Consequence by Eli Yance Page B

we’d be making fifty times more than we do now.”
    “Sanders is a fucking gang lord,” Roach said defiantly. “It took him years to build up what he has.” He glanced across at his friend, “You like your job, you always have, so what’s your problem?”
    Morris shrugged. “We need a hit of our own, something away from Sanders; something that can sort us out for life.”
    “By cutting out the middleman?” Roach smiled.
    “Yes. Something like that.”
    Roach revved up the engine of the Ford. “Only there’s one slight problem,” he said as he reversed the car out of the small space. “Sanders is the middleman and the front man. If we cut him out of anything we do, he’ll cut us out of anything we ever want to do.” He rolled the car out of the space and picked up pace as he weaved through the car park, “And I plan to have kids someday.”
    Morris smiled, but his mind continued to whir with ideas.
    “What did he say anyway?” Roach wanted to know. “Are we to head straight for this Pearce guy?”
    “Yes.”
    “Thought as much. No rest for the wicked,” he remarked coldly.
    25
    Michael Richards had made new friends and they liked him. They talked to him like they had known him for years, sharing stories about their girlfriends, wives, habits and even their petty criminal endeavours.
    He cringed internally at every word they spoke, hating them more by the second. When he eventually told them he was leaving he promised to return to the pub on another occasion to share a few drinks, he had also made plans to join them on a night out -- he would be doing neither.
    He was relieved to be away from them, his eagerness unconsciously translated into a fast walking pace that was two strides short of a jog.
    He found Phillips in another pub half a mile away. He was steadily sipping from a pint of shandy, idly staring out of the window.
    After ordering a pint of Coke from a tall, inconspicuous bar tender, Richards trudged over to one of the seats by the window. He sat down opposite Johnny Phillips, whose eyes were drawn to the road outside -- flicking over each car that occasionally drifted by with a thought-filled twinkle in his eye.
    “You walk?” Phillips said without looking away from the window.
    Richards nodded and took a sip from his glass.
    The pub was empty. Richards had never been inside before and had been given directions from Phillips. He could hear commotion past a doorway next to the bar -- looking through a glass panel in the door he could see a few small pool tables, a large television screen and a gathering of customers.
    The area where Richards and Phillips were seated was quiet and small. There were only two tables and three bar stools and they were the only customers.
    “Been here before?” Richards quizzed.
    “Once,” Phillips replied distantly. “I was seeing a girl not too far from here, big arse, but she had a decent set of tits on her. We came here one weekend for a drink. Through the door,” Phillips motioned to the source of the commotion, “there are a few pool tables, bigger bar, television…not a very exciting place but the drinks are cheap. Had some fun in the toilets too,” he added with a dry smile.
    Richards shook his head in disbelief, “Is there anywhere or anyone you haven’t fucked?” he quizzed jokingly. “You get more action than the A-Team. We’ve been friends for, well, nearly forever; you’d think that would work in my favour,” Richards paused and took a sip from his glass. “Last fuck I got was from a drunk slut I met at a nightclub six months ago,” he explained, “she walked me to her house, we spent half an hour fucking…she passed out, then she woke up in the morning asking me who I was and telling me to get the fuck out of her house.”
    Phillips shifted his eyes away from the window, turning towards his friend, “Yeah. I remember you telling me that,” he laughed. “You came home with stiletto wounds on your face and scratches all over