‘Prick,’ says Mike, and I can’t help agreeing with him.

One of Mike’s scabs is floating a little high, so I poke it with my thumb.

‘There’s your problem,’ I say, like I’m concerned. ‘Infection. You haven’t been taking your antibiotics.’

Mike’s eyes flick to his lieutenants. Guilty. ‘I wanted a few beers. You can’t drink on those things.’

‘Looks pretty painful, Zeb, this infection. Could it get nasty?’

Zeb catches on quick. ‘Sure. Balls nasty. Your whole scalp is gonna feel like a septic pimple. Transplants fall out and you got a head full of scar tissue. Looks like a third-degree burn.’

Zeb is full of shit, but Mike buys it. ‘Scar tissue, huh?’

‘You’ll be like an extra from a Romero movie.’

Mike is incensed. ‘This is typical of you service guys. You never hear the downside beforehand. It’s all roses until you hit an underground pipe, or you find a lump you weren’t expecting, or your fucking head explodes with pus.’

Time to wrap up my argument. ‘The point is, Mike, you need Zeb to keep an eye on you for a year. Make sure the wounds heal. Maybe put in a fresh crop. You kill him now, and it’s the public clinic for you. Try keeping that quiet.’

It’s a strong argument. Well put.

‘So that’s the case for him. What about you?’

‘Me? You could try to kill me, but your organisation is going to be a whole lot weaker afterwards. Face it, Mike, you have limited resources, and Macey Barrett was your number-one guy.’

I turn the stiletto a little to focus Mike’s attention on the subject. Guys like him have a hard time accepting their own mortality, unless it’s tickling their jugular.

‘Hey, okay. Jesus, laddie, you drive a hard bargain.’

I let him have that laddie.

‘So, we walk?’

Mike shrugs. ‘Sure. But I ain’t paying for check-ups.’

Zeb chews his lip, but manages a single grudging positive grunt.

‘And you cover Victor Jones’s debt.’

‘One-time payment. And I send one of my staff around with the monthly.’

Mike nods; any more and he’ll impale himself.

‘Fuck that. I collect myself, keep an eye on your operation.’

That’s good enough. ‘Good enough,’ I say.

I withdraw the stiletto, and a rivulet of blood flows down Mike’s neck, pooling in the cup of his sternum. He sponges it with a shirtsleeve.

‘This is not good for me. Making deals. If word gets out that this asshole tried to blackmail Irish Mike Madden and got off with a beating . . .’

He doesn’t need to say any more. That kind of rumour could be disastrous. A wave of welshers and con artists would rise up in the morning.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ I say soothingly. ‘One word from Zeb and I will deliver him to you myself.’