. His own human instinct had been to rush out of the room and slam the door shut. His body was pumping bile into his throat, threatening to add another lake of vomit to the floor. When she started to laugh, however, when she gave her approval and he knew what that meant, his clockwork suddenly turned another direction. Instantly he grew stiff again.
He was on her tether… but he could pretend otherwise when he was inside her. She became his creature. And he was pushing this beast further and further downwards. This haughty, high-born, beautiful woman; he was dragging her after him as he walked through the sewer pit. As he thrust in and out viciously, he imagined the new depths he would take her to. She would become his chattel, his whore, to be sold to whatever dregs wanted her. And she squealed her delight, like the filthy animal she had become.
They avoided the urine-soaked mattress. When she lay face-down on the floor, she chose a rare patch which was untouched by any moisture. Her head was very close to a patch of vomit, however. She would have been breathing it straight into her lungs. It made her pant more heavily and squeal even louder. Perhaps next time she would be instructing him to push her across the floor though all the human emissions and they wouldn't mind when broken glass lacerated her skin. Next time, too, the flat would be overlaid with another week's filth. It would get ever more satanic and they would descend with it.
And the agents of the degradation? Dryden had ordered them out for the afternoon. He had been slightly surprised that they obeyed. Perhaps they wouldn't next week. Perhaps he wouldn't even give the instruction. That would really test this arrogant bitch wouldn't it? She had talked of screwing one beggar. How about two taking her at once while she writhed in their excrement? With Dryden watching, ordering them to treat her worst and worst… And this thought brought him to a climax impressive for a man of his age.
The two beggars didn't return that afternoon. There was another presence in the flat though. It departed as soon as the act was over, as Dryden was beginning his freefall into shame and Sosia was resuming her command over him. However, it remembered what it had seen.
Menoney was visiting Kiely Avenue to try and recover a loan. Debt collecting was far from his favourite task but his boss, Cepu Boldan, often insisted. "You tell them how much they owe," Boldan would say. "Then some of my head cases'll come round to show why they should pay it." This was, however, just Boldan trying to be humorous. He had a layered approach to reluctant debtors. First Menoney went with his limited repertoire of threats and menaces. If necessary, one of the accurately described 'head cases' followed. Occasionally Boldan would call round in person. That usually mean that the alternative to full and instant payment would be fatal.
Menoney disliked debt collecting because he believed himself too intelligent for it. He was also depressed by the depths of stupidity he encountered. If somebody had borrowed a sizeable amount of money from Cepu Boldan, couldn't they then afford anything better than a Kiely Alley dosshouse? And why didn't they realise that their most important task each month was repaying Cepu Boldan? A surprising number failed to, however, including Menoney's latest client. "Tell that fucker I've not got his money an' he can break me legs if he wants," was the response. Even when Menoney promised to relay the message verbatim and mentioned that the offer would be accepted, the man was intransigent. Oh, he was a drunk and a gambler, of course. But even dogs responded when they sensed danger approaching, even insects had instincts of self-preservation. It was disconsoling to see that some people had managed to evolve backwards. And it caused a lot of extra work.
The noises, seeping around a sloppily closed door, cut through Menoney's thoughts as he walked down the landing. He stopped. His schedule was tight but he believed he deserved a few minutes of free entertainment. He pushed the door open a little further and sidled his head round. The stench, almost as vivid as the squeals, hit him. It almost knocked him backwards. Couple of dossers going at it, he decided as he noticed the debris surrounding the bare, writhing bodies. Not that he disapproved but it never made an inspiring sight.
About to withdraw, he noticed the woman's face and checked. She was actually quite attractive, even with her eyes screwed shut and her teeth clenched. A little old but then Menoney preferred mature women. He studied her plump limbs and full, squashed breasts in admiration. He also appreciated the vigour which the couple were bringing to their act. Most beggars just seemed to get it done in as cursory and half-hearted a manner as possible. As if they really had better ways to spend their time and energy. Menoney gave the man straddling over his prey a short glance. At least, it was intended to be that. The briefest look to complete the picture before he focussed on the woman again. But it hooked something in his memory. Menoney stared more carefully, trying to reconcile the flushed, triumphant face with the meek and battered one he usually saw. He studied the image until his disbelief was finally conquered and he was sure that it was-
"Who?" Cepu Boldan snapped without looking up. He was sat in his plush office, studying a complex legal document with poorly concealed desperation.
