Murphy nodded, folded the printout and put it in his pocket.
“Once I saw the name Big, Inspector, I thought I should bring the printout to you. And the name Abdul is also important,” Greene said.
“What you got on this Abdul?”
“Nothing so far, but a buddy working the Laventille Gang Unit told me that they’re upping the surveillance on an Abdul in Laventille who’s making strong headway to become the next top dog.”
Who the hell is this Abdul? And what was Big whipping up with him? “You have anything on this Laventille Abdul?” he asked, thinking that he better get those lazy blimp boys to do some surveillance on this Abdul character.
“Not yet, but my buddy tells me they plan to squeeze him next week to find out what he’s up to.”
“From the sound of it, my guess is it’s the same Abdul of the G-Unit gang I’ve been hearing about.” Murphy finished his beer.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Good work, Greene, good work. This is worthy of a formal commendation. Leave everything to me. I’ll take it from here. Who else has a copy of the readout?”
“Nobody.”
“Good.” Murphy nodded. The less the top brass knows the better, he thought. Information is power. “I want you to keep this information to yourself. Got that, Greene?”
Monday, March 15, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Who is Mr. Big?
Minister Jones refocused his attention on Inspector Murphy. “So what do you think of SS as a hitman?”
“I’ve seen some of his work, or should I say some of the work accredited to him. Good stuff, clean, no mess. Delivers on time. He’s good, I think. That’s why I recommended him.”
“How many kills has he done?”
Murphy shrugged. “Who knows? But I know a coupla big names he personally deleted from the telephone book, if you know what I mean.”
“I wonder if he uses any kinda special trademark? You know, like leaving behind some mysterious clue at the crime scene, like a playing card. The Ace of Spades or the Queen of Hearts, something like that, or maybe pieces from a jigsaw puzzle.”
Murphy shook his head. “Jones, you think—”
“Maybe a little rhyme, something like, now you see me, now you don’t.”
“Jones, I can’t—”
“Ah, maybe even, photos of past kills. Can you imagine if—”
“JONES!” Murphy shot his hardened cop-look at Jones, and then quickly lowered his voice. “What de ass! Forget all that movie and CSI bullshit. This is the real world. Nobody leaves little clues and shit hanging around. I mean come on, don’t we have enough friggin’ drama to deal with? Is Trinidad, we talking ‘bout, the land of drama and decease.”
“It’s deceit you mean, right?”
“Yeah,” Murphy shrugged. “Whatever.”
Jones gave a thoughtful nod. “So how come he hasn’t done any work in a while?”
“Maybe he has, maybe he hasn’t,” Murphy shrugged again. “He might have done some jobs we don’t know about. Who knows, he might be that friggin’ good.”
“Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.”
“Yeah, sometimes, but the problem with luck is, it always runs out.”
“I’ve seen some of his work, or should I say some of the work accredited to him. Good stuff, clean, no mess. Delivers on time. He’s good, I think. That’s why I recommended him.”
“How many kills has he done?”
Murphy shrugged. “Who knows? But I know a coupla big names he personally deleted from the telephone book, if you know what I mean.”
“I wonder if he uses any kinda special trademark? You know, like leaving behind some mysterious clue at the crime scene, like a playing card. The Ace of Spades or the Queen of Hearts, something like that, or maybe pieces from a jigsaw puzzle.”
Murphy shook his head. “Jones, you think—”
“Maybe a little rhyme, something like, now you see me, now you don’t.”
“Jones, I can’t—”
“Ah, maybe even, photos of past kills. Can you imagine if—”
“JONES!” Murphy shot his hardened cop-look at Jones, and then quickly lowered his voice. “What de ass! Forget all that movie and CSI bullshit. This is the real world. Nobody leaves little clues and shit hanging around. I mean come on, don’t we have enough friggin’ drama to deal with? Is Trinidad, we talking ‘bout, the land of drama and decease.”
“It’s deceit you mean, right?”
“Yeah,” Murphy shrugged. “Whatever.”
Jones gave a thoughtful nod. “So how come he hasn’t done any work in a while?”
“Maybe he has, maybe he hasn’t,” Murphy shrugged again. “He might have done some jobs we don’t know about. Who knows, he might be that friggin’ good.”
“Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.”
“Yeah, sometimes, but the problem with luck is, it always runs out.”
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Minister Jones and Inspector Murphy plot against Big
Minister Jones sat with Inspector Murphy at a sidewalk table outside Rituals Coffee House on Sweetbriar Road in St. Clair. Jones was having a cappuccino grande and Murphy, a regular coffee.
