FIC: Wild Card - Fast Fuse/Stockholm Syndrome crossover - NC17
Written with Queen eggnogged! <3
Too big for a single post...
There are card games everywhere if you know where to look, even in Leicester. Really good ones with worthwhile stakes, played by people with familiar names who come to the table all self-satisfied and so certain they're going to win that they spend the whole time casually focusing on their own cheats and sleight of hand, arrogantly never ever thinking for even a moment that their opponents might be doing the same. They're really not the right people to upset. Of course, that's what makes it all so delicious.
Lindsay tilts his chair back slightly on two legs, a bad habit he's retained from school that only shows itself when he's drunk and relaxed and, most importantly, winning. It's about time, too. For the first few rounds he thought his luck was all out, until he realised the dealer, a huge ugly bulldog in a good suit that looks as stupid on him as a bikini would, kept glancing into his cup of black coffee. Subtle, really. Quite nicely done, and something Lindsay files carefully away in his mind for future use - he's seen it done with shiny silver whisky flasks, the dealer placing one on the table and watching the reflection as he hands out the cards so he can give signals to his co-conspirators, but never coffee. Easily sorted; when he realised what their scam was, he simply reached across the table and moved the cup six inches toward himself, pretending to pick a fly off the surface of the liquid and giving Marshall an easy grin, acting more drunk than he was and claiming OCD. He's sure that's not their only method of cheating, not pro types like this lot, but it's definitely been going better since they lost their mirror.
Next to Marshall it's Patel, who won the first round when everybody bet big to kick off the night and has spent the rest of the game steadily losing it back. Next to him it's Chilton, then Tony Randolph who once worked as Lindsay's driver. He was the one who invited Lindsay to the game, and he's going to wish he didn't if it turns out he's in with the others. Between him and the man just to Lindsay's right whose face he knows but whose name he can't remember, there's some sulky little black-haired stranger slumped down in his seat with a wounded look in his eyes and just a tiny handful of chips left. He's a dreadful player, maybe he was allowed in for a joke. He's probably somebody's useless black-sheep nephew, or maybe just some rich brat they're trying to cheat for a quick fix.
Four of a kind beat full house. Lindsay shrugs one-shouldered, he doesn't really care. Losing fairly is alright, and he's still winning overall. He slides a little pile of chips towards Randolph with everyone else, including the young kid who's nibbling his bottom lip and frowning as he hands over his last few.
"Come back when your balls drop, mate," Chilton says to him, all sarcasm and faux-sympathy, and there's a muffled snigger from someone else. "Not ready to run with the big boys yet, hey?"
"I'm going for a slash," the kid says in a low, sulky voice, knocking his chair back with an infuriating screech of wood on tile. He flounces off out of the door, followed by more of that smothered, nasty laughter as the cards get shuffled and more drinks go round.
***
Neil stares at his own reflection in the dim light of the lavatory. He examines the set of his mouth, the arch of his eyebrows, tries to read something in the way he blinks, anything that might give him away. There's nothing off, though, the mask still perfectly in place, and that, at least, is reassuring.
He smirks at himself, adjusting his regulation indie kid haircut: black and choppy, artfully mussed for that I-just-woke-up look that makes it obvious he spent ages arranging it in the mirror. He looks like a twat, with his leather jacket that still smells new, his skinny tie, his designer jeans and the giant watch that's worth 5k, ostentatious and bordering on gaudy; a stupid kid with too much money who tries a bit too hard to look cool.
Charlie Buchanan, twenty-three. Law student. Only son of an investment banker and a dentist. Privately educated. Tries to look like he's in The Strokes, but doesn't want you to forget that he's rich. Twerp.
He's not wearing a wire - he's a new kid around this table, knew he would get patted down before he was allowed to take a seat, and preferred to avoid the possibility of being tossed over a bridge with his feet encased in cement if he was found to be wearing a listening device. The barmaid is an informant and there are two officers staked out in the building opposite, but they're not going to intervene unless the evening turns to violence. Essentially, he's on his own.
Neil glances at his watch, then pulls a cigarette out of his packet and sticks it between his lips before climbing up on the toilet seat and pushing the window open. He lights up and takes a long, slow drag, sticking his head out of the window to blow the smoke out. The street is near empty aside from a tramp sleeping on a bench, and a couple of scantily-clad girls, the clatter of their heels echoing loudly as they hurry along to some nightclub on the busy street around the corner. Across the car park, Neil can make out the sleek silhouette of the Jaguar, and his free hand automatically pats his pocket for the car keys.
He's not usually this antsy, but it's this fucking card game, this idiotic scheme that's getting him on edge. It wasn't Neil's idea and he's hated it from the start: not enough control, too much that's left purely to chance. Neil is good at reading people, and he's pretty great at pretending to be someone he's not, but that's not enough to guarantee that things will go the way he wants them to. And then there's that tall, quiet bloke, the new guy. He wasn't supposed to be there tonight. Neil knows every face around the table but his, and the addition of an unknown quantity to the mix just adds to this maddening uncertainty. It's too late to back out now, though, he'll just have to go ahead as planned, and hope for the best.
He takes a last pull off of his cigarette and stubs it out on the brick wall outside the window, steps down from the toilet and pulls the keys out of his pocket, hooking his index finger through the keyring. It's time to go back.
It's Charlie, not Neil, who steps out of the toilets and makes a beeline for the bar. Charlie gives the men at the table a tight-lipped smile and twirls the keyring around his finger, chewing on his lower lip like he's talking himself into a mad decision.
"Who's that guy? The tall one, with the beard?" he asks the barmaid in a low voice as she pulls him a pint.
"Dunno." She lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug, slides the glass across the bar. "Never seen 'im in 'ere before."
"Great. Brilliant."
Charlie picks up his pint, strides over to the table, and dramatically drops the car keys in the middle of the table.
"Will that let me back in?"
Chilton raises an eyebrow and leans back in his chair, glancing down at the pouncing cat embossed on the expensive-looking keyring. Neil already knows how much Chilton wants this car, so it's no surprise when he smirks and nods his assent, a greedy look in his eyes.
"Yeah, why not. Sit down."
***
Chilton's mask of indifference slips for the first time all night when he wins the kid's Jaguar on what's actually a fairly bad hand. It's the best in a round of bad hands, a plain flush of clubs, and he doesn't react for a moment until it sinks in and then he snatches the keys from the middle of the table, kissing them with an exaggerated smacking sound and a delighted burst of laughter before dropping them in front of his chips. Lindsay actually feels sorry for the kid now. Buchanan's his name, he's not really a kid. Old enough to drive. Old enough, even though he's clearly an idiot, to know when he's made a hellish mistake. His mouth is hanging open and he looks like he might cry. Lindsay offers him a cigarette - small consolation, but better than nothing - but he doesn't seem to notice the case being held in front of him so Lindsay lets it go and lights up for himself.
Two rounds later he can't remember that pang of sympathy or the contempt he feels for Marshall or anything; Chilton won the last round with the night's only royal flush and it's made him complacent and careless, enough so to put the keys back in game and sit there with a smug smile plastered on his face. The bastard's got another winner. Maybe. Maybe he's got another winner, but what are the odds? Two royal flushes in two consecutive rounds by the same player - one in a billion? One in more?
Four kings.
Lindsay's heart is banging so hard he thinks he might actually faint like some pathetic swooning girl in the bad Regency novels his mother likes to read.
Three of hearts. Four of hearts. Five, six, seven of hearts.
Chilton's face is like a cartoon, or like a tragedy mask. Marshall looks like he might blow a fuse, and Buchanan looks suddenly furious for a moment, just a flash of anger in his blue eyes before he's back to despair. Too bad, kid. Lindsay doesn't say it, he's got just enough class to refrain from rubbing it in, but he's thinking it somewhere behind the roaring in his head.
"I'm going to have to leave it there, gentlemen," he says casually, then tips the last of his scotch and ice into his mouth and wipes his lips on his handkerchief, eyeing his chips and then the other players' faces. They all look calm enough, but he can see a twitch in somebody's jaw and a fire in somebody else's eyes. It's a bonus. "I'll take cash, please. And the car keys, Mr. Chilton, if you'd be so kind."
"Play another round," Chilton says, nervously tumbling a plastic chip over the backs of his fingers, back and forth from thumb to pinky. "It's not that late."
"Late enough when you've got an eight-thirty start." Too many times before - only twice, but that's still too many - he's seen a lost game turn ugly, guns pulled and people shouting and making threats he's quite sure are genuine. It's not even the money. He'll only play for high stakes, and the people he faces across the card tables are so loaded they'd never even miss sums in four, five, six, even seven figures on a good night. It's the humiliation of a failed scam, and the knowing that the eventual winner was just as dishonest but not being able to prove it, that makes things turn nasty. Lindsay's watching them carefully now, pretending to pay attention to folding his handkerchief back up but really looking through his eyelashes at their hands and the telltale movements, however slight, towards what might be concealed holsters.
The backlash doesn't come, in the end. Somebody puts a warning hand on Chilton's shoulder, the banker quietly counts out Lindsay's winnings, the keys to the maroon Jaguar are dropped into his waiting palm, and he leaves them to wallow in their anger. There's a fresh spring in his step as he crosses the room and nods a goodbye to the barmaid, making his way out to the car park and thumbing the number 4 on his phone to speed dial Danny as he goes.
"Alright?" Danny says, when he finally picks up. He sounds scratchy and tired, the lazy bastard was probably sleeping even though it's not yet eleven.
"Mm. I won." The brown paper envelope is heavy and comforting in his inside pocket, making his jacket drape and bulge strangely.
"Course you won. You could go pro if you wanted."
"Happy enough watching the bastards squirm. One of them was showing off, this rich little twerp in a giant ugly Rolex. Someone won his car, I won it off him."
