Kill the King by Eric Samson Page B

listened to him carefully, not asking any unnecessary
questions. He dropped the two heavy bags at their feet. A small
knapsack was presented as well.
    “This large bag
over here contains four keys of cocaine, six keys of pure heroin,
and twenty vials of meth. The other bag contains exactly three
hundred thousand dollars. You are not to open either bag at any
time. . .you’re going to deliver both of these bags to Artan
immediately. If the contents of these bags don’t exactly match what I’ve just described by the time you see Artan, both of
you will be held responsible. Any questions?”
    The two
delivery boys glanced at each other nervously before shaking their
heads.
    “You didn’t ask
about the third bag I have here. Good. That means you’re not greedy
little shits. You can be trusted with this delivery job. Inside
this knapsack you’ll find eight vials of meth, some pipes and
syringes, and a pound of hash. That’s my gift to you. Keep it or
sell it—that’s up to you. Just be sure you don’t sell it anywhere
near the Fourteens and stay away from Kibera. You boys aren’t going
to fuck this up, right?”
    “No sir,” they
said in unison.
    Tyler was
content and dismissed them with a backhanded wave. The runners
picked up the bags and left in a hurry.
    Tyler lit a
cigarette and sat down on his sofa. It felt as hard as a concrete,
only marginally softer than his old cot back in the Block. In the
past this would have caused him great discomfort, though this time
it felt oddly reassuring. Lying on cushions stuffed with a quarter
million dollars will do that to a man.
    Sorry, boys. .
.it’s you or me. Enjoy the dope while you can.
    Tyler was just
about to pour himself a drink when his phone began to buzz in his
jacket pocket. It was a text message from Khaled.
    Get cleaned. Picking
you up. Family meeting tonight.
    The last three
words unsettled Tyler. If Boreta called for a Family meeting, it
wasn’t for exchanging pleasantries. Something was up and it wasn’t
going to be good.
    There was no
time to figure out whether Boreta may have figured him out. Khaled
was already knocking on his door and fumbling for the keys again.
He must have sent the message the moment he entered the
building.
    “I have the
keys this time. . .hide your stolen shit before I come in!”
    If you only
knew, Khaled. If you only knew. . .

    ****

    The dockside
bar was closed up early that evening. The very large goons standing
by the entrance made sure of that, in the unlikely event that the
parking lot crammed with luxury vehicles wasn’t enough of a hint to
law-abiding folk that they should consider getting drunk somewhere
else.
    Inside the
establishment, Tyler and Khaled were each saved a spot by the end
of the long and ornate banquet table. A few dozen men of varying
importance were already seated. Some Tyler recognized; others were
unknown. The roster had noticeably changed during his absence.
    They were a
motley group of expensive three-piece suits, track suits, and
leather jackets. Their cigars and cigarettes formed clouds of
blueish smoke that lingered over their heads, most of which were
either neatly slicked back or shaved down to stubble. Like Tyler,
they all drank heavily; the sound of glasses clinking echoed
throughout the bar and every bottle was emptied almost as soon as
it was opened, only to be replaced by a new one within a matter of
seconds by girls dressed provocatively in short skirts and
revealing tops. Some of the girls bared uncomfortable grins as they
humoured their patrons and their unwanted advances whereas others
maintained stoic, expressionless faces. Tyler suspected that at
least half of them were underage.
    Khaled sat
first, eager to take advantage of the generous spread of snacks and
free-flowing drinks before dinner would be served. Tyler felt too
on guard to allow himself to relax and only reluctantly sat down
after knocking back a few beers while still standing. Two puffs
into his first cigarette, a