Jones smiled and nodded at a mother and daughter as they passed. The little girl, dressed in her neatly-pressed school uniform, walked with a little forward-tilt from the weight of her bulky backpack.
“You got any children, Murphy?” Jones asked.
“Yeah, boy and girl.” Murphy shook a yellow sachet of Splenda, ripped it open and poured some in his coffee.
“Who’s older?”
“Girl, by four years.” Murphy stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking against the sides of the mug.
He laid the spoon on the saucer and, turning his head to the side so that no coffee would drip on his pants or shoes, took a careful sip.
“I got two boys.” Jones shook his head. “Idiots.”
Murphy sipped his coffee.
“Yeah, two blundering teenage idiots. Twins.” Jones shook his head. “Can you imagine my house on a morning? Freakin’ chaos.” Jones shook his head again and drank some of his cappuccino.
Rituals on Sweetbriar was a cozy spot. Tucked in the west corner of Briar Place, a snazzy office building, Rituals held its own against corporate-giant neighbors Royal Bank, Ernst & Young, British Gas. Like David facing off with Goliath, Rituals was up to the mammoth task, brewing cup after cup of coffee and tea for its exacting corporate clientele.
“So, what more do you have on our friend Mr. SS?” Jones said.
Jones smiled and nodded at a mother and daughter as they passed. The little girl, dressed in her neatly-pressed school uniform, walked with a little forward-tilt from the weight of her bulky backpack.
“You got any children, Murphy?” Jones asked.
“Yeah, boy and girl.” Murphy shook a yellow sachet of Splenda, ripped it open and poured some in his coffee.
“Who’s older?”
“Girl, by four years.” Murphy stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking against the sides of the mug.
He laid the spoon on the saucer and, turning his head to the side so that no coffee would drip on his pants or shoes, took a careful sip.
“I got two boys.” Jones shook his head. “Idiots.”
Murphy sipped his coffee.
“Yeah, two blundering teenage idiots. Twins.” Jones shook his head. “Can you imagine my house on a morning? Freakin’ chaos.” Jones shook his head again and drank some of his cappuccino.
Rituals on Sweetbriar was a cozy spot. Tucked in the west corner of Briar Place, a snazzy office building, Rituals held its own against corporate-giant neighbors Royal Bank, Ernst & Young, British Gas. Like David facing off with Goliath, Rituals was up to the mammoth task, brewing cup after cup of coffee and tea for its exacting corporate clientele.
“So, what more do you have on our friend Mr. SS?” Jones said.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Minister Jones recruits Big
“Sorry, but when we met it was so brief. Do you have any special code name?” Jones leaned forward. “I mean, what do I call you?”
“Anything you want,” Big said, sliding an olive off its toothpick. He considered the olive, rolling it around in his fingers. “Olives remind me of bullet slugs. Just about the same size.” He plopped it into his mouth.
Jones glanced at his Rolex, then gripped the sides of the table. “Listen, it’s getting late, and I don’t want to be seen here with you. So you want this money now or—”
“You’re not nervous, are you, Minister?” Big asked, enjoying his puppet-master control over the idiot politician.
“Why you say that?” Jones wiped his forehead.
“Take off your jacket. You’ll feel cooler, more relaxed.”
“Yeah, good idea.”
Big watched Jones clumsily hang his jacket on the back of the chair. What a clown. Big scanned the minister’s shirt. No visible wire lines. Good, but better be sure. He raised his martini glass quickly and—“Oops!” He sloshed his drink on Jones’s shirt.
“Shit!” Jones sprang to his feet.
“Sorry, sorry, my fault.” He patted down Jones’s shirt with his napkin. No wire. “Really sorry. Let me get the waitress.” Big smiled inwardly as he motioned Latoya.
As he and the minister sat down again, a young Hispanic woman strolled in, her cell phone pressed to the side of her face. She was slim and full busted. Probably a 36D.
“Nice, huh?” Jones said, looking the Hispanic woman up and down slowly.
“Very.”
“Here’s more napkins.” Latoya stretched over to Jones, her cleavage in Big’s direct line of vision. “Can I get you anything from the bar, sir?” Latoya asked, her dreamy brown eyes fixed on Jones’s.
“Minister, why don’t you try one of these?” Big grinned, indicating his martini. “You’re already wearing one.”
