THE KILLING OF FAT BOY KOEN

A WARNING FOR READERS
PLEASE NOTE:

This is a novel about corruption in high places and drug-fuelled violence. Nasty characters do terrible things to their enemies. Some readers may be offended by the gratuitous violence, the expletive laden dialogue, explicit descriptions of sex acts and the sexual predilections of some of the characters.
It is not for the faint hearted. If your taste in crime fiction leans towards Agatha Christie, it may be better to stop reading now. But if you feel up to a tough, violent, gritty gangster story, please read on…

DEDICATION

Once again this book is for Lynne, even though she probably won’t read it.

Well, maybe when I’m dead.

But even then she certainly won’t like it.

I have written a wicked book, and feel spotless as the lamb.
Herman Melville (1819-1891)



THE KILLING OF FAT BOY KOEN

CHAPTER 1 - BOYS WILL BE BOYS

If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.
Niccolo Machiavelli (1469 -1527 )

Mercy? What’s that mean?
You must be kidding.

What Terry Cain saw those animals do to Koen’s overweight young brother at the far end of Queer Street that night proves that there is no such thing as mercy.
Not in their lives, anyway.
Because things are different in that twilight place on the fringe of that dirty city. So the idea of forbearance or compassion would not have been understood. The concept just doesn’t exist in this world that thrives at the edge of civilized society. Pity or compassion shown to enemies is simply not on.
No one who witnessed the murder would have heard of mercy. They wouldn’t understand it, and no one would expect it.
And what MD Smith did to the Fat Boy Koen before killing him confirms this point in spades.

The only possible exception was Terry Cain. Perhaps. But this was by no means certain, because he too had lived in the shadows all his life. He’d grown up with MD Smith in that penumbra of violence and terror on the mean side of town. Not far from that place where Queer Street loses itself, and where Smith proved that night that evil lives among us. In a fevered display of cruelty and barbarism.

Queer Street started out as Queen Street at the industrial edge of the concrete tenements, crumbling factories and slum housing that ran down towards the river. But where it ended was hard to determine. It meandered through a wasteland of trash and detritus. A maze of abandoned white goods, smashed televisions, builders rubble, household waste and burnt out vehicles. A few miles from the last warehouses and wire-fringed lots, it became known as Queer Street where it degraded and eventually lost itself somewhere in these vast acres of junk. In a polluted marshland that separated the grimy metropolis from the gloomy river. So Queer Street was really a cul de sac. A no through road. A dead end. And this was where the Fat Boy ended up dead.

It was then, and still is to this day, a remote and desolate space where bands of deprived kids and scavengers scratched and sifted and fossicked through the rubbish. Territorial competition resulted in savage pitched battles fought out regularly by various gangs, who practiced their skills, hoping to rise up the social ladder to enter a more productive life of crime. But even they stayed on the periphery and rarely penetrated this far into the dump where mounds of debris, piles of plastic, rusting metal and rotting beams gave off the smoke and fumes of spontaneous combustion. Where the Fat Boy was going to meet his maker. If you believe in that kind of thing.

Somewhere near the centre of this god-forsaken space, a man was chained upright to a wrecked car. He was stout and in his late twenties. Since childhood his body had managed to produce just enough melanin to avoid being classified albino. And the lack of pigment in his irises gave them a red appearance that caused rapid and irregular eye movements. Using a somewhat modified aphorism, someone had once said that he looked like a hyena caught in the headlights of a truck.

This was the Fat Boy, whose real name was Bobby Koen. He’d been caught, and he would soon be in the headlights. Literally. On this occasion looking more like a scared rabbit than an African scavanger. And on that bitter night in the wasteland he’d soon be everyone’s focus of attention. Except, perhaps, Terry Cain. Because Terry Cain was different. Well, not much really, but a little different, perhaps.