Now Danny sounds more awake. "Yeah?"
"Maroon Jag XK8, 1999. Beauty queen."
He hears a low, impressed whistle. "How's she handle?"
"Don't know yet. Come and meet me, we'll take her for a spin before those apes in there decide I don't need my kneecaps any more. Is Ty about?"
"Banging the bed against the connecting wall with some tramp, I ain't going in there for nothing."
"Fucking tart," Lindsay mutters. He finds his cigarette case in his other pocket and flips it open, retrieving a slim perfect rollie with his lips and sparking up, dragging deep and letting the smoke heat his lungs. "How far's the hotel from here?"
"It's nothing, I'll meet you in five."
The line goes dead. Lindsay pockets his phone, and he crosses the rest of the car park to properly inspect his new toy, the most beautiful car he's ever seen.
***
Charlie is upset. It's not just the money and the car, it's the embarrassment of it all. His face is flushed and his smile is forced when he pushes himself to his feet, collects his leather jacket from the back of his chair and mumbles his goodbyes. No one there is really paying attention to him, though - the mood's definitely shifted since that new bloke - Newman, the others called him? Newman, how fucking appropriate - walked off with not only the car, but the lion's share of the money. Chilton looks apoplectic and there's no point sticking around any longer.
"Guess I'll have to take the bus home, eh?" Charlie says, miserable and sulky, slipping his arms into his coat.
"Fuck off, kid," Marshall says without looking up, so Charlie does, nodding curtly to the barmaid on his way out.
He pulls his cigarette packet out of his pocket as soon as he steps out the door and loiters there long enough to watch Newman for a couple of minutes, observing him from a distance as he circles around the car that was meant for Chilton.
Outwardly, Charlie just looks regretful and anxious - anyone watching him would figure that he's probably thinking about his dad's reaction when he returns home and has to fess up to losing the Jaguar in a game of poker. Inside, though, Neil's blood is boiling. His fingers are curled so tightly around the lighter in his jacket pocket that his knuckles are turning white and pain is shooting up his arm. He takes a few long drags off of his cigarette until he feels calm enough to be sure that he won't do anything stupid, like walk across the car park and deck Newman across the jaw. It's not the time or place to cause a scene.
It's not long before some other bloke turns up, but Neil is too far away to make out anything but a squat figure. The two of them stand together and talk for a minute, the new guy's impressed whistle carrying across the empty car park, and eventually they both get in the Jaguar, Newman at the wheel, and tear down the street in a screech of tyres on pavement.
Neil lights a fresh cigarette with the end of his old one, drops the cigarette butt on the cement, crushes it under his Cuban heel, and heads down the street, trailing smoke in the cool night air like a steam engine. Once he's rounded the corner and made sure there's no one within earshot, he fishes his mobile out of his pocket and dials the number he'd memorised the day before.
In lieu of a greeting, the woman's voice at the other end answers with an eager, "So?"
"Yeah, the car's gone."
"Good, so Chilton's got it?"
"No, Chilton's not got it, he won it, then went and played it again and lost, like a fucking plonker. Jesus, what an idiot!"
"What? Well who's got it, then?"
"Dunno, some bloke, Newman something? Not someone we know."
"Well, fuck."
"You wanna tail Chilton, your boys will have to think of a better plan, because this one's gone to shit. I knew something like this was gonna happen."
"Yeah, well, it was worth a shot. What about the car, though?"
"Well, it's lucky that it's a surveillance device on wheels, ain't it? We'll just impound the fucking thing. It's a stolen car, we can just get it back. I'm not letting that wanker keep it for long, he'd best enjoy the joyride while it lasts."
"Mm, well, you'd better drop by first thing tomorrow, the boss will want a full report."
"I'm in fucking Leicester, Martha!"
"So what? They have trains to London, don't they?"
Neil sighs, slowing his pace down for a second to stub his cigarette out, and stops himself just as he's about to light another one. Smoking the entire packet isn't going to make this shitty evening any better.
"I'll be down in two days, tops. I want to sort things out over here first."
"What things?"
"Well, I'll get the fucking Jaguar back, for starters."
"The local guys can do that!"
"I want to do it. It'll give that fucker a proper fright when I turn up to collect it with a couple of the guys from the station, maybe teach him a lesson about gambling with the mafia."
"Charlie..."
"Augh, don't call me that, I hate that stupid name. Look, I'll send in a report tomorrow morning, and you know where to reach me if anything's missing. I'm way more useful here. Maybe that Newman bloke has something on Chilton that we can use."
"Oh, fine. Two days. But I want you back here by Friday morning."
"Cheers. Oh, and Martha? E-mail me the surveillance info from the Jag, yeah?"
"Fine, fine."
"You're amazing."
"I hate you."
Neil laughs into the phone as he steps into the lobby of his hotel. "You love me."
***
The car takes a corner smoothly, turning onto Narborough Road and slowing to a crawl in the heavy morning traffic. Lindsay's finding it difficult to concentrate on driving, he has to force himself to focus: Danny's working his way through two McDonalds breakfasts at once, a sausage and egg muffin in each hand with a hash brown slapped between the bread of each. There's tomato sauce dribbling down his wrist.
"You're an animal."
Danny only grins, showing crumbs and bits of meat caught between his red-smeared teeth. "Yeah, I bet you say that to all the boys, hey."
"I swear to Christ, if you get any of that on my upholstery..."
"You can't shoot me for getting ketchup on your seats and let me get away with fucking your mum."
"I don't interfere with her charity work."
That makes Danny laugh even though it's an insult, loud and horse-like until Ty, who's in a shitty enough mood anyway after losing the coin-toss to decide who was going to be crammed into the barely-there back seat, digs a knee into his spine and snarls at him to shut up. Danny subsides, finishes stuffing his face and screws all the packaging together in a tight little ball, winding down the window just enough to chuck it out onto the street and hit a teenager in a hoodie right in the middle of his back. "Keep going to the end, bear left."
"I know where it is."
Just beyond the underpass a bit farther on there's a crumbling old theatre building, all flaking paint and years-old posters advertising club nights. Lindsay doesn't slow the car as they drive past, just gets a good look at the place for the first time, mentally taking note of the surrounding roads and potential exit routes in case anything goes wrong with the plan. They look fewer in number and much much narrower and more exposed than they do on the map he's memorised, but then danger is always half the fun.
"You do realise if this works we'll be on a lot of people's hitlists," Lindsay says casually, or as casually as he can manage when he's battling a thrill of anticipation that's threatening to make him start laughing like a madman. The other two mumble yes, twisting back in their seats to see the place disappear as they leave it behind, but they don't sound worried. They're just like him. If it's safe, it's not worth doing. And this time it's personal, which multiplies the danger a thousand times. Banks and security firms are so faceless and anonymous, it's easy just to look at the numbers. Stealing cash from one of the biggest drug lords in the country? That's suicidal.
"Depends if we get recognised or not," Ty says. Lindsay catches his eye in the rearview mirror and looks away again quickly. He looks exhilarated already and the snatch isn't even happening til tomorrow, giddy and bright-eyed, the same way he looks when he's fucking or high.
"Long as Danny's done his homework, we'll be alright."
"Chauhan ain't even there, he's on holiday in Marbella with the missus and the sprats. Fuck knows why he trusts them goons he's left in charge, they couldn't find their own arseholes with both hands and a map."
"Sounds familiar."
"Get bent."
"Gladly."
***
Neil spends most of his night alternating between smoking on the hotel room balcony and sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring at his laptop screen, at the map with the highlighted red line on it that indicates the course of the Jaguar across the city. He's listened over and over to the short recorded conversation, and still can't figure out why he's taken such a sudden interest in Newman and what he may or may not be planning to do. It's not like there's concrete evidence that anything dodgy is afoot, just a few words and intonations that made his pulse quicken.
"We'll go tomorrow. I want to see the place with my own eyes before we go in."
...and then, a bit later,
"This car's a bit flashy for this kind of job, ain't it?"
"It won't matter."
They could be talking about a paint job for all Neil knows, it might be completely innocuous, but that doesn't stop Neil refreshing the map every couple of minutes, to make sure the car hasn't moved since it was parked several hours ago, at another hotel halfway across town.
He's not entirely convinced that he's not wasting his time until he jerks awake early in the morning to the crackling sound of a conversation on the surveillance radio. He'd fallen asleep on top of the still-made bed, fully dressed, and he can feel the seam lines of the rough bedspread imprinted into his cheek.
"Shit!" he mumbles, scrabbling with the receiver to turn the volume up, willing his mind to unfog enough to focus on the words coming through.
By the time the conversation dies off, punctuated by the sound of car doors slamming shut, he's heard enough to be propelled into action. He goes through his morning routine at record speed, shaving quickly while in the shower and eating half of a stale croissant left over from the day before as he slips back into his Charlie clothes.
Martha texts him just as he's about to step out of his hotel room.
Any news about Edward?
That's code for, 'Any news on the Chilton case', and Neil swears, and types in a quick lie.
Working on it, mom.
The truth is that he's not really thought about Chilton since the night before, despite the fact that his case is the reason he's in Leicester in the first place. No matter. There's not a lot that can be done about him for the time being. This Newman bloke, on the other hand... Well, he's definitely planning some sort of heist. Maybe he'll make this ill-thought-out, waste of time trip outside the city worth his while.
Half an hour later, he finds himself at the station on Belgrave Gate. What he should do is grab a couple of officers, go impound the Jaguar, and take in Newman for questioning.