"Dryden Heppac," Menoney repeated. "Lives on Jakks Way in one of Delpess' flats. Son's Stonnie Heppac. One of the lads we've got our eyes on."
"Yeah, I know him. What about him?"
"Well, I got a good look at the tart he was rodgering an' it sure as fuck weren't his wife."
"Ah, for fuck's sake." Boldan sat back violently and thrust the papers at Menoney. "Can you make head or tail of this crap? It's all fucking Elvish to me."
Menoney took them obediently. "What is it?"
"Property deed. Some old tosser in Ashel Street offered it up. Mr Delpess said, take it, something like that's way more valuable than gold. Except now I can't figure out what the fuck we've really got."
"Sorry, boss. I don't know the legal stuff. Get Delpess to have a look at it."
Boldan snatched the documents back. "Mr Delpess owns half the neighbourhood as it is," he said sourly. "I don't think I want him managing the other half."
Menoney noted with interest this rare show of rivalry between his boss and the landlord. "Why did the bloke give you the deeds anyway?"
"Why do you think? He couldn't make the payments. Only thing he had left to give us. Useless tosser. Which reminds me. How did you get on with your mark?"
"Yeah, we're gonna have to break his legs."
"For fuck's sake," Boldan snarled. "Is it worth chucking him out of the window?"
"Doubt it. No-one'd notice."
"Right. Fine. Have a word with one of the lads. I'll tell you this though. Next fucker worth anything who pisses us about is really gonna get it. This is happening way too often."
He bent over the property deeds again. That should have been the cue for Menoney to exit. He vacillated, however, debated with himself and finally said, " Boss, this business with Dryden Heppac-"
Boldan threw the papers across the desk. "What fucking business?" he snapped. "Why are you still banging on about that? What do I care what that old cripple does?"
"You don't think it's-"
"So he's shagging around? Good luck to him? If I were married to that fat old cow what's-her-face, I’d be doing the same."
"The other day," Menoney said patiently, "You told us to look out for blokes in the legit community we could influence. A nice bit of bribery, you said, or a nice bit of blackmail. This'd leave Heppac open to influence, don't you reckon?"
"Blokes with a bit of pull," Boldan cried. "Blokes with power. Not some clapped out old – well, whatever the fuck he used to do."
"His wife's getting friendly with those Tansons, I hear. Could get us some info on them."
"We've got Mr Delpess to give us info on the Tansons. He owns their pissing flat."
"Aye, an' what's he given us so far?" Sensing Boldan's temper about to snap completely, Menoney added quickly, "It were just a thought, boss."
"Fine. Great. Keep it up. Go have more thoughts. Go blackmail the old cripple. Go do whatever the fuck you want, just get out. I need to look at these damn deeds."
Menoney was already backing out of the room. His boss often struggled to think, at least in any patterns outside the old grooves. He tried, however. And through sheer persistence he generally succeeded eventually. That alone was what distinguished him from the role carved on his soul: a straightforward street thug. He remained one, but kept attempting not to be and often managed it. And that was gradually lifting his gang to pre-eminence amongst all the other street thugs in the locality. Plus he has me, Menoney told himself smugly.
Once Boldan stopped trying to understand legal documents and turn to what was possible, he would realise the value of Dryden Heppac. He would trudge to the point Menoney had reached instantly, guided by the markers set by his treasurer. Dryden the father of Stonnie Heppac. Dryden the neighbour of the Tansons. Two sets of people which the gang were hoping to influence and, ideally, recruit. The processes might go smoothly. However, at some point they might need a lever. Boldan would ask for one and Menoney wanted to have it already prepared and oiled. Anticipating a master's wishes: always easier if you have helped create them.
Menoney first asked a henchman to break the legs of the reluctant debtor in Kiely Alley. His next call was a little more delicate and a lot more rewarding.
The story was useful for another reason. Morran was sharp with him before he left and even sharper when he returned. (He made sure he was always half-drunk and reeking of rum.) She wondered frequently why he couldn't manage a full day's work yet always found the energy to lift a bottle repeatedly to his lips. She lambasted idle husbands who drank through the family coffers. She raised complaints on a great many related themes. Dryden felt in some vague way that he deserved his liaisons with Lady Sosia. They were his compensation for having been cheated by life on many occasions. On a baser level, they were a way for him to treat somebody as badly as the gods had treated him. Yet he also believed, far more vividly and far more frequently, that he was doing wrong. And so he should be punished. Morran was attacking him for the wrong reason, and much more mildly than she would if she knew the truth. Nonetheless, she was given a moral superiority which she deserved.