“Very funny. Umm, just water for me, thanks.” Jones blotted his shirt with the napkins.
“Still or sparkling?” Latoya’s pencil and pad ready.
Jones’s face went blank, his lips parting slightly.
“I’ll have another martini, but let the minister try the sparkling water. You like bubbles, don’t you, minister?”
Jones nodded vaguely at Big, then at Latoya.
“Okey-dokey.” Latoya smiled and bounced away, passed a couple walking along the balcony looking for a place to sit, but the balcony was full. Big could see glitter shining in the woman’s hair in the soft glow of the balcony lights. The man shrugged and gestured for them to leave and try their chances inside.
“Listen,” Jones leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m a government minister. This isn’t a good position for me to be in right now.”
“What position is that?”
“You know, coming here to deliver this payment.” Jones glanced around. “Too public.”
Big nodded, never getting tired of this little game of politician-pretend-innocence. “Oh, I get it. You’re nervous about your position here at the wine bar, but not about the public situation you and your government find yourselves in.”
“It’s just that,” Jones ran his finger between his collar and his neck, “I mean, why did you pick such a public place to meet?”
“What would you prefer, a dark alley? An abandoned warehouse?” Big winked as Latoya placed their drinks on the table. “Better get my Ray-Bans, ski-mask and dark trench coat from the car.”
“Anything you want,” Big said, sliding an olive off its toothpick. He considered the olive, rolling it around in his fingers. “Olives remind me of bullet slugs. Just about the same size.” He plopped it into his mouth.
Jones glanced at his Rolex, then gripped the sides of the table. “Listen, it’s getting late, and I don’t want to be seen here with you. So you want this money now or—”
“You’re not nervous, are you, Minister?” Big asked, enjoying his puppet-master control over the idiot politician.
“Why you say that?” Jones wiped his forehead.
“Take off your jacket. You’ll feel cooler, more relaxed.”
“Yeah, good idea.”
Big watched Jones clumsily hang his jacket on the back of the chair. What a clown. Big scanned the minister’s shirt. No visible wire lines. Good, but better be sure. He raised his martini glass quickly and—“Oops!” He sloshed his drink on Jones’s shirt.
“Shit!” Jones sprang to his feet.
“Sorry, sorry, my fault.” He patted down Jones’s shirt with his napkin. No wire. “Really sorry. Let me get the waitress.” Big smiled inwardly as he motioned Latoya.
As he and the minister sat down again, a young Hispanic woman strolled in, her cell phone pressed to the side of her face. She was slim and full busted. Probably a 36D.
“Nice, huh?” Jones said, looking the Hispanic woman up and down slowly.
“Very.”
“Here’s more napkins.” Latoya stretched over to Jones, her cleavage in Big’s direct line of vision. “Can I get you anything from the bar, sir?” Latoya asked, her dreamy brown eyes fixed on Jones’s.
“Minister, why don’t you try one of these?” Big grinned, indicating his martini. “You’re already wearing one.”
“Very funny. Umm, just water for me, thanks.” Jones blotted his shirt with the napkins.
“Still or sparkling?” Latoya’s pencil and pad ready.
Jones’s face went blank, his lips parting slightly.
“I’ll have another martini, but let the minister try the sparkling water. You like bubbles, don’t you, minister?”
Jones nodded vaguely at Big, then at Latoya.
“Okey-dokey.” Latoya smiled and bounced away, passed a couple walking along the balcony looking for a place to sit, but the balcony was full. Big could see glitter shining in the woman’s hair in the soft glow of the balcony lights. The man shrugged and gestured for them to leave and try their chances inside.
“Listen,” Jones leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m a government minister. This isn’t a good position for me to be in right now.”
“What position is that?”
“You know, coming here to deliver this payment.” Jones glanced around. “Too public.”
Big nodded, never getting tired of this little game of politician-pretend-innocence. “Oh, I get it. You’re nervous about your position here at the wine bar, but not about the public situation you and your government find yourselves in.”
“It’s just that,” Jones ran his finger between his collar and his neck, “I mean, why did you pick such a public place to meet?”
“What would you prefer, a dark alley? An abandoned warehouse?” Big winked as Latoya placed their drinks on the table. “Better get my Ray-Bans, ski-mask and dark trench coat from the car.”
