“You want to do this now?”

“Are you ready?”

Ziggy closed two of the laptops. “I am.”

Milton got up, grabbed his jacket and put it on.

“Let’s go,” he said.

26

Jackson pulled up against the gate and laid his hand on the horn. The gate rolled back and he drove inside, slotting the Bentley into its usual spot. He got out, slamming the door behind him, and went to the work area. The pallets had been unloaded and, from the looks of things, a good number of the ingots had been cut open and the cocaine bricks withdrawn. A course of them had been built on one of the trestle tables that had been set up for the purpose of receiving the goods. The sight of all that cocaine—and the money that it represented—put Jackson into a slightly better mood, and, as Frankie McMahon came over to him, he managed not to snap at him.

“Did I really have to come in for this?”

“I’m sorry, boss,” McMahon said. “You said not to use the phone.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Burselm. Dessie went to see him last night to talk about how much weight he wanted. It didn’t go well.”

“Meaning?”

“Burselm is trying to screw you on the price.”

“Where’s Dessie now?” Jackson said.

“In the office.”

Jackson went into the room that he used as his office. Dessie O’Sullivan was sitting on the sofa in the corner. He was a wiry man, tough and nasty, but he looked as if he had gone ten rounds with Tyson Fury. Both sides of his face were bruised, and there was a downward crescent of dried blood from the middle of his forehead to his temple.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” he said.

“No, no, no. You got me out of bed. It’s Mr. Jackson today.” Jackson went around the desk and sat down. “What happened to your face? Burselm did that?”

O’Sullivan nodded. “I went to see him last night, like you said. I told him we had product to move and asked him how much he thought he could handle. He said he wants five keys, but that he’s only going to pay ten per key.”

“And you told him he could fuck off.”

“I did. I said the price was the price and that you don’t negotiate. But he said that he wouldn’t discuss it with me. And then he…” He stopped and gestured up at his cuts and bruises.

“You let him do that?”

“I wasn’t looking,” O’Sullivan protested. “He blindsided me.”

“You’re pathetic.”