What he does instead is charm the commander into lending him a civilian car for the day, and follows the path that Newman and his two friends took across the city in the morning, when their conversation woke him up. The earbud he's got jammed in his left ear is connected to the listening device cleverly hidden in the Jaguar's radio, but it's been emitting nothing but humming silence for the past hour, ever since it was parked again at the same hotel, just before noon. By carefully timing the Jaguar's path with the recorded conversation, he's got a fairly good idea about which general area they're planning to hit, but no precise location, and looking for a connection between the name Chauhan and this particular street has proved fruitless.
Neil makes the circuit twice, looking at old buildings and ordinary-looking houses, at bored commuters and bedraggled pedestrians, as though they will give him answers he's not really expecting to find, and finally gives up.
He leaves the car a couple of street corners down from Newman's hotel and half-runs back up the street, zigzagging to avoid puddles and using his leather jacket as an ineffectual shield against the rain, until he reaches the small coffee shop he'd spotted earlier, across the street from the hotel lobby.
"Some kind of weather we're having, hey?" says the girl behind the counter, and Neil shakes his head like a wet dog, making her laugh.
"I hope your coffee's good," he tells her ruefully, with his best charming smile, "'cause I'm not going back out there til I have to."
From his table by the window, he has a good view on the front door of the hotel and on the exit of the underground garage, where he knows the Jag is parked. The waitress brings him a slice of chocolate cake on the house, and it's only when he starts eating it that he realises he's hardly eaten anything all day. He stays there for several hours, drinking coffee upon coffee and flirting with the waitress, and the rain doesn't abate for one second.
It's just starting to get dark by the time he recognises Newman stepping out of the hotel, on his own, shielded from the rain by a large, expensive-looking umbrella.
After leaving the waitress with a large tip and a wink, Neil follows him down the street at a safe distance. The rain has turned into a proper downpour now, which has the benefit of making it much easier to follow someone without being noticed. Still, Neil doesn't much fancy following him for miles like this, and is relieved to see him duck into the doorway of a pub, just a few hundred feet away from the hotel.
He should give it a few days, really, because 'accidentally' bumping into your target in a pub less than 24 hours after he's last seen you is bound to appear suspicious to anyone with half a brain. There isn't much time, though; it was made clear that whatever Newman is planning is going to happen very soon. He'll just have to be extra convincing. Luckily, that's something he's pretty good at.
He takes shelter in the doorway of the closed second-hand shop next door and takes a cigarette out of his packet. It's to pass the time, to give Newman a good fifteen minutes to settle down before he follows him inside, but it's also to calm down the familiar rush of exhilaration thrumming through his veins. He's half-drenched and already shivering but the slight dizziness he feels has more to do with anticipation than anything else. This, he thinks suddenly, is what it must feel like to stand behind a curtain in a packed theatre, minutes before walking on stage to perform a play for the very first time.
He lights up and inhales deeply, holding the fag cupped in his fist like a gangster, because he figures that twerps of Charlie's ilk probably find that kind of mannerism cool. Ten more minutes, and then the curtain goes up.
***
It's warm in the pub, just busy enough to be anonymous but not so crammed Lindsay can't find a table for himself and his pint in a back corner. He leans his dripping umbrella against the wall and idly starts looking at a menu he's got no intention of ordering from so he won't look at his watch. This is always the worst part, the waiting - trusting other people to do their job properly, even though you know they're perfectly capable. Control freak Ty and Danny always say, smirking like it's an insult, like it's not been keeping them alive and out of trouble through all their years of cons. It's not enough just to think something up and go blazing in; it's this careful, patient planning that holds it all together. Not that Lindsay's particularly good at being patient himself. He starts tapping his phone gently against the tabletop to distract himself from checking for a text he knows isn't there yet, skittering and compulsive.
"You!"
He looks up, irritated by both the intrusion and how much it's startled him, but then suddenly wants to laugh when he sees who it is and how pissed off he looks. He's even got his bottom lip sticking out, pouty and infuriating and hilarious.
"Are you following me?"
Buchanan's eyebrows draw together a fraction, then smooth back out. "No," he says sullenly. "Haven't got any wheels, have I?"
"That's not my fault." Before he can instruct the kid to go forth and multiply, Buchanan kicks the chair out from beneath the table and sits opposite Lindsay, resting his elbow on the tabletop and winding his fingers through his choppy hair to rest his head in his hand.
"You want another game?" he says, wide-eyed and pleading.
"No."
"Well... can I buy my car back off you?"
"With what, fifties as fake as your Rolex? I think not."
Buchanan's cheeks colour and that frown reappears, this time with a disgusted sneer like someone's farted in a lift. "Are you calling me a cheat?"
"Evidently not a very good one, since I'm driving the Jag and you're not."
"Oh my god!" It comes out in a rush of breath, frustrated and furious at not getting his own way when he asks for it. It's good for you, Lindsay thinks with a sort of pompous, self-righteous glee. Spoilt little shitbag. "Please can I have it back? My dad'll fucking end me if he knows I lost it playing cards."
"No."
"But that's-"
"If you say 'that's not fair' then I'll fucking end you."
That shuts him up. He pushes his chair back a bit and slumps there, tilting his head back and glowering at Lindsay down the length of his nose for a while. Lindsay just waits, settling his mouth into a smirk he hopes is aggravating, and when the best the kid can come up with is, "Well, I hope you crash and burn!" he doesn't even have to fake his laughter.
"You're ridiculous. Go away and grow up. And get a haircut while you're doing it."
Amazingly, Buchanan gets up and flounces away without another word, but unfortunately only as far as the bar. Or fortunately, depending on your opinion. His jeans are tight and his jacket is short. It's enough. Lindsay watches him for a while because it's better than checking his mobile every two seconds, but he wishes he hadn't when Buchanan glances back over his shoulder and catches him looking. He can't look away now without making it worse, so he just lifts an eyebrow, and it's the kid who looks away first, leaning forward on the bar to catch the barmaid's attention.
When he comes back to the table, he's holding a rum and coke in one hand, and a fresh pint in the other. He sits back down without waiting for an invitation and slides the pint across the table to join Lindsay's near empty glass.
"Look... I'm sorry I got angry," he begins, and there's a solemn, earnest tone to his voice, and he couldn't be more like a scolded child if he tried, a kid forced to apologise after throwing a tantrum. "You won that car fair and square. I just..." He breaks off and looks away, and there's a terrifying moment where Lindsay thinks he might start crying. He doesn't, even though it looks like he's barely holding it in. "...I'm so fucked."
"That's really not my problem, kid."
"Don't call me kid, I'm not a kid. I'm twenty-three."
"In that case, you're old enough to know better," Lindsay says lightly, not bothering to keep the patronising tone from his voice.
"Yeah, 'cause I bet you never make any mistakes, right?"
"I do, but I have to say I've never gambled anything that didn't belong to me."
"It does belong to me." He sighs and slumps back in his chair, looking defeated. "Or it did, anyway. That won't stop my dad murdering me, though, 'cause he paid for it. I might as well kill myself right now, get it over with."
It's difficult to remain serious in the face of such melodrama.
"I'd offer to run you over with the Jag, but I don't want to put a dent in it."
Buchanan flips him the middle finger in response, but there's no force behind the gesture, and he looks almost amused despite himself, even through the thick veil of self-pity. "Do you get off on being a smartarse or what?" he asks as Lindsay's finishing the dregs of his first pint.
"It's none of your business how I get off." Pity, he thinks idly, watching Buchanan's throat move as he takes a long swallow of his coke. This nervous pre-game energy has to come out somewhere - the other two make do with hiring girls or picking up slappers in bars, but that's too easy and so boring and besides, he's seen the state of the women in this city. He was planning to take the Jag out into the country somewhere and drive too fast down too-narrow roads just to feel the sickening thrill of skidding tyres on rain-slick corners, but winding this kid up is just as good. Especially when he plays with the straws in his drink with his tongue like that. He's unselfconscious suddenly, watching Lindsay watch him and cocking his eyebrow slightly like he's waiting for something.
"What's your name, anyway?"
"Henry."
That makes him laugh, sudden and sharp, "Seriously?"
"I don't see what's so funny. It's a pretty ordinary name."
"It's just that… well, it's my dad's name. That's awkward." He's grinning now, and Lindsay realises it's the first time he's seen him smile properly. It suits him - he doesn't seem half as ridiculous when he's not sulking.
"Why is it awkward?"
"I've never bought my dad a drink."
He hadn't been sure at first, but it's easy enough to recognise that comment for what it is, a none-too-subtle overture. Buchanan's twirling the straw in his drink, watching Lindsay as thought waiting for a reaction, good or bad.
Lindsay allows himself a small smile as he raises the fresh pint to his lips, and that seems to be enough for the kid because there's something decidedly flirty about his smile and posture now.
"So, are you from around here, Henry?" He can't help but laugh a bit as he says the name, and Lindsay wonders if he'd still find it funny if Lindsay made him say it as he fucked him bent over the table.
"No."
"Where're you from, then?"
"Why are you asking all these questions?"
"I dunno, it's what people do, right? Make conversation. You just seem like an interesting kind of bloke."
"I hate smalltalk."
"Alright, then. No smalltalk. If I blow you, can I get my car back?"
It's not so much the question as the straightforward way he asks it that nearly makes Lindsay choke on his beer. He couldn't stop himself laughing even if he wanted to.
"No."
"Are you sure? Cause I'm really good at it."
"I'm sure you are, but there really isn't any blow job in the world that's worth giving up that car."
"Well, can't blame a guy for trying, right?" Buchanan replies with an easy grin, unperturbed. His gaze lingers on Lindsay's mouth for a few seconds as he takes another sip of his drink, and beneath the table, his knee bumps against Lindsay's. He doesn't even blush when he continues, "I was hoping you'd say yes. Even if you didn't actually give me the car back after."
"What makes you think I'm that way inclined?"