Fat Boy Koen had blood dribbling out of his mouth and snot running down his cheeks.
He was also naked, and his ample, protruding stomach almost covered his genitals. Almost, but not quite.
Several cars, bright, shiny, top of the market cars, were drawn up facing the wreck that was serving as the Fat Boy’s stake.
A band of men was watching the Fat Boy who was pleading and promising and appealing.
But they were not listening to him. They were waiting for things to happen. As they waited in anticipation of a memorable evening.
And Bobby Koen’s fate was not in their hands.
The Fat Boy was begging and beseeching them to do something. ‘It wasn’t me. Let me go. I’ll do anything.’ But to no avail.
Because everyone present, including the Fat Boy himself, knew it would never happen. He was surrounded by deaf ears. And his words fell on them. They were not listening to him. He would not be set free. Not that night. Nor the next day. Not ever. Never.
Even Terry Cain knew it was not possible. No one would dare to deal with the exposed man before MD Smith arrived.

Terry Cain watched a few gulls as they rose and fell from the rubbish piles in the murky surrounds. They flew in jagged, random patterns ignoring the decadent odours that seeped up through the trash and defiled the night air. A cold wind had picked up bringing with it the sound of an approaching vehicle. An expensive black car drove slowly down the rutted road carefully avoiding the cavities and potholes as it picked its way towards centre stage. It was spattered with mud and grime and it made scraping noises when its low clearance grated over protrusions in the track.

Terry Cain felt in his pocket for a tablet. He pressed one out from its silver wrapper and chewed well before swallowing. Just like it said to on the pack.
He liked watching birds. Even gulls, but they suddenly flew off into the deepening night. He wished he could disappear like they had. He wanted to be out of there. Somewhere far away. For a moment his mind wandered off to exotic locations. ‘Take me away, silver bird.’
But when the car door opened, his mind came back to the Fat Boy - and the new arrival.
Things were about to happen. Bad things.

Michael Douglas Smith, also known as MD Smith, and another name, got out of the car. His eyes swept quickly over his men. They were his, because over many years, he’d made every one of them beholden unto him. They were loyal, they all relied on him, and they all did his bidding. But no one should ever forget that loyalty always has its limitations. As we shall see.

When it was his turn to be scrutinized, Terry Cain thought Smith’s eye contact with him had slowed - perhaps stopped for a moment - and before they had moved on to the other men. He hoped this fleeting moment was an extra token of recognition, like an instructor’s wispy smile on receiving a half intelligible answer from an apprentice. But he was not sure. He’d never been sure with Smith. Although he’d known him all his life, he knew Smith was capable of forgetting. Yes, all bonds are tenuous. And finite. And Terry Cain knew that Smith could and would forget everything. Including Terry Cain and the long years they’d known each other. Instantly, if it suited him. And if it was expedient to do so.

When he was out of hearing distance, most of the men called him the Mad Dog Smith.
Where this epithet had come from no one knew.
Except Terry Cain, who had been there when it was applied. All those years ago.

Terry Cain had seen Smith in action many times. Including when the epithet stuck. So, although the nickname was only used behind Smith’s back, even his best friend Terry Cain thought they were appropriate.

Why?
Well, here’s why.

When he was a kid, MD Smith had been a leader of kids.
He’d caused havoc in the lower grades at school. He had intimidated the teachers and bashed and bullied his classmates. He’d caused mayhem in the playground. The rough tar coating was regularly spattered with blood as he fought for control of disparate groups of kids, just as he would fight his way through his formative years, and then, eventually, he would go on to fight his way to the top. Right up to the summit of a profitable crime syndicate. A very profitable enterprise indeed.

When he became the head of a teenage gang whose violence and ruthlessness were notorious, they’d terrorized the neighborhood with mindless vandalism and petty crime. And Smith had devised ways and means to force other gangs to disband, or they were driven into oblivion.

And then MD Smith became a leader of men.

He’d done time in his early twenties. And he’d made many useful contacts inside, both amongst his fellow inmates, but also with numerous crooked prison officers.
All screws have their own influence and contacts, and, once out, Smith had retained and nurtured this network of connections. It soon flourished and became part of a complex grid that criss-crossed power and politics and reporting and policing - and, of course, crime.
It had proved very useful very often. And to all concerned.

But what about the epithet?

Well, the name was pinned on Smith by a dying man. A tired man. A man who had been tortured to the point of wishing for death. ‘For the love of God get it over with. Kill me now. You’re a fucking mad dog Smith.’

If the boot or the name fits, wear it, and from that day on, Smith became permenantly associated with a denenour symptomised by hallucinations, delusion of grandeur, suspiciousness, aggression, and sometimes, catatonic behavior.

