The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) by Robert Parker Page B

Those fucking bastards. Kill the father, kill the son who’s looking for answers.’
    ‘All I’m saying is, it seems to make sense that a powerful group with a far east connection does indeed want you taken out. Which is why you might be right.’
    I don’t like giving Jack news like this, but it backs up his story. And in backing up his story, it will strengthen his conviction, and that conviction is what we need to take with us to that infernal restaurant. I take charge. ‘OK, if you want this... If you want to go down there and get answers, we are going to do it my way. I’m in on this at your request, so it’s my way or the highway. I’ve mapped the place out, entries, exits, all accounted for. You follow my lead, and I’ll explain on the way. You have your Dad’s piece?’
    Jack nods grimly.
    ‘Good. That feeling you have, that spite, that outrage - let it spill up to here.’
    I hold my hand up to my Adam’s apple.
    ‘Let it boil below there, but never past here. You let it get past here, you’ll start to fuck up. Your body needs to be ready to execute at all costs, but it needs to execute what a cool head tells it to. Keep it bottled, but don’t lose it. It’s your secret weapon. Let’s get going.’
    With that, I start walking. I know exactly the narrow paths I want to take to get to the restaurant, which route will take us there the quietest. No point rattling the hornets nest when you want to stick your hand in.

11
    We walk briskly while I divulge, the info coming out in a regimented, orderly, structured series of bullet points. My instructions are as clear and concise as I can make them. I even manage to surprise myself with how authentic it sounds, given that it is essentially a picture I have composed based on news articles, Facebook pages, google maps and satellite images. I applied a strictness to my search, but a broadness also. I wrote nothing down, and used the inside wall of my skull like a whiteboard, which I will keep referring to.
    As we wind through the back streets from Spinningfields towards the high banks of the River Irwell, the lights of the contiguous city centre dimming on our backs, I feel a readiness sweep me. For the first time since Jack contacted me, I feel in control and prepared. There’s always an element of disorderly unpredictability to an altercation, however big or small, and I feel ready to roll with such a punch, such is the strength of my preparation. We are getting closer, our first foray into Manchester’s criminal lesion.
    I have dragged us through the alleys and passageways, because there are often restaurant employees on the streets close to the river bank, where the restaurant is permanently moored, drumming up a bit of opportune business. If the restaurant is a family business, not to mention the secret business within the business, then this watchful street-side presence will probably have a fair idea who Jack is, and some may even already have an idea of myself as ‘that bloke who snapped cousin whatnot’s legs’. I don’t want attention and recognition. It won’t matter when we get in there, as that will play to our advantage, but it is important that we get in there unseen.
    The river bank is now ahead of us, the water twenty feet below us, rippling moonlight back up at us. A little pocket of a quieter waterside life just on the edge of a bustling city centre.
    ‘There it is,’ Jack says, pointing off to our right. Sure enough 200 yards away, floats our destination. A huge pirate ship, fit for inclusion in any exotic armada, adorned with festive lights from the tip of the bow all the way to the highest point of the mast, touching anything and everything in between. It is quite the sight. The main cabin of the vessel seems multi-layered, and deep. Portholes stippling the hull spill a warm light out onto the river, which laps it up eagerly. If I had a woman to impress, I’d surely take her here. Oh well, I suppose a revenge-bent son-of-a-gangster