"Well... that's why I asked, isn't it? Anyway," he adds, slipping back into that lazy, lopsided grin, "you've not punched me yet. It's looking alright." Lindsay feels Buchanan's knee again, moving just between Lindsay's and resting there, warm through their two layers of denim. He's just considering his next move when his phone buzzes loudly against the wooden tabletop and decides for him.
c u at ravis party m8?
Danny. That's their innocuous code for alarm system successfully disabled, plan is on track. There's no point hanging round here any more, not now he knows exactly how much time he's got to kill.
"Alright then," Lindsay says, getting up abruptly from behind the table, shrugging into his jacket, and pocketing his phone. "If you want the car that badly, see if you can change my mind."
***
Too fucking easy, Neil thinks with a trickle of self-satisfaction as they make their way back to the hotel. He'd walked in the pub with the hope of a little bit of conversation, maybe a chance to pocket Newman's mobile when he wasn't looking. He hadn't initially figured Newman to be susceptible to his charms, and an invitation to his hotel room is much more than he'd expected to get.
And if he has to whore himself out to get the information he wants... He takes another glance at Newman, at his broad chest and the strong line of his shoulders, his long legs and his big hands. Well, not much of a hardship. Newman's reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift catches his eye and Neil as Charlie plays it coy, looking down at his feet and grinning, peeking back up at Newman through his fringe.
"Do you do this a lot, then?"
"What?"
"Pick up people you've already fucked over?"
That almost makes him laugh. He leans there against the corner of the lift with his arms folded, regarding Neil with some amusement like he's a pet doing something ridiculous. "I didn't pick you up, this is all your idea."
"It's a brilliant idea."
"We'll see," Newman says with a smirk, then adds, "After you," with a mock-chivalrous little bow as the lift door sweep open onto the fifth floor hallway. "Number 506."
It's a nice hotel, even just going by the hallway, all plush carpeting and pointless little glass tables every few feet holding huge vases of long-stemmed white roses. Everything is pristine and tasteful and clearly far more expensive than the slightly grotty place the force grudgingly stretched their budget for. Good thing they didn't go back to Neil's room, it would have blown his rich-kid cover in a second. Inside it's pretty much the same - white carpet, voluminous white drapes at the windows, a small white leather couch, a king size bed - but it's full of personal touches too, like the paperback and half-drunk glass of water on the bedside table, and a pair of blue cotton pyjamas in a twisted heap on top of the crumpled linen, which Newman quickly moves to hide. "Maid's not been in yet," he mutters, slinging the pyjamas into a drawer and tugging the bedspread across the mattress neatly - and pointlessly, considering what they're about to do.
"Should I put the Do Not Disturb on the door?"
"If you want."
It buys Neil a few more seconds to figure out exactly how to play this, how Charlie would behave. He's got his face carefully set when he comes back from the door, biting his lower lip nervously and still feeling the pressure on his cheekbones where he's pinched himself to make it look like he's blushing.
"Henry? Can I have a drink?"
"Suppose it's my round, isn't it?" Newman isn't nervous at all, slinging his jacket carelessly over the back of the desk chair and toeing off his shoes as he's opening the minibar to rummage through its contents. "Rum and coke?"
"What are you having?"
"Scotch."
"I'll have a scotch on the rocks," he says grandly, and Newman gives him that amused, slightly patronising look again but doesn't say anything, just empties two miniature bottles into glasses of ice.
"Come and get it, I'm not waiting on you."
Neil shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over Newman's on the back of the chair, to give himself the opportunity to subtly go through Newman's pockets later on when he retrieves it. He joins Newman at the minibar, right up into his personal space, and takes the glass he's offered. He smiles and raises it up to clink it against Newman's glass, who just smirks at the gesture.
"So, what are you doing in Leicester? Work?"
"I told you-"
"Yeah, I know, no smalltalk. But, like, you're clearly loaded if you're staying here. Are you a businessman?"
"Something like that."
Neil draws his eyebrows together, glancing quickly around the room, then back to Newman's face. He registers curiosity, then suspicion. "You're not a gangster, are you?" he asks, inflecting his voice to sound as though he finds the idea a bit frightening, but mostly enthralling. "Cause I reckon some of those guys at the poker game were," he adds conspiratorially, before Newman can answer the question. It's not the most subtle he's been, but he's confident enough in his innocent act to take the risk.
"You reckon?" Newman says, in a disinterested tone, and his short, non-committal answers quickly convince Neil to drop that line of questioning before Newman decides to kick him out, or worse.
"Well, I dunno. They seemed the type," he finishes lamely. "Sorry. You don't like talking. That's alright. I like the strong silent types." That last is delivered with an openly suggestive smile, and Newman looks half-exasperated, half-amused when he closes the distance between them with one step, winding Neil's stupid skinny tie through his fingers.
"I wish you would stop talking."
"Sorry. It's not why I'm here, is it?"
"No," Newman says shortly, and kisses him.
Neil grabs a fistful of Newman's shirt with his free hand and kisses back with an enthusiasm he doesn't need to fake. Newman makes a sound almost like a growl when Neil nips at his lower lip, and Neil barely manages to reign himself in, breaking it off before he gives in to the urge to shove him against the wall and blow him then and there.
"Hold that thought," he says, breathless and apologetic. "Hate to stop now, but I really need a slash."
It's not a lie, he really does need to go after all those coffees and the drink in the pub, but it's a good excuse to draw it out and snoop a bit, in case Newman decides to boot him out of the room right after the main event.
The bathroom alone is nearly as big as Neil's entire hotel room. A quick look through Newman's personal effects reveals nothing. He hadn't really expected to find a detailed plan of the heist hidden between the toothpaste and the shaving cream, but there's not even a receipt in the bin, or a name tag on the small bag of toiletries. So far he doesn't know much more than he did before he walked into that pub, but that's alright. The evening is not over yet, and, if he's honest with himself, information wasn't his only motivation for coming up here anyway.
When he flushes, he tips most of his drink down the toilet, then sets the glass on the marble countertop and eyes himself in the mirror. He washes his hands and adjusts his hair, still damp from the rain, and pats himself down, checking for anything incriminating in his pockets. He finds only a twenty pound note and the johnny he'd slipped in his back pocket the day before, when he'd half-considered going out to a bar to pick up after he'd done his bit in the poker game. Before he got distracted by what he heard on that surveillance radio. He grins at his reflection, sliding the money and the condom back into his pocket, feeling his pulse quicken.
It's not something he's done before - as it turns out, the number of crooks that are both into men and not complete trolls is pretty low - but the idea of a double victory, of fucking someone and then turning around and arresting them, is more thrilling than it should be. Consummate professional, I am, he thinks wryly before rearranging his features into an expression halfway between nervous and seductive.
When he steps out of the bathroom, he makes a show of downing what remains of his drink, even though it's mostly melted ice with only enough scotch to leave the taste of liquor in his mouth. Newman's sitting on the leather sofa, barefoot and with the buttons of his shirt half-undone, and Neil can't suppress a shiver of excitement. This is a lot more fun than picking up random strangers in bars.
***
Leicestershire Constabulary. Mansfield House. 74 Belgrave Gate. Leicester. LE1 3GG.
It's printed on a little plastic keyring in Buchanan's pocket. Lindsay found it when the kid went for a piss, snooping through his pockets just to check, just to be safe. He's been slightly paranoid about things like this ever since one of Ty's hookers turned out to be a police officer in disguise; he always checks now, they all do, but this is the first time he's caught someone out.
That explains the gangster comment, then.
Lindsay pulls off his socks and starts unbuttoning his shirt from the top down so he'll look oblivious to what's really happening, mind racing trying to remember whether he's given anything away. He doesn't think so, he's always cautious. So what the fuck does PC Indiebrat want? Digging for information about the others from the poker game? Perhaps, but surely there's a more legit way of going about it...
He looks up when the bathroom door opens, watches Buchanan down the last of his whisky, eyes him up and down slowly, settling a smirk back on his face as if he likes what he sees when really he's just confirming what a short skinny little weed the kid is. If it comes to it, Lindsay's height and weight difference should make it easy enough to overpower him - and if he's naked there won't be any hidden wires or weapons.
"Better now?" he asks, eyebrows raised, and Buchanan ducks his head, grinning sheepishly.
"Loads. Thanks."
"Come here."
As soon as he's within grabbing distance, Lindsay whips off his tie and hauls his shirt off over his head without bothering with all the buttons. Buchanan's laughing again, hair standing up wildly in every direction. "Steady on! What'll they think at reception if I go waltzing out of here with ripped clothes?"
"Same as they thought when you came in, I'm sure." Zip next, and the problem of skinny jeans that don't want to peel down and have to be coaxed. Buchanan just stands there with his hands up like a surrender, biting his lip and watching.
"Dirty minds. We could just be friends."
"...no," Lindsay says wryly after a slight pause. "I don't think we'll ever be friends."
No wires, no weapons. He wishes he'd had enough time to check the rest of Buchanan's pockets, but as long as he keeps the kid well away from his jacket until he figures out what to do then everything should be alright.
"Don't you think you're a bit overdressed?" Buchanan says cheekily, steadying himself with both hands on Lindsay's shoulders so he can kick the bunched up denim of his jeans off his feet. He's getting hard already, and he sucks in a gasping little breath when Lindsay strokes a firm line up the underside of his cock with the pad of his thumb.
"Shut up."
"Right. No smalltalk."
"No any talk." He spreads his hands wide over the kid's arse and draws him a step closer, wetly tongueing the head of his cock then slipping his mouth down around him. His mind's only half on the job - he's thinking about where he's stashed his guns in case he needs them later on, one in the bedside drawer and one still tucked into a corner of his suitcase - until Buchanan whispers something vague and encouraging and twists his fingers in Lindsay's hair. Then he thinks, if everything's going to hell anyway then you might as well have fun on the trip, and sucks him deeper.