CHAPTER 2 - THE GARDNERS WORLD GUARANTEE

Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him.
The Bible

As everyone knows, a guarantee is something that gives a certainty of outcome, and the Mad Dog certainly had a certain outcome in mind that grimy night, so, back to that twilight location which had now turned into a very grim scene indeed.

MD Smith had a box in his hands. It was from a garden centre. And like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat, he took his time opening it. He wanted everyone’s attention. Their full attention. This was a moment of high drama. It was going to be very dramatic indeed.

‘OK. All set?’

He wanted everyone to see. He wanted them to speculate on his intentions. When they saw what he had. In the box. Especially the Fat Boy. When he realized what lay ahead. What was in store for him. What the Mad Dog had in mind for his victim that night at the end of Queer Street. That terrible night that would have such horrible repercussions.

This was retribution, and Smith wanted the fat man’s blood to pound. His vision to slow. A tachycardia to set in. For the pound of flesh demanded. He wanted panic to grip the naked man’s throat. And his testicles. And his anus. The thought of involuntary muscular movement of urinary and anal sphincters excited the Mad Dog. Especially the idea of their sudden relaxation. And expansion. With the resulting outpouring of urine and faeces - that dreaded smell of incontinence - and the pervading stench of piss and, if you’ll forgive the scatology, shit, that would surely follow. Just like the last time.

Smith went on with the show. ‘Great place, Gardeners’ World. The shop - not that poncy, high class TV show. You know, the gardener’s store? Great gear they have. Good prices too. And everything’s guaranteed.
So, OK? Ready?’

MD’s gaze passed over the ring of men again. Most of them avoided eye contact. But Terry Cain stared straight back at him. He thought about making a barely perceptible shake of the head. A tiny indication of dissent. At what he knew was about to happen. But expedience made him decided otherwise.
So Smith’s line of vision moved on uninterrupted until his eyes came back to the Fat Boy. And his mind focused on the Fat Boy’s fate. And the task ahead.

‘Bloke there said I could bring these back if they don’t work. So long as I’ve still got my receipt. And provided they’ve only been used for what they're designed for.’
He sniggered. The others sniggered. Everyone did except Terry Cain and the Fat Boy. Terry Cain turned away so that no one noticed. He was trying not to be with them. He was willing himself not to be there. He wanted to fly away just like the scrawny gulls had done.

But the Fat Boy couldn’t turn away. Because he couldn’t turn at all. In any direction. His chains held him firmly in place. And when he moved his broken lips, no sound came out, but more blood ran down his face onto his chin. Then it dripped into the fine hairs sprouting out of the freckles on his chest and onto the pale white skin that lacked the melanin to protect it.

Ben and Marge were both being intrusive. Just when they were definitely not wanted. There they were skulking about on the fringe of Terry Cain’s thoughts. With all their usual baggage. ‘Not now,’ he tried to get across to them. ‘Fuck off and leave me alone. I’ll handle this.’
They’d just get in the way. Which was not a good idea. Not now that Smith’s dander was up. With adrenalin and other stuff coursing through his veins. And his bloodshot eyes a precursor to what was on his bloody mind.

‘Come on, let's get on with it,’ said a black man who was sweating slightly.
‘I want to get back down the pub.’
He had a girl to meet. So to speak. In other words, to use a euphamism.

Smith gave the man a glittering eyed withering look.
‘You go whenever you like, Jim. That's OK. You can go right now if you want to.
Back to your tart. Your black tart. Or is she creamy white? What is she Jim? Which do you prefer? To give things to. Your thing.’

Black Man Jim looked at his feet.

‘You’ve got something in mind for her tonight, have you? Is what you mean, I suppose? Something dirty, I’d guess, judging by the hurry you’re in. You’ve got something to give her, I believe. Black or white, something she’d like. Am I right Jim? You’re going to give her something tonight, are you?
‘Off you go then. We can finish the job on our own if you like.’

Black Man Jim hesitated. ‘No, no, MD. No problem, there’s no hurry, really. It’s all right. I can stay. As long as it takes, anyway. There’s no problem at all. I got the time. I assure you. She can wait.’

