Hell's Kitchen (Cullen & Bain Book 3) Page 2

  ‘Ach, what’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘Well, I can think of a few things.’

  Need to count to ten, don’t I? ‘Paul, let’s just record this, have a few beers, then we’ll get out to JFK and home. Okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Elvis hits a key on his laptop, then clears his throat a few times. ‘Future Elvis, that’s us started recording. Cheers, Past Elvis.’ Another cough and he puts on that daft smile for recording. Supposed to make your voice sound better, but I’m not a practitioner, shall we say.

  ‘Welcome to another episode of the Crafty Butcher podcast.’ Elvis grins at us across the table. ‘With me, Elvis…’

  ‘And me, the Billy Boy.’ I lean forward, propping myself up on my elbows. Christ I’m tired.

  Elvis shuts his eyes as he speaks. ‘We’re in Hell’s Kitchen, New York, recording another episode for our “Jings Across America” series where we’ve been sampling some of this great nation’s best craft beers. We started in Seattle twelve days ago, and have visited Portland, Denver and Austin among many, many highlights. But now for the real highlight, a pub crawl through Brooklyn and Williamsburg, where we’ll be enjoying some of New York’s best craft beer.’

  Elvis is staring at us, for some reason.

  So I pick up the baton here. ‘And some absolute pish, I fully expect. And this is episode thirteen, which hopefully won’t be unlucky for us.’ Can just fuckin’ picture the reaction when this goes out tonight. The chortling over Corn Flakes, or commuters on the bus or in the motor giving themselves a wry smile.

  They fuckin’ love our patter out here.

  I mean, I’m actually grinning. Feels like the first time a job has had this reaction to us in donkey’s years.

  But that’s not why Elvis is staring at me. He shakes his head, the cheeky shite. ‘We’re recording in our hotel room in Hell’s Kitchen. Now, this was supposed to be the preamble to our live show in Williamsburg tonight, but that was sadly cancelled.’

  ‘Aye, cos of this stupid bug going round. Honestly, some people need to get a hold of themselves. It’s just the flu.’

  Elvis looks like he’s shat a house brick. ‘Not that we’re for one second suggesting that people ignore the official guidelines around safety. Please respect other people’s social distance. Two metres minimum.’

  ‘Except it’s six feet over here, so they can’t even get that right, eh?’ I reach over for a perfectly chilled bottle of beer and use that opener with “Dad” stencilled on the metal to prise the cap off. Always breaks my heart when I use it. Should get another one, but the action on this is sublime. I take a sip. ‘Oh, man, this is like snogging God. Citrusy as cat’s piss, but with a real low floor of bitterness. And it’s cloudier than a Glasgow morning.’

  ‘What’s that you’re drinking there, Billy Boy?’

  ‘Just a wee drop of that St Petersberg IPA we got a few bottles of down in Florida. Transferred it up in my dirty laundry bag. Turns out it’s not a crime to shift beer over state lines.’

  ‘And luckily only one exploded over your dirty grundies, Billy.’

  ‘Aye, and they smell a lot better now.’ A nice little pause to soak up a laugh that I only hear inside my skull. ‘Tell you, when we get back to Blighty, they’re getting a serious order put in.’

  ‘And from me too.’

  ‘You know we should just gang together to save on shipping it from Florida to Scotland, right?’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ Elvis is nodding like I’m stupid. ‘When I said—’

  ‘And I know it’s eleven in the morning, just on the dot, but I’ve got this app on my phone saying where it’s five o’clock.’ Christ, I have to put my specs on to check. ‘But there you go. It’s five o’clock in Berlin. Cracking city.’

  ‘And somewhere we’ll be visiting in October as part of our “Cans Europe Express”.’ Every time he says that, Elvis grins like he’d just thought it up. ‘Though I suspect we’ll be enjoying some bottles and draught beer as well.’

  My turn to leave a gap for his applause. ‘Speaking of which, Elvis my pal, we’ve got our special guest appearing live on this show in a few minutes, haven’t we?’

  ‘That’s right. But before that, here’s a word from our sponsors.’ He sits back and claps his hands three times. ‘Note to Future Elvis: cut out me going “When I said”, okay? And think about whether to leave in Brian’s crap about Covid being—’

  ‘That’s staying in.’

  ‘Fine.’ He hits a button on the laptop. ‘Okay, that’s us for now.’