***
Too big for a single post...
There are card games everywhere if you know where to look, even in Leicester. Really good ones with worthwhile stakes, played by people with familiar names who come to the table all self-satisfied and so certain they're going to win that they spend the whole time casually focusing on their own cheats and sleight of hand, arrogantly never ever thinking for even a moment that their opponents might be doing the same. They're really not the right people to upset. Of course, that's what makes it all so delicious.
Lindsay tilts his chair back slightly on two legs, a bad habit he's retained from school that only shows itself when he's drunk and relaxed and, most importantly, winning. It's about time, too. For the first few rounds he thought his luck was all out, until he realised the dealer, a huge ugly bulldog in a good suit that looks as stupid on him as a bikini would, kept glancing into his cup of black coffee. Subtle, really. Quite nicely done, and something Lindsay files carefully away in his mind for future use - he's seen it done with shiny silver whisky flasks, the dealer placing one on the table and watching the reflection as he hands out the cards so he can give signals to his co-conspirators, but never coffee. Easily sorted; when he realised what their scam was, he simply reached across the table and moved the cup six inches toward himself, pretending to pick a fly off the surface of the liquid and giving Marshall an easy grin, acting more drunk than he was and claiming OCD. He's sure that's not their only method of cheating, not pro types like this lot, but it's definitely been going better since they lost their mirror.
Next to Marshall it's Patel, who won the first round when everybody bet big to kick off the night and has spent the rest of the game steadily losing it back. Next to him it's Chilton, then Tony Randolph who once worked as Lindsay's driver. He was the one who invited Lindsay to the game, and he's going to wish he didn't if it turns out he's in with the others. Between him and the man just to Lindsay's right whose face he knows but whose name he can't remember, there's some sulky little black-haired stranger slumped down in his seat with a wounded look in his eyes and just a tiny handful of chips left. He's a dreadful player, maybe he was allowed in for a joke. He's probably somebody's useless black-sheep nephew, or maybe just some rich brat they're trying to cheat for a quick fix.
Four of a kind beat full house. Lindsay shrugs one-shouldered, he doesn't really care. Losing fairly is alright, and he's still winning overall. He slides a little pile of chips towards Randolph with everyone else, including the young kid who's nibbling his bottom lip and frowning as he hands over his last few.
"Come back when your balls drop, mate," Chilton says to him, all sarcasm and faux-sympathy, and there's a muffled snigger from someone else. "Not ready to run with the big boys yet, hey?"
"I'm going for a slash," the kid says in a low, sulky voice, knocking his chair back with an infuriating screech of wood on tile. He flounces off out of the door, followed by more of that smothered, nasty laughter as the cards get shuffled and more drinks go round.
***
Neil stares at his own reflection in the dim light of the lavatory. He examines the set of his mouth, the arch of his eyebrows, tries to read something in the way he blinks, anything that might give him away. There's nothing off, though, the mask still perfectly in place, and that, at least, is reassuring.
He smirks at himself, adjusting his regulation indie kid haircut: black and choppy, artfully mussed for that I-just-woke-up look that makes it obvious he spent ages arranging it in the mirror. He looks like a twat, with his leather jacket that still smells new, his skinny tie, his designer jeans and the giant watch that's worth 5k, ostentatious and bordering on gaudy; a stupid kid with too much money who tries a bit too hard to look cool.
Charlie Buchanan, twenty-three. Law student. Only son of an investment banker and a dentist. Privately educated. Tries to look like he's in The Strokes, but doesn't want you to forget that he's rich. Twerp.
He's not wearing a wire - he's a new kid around this table, knew he would get patted down before he was allowed to take a seat, and preferred to avoid the possibility of being tossed over a bridge with his feet encased in cement if he was found to be wearing a listening device. The barmaid is an informant and there are two officers staked out in the building opposite, but they're not going to intervene unless the evening turns to violence. Essentially, he's on his own.
Neil glances at his watch, then pulls a cigarette out of his packet and sticks it between his lips before climbing up on the toilet seat and pushing the window open. He lights up and takes a long, slow drag, sticking his head out of the window to blow the smoke out. The street is near empty aside from a tramp sleeping on a bench, and a couple of scantily-clad girls, the clatter of their heels echoing loudly as they hurry along to some nightclub on the busy street around the corner. Across the car park, Neil can make out the sleek silhouette of the Jaguar, and his free hand automatically pats his pocket for the car keys.
He's not usually this antsy, but it's this fucking card game, this idiotic scheme that's getting him on edge. It wasn't Neil's idea and he's hated it from the start: not enough control, too much that's left purely to chance. Neil is good at reading people, and he's pretty great at pretending to be someone he's not, but that's not enough to guarantee that things will go the way he wants them to. And then there's that tall, quiet bloke, the new guy. He wasn't supposed to be there tonight. Neil knows every face around the table but his, and the addition of an unknown quantity to the mix just adds to this maddening uncertainty. It's too late to back out now, though, he'll just have to go ahead as planned, and hope for the best.
He takes a last pull off of his cigarette and stubs it out on the brick wall outside the window, steps down from the toilet and pulls the keys out of his pocket, hooking his index finger through the keyring. It's time to go back.
It's Charlie, not Neil, who steps out of the toilets and makes a beeline for the bar. Charlie gives the men at the table a tight-lipped smile and twirls the keyring around his finger, chewing on his lower lip like he's talking himself into a mad decision.
"Who's that guy? The tall one, with the beard?" he asks the barmaid in a low voice as she pulls him a pint.
"Dunno." She lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug, slides the glass across the bar. "Never seen 'im in 'ere before."
"Great. Brilliant."
Charlie picks up his pint, strides over to the table, and dramatically drops the car keys in the middle of the table.
"Will that let me back in?"
Chilton raises an eyebrow and leans back in his chair, glancing down at the pouncing cat embossed on the expensive-looking keyring. Neil already knows how much Chilton wants this car, so it's no surprise when he smirks and nods his assent, a greedy look in his eyes.
"Yeah, why not. Sit down."
***
Chilton's mask of indifference slips for the first time all night when he wins the kid's Jaguar on what's actually a fairly bad hand. It's the best in a round of bad hands, a plain flush of clubs, and he doesn't react for a moment until it sinks in and then he snatches the keys from the middle of the table, kissing them with an exaggerated smacking sound and a delighted burst of laughter before dropping them in front of his chips. Lindsay actually feels sorry for the kid now. Buchanan's his name, he's not really a kid. Old enough to drive. Old enough, even though he's clearly an idiot, to know when he's made a hellish mistake. His mouth is hanging open and he looks like he might cry. Lindsay offers him a cigarette - small consolation, but better than nothing - but he doesn't seem to notice the case being held in front of him so Lindsay lets it go and lights up for himself.
Two rounds later he can't remember that pang of sympathy or the contempt he feels for Marshall or anything; Chilton won the last round with the night's only royal flush and it's made him complacent and careless, enough so to put the keys back in game and sit there with a smug smile plastered on his face. The bastard's got another winner. Maybe. Maybe he's got another winner, but what are the odds? Two royal flushes in two consecutive rounds by the same player - one in a billion? One in more?
Four kings.
Lindsay's heart is banging so hard he thinks he might actually faint like some pathetic swooning girl in the bad Regency novels his mother likes to read.
Three of hearts. Four of hearts. Five, six, seven of hearts.
Chilton's face is like a cartoon, or like a tragedy mask. Marshall looks like he might blow a fuse, and Buchanan looks suddenly furious for a moment, just a flash of anger in his blue eyes before he's back to despair. Too bad, kid. Lindsay doesn't say it, he's got just enough class to refrain from rubbing it in, but he's thinking it somewhere behind the roaring in his head.
"I'm going to have to leave it there, gentlemen," he says casually, then tips the last of his scotch and ice into his mouth and wipes his lips on his handkerchief, eyeing his chips and then the other players' faces. They all look calm enough, but he can see a twitch in somebody's jaw and a fire in somebody else's eyes. It's a bonus. "I'll take cash, please. And the car keys, Mr. Chilton, if you'd be so kind."
"Play another round," Chilton says, nervously tumbling a plastic chip over the backs of his fingers, back and forth from thumb to pinky. "It's not that late."
"Late enough when you've got an eight-thirty start." Too many times before - only twice, but that's still too many - he's seen a lost game turn ugly, guns pulled and people shouting and making threats he's quite sure are genuine. It's not even the money. He'll only play for high stakes, and the people he faces across the card tables are so loaded they'd never even miss sums in four, five, six, even seven figures on a good night. It's the humiliation of a failed scam, and the knowing that the eventual winner was just as dishonest but not being able to prove it, that makes things turn nasty. Lindsay's watching them carefully now, pretending to pay attention to folding his handkerchief back up but really looking through his eyelashes at their hands and the telltale movements, however slight, towards what might be concealed holsters.
The backlash doesn't come, in the end. Somebody puts a warning hand on Chilton's shoulder, the banker quietly counts out Lindsay's winnings, the keys to the maroon Jaguar are dropped into his waiting palm, and he leaves them to wallow in their anger. There's a fresh spring in his step as he crosses the room and nods a goodbye to the barmaid, making his way out to the car park and thumbing the number 4 on his phone to speed dial Danny as he goes.
"Alright?" Danny says, when he finally picks up. He sounds scratchy and tired, the lazy bastard was probably sleeping even though it's not yet eleven.
"Mm. I won." The brown paper envelope is heavy and comforting in his inside pocket, making his jacket drape and bulge strangely.
"Course you won. You could go pro if you wanted."
"Happy enough watching the bastards squirm. One of them was showing off, this rich little twerp in a giant ugly Rolex. Someone won his car, I won it off him."