Black Man Jim put the idea of meeting the girl in the pub out of his mind. He knew that this could take a while. This business was important. The business of a white boy, a very white boy, who was due his comeuppance. Which was about to be realized in a ravaged landscape where even Queer Street eventually gave up its existence.

MD Smith nodded. ‘OK Jim. That’s better. That’s good Jim. I’m glad you’ve found the time. To stay with us, I mean. She can wait can’t she? You’ll still be good when you get there. To give her one.’ He gave a thin, stained cracked tooth black mouth smile.

Then he moved towards their focus of attention.
‘But don’t worry, Jim, this won’t take long. Will it Fat Boy? Jim will soon be down the pub. Giving his girl friend whatever she wants.’

Smith opened the Gardeners World box.
‘It won't take long at all. I'm sure our friend here will cooperate. Won’t you Fat Boy? You'll sing won’t you? Yes, I’m sure you will. Because I know you know what’s good for you, don’t you?’

He started reading from the carton.
‘Pruning roses. That's what they're made for.’
Then he pulled a shiny green pair of secateurs out of the box.

‘They usually tell us what we want to know quite quickly, don't they Fat Boy?
Like last time. It was over in half an hour, it was. Just thirty minutes or so and we knew all we wanted to know.
So, it shouldn’t take much longer this time should it Fat Boy?
And then you can get back down the pub, Jim. We wouldn’t want to slow Jim down, would we Fat Boy? He wants to show that chick what he’s got. Because that’s what she’s waiting for isn’t it? That’s what she wants. That’s right Jim, isn’t it?’
He sniggered. Black Man Jim sniggered. Bashfully.
Some of the others thought it prudent to snigger too.

Smith snapped the pruning blades together several times as if testing them.
He smiled.
‘OK. Let’s see what else it says.
Quality product. OK? Stainless steel. Razor sharp blades.
That’s good, you’ll appreciate that, won’t you Fat Boy? Yes, I’m sure you will. The sharper the better as far as you’re concerned.
Ideal for trimming roses.
That all OK with you Fat Boy? Your rose ready for some pruning?
Take a bit off shall we?’

MD Smith laughed out loud. Most of the men laughed out loud.

Terry Cain did not laugh out loud. He turned his head away so they wouldn’t notice he was not laughing out loud. His hand moved involuntarily to the tattoo on his neck. He ran his fingers along the slightly raised edges left by the old scar tissue. It was a habit he couldn’t stop himself doing. Especially when he was tired. Or scared. Or both. And Terry Cain certainly was on edge. He’d seen this all before. Several times. Well, if truth be told, many times in one form or another. He felt in his pocket for a tablet.

As Smith walked towards him, the stout man struggled with the chains that kept him hard up against the wrecked car. Through blood and broken teeth he said, ‘Sweet Jesus. It wasn’t me! I swear! I wasn’t there! I was nowhere near the park. I never go up The Punjab. Why in God’s name would I?’

But the Fat Boy was there the day it happened. They all knew that.
The kids had seen him. The Fat Boy and his girlfriend. Who’d run away. Yes, the Fat Boy certainly was in The Punjab, the park that served, if that’s the word, the high-rise slum buildings that looked onto that pitiable space.

‘Jesus, Smith please. For Christ’s sake unhook me. I’ll do anything. Just let me go.
My brother will pay you. Whatever you want. Just name your price.’

But the Fat Boy had a problem. A real problem. It was the reason he was chained to the wreck. And it was a problem that would prove hard for him to overcome. Because it was an insoluble problem. As far as the Fat Boy was concerned, there was no way out from his problem. Because he was chained to a car. And that was it. Any possible answer to the problem was out of his control.

So what exactly was his problem?

Well, this was his problem. He had something of theirs. He had taken it. Or, more accurately, he had had something of theirs. But now he no longer had it. Because it had gone out of his possession. Ergo he was now no longer in a position to give it back. The plastic bag he’d taken from The Punjab. The day he’d killed the kid.

But of course they didn’t believe him. MD Smith didn’t understand ergo. When the Fat Boy told them he didn’t have the bag anymore, and therefore couldn’t give it back. And MD Smith called him a liar. When he said he didn’t know where it was. Or who had it.
Smith had gone white with anger. He swore. Which was very unusual for Smith. ‘You’re a liar, Fat Boy. A dirty bloody porky pie liar.’

