Free The Night the Rich Men Burned by Malcolm Mackay

He’s seen him around. Watched him waddle from the door of a shop to his car one time. Didn’t look intimidating, but Bavidge knew better. The ones who look intimidating aren’t often the ones you should be most afraid of. Big tough muscular guys are not the best fighters. They rely on their muscle. They fight with the confidence of superior size. It’s the little ones, the smart ones. The ones that don’t have limits. The ones that don’t have size to depend on. People like Bavidge. And it’s the ones that come with consequences. Like Potty.
    Bavidge has heard all the stories that get told. As with most people in the business in this city, most of the stories are bullshit. The fantastic criminal tapestry of myth, half-truth and possibilities. A lot of the bullshit is spread by Potty and his people. They know how to build and maintain a reputation. But some of the stories are true. Enough are true to make Potty a very scary man. Enough to make him an exceptionally dangerous target. Patterson didn’t say it, but they both know it. If you’re going to take down Potty Cruickshank, then you have to kill him. Leave nothing standing.
    Won’t be here though. Too many big houses. Too many people walking their dogs and bossing around their gardeners. Too many people wary of threats and on the lookout for strangers. Big front gardens. Long driveway up to the garage. Potty isn’t daft. He’ll have all sorts of security at the house. Every inch down to the road will be covered. That makes the drive past worthwhile. Knowing that if they have to move in a hurry, this isn’t the place you hurry to.
    Turning at the bottom of the street and heading towards the west end. Work to do. There’s a difficult collection that Bavidge knows hasn’t been done yet. Other people are avoiding it. They have tough men collecting for them, but this one has been left simmering on the books too long. Has to be done. If he has to be the person that does it, so be it. Never bothered him much, the difficult work. If the job turns nasty, he turns nasty. If it’s awkward, it’s awkward. So what? You can’t expect to work in this business and have no trouble. Accept that whatever is going to happen will happen, and face it. You either survive or you don’t, and Bavidge isn’t too concerned either way right now.
    The guy’s name is Jamie Stamford. Tough son of a bitch. Works as muscle for Alex MacArthur, which is reason enough to be cautious. Stamford’s young and nasty. Thirty years old. Chucked twenty grand down a hole gambling on anything that moved and a lot of stuff that didn’t. Patterson bought the debt for 50 per cent. Nobody else would touch something that poisonous, which is why it was going cheap. Hell, the two bookies he bought it from were delighted with 50 per cent. Just getting that much made Patterson their new best friend.
    Finding Stamford isn’t hard. One of Patterson’s men knows the gym he goes to pretty much every day. Wait for him outside. Have a conversation. Got to find the bloody place first. Bavidge isn’t one for gyms. His one impressive feat of agility was body-swerving the whole health and fitness movement. Not that he’s unhealthy. He’s trim because he works a lot and doesn’t eat too much. But the gym? Watching yourself sweat and pant in a big mirror while running on a treadmill like a fucking madman? Running to nowhere. No thanks. More of a metaphor than he wants to stare at all day.
    Took him a while to find the gym, but he did. Stamford’s car is still in the car park. Swanky-looking gym, swanky-looking car. Gym membership won’t be cheap. Neither is the car. For a guy with a twenty-grand debt, he seems to know how to spend money. How to waste it. That’s because he thinks he can get away with it.
    Stamford’s been doing it for years. Gambling like a moron, throwing his money away. Getting into debt, and then hiding behind MacArthur’s skirts. Being MacArthur’s favourite muscle has gotten him off