  Another sip of beer and it’s that bit less chilled so that bit tastier. ‘So where the fuck is he?’

  ‘No idea.’ Elvis glances over at the door. ‘Still can’t believe you’ve got that bum bag.’

  ‘Fuck sake.’ Prick keeps going on about this. ‘Call it a fanny pack over here.’ I pick it up off the side table. ‘I’ll have the last laugh when you can’t find your travel documents and mine are safely stowed away in this bad boy.’

  And bingo, as if by magic, there’s a knock at the door.

  Elvis paces across the room. ‘Christ, why can’t you put your dirty pants in a bag like a normal person? Why the hell do you have to leave them all over the floor?’ He opens the door and his scowl is replaced by a smile. ‘Art?’

  ‘Elvis?’

  ‘Yup.’

  And this big fat bastard wraps Elvis up in a bear hug. His massive beard looks like it could house a colony of fuckin’ seagulls. And that better be cream cheese and not bird keech encrusted in it. He’s got a Bon Jovi-era denim jacket on, complete with patches, and olive green cargo pants. And fuckin’ flip-flops. What a total fanny.

  But he’s over by the table by the time I’m on my feet. ‘Art Oscar.’ Big massive hand thrust out at us.

  ‘Bri—’ I clear my throat, but I’ll be fucked if I’m shaking that paw. Christ! ‘Just call me Billy.’

  ‘Sure, Bill.’ He sits in my fuckin’ seat and seems to just melt everywhere. Swear, he’s got massive tits and he looks about eight months pregnant. ‘It’s roasting hot in here. You guys sure like it hot, huh?’ He’s staring at my bottle. ‘Oh, lemme have some of that.’ He takes a swig of it and I’ll be fucked if I’m touching it again.

  What a twat.

  I take Elvis’s seat and let that sod perch on the edge of his bed. Christ. Have to open another beer, don’t I? And those Floridian marvels are all gone now.

  ‘Thought I was gonna be late.’ Art gasps as he takes another swig of my fuckin’ beer. ‘But Midtown’s like a ghost town today and, I swear, there’s no security downstairs so I could just come right up. Crazy, huh?’

  ‘Totes.’ Elvis leans forward. ‘You good to go?’

  Art takes another pull of my beer and starts coughing. Another series of rattles, like a fucking machine gun. Keep expecting him to cough up his kidneys. Christ. ‘I’m fine. Hay fever. Tree pollen season right now. Always gets me.’

  ‘Tree pollen?’ I don’t trust this fanjo one bit. ‘Is that a thing?’

  ‘It’s birch just now. Wait for maple. Mid-summer, my eyes are streaming and I can’t sleep, buddy.’

  Elvis raises his eyebrows at the boy. ‘You good?’

  Art does a big grunting cough and sticks the thumbs up. ‘That’s me good.’

  ‘Okay.’ Elvis reaches round us to hit his laptop keyboard. ‘Recording. And three, two, one.’ He puts on that presenter smile again. ‘And we’re now joined by Art Oscar, who was going to be our special guest tonight onstage in Brooklyn, but sadly that’s been shelved for now.’

  I open another bottle and sink a good bit of it. Decent, but nothing on the one Art fuckin’ nicked. ‘But we’ll be back in the fall, hopefully.’

  Elvis gestures at him. ‘And Art really needs no introduction.’

  Art sips more beer. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But we’re going to give you one anyway.’ Elvis snatches his bit of paper from in front of us. ‘As well as being an award-winning podcaster, he also writes for the N
ew Yorker magazine.’

  ‘Used to.’ Art slams his beer down on the table. ‘I’m now at the Gothamite, where I write their craft beer and cocktails column.’

  Makes us frown, have to say. ‘Cocktails?’

  ‘I swear, you should try the pina coladas in my neighbourhood bar.’

  ‘Take that under advisement, son.’

  Boy’s frowning at us. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Pina coladas. I mean, come on.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  Wish I could. ‘So that whole journalism thing’s going to shite, then?’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, I saw some Instagram posts last night. How you’re driving a Travis car, right?’

  ‘Sure. I don’t earn enough dough from my writing, so I need to make ends meet somehow. You try living in Manhattan on my salary. But our online stuff is starting to happen.’ Art coughs again, then rubs at his throat. ‘I do a lot more investigative work too. For instance, there’s a piece I’m doing on these anti-5G pills? You hear about them?’