But Terry Cain had a different perspective on what was about to happen.
He knew the bag the fat boy had taken from The Punjab wasn’t what Smith was looking for. There wasn’t much in that bag. Small pickings. Not worth all this fuss to get it back. It made no difference. No difference at all. Not a jot.

No, what Smith really wanted was… well…entertainment. To be the centre of attraction. To show off to his men. To be the star of an event. Something they would talk about afterwards. Down the pub. And laugh about. Something that would endure. Something they’d remember. Something that someone somewhere would say ‘Now that was entertainment.’
It would be a reminder of something that could happen to anyone. Easily. Especially if they fell out of favour with the Mad Dog.

Terry Cain had known Smith for a long time. Certainly long enough to know that he was mad. A complete psychopath in fact. And Marge agreed. On the rare occasions they’d discussed it. So did Ben.
Marge?
For Christ’s sake, why did she - and Ben - keep creeping back into his thoughts? To ply him with theirs. Those trivial ideas of theirs. About Smith and tattoos. Even though he was sure they both knew they were not wanted. Neither of them. Not if they knew what was good for them. Now was not the time to talk about Smith’s madness. Or getting rid of tattoos. Or how exotic the tattoo was.
So, now Terry Cain was doing his best to shut them both out. To get them away. Out of the way. To leave his thoughts like the drab grey gulls had done. They could talk about getting rid of his tattoo at some other time. Or about cutting his ties with Smith.

So he changed tack. Instead of being somewhere else, because he couldn’t get there. So he tried to focus on the nightmare. He concentrated on what was unfolding in front of him. But without Marge and Ben to complicate matters. And where the Mad Dog and the Fat Boy were the only players.

‘My brother will be after you lot. If something happens to me. I’m fucking warning you. Cos he’ll fucking kill you. All of you.’

‘OK. OK. Enough of that! You know I don’t like bad language. You know it upsets me. And when I’m upset I lose concentration. And I could slip when I’m doing my job. My pruning. Couldn’t I? And you wouldn’t want that. Would you now? You don’t want me to make a mistake, do you? You wouldn’t want me to cut off the wrong thing, would you Fat Boy?’

The cold wind was gathering strength as it blew across the rough ground where Queer Street lost its way. The fading summer twilight turned the derelict factories into inky silhouettes. A few black stacks hovered on the skyline, throwing their secret filth into the darkening sky. The traffic noise on the far away motorway competed with a few trains shunting aimlessly about in the marshalling yard on the edge of the city.
It was a bleak place and it had a feeling of remoteness and isolation. It felt as if no one had ever been there before them. And it was about to get bleaker and more remote that night.

‘OK. Now let's see how long it takes,’ Smith said as he walked towards the Fat Boy.

The tattoo on Terry Cain’s neck started sweating. It was a poor effort done long ago by an amateur artist, and the blue pigment had fused and spread, blurring the image and distorting the design.
So why the fuck did they keep coming back to talk about it? When he was doing his best to shut them out. To prevent them being present at what was about to happen. Marge and Ben. Two shrill voices when Terry Cain was trying to be somewhere else. Or trying not to be somewhere else. But willing them to be elsewhere. Anywhere but there.
One who was intent on telling him how he should get it removed, no matter how much it cost. The other to say how exotic it was. Because Ben would not acknowledge that even a pitiably bad indelible design that had caused extensive subcutaneous damage on Terry Cain’s neck was unattractive. And nothing was likely to change this. Beauty, after all, was in the eye of Ben, the beholder.

Smith was toying with them. Reading the blurb out aloud. Spewing out rubbish about garden maintenance. This was the prologue to dying. The antechamber to death.
They moved forward in anticipation. They wanted to take in the action. The detail. This was the stuff that fables were spawned from. It would be talked about for a long time. Perhaps forever.
But Terry Cain now concentrated on turning his mind into a blank. He was intent on thinking about nothing. He wanted his thoughts to stop working.

The fading light made it quite hard to see. It was an out of focus scene. Exactly what was it that Smith was going to do? Now that his body was so close to the Fat Boy that a tiny degree of static electricity passed between them.