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Mr. Big gets pulled over by the police
If Pesty’s tip was right, Murphy was the man behind Big’s surveillance. Suddenly Big felt the walls closing in, as if he were a fly too caught up in his own preoccupations to notice the spider weaving a steady web around him, thread by thread. He had to do something about Murphy, but he didn’t have much time, so he’d have to park Murphy for now. Or should he draw Murphy into the plot, expose him, then take him out? Killing a cop was one thing, but an inspector? That was risky. He would have to—
Raps on the window.
Big rolled down his window and stared at the traffic cop. Erik Estrada from Bobby’s parking lot, pointing a menacing semi-automatic at Big.
“Yes, Officer.”
“License and insurance,” Estrada ordered. He wore heavy gray flannels, bulletproof vest, fingerless gloves, riot helmet, and dead-eyed cop look. Full combat mode.
Big fumbled through the glove compartment, looking for any of his licenses. “Here you go, Officer. What’s going on?”
Estrada flipped through Big’s documents. “Police business.” He didn’t look up right away. Finally, he looked at the license, then at Big, then back down at the license.
Just like a Trinidadian cop, Big thought. They never tell you why they’re doing something. Just in case, they didn’t know themselves. He looked up at him. “Inspector Murphy around?”
Estrada locked his dead-eyed glare on Big. “Pull to the side, sir.”
“Why?”
Estrada leaned into the car. “Listen, Mister, pull to the side before I drag your sorry ass out.”
Big could smell the rum on Estrada’s breath. So much for the No drinking while on duty cliché.
“Sorry, Officer,” Big raised his hands in the surrender position. “Take it easy, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Wait here.” Estrada cowboy-walked to a huddle of cops dressed in khaki. Inspectors, overweight and out-of-date. Big couldn’t make out their faces or what they were saying, but he knew his driver’s license was under heavy scrutiny.
Jewels of sweat formed on his upper lip and about his temples. His palms felt clammy. He’d have to play it cool. He didn’t want the cops poking around in the car, especially with his Browning 9mm hidden in the trunk. They might not buy the hunting story. Unless, of course, he could convince them that he hunted wild birds with a 9mm...
Raps on the window.
Big rolled down his window and stared at the traffic cop. Erik Estrada from Bobby’s parking lot, pointing a menacing semi-automatic at Big.
“Yes, Officer.”
“License and insurance,” Estrada ordered. He wore heavy gray flannels, bulletproof vest, fingerless gloves, riot helmet, and dead-eyed cop look. Full combat mode.
Big fumbled through the glove compartment, looking for any of his licenses. “Here you go, Officer. What’s going on?”
Estrada flipped through Big’s documents. “Police business.” He didn’t look up right away. Finally, he looked at the license, then at Big, then back down at the license.
Just like a Trinidadian cop, Big thought. They never tell you why they’re doing something. Just in case, they didn’t know themselves. He looked up at him. “Inspector Murphy around?”
Estrada locked his dead-eyed glare on Big. “Pull to the side, sir.”
“Why?”
Estrada leaned into the car. “Listen, Mister, pull to the side before I drag your sorry ass out.”
Big could smell the rum on Estrada’s breath. So much for the No drinking while on duty cliché.
“Sorry, Officer,” Big raised his hands in the surrender position. “Take it easy, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Wait here.” Estrada cowboy-walked to a huddle of cops dressed in khaki. Inspectors, overweight and out-of-date. Big couldn’t make out their faces or what they were saying, but he knew his driver’s license was under heavy scrutiny.
Jewels of sweat formed on his upper lip and about his temples. His palms felt clammy. He’d have to play it cool. He didn’t want the cops poking around in the car, especially with his Browning 9mm hidden in the trunk. They might not buy the hunting story. Unless, of course, he could convince them that he hunted wild birds with a 9mm...
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Big remembers his first kill
However, that first contract had been too good to turn down. The money was excellent and the target was easy—so easy he’d used the kill as a training exercise.
All he’d had to do was drive to Macaripe Beach at midnight and do Stevenson, the unfaithful husband. He used an army gun. Since the army routinely did maneuvers in Chaguaramas, they easily took the blame.
Big savored the memory of the whispered double-tap shots from his semi-automatic, the blood splattering on the white upholstery, and Stevenson’s body flopping over. Everything about the hit electrified him: the smoky smell of the gun powder, the cozy feel of the gun, and Stevenson’s eyes staring in his lolling head.
That split-second power to end a life was seductive, orgasmic even. Whenever he went for a kill, feelings so good, so powerful, so alive overtook him that he lost himself completely in the moment, exercising that ultimate human power—to kill, to pull someone’s plug. He felt like God—or the devil, depending on how you looked at it.
