26. Cinn
twenty-six
Cinn
N oon came, and noon went.
The three of them resorted to perching on the pavement on the edge of the supermarket car park, watching shoppers push trolleys for entertainment.
Well, the other two were. Cinn was bobbing along to the Fugees on his Walkman.
Until his battery ran out mid-song.
He dragged his headphones down to hang around his neck.
“He’s even later than I usually am.” Elliot tapped his watch. “It’s almost two.”
How much longer should Cinn give it before he admitted George wasn’t coming back? He sighed, dropping his head between his legs. This whole day was turning into a nightmare.
Earlier, Julien had used the phone in Bradley’s kitchen to contact his bank in France, causing Cinn no end of guilt. Demanding such a large sum of money be released to a foreign bank wasn’t a simple action, if the clipped tone of Julien’s French was anything to go by.
“Here.” Julien’s voice made him lift his head up. He offered Cinn a cigarette, which he accepted with grateful fingers.
Elliot rolled his shoulders, clicking his back. He’d drawn the short straw and ended up on the floor last night. “Shall we give it another hour, then call it? ”
Cinn forced himself to nod in agreement. He couldn’t make them sit outside on the pavement all day for someone that may never come. Then he saw him—dressed in dark clothes, hood up, crossing the car park to reach them. Cinn leapt up. “Shit, that’s him!”
George was alone today. In the stark light of day, the unhealthy pinch of his face was more evident. Deep bags ran under his eyes. He offered Cinn a weak smile. “Sorry I’m late, mate. I had a long one last night. Here’s everything you need.”
Passing him a scrap of paper, George spun on his heels, and was walking away from them before Cinn had time to reply.
The paper held a scribbled address on it, a North London postcode that Cinn didn’t recognise. Then, a time: nine p.m. Then, a figure: ￡50,000.
Julien let out a low whistle. “Reckon that kid told him how desperate you were?”
More likely, the hundred pounds Julien had so freely handed over had made George think that there was plenty more where that came from.
“Is that going to be a problem?” Cinn’s whole body tensed. “God, I’m so sorry,” he added, closing his eyes. This entire experience of practically begging Julien for money was mortifying.
Elliot punched his arm. “Dude, chill out. Julien doesn’t give a shit about spending Montaigne wealth. His shithead father is at least good for one thing.”
A cool gaze settled over Julien’s face. “You know I don’t rely on him for money,” he snapped. “I haven’t since I left for university. However, you’re right in that it’s not a problem. We will have to go and talk to the bank.”
Three Tube stops later found them outside a large building, whose ornate stone facade exuded wealth. According to Julien, this bank was partnered with his one in France. “Stay here,” he muttered, face set in determination, and went to join the long queue alone .
“What’s the chance we’ll hear angry French cursing in approximately ten minutes?” said Elliot.
It took double that before Julien re-emerged, footsteps heavy, face a scowl. A large padded envelope was now in his hands. “They would only give me ten thousand. Apparently that was very generous of them, and they made a special exception for me, as I’m such a loyal client of their partner bank. Anything more and it’ll be a couple of days’ wait.”
“Looks like we’ll be going with Plan B then.” Elliot smiled like the cat that got the cream.
Cinn didn’t share his enthusiasm. He’d only had one encounter with Heino Richter before, and the memory of his venomous, snake-like smile still turned his stomach. “We better go get ready.”
Hovering at the edge of an industrial estate, Cinn re-examined the piece of paper. “It’s that warehouse there,” he said, nodding to a large single-storey building ahead of them, its corrugated metal exterior glinting in the moonlight.
Julien grabbed his arm before Cinn could take another step. “Remember the codewords?”
Cinn nodded. He didn’t realise he was biting his lip until Julien tugged it free with gentle, lingering fingers.
“It’s not too late to back out. We could tell Richter we need more time to get the money together.”
What if Richter thought they would fail to come up with it? Cinn hadn’t had a spare fifty grand the last time they’d met. Or worse, what if Richter realised they were organising a plot against him? Better to launch in now and take him by surprise than to drag this whole thing out…
“It’ll be fine,” said Elliot, who sounded almost bored .
“You do crazy shit like this for a living, Elliot,” Julien snapped. “Give us a second.”
“I’m usually part of a team sent to arrest moteblessed criminals. This is going to be a walk in the park compared to that. You two stay here, and I’ll be back with Tyler in five.”
“ Non! We’ll be burying bodies until three a.m. if you go in there by yourself, I know it.”
Cinn picked up the duffle bag from the ground and left them to cross the quiet expanse of the estate, hoping they’d follow. Seconds later, Julien wrenched the bag out of his hand.
The three of them crept around the side of the building to find a doorbell. Elliot pressed it once, hard. An eerie hush descended as they waited.
A side door clicked open, a bear-sized man emerging. It was the man who’d escorted Cinn to Richter last time, in a different location. The man nodded, then beckoned another man outside.
“Arms up,” the new one barked, and all three of them obliged them in their pat down.
“What’s in the rucksack?”
Julien handed it to him to rifle through, and Cinn prayed that none of the items in it warranted suspicion. He’d packed a load of junk in it, in addition to the one item that mattered.
“That other bag the cash?”
With gloved hands, Julien quickly unzipped a tiny portion of the duffle bag to flash the men some notes. It seemed to appease them, and one held the door ajar for them to enter.
