The Evil And The Pure Read Free Page A

nothing. They knew who Dave Bushinsky was, the standard of man he employed.
    The atmosphere in the party rooms was distinctly different. Young men and women, flashily dressed. Loud laughter, the chinking of glasses, coke-glassed eyes, talk of horse racing, Formula One, the stock market, money money money. They also stared at Big Sandy as he circled first one room, then the other, in search of the Bush. He didn’t mind. He was used to the attention.
    Big Sandy paused a couple times to acknowledge the greetings of those who knew him, but didn’t stop, eager to deliver his report and evacuate the building. Parties weren’t Big Sandy’s scene.
    He spotted Lawrence Drake larging it, impressing a group of giggling girls with tales from his pop star days and current work on a TV soap. Drake was a small fish in a very big pool, but he knew how to play to a crowd. He was a regular at the Bush’s parties. Not because he was indebted to or friendly with the Bush — he just knew that he could score high quality coke and women, with no journalists sniffing around.
    “The Big S, ” Drake boomed, waving Big Sandy over, shoving one of the girls aside to make room for the giant. Big Sandy reluctantly slotted into the space and smiled tersely at the self-proclaimed star.
    “Lawrence. Good to see you.”
    “Hey, I told you, it’s Larry. How you been?” Before Big Sandy could answer, Drake had turned to his entourage. “The stories I could tell you about this guy. But hush!” He put a finger to his lips and rolled his eyes. “Walls have ears.”
    “Have you seen Mr Bushinsky?” Big Sandy asked politely, wishing Drake would do something to piss the Bush off, so that he could squeeze him a bit.
    “The Bush man? No, not recently. But have you seen his niece?” Drake wolf-whistled. “Sorry ladies, but Shula Schimmel is definitely the belle of this ball.”
    “Shula Schim mel?” Big Sandy repeated.
    “ Mrs Bush’s niece,” Drake explained. “Flew in from Switzerland yesterday. This party’s in her honour.”
    “I was in Switzerland last year, skiing,” one of the girls remarked.
    “Me too,” Drake smirked. “Spent most of the time flat on my back.”
    “ On the slopes?”
    “In my bed! ”
    Big Sandy excused himself and pulled clear of the group. The tie felt tight around his throat. Remembering Tommy Utah, his eyes when Big Sandy threatened to kill his child, the sound of his last wheezing breath, the crackle of the cartilage in his throat as Big Sandy crushed.
    Claustrophobia seized Big Sandy but he shook it off and bee-lined for the bar. A double vodka, straight, no ice, tossed back quick. A second, this one to sip, and his hands stopped trembling. The panic attacks had alarmed him the first few times – he’d shook like a leaf, wept in public – but he’d learnt to control them. He was always fine when he killed, detached, professional, cold. The shakes hit after an hour or two. Not every time, but often enough. When they struck, he knew he was in for a long hard night, but by morning he’d be in control of himself again.
    A hand on his left shoulder. “How’s the vodka?”
    Turning, smiling, relieved. “The best. As usual.”
    “Why settle for anything less?” Dave Bushinsky grinned broadly at his ogre-like henchman and ordered a red wine. The Bush had turned fifty a couple of years earlier but he looked forty. Lean, tanned, jet black hair, alert dark eyes, a casual suit, soft leather shoes, discreet diamond rings and a gold St Christopher dangling from his neck — no matter that he was proud of his Jewish roots, he’d been given the St Christopher by a friend when he was a young man and had worn it ever since.
    “Have you met my niece?” the Bush asked, testing the wine, frowning and handing it back. The barman scurried away to locate a superior vintage.
    “No. Heard the party’s for her.”
    “Yeah. Alice’s niece. On holiday from Switzerland. First time in London since she was a kid. We’re