Dryden didn't know what excuse Lady Sosia gave her husband. Or even if she bothered giving one at all. She boasted that they enjoyed an 'open relationship', whatever that mean, and had even once hinted that she told him about her lover. Dryden didn't know if this was true. He didn't really know anything which occurred before or after they met. He always contacted her to arrange the time and place but Sosia claimed the address he wrote to was owned by an 'intermediate.' That may have been the truth; or it may have been a device to prevent him ever visiting her home. He didn't know how she got to their meetings. He would surely have heard the gossip if an aristocrat's carriage was seen regularly in Jakks Way, where the smartest vehicle was usually a dray cart. Yet it was hard to imagine her walking any distance through the streets. She always arrived before and left after him mainly, he suspected, to keep him in ignorance. He didn't know a great many things about her, including why she kept meeting him.
She did, however. She had even submitted to another meeting in Kiely Alley, despite having declared the flat at that address unsatisfactory. Perhaps she thought he had overcome his qualms and agreed to pleasure her on the filthy cobbles. She followed him inside the tenement block, however, after they had exchanged their usual unaffectionate gestures. He sensed her irritation growing as he led her up the stairs. It built as the route became familiar, as it became increasingly obvious that he was taking her back to the same flat. Curiosity held her in check at first. Perhaps too a fascination that he had finally found the courage to disobey her.
With Sosia, though, petulance always triumphed eventually. When they reached the third floor landing, she stopped dead and issued a crisp,
"Heppac!"
Dryden did not turn round immediately. The landing had always fascinated him. Somebody in the past had actually tried to gentrify it, decorating the walls with murals of roses and lilies. As if it were a respectable building, as if the paintings would be lovingly retouched when they started to fade. The artwork which did come later also entertained Dryden. The words were fairly predictable but, as if to compensate, the variety of spellings were immense. One four letter noun was often attempted with only three letters, the final 'k' omitted. Presumably, like Dryden's surname, it would be pronounced 'fuch.' When Sosia was waiting for him in the flat he would always spend some time staring at the walls of the landing, another part of his mind debating furiously whether he should really enter.
"Heppac," she snapped, "Where are we going? Because I believe I made my feelings quite clear. That flat is not satisfactory." He turned but did not reply. "You were to find a place which met my needs," she continued. "Your message indicated that you had succeeded. Now I find that – and what are you smirking at, Heppac?"
"Have another look at it." He paused, then when she was about to begin another tirade added, "I've made a few improvements."
She opened her mouth but closed it again. A confused frown landed on her face. Then she nodded reluctantly. She was unbalanced. Dryden also felt dizzy as he led her to the flat, but his vertigo came from triumph. Just for a moment he had conquered her. And she was right: the thought of conquering an aristocrat was glorious. He felt himself growing stiff. And just wait until he had shown her those improvements…
They had worked remarkably quickly. Only a fortnight had passed since he gave the two beggars access to the flat. He made sure they were the right type of beggars. Not men made destitute by the fickleness of the gods and the cruelty of economics, men determined to scramble back to redemption. But ones who had drunk themselves into the gutter, who would drink whatever they could while lying there and drink away any chance of salvation. Dryden wasn't looking to give anyone a hand up. He was essentially hiring internal decorators. Still, he hadn't expected them to make quite so many changes in only a fortnight.
The stench of urine, both stale and fresh, struck him as soon as he opened the door. Most came from the rudimentary bed. Even from the doorway, Dryden could see that the tattered mattress was dark with moister. There were, however, also damp patches on the walls, a fresh pool slithering across the floor. The drunks seemed to have relieved themselves wherever they pleased. The chamberpot lay halfway across the room, upturned and empty. Presumably the sight of such a restrictive device had offended their sensibilities. Faeces was less evident in the stench but lingered there as a subtle undercurrent. As he surveyed the rest of the room. Dryden noticed a large lump in one corner and a few brown crumbs scattered around haphazardly. Then there was the vomit. It did not literally cover the ground. A few patches of relatively virgin boards still existed. There were, however, swamps of it almost everywhere, some growing old and crusty, some still possessing the slick gleam of the freshly laid. The engine of this destruction was also in evidence. Overturned flagons, scattered bottles. And a great deal of broken glass, giving the disgusting bog the tang of danger.