Big took pride in being a professional whose hits were strictly business, unlike the serial killer, the passion-enraged murderer, the common thug, the religious terrorist. That first night he’d shot Stevenson’s Venezuelan lover, too. A bonus, another kill for the thrill? Hell no, just demands of the business—no witnesses, no questions. No loose ends.
Big laughed when an employer timidly asked if he ever felt conflicted about his profession, if he ever gave a damn. No way; why should he? He was simply providing a specialized service, a skilled worker integrated into a larger workforce. When you wanted good steak, you went to Peter at Prime. When you wanted great wine, you sought out Steven, the sommelier at Hand Arnold. For surreal sex, you contracted Maria, the high class call girl—and when you needed the orderly handling of murder, you contacted Mr. Big, the Cleaner.
All he’d had to do was drive to Macaripe Beach at midnight and do Stevenson, the unfaithful husband. He used an army gun. Since the army routinely did maneuvers in Chaguaramas, they easily took the blame.
Big savored the memory of the whispered double-tap shots from his semi-automatic, the blood splattering on the white upholstery, and Stevenson’s body flopping over. Everything about the hit electrified him: the smoky smell of the gun powder, the cozy feel of the gun, and Stevenson’s eyes staring in his lolling head.
That split-second power to end a life was seductive, orgasmic even. Whenever he went for a kill, feelings so good, so powerful, so alive overtook him that he lost himself completely in the moment, exercising that ultimate human power—to kill, to pull someone’s plug. He felt like God—or the devil, depending on how you looked at it.
Big took pride in being a professional whose hits were strictly business, unlike the serial killer, the passion-enraged murderer, the common thug, the religious terrorist. That first night he’d shot Stevenson’s Venezuelan lover, too. A bonus, another kill for the thrill? Hell no, just demands of the business—no witnesses, no questions. No loose ends.
Big laughed when an employer timidly asked if he ever felt conflicted about his profession, if he ever gave a damn. No way; why should he? He was simply providing a specialized service, a skilled worker integrated into a larger workforce. When you wanted good steak, you went to Peter at Prime. When you wanted great wine, you sought out Steven, the sommelier at Hand Arnold. For surreal sex, you contracted Maria, the high class call girl—and when you needed the orderly handling of murder, you contacted Mr. Big, the Cleaner.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Meet Mr. Big
Meet Mr. Big, an approaching-middle-aged hitman who drinks only Absolut vodka martinis and Mumm MMS champagne. Mr. Big has been contracted to eliminate a high profile political target. The 70,000 word crime fiction, set on the Caribbean island of Trinidad and Tobago, follows the thrills and spills of Big, a veteran of the game of life or death who might just be losing his edge. Big is suspicious from the start, and as he searches for answers from Michael Anthony Jones, the government minister who hires him, he quickly becomes entangled in a complicated web of trickery and deceit. The Minister is not as dumb or dotish as he appears, nor is Inspector Murphy, the corrupt cop whom the Minister drags into the conspiracy—in fact, Murphy pulls off several alarming surprises. To complicate matters, a general election is only a month away, and as the national tension builds, Big considers whether he should go through with the job or not. When Big is on the verge of walking away, his daughter, a modern-day Trini teenager with plenty of attitude and charm, forces his hand, and he has no choice but to go through with the job.
This first-in-a-series novel with cosmopolitan appeal is written in an easy-going Caribbean voice. In MR. BIG, Ty N. Batson brings to life a Trinidadian protagonist who can stand alongside Robert B. Parker's Spenser, Ian Rankin's John Rebus and Harlan Coben's Myron Bolitar.Readers will be surprised and delighted by MR. BIG’S unlikely hero, unexpected twists, and fast-paced action, all delivered with sharp dialogue and humour in a Caribbean island setting.
Soon to be in all local bookstores and popular bookstores in the US..........
This first-in-a-series novel with cosmopolitan appeal is written in an easy-going Caribbean voice. In MR. BIG, Ty N. Batson brings to life a Trinidadian protagonist who can stand alongside Robert B. Parker's Spenser, Ian Rankin's John Rebus and Harlan Coben's Myron Bolitar.Readers will be surprised and delighted by MR. BIG’S unlikely hero, unexpected twists, and fast-paced action, all delivered with sharp dialogue and humour in a Caribbean island setting.
Soon to be in all local bookstores and popular bookstores in the US..........
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