Then Pete The Hat had an idea. He walked over to the ring of parked cars. The smart cars that belonged to the ring of excited men. He got into one and turned on the headlights. The about to be performed spectacle was flooded in light.

‘Yes, Pete!’ said Smith. ‘What a good idea. Now everyone can see what’s going on. You all want to see this in detail, don’t you?’
A few of the others wished they’d thought of the idea. To pick up an accolade from Smith was always a good idea. In actual fact, to be on side with Smith was always a great idea. Even though staying there for any length of time was quite hard to accomplish. Only Terry Cain had managed that.

‘In glorious Technicolor. And the Fat Boy can provide the stereophonic sound.’
MD Smith smirked at his joke.
Most of the men smirked when they saw MD Smith smirking. It was always worthwhile at least sniggering at Smith’s jokes. It was a good way to stay in his good books.

Smith bent over and scrutinized the Fat Boy's genitals at close quarters. His groin was covered in wispy genital hair. Thanks to Pete The Hat everyone could see quite clearly now. The Fat Boy was not that well endowed. No not at all. Not by any measure of the imagination.
Or so it seemed to those watching. But perhaps this was just fear doing its job of tightening sphincters and contracting tissue. Especially erectile tissue, because an erection was not on. No, not right now, anyway. A palpable all pervading sense of fear had seen to that.

‘OK. OK. Not much here really. Not much to work with. Quite small. Rather thin really. For someone so fat. This could be quicker than I thought. We'll all be tucked up in bed quite soon.
And Black Man Jim can get down the pub. To get to work on his lady friend. Same bits of anatomy involved, I suppose, but somewhat different work.’

The Mad Dog bent over. His left hand went out towards the rose stem. The flower of the Fat Boy’s youth.
His right hand was snapping the blades open and shut.

Terry Cain looked on without seeing anything. The tattoo on his neck glistened with sweat as the Fat Boy's shrill voice rose into the air. He felt in his pocket for another tablet. But he couldn’t bring himself to put it into his mouth.
MD Smith let out peals of laughter. ‘That’ll teach you. Not to steal. Not to take other peoples stuff. That’ll learn you a lesson.’

‘Yes, you fat fucker!’ added Black Man Jim, keen to make amends.

The Fat Boy’s torture and the Mad Dog’s fun turned into the furious sounds of both men screaming. But their screams were overwhelmed by industrial noise. And then they were absorbed by the night as Smith’s pleasure and Fat Boy Bobby Koen’s pain were sucked out together and forced upwards to join and merge with the rising muck that emanated from this filthy place. And up higher and higher to where the vibrations of agony dissipated in the thinner air and finally disappeared into the dirty night sky.

Never to be forgiven by one who was not there.

Because those memories of that night would become a problem for Smith and the others who were in attendance at the emasculation and murder of Fat Boy Bobby Koen. When the Koen family got into gear. Into retribution mode, that is. When this thing would escalate. And get out of hand. With dire consequences for all concerned.

Terry Cain’s eyes were shut. But then he opened them. He looked at Smith who was standing in front of the limp grey corpse with the gaping cavity. As The Fat Boy’s life force was forced out of his groin by ever-fainter heartbeats to ebb away in a thinning, dripping, dribble of gore.

Smith then added a revolting primaeval conclusion, mimmiking the religious beliefs and practices of half the world by involving parts of the Fat Boy’s body and his blood. A Eucharistic big mac.

And there in front of him, indelibly and forever etched onto a zinc plate in Terry Cain’s memory bank, was the Mad Dog, with bloody secateurs and crimson smears on his arms and palms.

And with blood stains all over his fingers and mouth.

CHAPTER 3 - BREAKING NEWS

Life’s a bitch and then you die.
Anthony Cruz (b 1972)

In the beginning was the word. And the word spreads. It says so in the Bible. Have a look. It’s in there somewhere.

It didn’t take long. Naturally. Of course it didn’t.
Because even in the tangled jungle of underground crime there’s a law. The law of reprisals. But in this dismal zone, if someone takes an eye it’s not a talion that’s required. It’s more than an eye that’s wanted in compensation. Two eyes, for example. That might just do. But three eyes would be better. Which means escalation. And things go from bad to worse and then to a situation that can only be described as fucking mayhem. But that’s the way it is.