Now Danny sounds more awake. "Yeah?"
"Maroon Jag XK8, 1999. Beauty queen."
He hears a low, impressed whistle. "How's she handle?"
"Don't know yet. Come and meet me, we'll take her for a spin before those apes in there decide I don't need my kneecaps any more. Is Ty about?"
"Banging the bed against the connecting wall with some tramp, I ain't going in there for nothing."
"Fucking tart," Lindsay mutters. He finds his cigarette case in his other pocket and flips it open, retrieving a slim perfect rollie with his lips and sparking up, dragging deep and letting the smoke heat his lungs. "How far's the hotel from here?"
"It's nothing, I'll meet you in five."
The line goes dead. Lindsay pockets his phone, and he crosses the rest of the car park to properly inspect his new toy, the most beautiful car he's ever seen.
***
Charlie is upset. It's not just the money and the car, it's the embarrassment of it all. His face is flushed and his smile is forced when he pushes himself to his feet, collects his leather jacket from the back of his chair and mumbles his goodbyes. No one there is really paying attention to him, though - the mood's definitely shifted since that new bloke - Newman, the others called him? Newman, how fucking appropriate - walked off with not only the car, but the lion's share of the money. Chilton looks apoplectic and there's no point sticking around any longer.
"Guess I'll have to take the bus home, eh?" Charlie says, miserable and sulky, slipping his arms into his coat.
"Fuck off, kid," Marshall says without looking up, so Charlie does, nodding curtly to the barmaid on his way out.
He pulls his cigarette packet out of his pocket as soon as he steps out the door and loiters there long enough to watch Newman for a couple of minutes, observing him from a distance as he circles around the car that was meant for Chilton.
Outwardly, Charlie just looks regretful and anxious - anyone watching him would figure that he's probably thinking about his dad's reaction when he returns home and has to fess up to losing the Jaguar in a game of poker. Inside, though, Neil's blood is boiling. His fingers are curled so tightly around the lighter in his jacket pocket that his knuckles are turning white and pain is shooting up his arm. He takes a few long drags off of his cigarette until he feels calm enough to be sure that he won't do anything stupid, like walk across the car park and deck Newman across the jaw. It's not the time or place to cause a scene.
It's not long before some other bloke turns up, but Neil is too far away to make out anything but a squat figure. The two of them stand together and talk for a minute, the new guy's impressed whistle carrying across the empty car park, and eventually they both get in the Jaguar, Newman at the wheel, and tear down the street in a screech of tyres on pavement.
Neil lights a fresh cigarette with the end of his old one, drops the cigarette butt on the cement, crushes it under his Cuban heel, and heads down the street, trailing smoke in the cool night air like a steam engine. Once he's rounded the corner and made sure there's no one within earshot, he fishes his mobile out of his pocket and dials the number he'd memorised the day before.
In lieu of a greeting, the woman's voice at the other end answers with an eager, "So?"
"Yeah, the car's gone."
"Good, so Chilton's got it?"
"No, Chilton's not got it, he won it, then went and played it again and lost, like a fucking plonker. Jesus, what an idiot!"
"What? Well who's got it, then?"
"Dunno, some bloke, Newman something? Not someone we know."
"Well, fuck."
"You wanna tail Chilton, your boys will have to think of a better plan, because this one's gone to shit. I knew something like this was gonna happen."
"Yeah, well, it was worth a shot. What about the car, though?"
"Well, it's lucky that it's a surveillance device on wheels, ain't it? We'll just impound the fucking thing. It's a stolen car, we can just get it back. I'm not letting that wanker keep it for long, he'd best enjoy the joyride while it lasts."
"Mm, well, you'd better drop by first thing tomorrow, the boss will want a full report."
"I'm in fucking Leicester, Martha!"
"So what? They have trains to London, don't they?"
Neil sighs, slowing his pace down for a second to stub his cigarette out, and stops himself just as he's about to light another one. Smoking the entire packet isn't going to make this shitty evening any better.
"I'll be down in two days, tops. I want to sort things out over here first."
"What things?"
"Well, I'll get the fucking Jaguar back, for starters."
"The local guys can do that!"
"I want to do it. It'll give that fucker a proper fright when I turn up to collect it with a couple of the guys from the station, maybe teach him a lesson about gambling with the mafia."
"Charlie..."
"Augh, don't call me that, I hate that stupid name. Look, I'll send in a report tomorrow morning, and you know where to reach me if anything's missing. I'm way more useful here. Maybe that Newman bloke has something on Chilton that we can use."
"Oh, fine. Two days. But I want you back here by Friday morning."
"Cheers. Oh, and Martha? E-mail me the surveillance info from the Jag, yeah?"
"Fine, fine."
"You're amazing."
"I hate you."
Neil laughs into the phone as he steps into the lobby of his hotel. "You love me."
***
The car takes a corner smoothly, turning onto Narborough Road and slowing to a crawl in the heavy morning traffic. Lindsay's finding it difficult to concentrate on driving, he has to force himself to focus: Danny's working his way through two McDonalds breakfasts at once, a sausage and egg muffin in each hand with a hash brown slapped between the bread of each. There's tomato sauce dribbling down his wrist.
"You're an animal."
Danny only grins, showing crumbs and bits of meat caught between his red-smeared teeth. "Yeah, I bet you say that to all the boys, hey."
"I swear to Christ, if you get any of that on my upholstery..."
"You can't shoot me for getting ketchup on your seats and let me get away with fucking your mum."
"I don't interfere with her charity work."
That makes Danny laugh even though it's an insult, loud and horse-like until Ty, who's in a shitty enough mood anyway after losing the coin-toss to decide who was going to be crammed into the barely-there back seat, digs a knee into his spine and snarls at him to shut up. Danny subsides, finishes stuffing his face and screws all the packaging together in a tight little ball, winding down the window just enough to chuck it out onto the street and hit a teenager in a hoodie right in the middle of his back. "Keep going to the end, bear left."
"I know where it is."
Just beyond the underpass a bit farther on there's a crumbling old theatre building, all flaking paint and years-old posters advertising club nights. Lindsay doesn't slow the car as they drive past, just gets a good look at the place for the first time, mentally taking note of the surrounding roads and potential exit routes in case anything goes wrong with the plan. They look fewer in number and much much narrower and more exposed than they do on the map he's memorised, but then danger is always half the fun.
"You do realise if this works we'll be on a lot of people's hitlists," Lindsay says casually, or as casually as he can manage when he's battling a thrill of anticipation that's threatening to make him start laughing like a madman. The other two mumble yes, twisting back in their seats to see the place disappear as they leave it behind, but they don't sound worried. They're just like him. If it's safe, it's not worth doing. And this time it's personal, which multiplies the danger a thousand times. Banks and security firms are so faceless and anonymous, it's easy just to look at the numbers. Stealing cash from one of the biggest drug lords in the country? That's suicidal.
"Depends if we get recognised or not," Ty says. Lindsay catches his eye in the rearview mirror and looks away again quickly. He looks exhilarated already and the snatch isn't even happening til tomorrow, giddy and bright-eyed, the same way he looks when he's fucking or high.
"Long as Danny's done his homework, we'll be alright."
"Chauhan ain't even there, he's on holiday in Marbella with the missus and the sprats. Fuck knows why he trusts them goons he's left in charge, they couldn't find their own arseholes with both hands and a map."
"Sounds familiar."
"Get bent."
"Gladly."
***
Neil spends most of his night alternating between smoking on the hotel room balcony and sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring at his laptop screen, at the map with the highlighted red line on it that indicates the course of the Jaguar across the city. He's listened over and over to the short recorded conversation, and still can't figure out why he's taken such a sudden interest in Newman and what he may or may not be planning to do. It's not like there's concrete evidence that anything dodgy is afoot, just a few words and intonations that made his pulse quicken.
"We'll go tomorrow. I want to see the place with my own eyes before we go in."
...and then, a bit later,
"This car's a bit flashy for this kind of job, ain't it?"
"It won't matter."
They could be talking about a paint job for all Neil knows, it might be completely innocuous, but that doesn't stop Neil refreshing the map every couple of minutes, to make sure the car hasn't moved since it was parked several hours ago, at another hotel halfway across town.
He's not entirely convinced that he's not wasting his time until he jerks awake early in the morning to the crackling sound of a conversation on the surveillance radio. He'd fallen asleep on top of the still-made bed, fully dressed, and he can feel the seam lines of the rough bedspread imprinted into his cheek.
"Shit!" he mumbles, scrabbling with the receiver to turn the volume up, willing his mind to unfog enough to focus on the words coming through.
By the time the conversation dies off, punctuated by the sound of car doors slamming shut, he's heard enough to be propelled into action. He goes through his morning routine at record speed, shaving quickly while in the shower and eating half of a stale croissant left over from the day before as he slips back into his Charlie clothes.
Martha texts him just as he's about to step out of his hotel room.
Any news about Edward?
That's code for, 'Any news on the Chilton case', and Neil swears, and types in a quick lie.
Working on it, mom.
The truth is that he's not really thought about Chilton since the night before, despite the fact that his case is the reason he's in Leicester in the first place. No matter. There's not a lot that can be done about him for the time being. This Newman bloke, on the other hand... Well, he's definitely planning some sort of heist. Maybe he'll make this ill-thought-out, waste of time trip outside the city worth his while.
Half an hour later, he finds himself at the station on Belgrave Gate. What he should do is grab a couple of officers, go impound the Jaguar, and take in Newman for questioning.
What he does instead is charm the commander into lending him a civilian car for the day, and follows the path that Newman and his two friends took across the city in the morning, when their conversation woke him up. The earbud he's got jammed in his left ear is connected to the listening device cleverly hidden in the Jaguar's radio, but it's been emitting nothing but humming silence for the past hour, ever since it was parked again at the same hotel, just before noon. By carefully timing the Jaguar's path with the recorded conversation, he's got a fairly good idea about which general area they're planning to hit, but no precise location, and looking for a connection between the name Chauhan and this particular street has proved fruitless.