The drunks had done splendid work. For a moment Dryden thought they had succeeded too well. Sosia took a step back when he opened the door, pummelled by the physical force of the stench. She tiptoed forward again but her face was creased with disgust. She started shaking. For a second she swayed, as if she were going to faint. This is what the absolute bottom looks like, Dryden thought grimly. He believed she had only imagined it before.
Then whatever urge had perverted her upbringing, her basic human instincts, took over. Sosia took one long stride into the room and another. She looked around, carefully studying the destruction. To Dryden's horror she breathed in deeply, determined to experience every nuance of the bouquet. Finally she whirled round with an expression of pure delight and burst out laughing.
"Oh, Heppac!" she exclaimed. "You have done me proud."
She had always understood him. That was the rope which kept him by her heels. His own human instinct had been to rush out of the room and slam the door shut. His body was pumping bile into his throat, threatening to add another lake of vomit to the floor. When she started to laugh, however, when she gave her approval and he knew what that meant, his clockwork suddenly turned another direction. Instantly he grew stiff again.
He was on her tether… but he could pretend otherwise when he was inside her. She became his creature. And he was pushing this beast further and further downwards. This haughty, high-born, beautiful woman; he was dragging her after him as he walked through the sewer pit. As he thrust in and out viciously, he imagined the new depths he would take her to. She would become his chattel, his whore, to be sold to whatever dregs wanted her. And she squealed her delight, like the filthy animal she had become.
They avoided the urine-soaked mattress. When she lay face-down on the floor, she chose a rare patch which was untouched by any moisture. Her head was very close to a patch of vomit, however. She would have been breathing it straight into her lungs. It made her pant more heavily and squeal even louder. Perhaps next time she would be instructing him to push her across the floor though all the human emissions and they wouldn't mind when broken glass lacerated her skin. Next time, too, the flat would be overlaid with another week's filth. It would get ever more satanic and they would descend with it.
And the agents of the degradation? Dryden had ordered them out for the afternoon. He had been slightly surprised that they obeyed. Perhaps they wouldn't next week. Perhaps he wouldn't even give the instruction. That would really test this arrogant bitch wouldn't it? She had talked of screwing one beggar. How about two taking her at once while she writhed in their excrement? With Dryden watching, ordering them to treat her worst and worst… And this thought brought him to a climax impressive for a man of his age.
The two beggars didn't return that afternoon. There was another presence in the flat though. It departed as soon as the act was over, as Dryden was beginning his freefall into shame and Sosia was resuming her command over him. However, it remembered what it had seen.
Menoney was visiting Kiely Avenue to try and recover a loan. Debt collecting was far from his favourite task but his boss, Cepu Boldan, often insisted. "You tell them how much they owe," Boldan would say. "Then some of my head cases'll come round to show why they should pay it." This was, however, just Boldan trying to be humorous. He had a layered approach to reluctant debtors. First Menoney went with his limited repertoire of threats and menaces. If necessary, one of the accurately described 'head cases' followed. Occasionally Boldan would call round in person. That usually mean that the alternative to full and instant payment would be fatal.
Menoney disliked debt collecting because he believed himself too intelligent for it. He was also depressed by the depths of stupidity he encountered. If somebody had borrowed a sizeable amount of money from Cepu Boldan, couldn't they then afford anything better than a Kiely Alley dosshouse? And why didn't they realise that their most important task each month was repaying Cepu Boldan? A surprising number failed to, however, including Menoney's latest client. "Tell that fucker I've not got his money an' he can break me legs if he wants," was the response. Even when Menoney promised to relay the message verbatim and mentioned that the offer would be accepted, the man was intransigent. Oh, he was a drunk and a gambler, of course. But even dogs responded when they sensed danger approaching, even insects had instincts of self-preservation. It was disconsoling to see that some people had managed to evolve backwards. And it caused a lot of extra work.
The noises, seeping around a sloppily closed door, cut through Menoney's thoughts as he walked down the landing. He stopped. His schedule was tight but he believed he deserved a few minutes of free entertainment. He pushed the door open a little further and sidled his head round. The stench, almost as vivid as the squeals, hit him. It almost knocked him backwards. Couple of dossers going at it, he decided as he noticed the debris surrounding the bare, writhing bodies. Not that he disapproved but it never made an inspiring sight.
