KILL ME IF YOU CAN (Dave Cunane Book 8) by Frank Lean Page B

street from the Deansgate end and drove slowly.
    The drivers were hard to make out but they could only be Bob’s gofers.
    When I waved him down, Lee stopped and jumped out of the BMW. It was the early hours of the morning but his movements told me he was hyper. I’d never learned his surname. Lee hadn’t been a great success at crime. Walking round in scally costume of bright red Lacoste jumpers all the time hadn’t helped. He was still in scally gear but he’d apparently learned the value of camouflage. The Rockport boots were still there and the bling: heavy gold chain necklace, sovereign rings on three fingers, and bracelets, but he’d toned down the colour scheme. He was wearing black Reebok full-length trackie bottoms and a black Reebok top with grey inset down the sleeves. A black peaked cap with blue side panels concealed his carroty hair, just a few ginger strands poked out in front of his ears.
    Lee stood about five feet two in his boots but that didn’t stop him being aggressive to the point of insanity. He always came onto people like a human pit-bull and liked to greet strangers with ‘Who’re you looking at then?’
    Big men crossed the road to get out of his way.
    Even in the unnatural glow of the sodium street lights the expression on his face signalled that his combat level was high. His ugly mug wasn’t something you wanted to look at even in twilight. Livid spots jostled for lebensraum on his pitted skin.
    ‘How’s it hanging, Lee?’ I asked just to pull his chain. ‘You’re looking well. I could take you for a Swiss banker in those dark clothes.’
    ‘Who are you calling a wanker!’ he snarled.
    There was a twang in his accent that could be taken as Scouse by the uninitiated. I knew he came from Benchhill, Wythenshawe, in Manchester’s Deep South.
    ‘Well, it’s nice to see you too, Lee,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m just being friendly. Would you like a smack on the gob instead?’
    ‘Coming on hard again, are you?’
    Last time we’d met he’d been paid to assault me.
    ‘No, just talking to you in a friendly way.’
    ‘I can do without running f**king errands for you, Cunane. You might have got off all them sex murders but in my book you’re still a nonce.’
    ‘Hey, you should try for a job with the police Lee. You’re wasting your time as Bob Lane’s gofer. Yeah, the local Filth want men like you who don’t bother their heads about little things like proof and evidence.’
    ‘Are you saying I’m a copper’s nark,’ he yelped.
    He started forward angrily.
    ‘Hang about, Lee!’ No-Nose said, emerging from the Volvo and wrapping his arms round his partner in crime. Oddly enough, No-Nose had a book in his hand. I wondered where he’d nicked it. The book shops weren’t open yet.
    ‘Mr Cunane’s a friend of Bob’s. You don’t want to mess with him.’
    ‘Get your f**king hands off me,’ Lee grunted. ‘He said I’m a grass.’
    ‘Sorry about this, Mr C,’ No-Nose apologised, tightening his grip. ‘What you said is a very sore point with Lee.’
    ‘It’s all right, Tony,’ I said. ‘Let him go and I’ll punch his lights out for him.’
    His mother and I are the only ones who ever use No -Nose’s given name, Tony. I’ve known him for a long while. He worked as an undercover messenger for Bob when Bob at one time.
    ‘Lee, will you stop pissing about?’ No-Nose pleaded.
    ‘Yeah, no hard feelings, Lee,’ I said, ‘I was only messing with you.’
    I held out my hand.
    Lee’s struggles subsided and No-Nose let him go. He shook my hand and looked away.
    ‘Which car do you want?’ he asked.
    I walked round both cars, taking my time.
    ‘It’s not as if you’re buying, Mr C,’ No-Nose whispered.
    ‘I fancy the Beamer,’ I said to Lee.
    ‘It’s too good for the likes of you.’
    ‘Lee!’ warned No-Nose ‘the big guy’s listening to you. This’ll all go straight back to Bob.’
    The big guy was indeed listening.
    Clint was struggling to get out