The spacious warehouse appeared to be a storage unit, when it wasn’t serving as a drug lord’s lair. Following Richter’s men through a maze of shelves and crates, they eventually reached the other side. A blue door, light seeping out from under its crack, awaited them. The burly man took position outside of it, hand resting lazily on his belt. What weapons was he was concealing?
“Buns?”
Cinn spun so fast he got whiplash. There, in the corner, slumped against a wooden box, was Tyler. Cinn was on the floor next to him before he took his next breath.
With unfocused eyes, Tyler reached out for his hand. “They came outta nowhere. Cobra’s crew. They jumped me. No idea how they clocked I had all the white on me. Some fucker must have tipped them off.”
That many sentences at once seemed to exhaust Tyler’s energy; his head dropped against the crate. A piece of rope around his wrists that was attached to the crate was his only restraint—clearly he wasn’t much of a flight risk in this state. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead, and there was a slight tremor to his leg. Withdrawal. Now wasn’t the time for lectures though. They could come later.
“Course I came. Julien and Elliot did too.”
Tyler’s hazy eyes flicked over to them. His mouth twitched downwards ever so slightly, and Cinn’s stress levels further increased—hopefully Tyler wasn’t about to embarrass him by saying anything even vaguely insulting about the two people about to literally save his life.
“They’re lending me the money.” Cinn raised his eyebrows at Tyler to impart a clear message.
Tyler nodded to them. “Class. We’ll get it back to them.”
“Richter will see you now,” one man announced behind him. “Through the door.”
A hand squeezed onto Cinn’s shoulder. “I’ll sit here with him,” said Julien. “Take Elliot in with you.”
Cinn hesitated—was that arrangement the best idea?—but having no other solutions, he climbed to his feet to head to the blue door, with Elliot stuck to him like glue .
Heino Richter was just as intimidating on this occasion as when they’d met before. Even though he was sitting on an office chair, his stature felt imposing, his steely gaze and salt-and-pepper beard betraying years of calculated ruthlessness that Cinn knew too much about. Dressed in a tailored suit that only amplified his authority, he exuded a quiet power that demanded respect.
The larger of Heino’s men had followed them in, and now clicked the door closed. The cramped office was lit only by a single dim dangling bulb illuminating everything in a subdued glow. Stacks of boxes labelled with ambiguous codes surrounded a weathered mahogany desk cluttered with ledgers. Was this a regular meeting spot for Richter?
Cinn exchanged a quick glance with Elliot, who, despite his bravado earlier, seemed slightly rattled as they awaited Richter’s greeting.
Richter didn’t smile, didn’t nod, only leaned back in his leather chair, fingers plucking a cigar from a metal box on the desk, whilst maintaining complete eye contact with Cinn.
Cinn swallowed, but met his gaze unwaveringly. Don’t give them an inch, Cinn. It was Tyler’s mantra that had got him through that year in prison and some of the hard times after. And now he was here to save his best friend, hopefully for the last time.
With a flick of his gold-plated lighter, Richter brought the flame to life, casting an amber glow on his face as he took a contemplative puff, fragrant smoke curling around him.
“So,” he began, and Cinn wanted to cry in relief. “Here we are again, young Cinnamon Saunders. Our last transaction didn’t exactly unfold as anticipated, did it? A stumble in the dance of business, my friend.”
Cinn remained silent. Elliot, almost imperceptibly, moved closer to him.
“I didn’t get my funds, and two of my finest associates met an untimely end,” Richter stated cooly, his gaze piercing through the smoke-filled room .
Cinn snorted. “Ronnie and Spiky? Your best men? Anyway, I got the money to you, just a few days later.”
“Yes, yes. Your diligence was certainly appreciated. But what I truly want to know.” Richter leaned forwards, eyes drilling into Cinn’s. “Is what exactly transpired that night at Rosewood Parlour? Four corpses, you tagged with murder, and then, poof!” Richter blew a plume of smoke at him. “You’re released, scot-free.”
“There was a miscommunication.” Cinn set his jaw in a hard line.
“And has this miscommunication anything to do with your fancy new friends, Cinnamon?”
Cinn stepped forward. “I’m not interested in idle chit-chat. I’ve got the money in a bag. This is the deal: we hand it over, and Tyler never works for you again. None of your dealers will sell to him, even. He goes free, has a proper chance at getting clean this time.”
Richter chuckled, a hollow, unpleasant sound. “You’re aware he’s the one pleading at my door every time, aren’t you? It’s not my fault he has the unfortunate habit of screwing up his line of credit repeatedly. I promise nothing. This is business, Cinnamon, supply and demand. There are always those that will win, and those that will lose. Loyalty is rewarded, and stupidity is punished.”
A surge of fury consumed Cinn. “Like that kid, George, who you’ve got dealing for you? How did he get those bruises on his arms? Stupidity? And that girl Sally? What about her?”
Richter’s laugh was unbearably loud. “Do you fancy yourself the saviour of every fuck-up in North London now, Cinnamon? And I thought you saved all of your hero complex for your faggot boyfriend.”
If Cinn had harboured any small doubts about their plan, they vanished like mist.
He hadn’t done much good for the world in his short life so far, but he could stop Richter from ruining any more lives.
A soft, strangled sound from Elliot, then, “You’re a real piece of shit. ”
“Let’s just get this over with,” said Cinn, before Elliot decided to derail the scheme by exploding Richter’s brain. He nodded at the door. “The money’s outside. Let’s make the exchange.”