Neil makes the circuit twice, looking at old buildings and ordinary-looking houses, at bored commuters and bedraggled pedestrians, as though they will give him answers he's not really expecting to find, and finally gives up.
He leaves the car a couple of street corners down from Newman's hotel and half-runs back up the street, zigzagging to avoid puddles and using his leather jacket as an ineffectual shield against the rain, until he reaches the small coffee shop he'd spotted earlier, across the street from the hotel lobby.
"Some kind of weather we're having, hey?" says the girl behind the counter, and Neil shakes his head like a wet dog, making her laugh.
"I hope your coffee's good," he tells her ruefully, with his best charming smile, "'cause I'm not going back out there til I have to."
From his table by the window, he has a good view on the front door of the hotel and on the exit of the underground garage, where he knows the Jag is parked. The waitress brings him a slice of chocolate cake on the house, and it's only when he starts eating it that he realises he's hardly eaten anything all day. He stays there for several hours, drinking coffee upon coffee and flirting with the waitress, and the rain doesn't abate for one second.
It's just starting to get dark by the time he recognises Newman stepping out of the hotel, on his own, shielded from the rain by a large, expensive-looking umbrella.
After leaving the waitress with a large tip and a wink, Neil follows him down the street at a safe distance. The rain has turned into a proper downpour now, which has the benefit of making it much easier to follow someone without being noticed. Still, Neil doesn't much fancy following him for miles like this, and is relieved to see him duck into the doorway of a pub, just a few hundred feet away from the hotel.
He should give it a few days, really, because 'accidentally' bumping into your target in a pub less than 24 hours after he's last seen you is bound to appear suspicious to anyone with half a brain. There isn't much time, though; it was made clear that whatever Newman is planning is going to happen very soon. He'll just have to be extra convincing. Luckily, that's something he's pretty good at.
He takes shelter in the doorway of the closed second-hand shop next door and takes a cigarette out of his packet. It's to pass the time, to give Newman a good fifteen minutes to settle down before he follows him inside, but it's also to calm down the familiar rush of exhilaration thrumming through his veins. He's half-drenched and already shivering but the slight dizziness he feels has more to do with anticipation than anything else. This, he thinks suddenly, is what it must feel like to stand behind a curtain in a packed theatre, minutes before walking on stage to perform a play for the very first time.
He lights up and inhales deeply, holding the fag cupped in his fist like a gangster, because he figures that twerps of Charlie's ilk probably find that kind of mannerism cool. Ten more minutes, and then the curtain goes up.
***
It's warm in the pub, just busy enough to be anonymous but not so crammed Lindsay can't find a table for himself and his pint in a back corner. He leans his dripping umbrella against the wall and idly starts looking at a menu he's got no intention of ordering from so he won't look at his watch. This is always the worst part, the waiting - trusting other people to do their job properly, even though you know they're perfectly capable. Control freak Ty and Danny always say, smirking like it's an insult, like it's not been keeping them alive and out of trouble through all their years of cons. It's not enough just to think something up and go blazing in; it's this careful, patient planning that holds it all together. Not that Lindsay's particularly good at being patient himself. He starts tapping his phone gently against the tabletop to distract himself from checking for a text he knows isn't there yet, skittering and compulsive.
"You!"
He looks up, irritated by both the intrusion and how much it's startled him, but then suddenly wants to laugh when he sees who it is and how pissed off he looks. He's even got his bottom lip sticking out, pouty and infuriating and hilarious.
"Are you following me?"
Buchanan's eyebrows draw together a fraction, then smooth back out. "No," he says sullenly. "Haven't got any wheels, have I?"
"That's not my fault." Before he can instruct the kid to go forth and multiply, Buchanan kicks the chair out from beneath the table and sits opposite Lindsay, resting his elbow on the tabletop and winding his fingers through his choppy hair to rest his head in his hand.
"You want another game?" he says, wide-eyed and pleading.
"No."
"Well... can I buy my car back off you?"
"With what, fifties as fake as your Rolex? I think not."
Buchanan's cheeks colour and that frown reappears, this time with a disgusted sneer like someone's farted in a lift. "Are you calling me a cheat?"
"Evidently not a very good one, since I'm driving the Jag and you're not."
"Oh my god!" It comes out in a rush of breath, frustrated and furious at not getting his own way when he asks for it. It's good for you, Lindsay thinks with a sort of pompous, self-righteous glee. Spoilt little shitbag. "Please can I have it back? My dad'll fucking end me if he knows I lost it playing cards."
"No."
"But that's-"
"If you say 'that's not fair' then I'll fucking end you."
That shuts him up. He pushes his chair back a bit and slumps there, tilting his head back and glowering at Lindsay down the length of his nose for a while. Lindsay just waits, settling his mouth into a smirk he hopes is aggravating, and when the best the kid can come up with is, "Well, I hope you crash and burn!" he doesn't even have to fake his laughter.
"You're ridiculous. Go away and grow up. And get a haircut while you're doing it."
Amazingly, Buchanan gets up and flounces away without another word, but unfortunately only as far as the bar. Or fortunately, depending on your opinion. His jeans are tight and his jacket is short. It's enough. Lindsay watches him for a while because it's better than checking his mobile every two seconds, but he wishes he hadn't when Buchanan glances back over his shoulder and catches him looking. He can't look away now without making it worse, so he just lifts an eyebrow, and it's the kid who looks away first, leaning forward on the bar to catch the barmaid's attention.
When he comes back to the table, he's holding a rum and coke in one hand, and a fresh pint in the other. He sits back down without waiting for an invitation and slides the pint across the table to join Lindsay's near empty glass.
"Look... I'm sorry I got angry," he begins, and there's a solemn, earnest tone to his voice, and he couldn't be more like a scolded child if he tried, a kid forced to apologise after throwing a tantrum. "You won that car fair and square. I just..." He breaks off and looks away, and there's a terrifying moment where Lindsay thinks he might start crying. He doesn't, even though it looks like he's barely holding it in. "...I'm so fucked."
"That's really not my problem, kid."
"Don't call me kid, I'm not a kid. I'm twenty-three."
"In that case, you're old enough to know better," Lindsay says lightly, not bothering to keep the patronising tone from his voice.
"Yeah, 'cause I bet you never make any mistakes, right?"
"I do, but I have to say I've never gambled anything that didn't belong to me."
"It does belong to me." He sighs and slumps back in his chair, looking defeated. "Or it did, anyway. That won't stop my dad murdering me, though, 'cause he paid for it. I might as well kill myself right now, get it over with."
It's difficult to remain serious in the face of such melodrama.
"I'd offer to run you over with the Jag, but I don't want to put a dent in it."
Buchanan flips him the middle finger in response, but there's no force behind the gesture, and he looks almost amused despite himself, even through the thick veil of self-pity. "Do you get off on being a smartarse or what?" he asks as Lindsay's finishing the dregs of his first pint.
"It's none of your business how I get off." Pity, he thinks idly, watching Buchanan's throat move as he takes a long swallow of his coke. This nervous pre-game energy has to come out somewhere - the other two make do with hiring girls or picking up slappers in bars, but that's too easy and so boring and besides, he's seen the state of the women in this city. He was planning to take the Jag out into the country somewhere and drive too fast down too-narrow roads just to feel the sickening thrill of skidding tyres on rain-slick corners, but winding this kid up is just as good. Especially when he plays with the straws in his drink with his tongue like that. He's unselfconscious suddenly, watching Lindsay watch him and cocking his eyebrow slightly like he's waiting for something.
"What's your name, anyway?"
"Henry."
That makes him laugh, sudden and sharp, "Seriously?"
"I don't see what's so funny. It's a pretty ordinary name."
"It's just that… well, it's my dad's name. That's awkward." He's grinning now, and Lindsay realises it's the first time he's seen him smile properly. It suits him - he doesn't seem half as ridiculous when he's not sulking.
"Why is it awkward?"
"I've never bought my dad a drink."
He hadn't been sure at first, but it's easy enough to recognise that comment for what it is, a none-too-subtle overture. Buchanan's twirling the straw in his drink, watching Lindsay as thought waiting for a reaction, good or bad.
Lindsay allows himself a small smile as he raises the fresh pint to his lips, and that seems to be enough for the kid because there's something decidedly flirty about his smile and posture now.
"So, are you from around here, Henry?" He can't help but laugh a bit as he says the name, and Lindsay wonders if he'd still find it funny if Lindsay made him say it as he fucked him bent over the table.
"No."
"Where're you from, then?"
"Why are you asking all these questions?"
"I dunno, it's what people do, right? Make conversation. You just seem like an interesting kind of bloke."
"I hate smalltalk."
"Alright, then. No smalltalk. If I blow you, can I get my car back?"
It's not so much the question as the straightforward way he asks it that nearly makes Lindsay choke on his beer. He couldn't stop himself laughing even if he wanted to.
"No."
"Are you sure? Cause I'm really good at it."
"I'm sure you are, but there really isn't any blow job in the world that's worth giving up that car."
"Well, can't blame a guy for trying, right?" Buchanan replies with an easy grin, unperturbed. His gaze lingers on Lindsay's mouth for a few seconds as he takes another sip of his drink, and beneath the table, his knee bumps against Lindsay's. He doesn't even blush when he continues, "I was hoping you'd say yes. Even if you didn't actually give me the car back after."
"What makes you think I'm that way inclined?"