About to withdraw, he noticed the woman's face and checked. She was actually quite attractive, even with her eyes screwed shut and her teeth clenched. A little old but then Menoney preferred mature women. He studied her plump limbs and full, squashed breasts in admiration. He also appreciated the vigour which the couple were bringing to their act. Most beggars just seemed to get it done in as cursory and half-hearted a manner as possible. As if they really had better ways to spend their time and energy. Menoney gave the man straddling over his prey a short glance. At least, it was intended to be that. The briefest look to complete the picture before he focussed on the woman again. But it hooked something in his memory. Menoney stared more carefully, trying to reconcile the flushed, triumphant face with the meek and battered one he usually saw. He studied the image until his disbelief was finally conquered and he was sure that it was-
"Who?" Cepu Boldan snapped without looking up. He was sat in his plush office, studying a complex legal document with poorly concealed desperation.
"Dryden Heppac," Menoney repeated. "Lives on Jakks Way in one of Delpess' flats. Son's Stonnie Heppac. One of the lads we've got our eyes on."
"Yeah, I know him. What about him?"
"Well, I got a good look at the tart he was rodgering an' it sure as fuck weren't his wife."
"Ah, for fuck's sake." Boldan sat back violently and thrust the papers at Menoney. "Can you make head or tail of this crap? It's all fucking Elvish to me."
Menoney took them obediently. "What is it?"
"Property deed. Some old tosser in Ashel Street offered it up. Mr Delpess said, take it, something like that's way more valuable than gold. Except now I can't figure out what the fuck we've really got."
"Sorry, boss. I don't know the legal stuff. Get Delpess to have a look at it."
Boldan snatched the documents back. "Mr Delpess owns half the neighbourhood as it is," he said sourly. "I don't think I want him managing the other half."
Menoney noted with interest this rare show of rivalry between his boss and the landlord. "Why did the bloke give you the deeds anyway?"
"Why do you think? He couldn't make the payments. Only thing he had left to give us. Useless tosser. Which reminds me. How did you get on with your mark?"
"Yeah, we're gonna have to break his legs."
"For fuck's sake," Boldan snarled. "Is it worth chucking him out of the window?"
"Doubt it. No-one'd notice."
"Right. Fine. Have a word with one of the lads. I'll tell you this though. Next fucker worth anything who pisses us about is really gonna get it. This is happening way too often."
He bent over the property deeds again. That should have been the cue for Menoney to exit. He vacillated, however, debated with himself and finally said, " Boss, this business with Dryden Heppac-"
Boldan threw the papers across the desk. "What fucking business?" he snapped. "Why are you still banging on about that? What do I care what that old cripple does?"
"You don't think it's-"
"So he's shagging around? Good luck to him? If I were married to that fat old cow what's-her-face, I’d be doing the same."
"The other day," Menoney said patiently, "You told us to look out for blokes in the legit community we could influence. A nice bit of bribery, you said, or a nice bit of blackmail. This'd leave Heppac open to influence, don't you reckon?"
"Blokes with a bit of pull," Boldan cried. "Blokes with power. Not some clapped out old – well, whatever the fuck he used to do."
"His wife's getting friendly with those Tansons, I hear. Could get us some info on them."
"We've got Mr Delpess to give us info on the Tansons. He owns their pissing flat."
"Aye, an' what's he given us so far?" Sensing Boldan's temper about to snap completely, Menoney added quickly, "It were just a thought, boss."
"Fine. Great. Keep it up. Go have more thoughts. Go blackmail the old cripple. Go do whatever the fuck you want, just get out. I need to look at these damn deeds."
Menoney was already backing out of the room. His boss often struggled to think, at least in any patterns outside the old grooves. He tried, however. And through sheer persistence he generally succeeded eventually. That alone was what distinguished him from the role carved on his soul: a straightforward street thug. He remained one, but kept attempting not to be and often managed it. And that was gradually lifting his gang to pre-eminence amongst all the other street thugs in the locality. Plus he has me, Menoney told himself smugly.
Once Boldan stopped trying to understand legal documents and turn to what was possible, he would realise the value of Dryden Heppac. He would trudge to the point Menoney had reached instantly, guided by the markers set by his treasurer. Dryden the father of Stonnie Heppac. Dryden the neighbour of the Tansons. Two sets of people which the gang were hoping to influence and, ideally, recruit. The processes might go smoothly. However, at some point they might need a lever. Boldan would ask for one and Menoney wanted to have it already prepared and oiled. Anticipating a master's wishes: always easier if you have helped create them.
Menoney first asked a henchman to break the legs of the reluctant debtor in Kiely Alley. His next call was a little more delicate and a lot more rewarding.
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