  I give the wanker a big scowl, trying to intimidate him. ‘Pills for mobile phones?’

  ‘No. These pills stop people… It’s hard to explain. The thing in this country, right now, at this moment, is that there’s a ton of conspiracy theories going around. Blame whoever you like, social media or the government or Wall Street or the Tea Party or Antifa, whoever, but the world is going cray-cray, man.’

  ‘This disease is part of it?’

  ‘Sure. I mean, call me a tinfoil hat wearer, but I don’t see millions of people dying because of it, do you? It’s a campaign to overthrow democracy and install a global government.’

  Ah shite.

  I fuckin’ told Elvis to vet these nutters before they come on. The good thing is we can just scrub this episode and re-record without this bell end. ‘So these gangs are—’

  ‘They’re selling these drugs to protect against 5G. I mean, it’s pretty obvious it causes this virus, right?’

  ‘Is it?’

  And as I’m getting into my fuckin’ stride, my fuckin’ phone rings again. Golden rule of podcasting is to turn it off before we start, but fuck sake, I needed that prop earlier, didn’t I? Berlin…

  And ah shite, it’s the old boy.

  ‘Pause a sec.’ I pick it up and walk over to the window. ‘Dad, you okay?’

  It’s just fuckin’ silence, though. The stupid old bugger has butt-dialled again, hasn’t he? I knew buying him a mobile was a mistake, but would she listen? Would she fuck. So I hang up and text her:

  Can you check Dad’s okay? Just had a call.

  I look out the window but it’s just another building, brown bricks about two metres away. Social distancing. Christ.

  My phone buzzes with a text:

  Sure, I’ll check when my shift’s done. Love you. A x

  Attagirl.

  Thx.

  Back at the table, Elvis is pouring beer into a tall glass for Art. ‘So after this, we’ll go for some beers, yeah?’

  ‘Sure.’ Art sucks down the foam and gasps. Then smacks his lips together. ‘Soon as you hit end on that recording, we’re getting a Travis across town to Williamsburg. We’ll start in a bar near my apartment.’

  I take my seat and pick up my own beer. ‘You say “a Travis” but I take it you mean your motor?’

  ‘Well, yeah. But it’ll get me off the clock.’

  ‘For Billy’s sake, that bar better not be the one that sells pina coladas.’ Elvis is smiling at me, but I invented that move. Hide a slagging beneath friendliness.

  ‘Sorry about that, boys.’ I take my seat again and power off my phone. ‘Schoolboy error.’

  ‘I’ll edit it out.’ Elvis reaches over to the keyboard again. ‘So, are we good to go?’ But his phone rings now. Christ, we look like amateurs here. ‘Ah, I better take this.’ So he repeats my move and slouches over to the window. ‘Dani, hi.’

  ‘I’m a bit puzzled.’ Art rubs beer out of his beard, stares at us like I just pissed on his shoes. ‘I thought we were going to have a nice friendly chat, but you’re interrogating me like you’re one of NYPD’s finest.’

  ‘Sorry, bud. Might not agree with the powers that be on the severity of this bug, but I’ve had it up to here with conspiracy nutters.’

  ‘So you’re a sheeple, huh?’

  Get a load of this fanny. ‘Whatever.’

  And Elvis barrels over between us. He grabs the TV remote and points it at the big panel on the wall. ‘What channel?’

  The TV flicks on to the baseball, but it quickly cuts over to some boy in a suit sitting in a fancy studio. Pink shirt, purple tie. Fuckin’ knew a boy who wore a get-up like that, but he died.

  Label below says Governor Andrew M. Cuomo. Ah shite, this isn’t good. ‘So we’re going to put out an executive order today. Put New York State on pause. Policies that assure uniform safety for everyone. We’re all in quarantine now. This is not life as usual. Accept it. Realise it and deal with it.’

  The wee ticker at the bottom updates. “New York State Now In Lockdown”

  And Elvis glowers at us. ‘This is the worst that can happen.’

  3

  Cullen

  Acting DI Scott Cullen scurried through the pouring rain as fast as he could. Phone pressed to his ear, ringing and ringing and—

  ‘We’re sorry but—’

  Voicemail. Again.

  He hung up and kept on going.