"Well... that's why I asked, isn't it? Anyway," he adds, slipping back into that lazy, lopsided grin, "you've not punched me yet. It's looking alright." Lindsay feels Buchanan's knee again, moving just between Lindsay's and resting there, warm through their two layers of denim. He's just considering his next move when his phone buzzes loudly against the wooden tabletop and decides for him.
c u at ravis party m8?
Danny. That's their innocuous code for alarm system successfully disabled, plan is on track. There's no point hanging round here any more, not now he knows exactly how much time he's got to kill.
"Alright then," Lindsay says, getting up abruptly from behind the table, shrugging into his jacket, and pocketing his phone. "If you want the car that badly, see if you can change my mind."
***
Too fucking easy, Neil thinks with a trickle of self-satisfaction as they make their way back to the hotel. He'd walked in the pub with the hope of a little bit of conversation, maybe a chance to pocket Newman's mobile when he wasn't looking. He hadn't initially figured Newman to be susceptible to his charms, and an invitation to his hotel room is much more than he'd expected to get.
And if he has to whore himself out to get the information he wants... He takes another glance at Newman, at his broad chest and the strong line of his shoulders, his long legs and his big hands. Well, not much of a hardship. Newman's reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift catches his eye and Neil as Charlie plays it coy, looking down at his feet and grinning, peeking back up at Newman through his fringe.
"Do you do this a lot, then?"
"What?"
"Pick up people you've already fucked over?"
That almost makes him laugh. He leans there against the corner of the lift with his arms folded, regarding Neil with some amusement like he's a pet doing something ridiculous. "I didn't pick you up, this is all your idea."
"It's a brilliant idea."
"We'll see," Newman says with a smirk, then adds, "After you," with a mock-chivalrous little bow as the lift door sweep open onto the fifth floor hallway. "Number 506."
It's a nice hotel, even just going by the hallway, all plush carpeting and pointless little glass tables every few feet holding huge vases of long-stemmed white roses. Everything is pristine and tasteful and clearly far more expensive than the slightly grotty place the force grudgingly stretched their budget for. Good thing they didn't go back to Neil's room, it would have blown his rich-kid cover in a second. Inside it's pretty much the same - white carpet, voluminous white drapes at the windows, a small white leather couch, a king size bed - but it's full of personal touches too, like the paperback and half-drunk glass of water on the bedside table, and a pair of blue cotton pyjamas in a twisted heap on top of the crumpled linen, which Newman quickly moves to hide. "Maid's not been in yet," he mutters, slinging the pyjamas into a drawer and tugging the bedspread across the mattress neatly - and pointlessly, considering what they're about to do.
"Should I put the Do Not Disturb on the door?"
"If you want."
It buys Neil a few more seconds to figure out exactly how to play this, how Charlie would behave. He's got his face carefully set when he comes back from the door, biting his lower lip nervously and still feeling the pressure on his cheekbones where he's pinched himself to make it look like he's blushing.
"Henry? Can I have a drink?"
"Suppose it's my round, isn't it?" Newman isn't nervous at all, slinging his jacket carelessly over the back of the desk chair and toeing off his shoes as he's opening the minibar to rummage through its contents. "Rum and coke?"
"What are you having?"
"Scotch."
"I'll have a scotch on the rocks," he says grandly, and Newman gives him that amused, slightly patronising look again but doesn't say anything, just empties two miniature bottles into glasses of ice.
"Come and get it, I'm not waiting on you."
Neil shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over Newman's on the back of the chair, to give himself the opportunity to subtly go through Newman's pockets later on when he retrieves it. He joins Newman at the minibar, right up into his personal space, and takes the glass he's offered. He smiles and raises it up to clink it against Newman's glass, who just smirks at the gesture.
"So, what are you doing in Leicester? Work?"
"I told you-"
"Yeah, I know, no smalltalk. But, like, you're clearly loaded if you're staying here. Are you a businessman?"
"Something like that."
Neil draws his eyebrows together, glancing quickly around the room, then back to Newman's face. He registers curiosity, then suspicion. "You're not a gangster, are you?" he asks, inflecting his voice to sound as though he finds the idea a bit frightening, but mostly enthralling. "Cause I reckon some of those guys at the poker game were," he adds conspiratorially, before Newman can answer the question. It's not the most subtle he's been, but he's confident enough in his innocent act to take the risk.
"You reckon?" Newman says, in a disinterested tone, and his short, non-committal answers quickly convince Neil to drop that line of questioning before Newman decides to kick him out, or worse.
"Well, I dunno. They seemed the type," he finishes lamely. "Sorry. You don't like talking. That's alright. I like the strong silent types." That last is delivered with an openly suggestive smile, and Newman looks half-exasperated, half-amused when he closes the distance between them with one step, winding Neil's stupid skinny tie through his fingers.
"I wish you would stop talking."
"Sorry. It's not why I'm here, is it?"
"No," Newman says shortly, and kisses him.
Neil grabs a fistful of Newman's shirt with his free hand and kisses back with an enthusiasm he doesn't need to fake. Newman makes a sound almost like a growl when Neil nips at his lower lip, and Neil barely manages to reign himself in, breaking it off before he gives in to the urge to shove him against the wall and blow him then and there.
"Hold that thought," he says, breathless and apologetic. "Hate to stop now, but I really need a slash."
It's not a lie, he really does need to go after all those coffees and the drink in the pub, but it's a good excuse to draw it out and snoop a bit, in case Newman decides to boot him out of the room right after the main event.
The bathroom alone is nearly as big as Neil's entire hotel room. A quick look through Newman's personal effects reveals nothing. He hadn't really expected to find a detailed plan of the heist hidden between the toothpaste and the shaving cream, but there's not even a receipt in the bin, or a name tag on the small bag of toiletries. So far he doesn't know much more than he did before he walked into that pub, but that's alright. The evening is not over yet, and, if he's honest with himself, information wasn't his only motivation for coming up here anyway.
When he flushes, he tips most of his drink down the toilet, then sets the glass on the marble countertop and eyes himself in the mirror. He washes his hands and adjusts his hair, still damp from the rain, and pats himself down, checking for anything incriminating in his pockets. He finds only a twenty pound note and the johnny he'd slipped in his back pocket the day before, when he'd half-considered going out to a bar to pick up after he'd done his bit in the poker game. Before he got distracted by what he heard on that surveillance radio. He grins at his reflection, sliding the money and the condom back into his pocket, feeling his pulse quicken.
It's not something he's done before - as it turns out, the number of crooks that are both into men and not complete trolls is pretty low - but the idea of a double victory, of fucking someone and then turning around and arresting them, is more thrilling than it should be. Consummate professional, I am, he thinks wryly before rearranging his features into an expression halfway between nervous and seductive.
When he steps out of the bathroom, he makes a show of downing what remains of his drink, even though it's mostly melted ice with only enough scotch to leave the taste of liquor in his mouth. Newman's sitting on the leather sofa, barefoot and with the buttons of his shirt half-undone, and Neil can't suppress a shiver of excitement. This is a lot more fun than picking up random strangers in bars.
***
Leicestershire Constabulary. Mansfield House. 74 Belgrave Gate. Leicester. LE1 3GG.
It's printed on a little plastic keyring in Buchanan's pocket. Lindsay found it when the kid went for a piss, snooping through his pockets just to check, just to be safe. He's been slightly paranoid about things like this ever since one of Ty's hookers turned out to be a police officer in disguise; he always checks now, they all do, but this is the first time he's caught someone out.
That explains the gangster comment, then.
Lindsay pulls off his socks and starts unbuttoning his shirt from the top down so he'll look oblivious to what's really happening, mind racing trying to remember whether he's given anything away. He doesn't think so, he's always cautious. So what the fuck does PC Indiebrat want? Digging for information about the others from the poker game? Perhaps, but surely there's a more legit way of going about it...
He looks up when the bathroom door opens, watches Buchanan down the last of his whisky, eyes him up and down slowly, settling a smirk back on his face as if he likes what he sees when really he's just confirming what a short skinny little weed the kid is. If it comes to it, Lindsay's height and weight difference should make it easy enough to overpower him - and if he's naked there won't be any hidden wires or weapons.
"Better now?" he asks, eyebrows raised, and Buchanan ducks his head, grinning sheepishly.
"Loads. Thanks."
"Come here."
As soon as he's within grabbing distance, Lindsay whips off his tie and hauls his shirt off over his head without bothering with all the buttons. Buchanan's laughing again, hair standing up wildly in every direction. "Steady on! What'll they think at reception if I go waltzing out of here with ripped clothes?"
"Same as they thought when you came in, I'm sure." Zip next, and the problem of skinny jeans that don't want to peel down and have to be coaxed. Buchanan just stands there with his hands up like a surrender, biting his lip and watching.
"Dirty minds. We could just be friends."
"...no," Lindsay says wryly after a slight pause. "I don't think we'll ever be friends."
No wires, no weapons. He wishes he'd had enough time to check the rest of Buchanan's pockets, but as long as he keeps the kid well away from his jacket until he figures out what to do then everything should be alright.
"Don't you think you're a bit overdressed?" Buchanan says cheekily, steadying himself with both hands on Lindsay's shoulders so he can kick the bunched up denim of his jeans off his feet. He's getting hard already, and he sucks in a gasping little breath when Lindsay strokes a firm line up the underside of his cock with the pad of his thumb.
"Shut up."
"Right. No smalltalk."
"No any talk." He spreads his hands wide over the kid's arse and draws him a step closer, wetly tongueing the head of his cock then slipping his mouth down around him. His mind's only half on the job - he's thinking about where he's stashed his guns in case he needs them later on, one in the bedside drawer and one still tucked into a corner of his suitcase - until Buchanan whispers something vague and encouraging and twists his fingers in Lindsay's hair. Then he thinks, if everything's going to hell anyway then you might as well have fun on the trip, and sucks him deeper.
***