Reports swept across the city. And beyond. The word spread like wildfire.
But the word was always whispered, and never mentioned out loud when they talked about the killing of Fat Boy Koen at the end of Queer Street.
Everyone shied away from that word. That one particular word. Even the media. Although they danced around the edges, vaguely alluding to what had actually happened when the tortured man died, no one said the word out loud.
They used euphemisms. And innuendo. But the actual word was never heard on the airwaves, nor was it ever translated into sound or image or print.
As if this underworld, this underclass, this nether region of gangs and criminals and organized crime had some…well, some sense of decorum. But no, there must have been some other reason. Decorum? You mad? What the fuck’s that?

the more cynical suspected that this was not so. The criminal classes, they surmised, simply resisted saying it. That word. In the same way some, but by no means all, did not mix religious images with nouns relating to sexual organs or sexual acts when they swore. Even though others did.

And MD Smith, as we have seen, did not like swearing at all.

So why the word was avoided and never, or rather very rarely, spoken out loud, will have to remain a conundrum.
But there was no such reluctance to spread the news when the violence began. The bad news. It followed on the heels of the word spreading. The reports of what had happened.
For some it came quickly.
Sooner or later it reached out to many more.
Some, like those in the firing line, waited a little longer for news of their bad news. But their luck always ran out. The bad news eventually caught up with everyone. Gradually this gang warfare spread throughout the underworld.

The Queer Street killing was seen by some as simply a short byline in the protracted saga of a long-bubbling underworld dispute. And to a few it seemed like just another routine crime. For those who had never descended into this murky world, it was difficult to work out exactly what was going on. And for most, because they were not directly affected, it was easier to ignore the issue than to get involved. To stay at arms length was the order of the day.

But close observers of the gangs saw it differently. Those whose job is was to watch those involved in crime. They predicted that the Fat Boy affair was destined to spark a dramatic and measurable increase in violence and death.
And they were right.
They’d guessed correctly. Or they’d worked it out. From experience.
Because there was an immediate, protracted and bloody upsurge in lawlessness. And it soon ignited into a citywide war of attrition where even a few who thought they were not involved, or imagined they were out of sight and at a safe distance, were caught up in the mayhem.

Of course there were cynics amongst the law enforcement agencies who thought gang wars didn’t matter.
The Koens and the Smiths had been at it for years.
‘Let ’em kill each other as long as they like,’ was a sentiment often expressed amongst the ranks. ‘It’s a bonus for the taxpayer. And, for a change, we’re not in the firing line.’
As far as they were concerned, the more the killers killed each other the better it was for everyone.


But Koen didn’t see the killing of his brother in the same light as the authorities.
Fat Boy Bobby Koen was close family, and that was one of the few tenets of humanity that Koen harboured. Albeit a rather old fashioned idea. As we shall see, they all lived together in an enclave. A suburban territory that had seen terrible things. Where terrible things had been done to those seen to be the Koen clan’s enemies. Or perceived as enemies. In the cellars and garages and bathrooms and even back yards of the extensive conglomeration of dwellings belonging to the Koen’s at the end of that once leafy dead end road in that once desirable suburb.

Saliva dribbled down Koen’s chin as he spoke, and he kept rubbing his large, rubbery nose. Then he compressed his nostrils with his thumb and forefinger. It was a nervous habit. He’d had it since he was a kid.

‘That fucking Smith! I knew it. It’s the Mad Dog. Of course it was Smith!
It’s got his fingerprints all over it. Fuck him! And his gang.’
Koen’s hand moved up to his nose again.
‘I’ll kill every one of those perverts. That’s what they all are. Fucking perverts. What they did to my brother proves it.’ But he never mentioned the word.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He closed his nostrils with his fingers again.
‘Even if I have to kill the whole family! Everyone in his whole fucking family.’ By which he meant the Smith gang. Because Smith didn’t have any family anymore.

Koen’s other brother and his half brother said nothing. They were both very wary of Koen when he was in this kind of a mood. They both knew that anything could happen. They said nothing, knowing that whatever they said would be the wrong thing. They were acutely that anything could be misconstrued. Anything couls go wrong. With him in this frame of mind. For someone with his demenor one never knew what would happen next.