  Mid-afternoon in Portobello and it was miserable. The tide was right in, the foaming sea licking at the defences, the spray loosing off another salvo towards the benches half a mile or so away.

  Right where Cullen and his team were headed. Looked like all four of their targets were sitting there, laughing and joking in the miserable weather. What a life.

  Sergeant Lauren Reid had to run to catch up with Cullen. Her thin red hair was tied back and soaked, just like her uniform. ‘Scott, when you offered me that job, I didn’t expect to be back in uniform so soon.’ Her southern English accent cut through the howling gale.

  ‘Neither did I.’ Cullen chanced a glance down at his own uniform. Time was the T-shirt sleeves would’ve shown off disco muscles, but time and sloth had withered them. That, and Evie preferring the slimmer look these days. At least his sleeves had pips, despite his position still only being Acting.

  Who was he kidding? A few years ago, he’d constantly moan to everyone who’d listen about never getting a chance to make sergeant, and now he was on the brink of a full DI position.

  Get over yourself, Scott.

  Up ahead, their DCs walked lockstep, Craig Hunter alongside Angela Caldwell. Pretty much the exact same height, though Hunter was twice as thick maybe. His ridiculous arms swung loose as they powered along the promenade.

  Angela said something and they both laughed, but the wind swallowed whatever it was. Some joke at Cullen’s expense, no doubt.

  Cullen slowed to a brisk pace now they were nearing. The Dalriada hotel was already shuttered when it should be building up for its busy season. The picnic benches outside were upended and padlocked. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Lauren. I’m a man short after… Well.’

  ‘That’s what you get if you employ numpties.’ The word sounded strange in her accent.

  ‘I wish he was just a numpty.’ Cullen held up a hand to get Hunter and Angela to slow, catching them just as Hunter turned back to check them. The big sod got the message that Cullen was taking charge, and he stopped, patting Angela’s arm to get her to do the same.

  Up ahead, the three benches were in a cut-out section of tidal wall. In summer, during normal circumstances, they’d all be filled with families during the daytime, or with teenagers at night, drinking and smoking weed. But today, the first week of restricted movements falling shy of a full lockdown, the benches were taken by Happy Jack and his three wives.

  Happy Jack sat on the nearest bench, looking like a turtle. A huge green coat covered over a back hunched by years living on the str
eet, as well as the latest in a long line of rucksacks strapped to his body. Age had softened his ginger hair to a sandy rust, but his bushy beard seemed untainted. His ruddy cheeks were rounded, only squaring off as he took a suck from a bottle of cider. Even with minimum alcohol pricing, Jack could still source ultra-cheap turps to batter his liver with.

  Then again, Cullen knew the life Jack had lived. A horrendous childhood, ten years in the army, two of which were in an Iraqi prison, then five in a mental hospital before being let go, only to turn up sporadically, causing mischief. Nothing serious, just scams to help him get by.

  And he always had a few wives.

  Cullen didn’t recognise any of the current lot, but they were like Macbeth’s three crones. Ages varying from late teens to thirties to maybe a rough sixties. All dressed in black raincoats, their hoods up against the wind and the rain.

  Jack passed his bottle to the nearest one and she took a deep sip. And that was when Jack noticed them. His gaze slipped from the distant view across the Forth – past the island Cullen could never remember the name of – and the rain-soaked hills of Fife beyond, to the cops approaching from two sides. Years of experience kicked in. ‘Come on, girls.’ Jack jolted upright and set off across the promenade, heading for the back road leading up to the high street.

  But Cullen was too quick for him. He left Lauren and jogged over to block their exit. Hunter and Angela obstructed the other path, leaving just the inundated beach behind them.

  Nowhere to go.

  Jack stopped and stood there, head bowed. He looked over at Hunter and nodded at him. ‘You okay, Craig?’

  ‘I’m doing okay, Jack.’

  ‘Been a while.’

  ‘Hasn’t it just. How you doing?’

  ‘I was fine, Craig. Just fine. But these… You… Fascist.’

  ‘Jack.’ Cullen gave him a sharp smile. ‘No need to be so frosty.’

  ‘Going to lock us up, are you?’ The dark side of Happy Jack was out now, his nostrils splayed, teeth bared, eyes narrowed. ‘Take us off the streets so it doesn’t look so bad for your fascist overlords?’