"Sure. Don't be greedy Daniel," Budescu said.
Caramarin watched Daniel Perianu inhale before the manager handed over the rolled up twenty. Caramarin stooped and then snorted a line himself. Just to keep the high going. After what he'd been through recently, he felt he needed a little lift. Not enough to get off his face, just keep the buzz on.
Stanga walked into the office and shook hands over the desk with Caramarin. The gang head spoke quietly to Tibor Budescu, who then left.
"Heard on the radio someone's been found stabbed in town. Funny, the description put out matched you quite well. Even down to the combat jacket. Except I see you've shaved your head since I last saw you," Stanga said.
"Nothing to do with me, I've not killed anyone," Caramarin said. "I just fancied a change of hairstyle." Very unconvincing, even to his own ears.
"What a coincidence. Be interesting when they release any CCTV pictures," Stanga grinned.
"They won't be as interesting as these," he said, pointing to one of the monitors focussing on the gyrating dancers up on the stage.
"Depends what your interests are," Stanga said enigmatically.
Even through his coke buzz, Caramarin wanted to change the conversation. "You've got a gun for me if you want me to doom this Albanian?"
"The gun's not on the premises," said Stanga, "I pay a tonne of protection but I'm not that stupid."
Caramarin nodded, a grin wrapped round his face. Everything was starting to feel good and tight again. All his aches and pains now vanished. Felt like a tiger burning bright.
"Are you listening?" said Stanga with irritation in his voice.
"That bastard Gjergji Shkurti visits the North Manchester Mosque on Woodlands Road before noon. He'll have his guards with him, of course, but they won't take any shooters into a Mosque. You're dark enough to pass as a Moslem – maybe a Turk or something.
"Wrap that scarf around your face, then doom him as he steps out his car. Run round the corner to Woodland Street where my driver will pick you up. He'll give you a pistol now. No problems."
Perianu nodded at Budescu's part in the plan.
"Tibor'll get me out of this city after?"
"Of course," said Stanga. "I don't want you hanging around pointing the finger after this."
"But won't the Albanians know it's you ordered the hit?"
"Possibly. But I'm not the only one Shkurti has in his sights. He's been a busy little fucker since he come here. I'm not his only enemy. And I'll have one great alibi," Stanga said. "Keep it simple. Foolproof."
Caramarin thought. His thinking raced through his brain. Thoughts came and went like meteors flashing through the night, but leaving darkness not illumination behind. It was getting hard to keep track of them all.
"What about the girl? How do I know she's safe? Not like I can take her on a hit with me, some catatonic girl," Caramarin asked.
"Well, what do you want to do with the useless bitch? As long as she says nothing about me or my business, I don't give a shit what you do with her after," said Stanga.
Caramarin knew he could rely on himself only. No one else. Of course, he needed to get out of Manchester quickly before the cops hauled him in; but if he played his cards right he might have enough time.
"I'll pick her up myself after I've doomed that Albanian. She's still here? In the rooms above this club?"
Stanga's mouth pulled down. He didn't look too pleased at the thought of Caramarin returning to his premises.
"Sure, pick her up afterwards. But no comebacks, okay."
"I promise. No comebacks," said Caramarin. The talk died as the men sat in the dingy office, the thumping bass banging through the walls. Perianu offered Caramarin another line. Caramarin leafed through the cruise brochures looking at the exotic destinations he'd never be able to afford while keeping one eye on the CCTV of the strippers. Stanga scrolled through his cell.
Budescu came back. He unrolled a newspaper on the desk. A matt black CZ-75 semi-automatic slid out onto the wooden surface. It looked the same piece as the one the other day. Caramarin popped out the magazine. This time it was nearly full. Racked the slide. The pistol worked like an evil dream.
"That'll do for me," said Caramarin. He pocketed the pistol. It balanced up the hunting knife on the other side.
There was a knock on the door. Ada, the dancer Caramarin had noticed earlier, stepped into the office.
"You wanted me, boss?" her voice was low. She had thrown an oversized sweatshirt over herself, but Caramarin noticed the swell of her breasts underneath the baggy garment. She wrapped her arms around herself.
"Take this gentleman up to your room. Show him a good time," Stanga commanded. The girl nodded. Up close, much of her glamour had done and she looked worn down and exhausted. Tired lines framed her eyes and mouth and her make up barely concealed the shadows under her eyes. She was even shorter in flat shoes. She turned and walked out of the office, her shoulders down.
Caramarin looked at the other men.
"Well, what are you waiting for? She's a right dirty bitch. Does anything," said Stanga. "I'll see you back in the club when you've finished."
Caramarin followed Ada along the corridor and up a narrow flight of concrete stairs. He noticed damp patches on the walls. The girl opened a door and crossed to a bed. The room smelled of cheap perfume and cigarettes. The shadeless energy saving bulb cast a sickly, wan light over the room. She sat on the bed.
"Well, what do you want then?" she asked in a dull, flat voice. In the quiet, he heard a bed banging against the wall next door. A shriek of forced laughter. Underneath that, the unending bass beat from the club.
Despite his coke high, Caramarin felt his cock shrivel to the size of a gherkin. Suddenly, he wanted out. Just wanted to go back to Narcisa. Yeah, she'd probably be asleep by now, but fuckin' hell, didn't fancy this girl at all now.
"C'mon, man, boss says anything at all," she said. She pulled off her sweatshirt, then knelt on all fours on the bed, her hair falling around her face. Like she didn't want to see him either. She pulled aside her thong and spread her fleshy lips with one hand, her opening dark in the dimly lit room.
"There's some rubbers in the drawer if you want. Or you can do me bareback if you prefer. But not if you want to take me up the bum."
"Some other time," said Caramarin. "Not your fault but I'm not in the mood tonight."
"What about a blow? Or a hand-job? Give you a stiffy?"
"Look, put your panties back on." Caramarin thought for a moment, his ideas coming a little more into focus now.
"What about that girl in the room two doors down?" asked Caramarin. "The one that was locked up?"
"Her, that stupid Moldovan bitch; why, do you fancy a threesome?" Ada spat. "She's useless, doesn't want to do anything. Just sits there now, crying her eyes out."
"Have you heard what's going to happen to her?"
"How should I know? The boss doesn't tell me his plans. I suppose he'll get rid of her if she doesn't pull her weight any time soon. Move her on or something." Ada shrugged, the matter clearly not important to her.
Caramarin ran his hand over his stubble. Didn't want to raise suspicions by pushing the subject any further. He felt sorry for Ada, pitied her. She'd grown used to the life she was leading. But what could he do about it? He pushed away from the wall, opened the bedroom door and then walked downstairs.
Stanga and Budescu looked up as Caramarin returned to the club. The stage was empty and dark. The lights were up on the main floor which was thinning out now, most of the men having to work long hours tomorrow. Or technically today, Caramarin thought.
"That was quick. We'll have to call you Mr. Rapido," laughed Stanga. "Hope you're as quick dooming that Albanian."
Caramarin turned to Budescu. "Make sure you're in the right place with the engine running. I'm relying on you."
The big man nodded agreement. "Sure, I won't let you down."
"See you, then," said Caramarin. He followed the customers out of the club into the damp chill of the night air. As he left, he heard snatches of various East European languages. Mostly Polish, some Russians, but a number of Romanians and, he thought, Bulgarians.
Caramarin caught a cab back up to Crumpsall, his mind weighed down as heavily as his many pocketed jacket. The house was in total darkness now. He let himself in, kicked off his boots then rolled up his jacket and hid it under the couch.
Maybe it was the coke but he couldn't find sleep; his thoughts chasing each other round and round like rats in a hamster wheel.