Koen slammed his fist on the desk. ‘Don’t just stand there! Do something!
Get after them you fucking idiots!’

Although the Koen family had limited members and limited skills, they did have plenty of money. And money has a habit of providing resources.
Although no one in the Koen family could claim to be head of the crossword solving society or a member of MENSA, the family swung into action. Koen had demanded action, and action he would get.

The Koen family enterprise was based on the free flow of stuff, and they had contacts and friends, so called, amongst those with other kinds of power and in all walks of life and whose collective interests were to maintain the status qou. So perhaps a quick outline of how the stuff of commerce flowed and how power was distributed throughout he city is in order.

The pecking order was this: politicians, bureaucrats and other government hangers on and all kinds of blood suckers in other prestigious walks of life sat on top of the pile. Then, not on the bottom, but at the working end of society, two main gangs and several other small criminal organizations controlled all the stuff that was distributed amongst their clients who came from all quarters of society.
Right down at the bottom of this schematic triangle of social strata were the dregs. But they were just as important as the clients at the top. Their custom soaked up any excess. Any dud stuff. All that not quite quality merchandise. Anything that was contaminated. Tat went to the bums the deadbeats, the down and outs and the dispossessed. Hardly worth mentioning really. They had been clients of those higher up the social ladder, but they were now beyond redemption. And they were customers who thrived on whatever was over.

You must have worked out by now that Smith and Koen controlled the two main gangs. Naturally they each had their respective contacts amongst the representatives of the other part of the triangle, but it was very difficult to work out who was in whose pocket. Let’s just say it was a morass of corruption. Yes, that should paint a broad-brush stroke image of everyone being on the take, which was the case. They all understood the symbiotic relationships that held the fabric of the city together and allowed the stuff to flow freely, and this loose commercial structure from which everyone benefited was maintained and supported at every level.
In short, imagine a city, metaphorically designed as a triangle, built on a foundation of corruption. and held together by immorality and sleeze.
Well, almost everyone, because those at the bottom, as we have seen, were beyond benefit. But the bottom line is that there was an endemic desire to maintain the status quo throughout the city.
Yes, yes, of course things went wrong. Of course things broke down. Of course tensions broke out. Of course there was rivalry. Of course there was greed. And excessive greed. To disturb the balance. And there were killings. And deaths. And worse. But that was always the case. And provided none of these things got out of hand, the commercial life of the city went on…and on…and on.

But every now and again the equilibrium of this rosy picture was disrupted. Some, who were prone to use bad language said some cunt had upset the scales. In this instance, those with foul mouths meant that the cunt was Smith. When he did what he did to the Fat Boy. Perhaps, they indicated, the cunt didn’t know what he was doing. Or he didn’t realize what the consequences would be. Or he didn’t think ahead. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care.
But from the perspective or the point of view of an third-person who knows all, it’s quite simple really. The omnipotent observer knows that what he did he did on purpose. If this needs justification, the narrator would point to Smith’s form. His background. His track record. In other words what he’d done before. Because the third-person omniscient narrative indicates motive, which has already been documented, as well as intent.
But, all this psychobabble aside, what MD Smith did to Bobby Koen that night certainly upset the apple cart. As we shall see.

So, as you might have guessed, and as you have seen above, Koen gave instructions. Retribution was on the cards. Revenge was demanded. And mayhem was the result.

Terrence Teddy Bear Green was one of the smaller fry who tried to stay as close as he could to a few of the Mad Dog Smith’s cohorts. He thought this would buy some kind of protection. But he was wrong. Pityably wrong.
Poor Teddy definitely was one of the minions. For example he’d never been in the Warehouse. He’d never spoken to Smith and Smith had never spoken of or to Teddy Green, who had occasionally driven a car around distributing some of the Smith stuff to kids. A small time hood if ever there was one. Selling candy to babies.
But they grabbed him anyway. Two of the Koen brothers just picked him up off the street and dumped him into a car.
They drove him to a slum high rise and hung him over the parapet on the seventeenth floor. When his pleading and shouting and screaming and crying had attracted enough people onto their balconies to see what all the fucking noise was all about, they let him go. Teddy Green only stopped screaming hen he hit the ground.

(To be continued)
If you would like to contact me, please click on this sentence to send an email.