Mad Dog - No More Heroes Ch. 07

7 - The Arbitrager:

Arbitrage is, according to Wikipedia at least, the practice of taking advantage of differences between two or more markets. I put my iPhone away, still none the wiser, other than to assume it was another form of socially acceptable gambling thinly disguised as investment.

The Arbitrager, on the other hand, was the perfect name for a pub where flash city boys came to drink and boast after work. All the beer on sale is locally sourced, as in within the boundary of London's M25 motorway. Nobody drinks pints here. The beer is served in third or two-thirds of a pint glasses. Oh, and it goes without saying that it's all grossly overpriced.

I'm sitting on my own at the back of the saloon, watching the rugby scrum at the bar. Men in expensive suits are braying like jackasses as they boast loudly about their success on the money markets. One guy, older and fatter than the others breaks away barking into a smart phone.

"Capitano! Thanks for the tip on those Euro-Dollar exchange rate options. I got in early with a put position and made a killing. I owe you big time. Come over one day after work and the Bollinger's on me mate!"

I know him. His name's Simon Milton, a day trader at the Trans Atlantic Market Investment Group, TAMIG for short, based in Black Friars.

Judging by his course, as he did the uncoordinated two-step of the inebriated through the packed bar, he was heading for the toilet. I let him get past where I was sitting and then stood up to follow him, keeping a discrete distance.

We were the only people in the lavatory, which suited me. He was standing at the urinal fumbling drunkenly with his fly zip as I entered. I moved quickly and pushed him hard face first into the wall.

"What the fuck!" he squawked in shock.

I shut him up by punching him in the back of the neck. His face hit the wall with a satisfying thud. While he was stunned I grabbed him by the back of his trousers and shirt collar, swung him round hard and pushed him into a toilet stall.

The key here is momentum. Keep up the speed and aggression and I'd be done with him before he could regain what little wits he had.

I slammed my right instep into the back of his knee while simultaneously pressing down on his neck. Milton sagged to his knees and I pushed his face into the toilet bowl.

"Freya Dankworth," I snarled.

I was glad to see that the person who'd used it previously hadn't flushed. Bonus. I lifted his face from the water.

"Who?" he coughed. "I don't know her"'

I pushed his head back into the shitty toilet water and waited until his struggles turned into panic before I pulled his head back up.

"Don't play silly buggers," I spat, "you do know her, just by another name. A working name; Safron."

He stopped wriggling. He obviously recognised the name.

"I've been asked to pass on a message," I told him, "leave her alone or you'll end up in a body bag."

"Fuck off, he hissed.

I took that to be a negative response and pushed his head back into the toilet and used my foot to keep it in the water before flushing. When the tumult finished, I hauled him up and frogmarched him out of the toilet stall. I kept building up speed until his face hit the tiled wall. He yelped; I could see blood begin to trickle down his face this time.

I frisked him until I found an iPhone 10 in his jacket pocket. I scrolled the video files until I saw the one marked "Safron". Brigadier Dankworth would want this to make sure he had destroyed any potential blackmail material.

I trousered the phone.

"I'm taking this so you can be honest when you say you were mugged."

"I'll fucking kill you..."

I smacked his face into the wall again and followed up with a short, shard left jab to his kidneys.

"You still seem to be under the mistaken impression that this is just some sort of simple assault," I gave his kidneys another jab, right handed this time, "you're wrong."

I followed up by slamming his face back into the tiled walls. His nose broke with a satisfying crunch.

"You'll never see it coming. You'll be down in the underground at a tube station. The train'll be coming and you'll feel a good solid shove between your shoulder blades. As to whether the train wheels makes ground meat out of you or the third rail fries you... well, it doesn't really matter, does it? The result'll be the same. RIP Simon Milton."

He gave a little gasp as he recognised his name. It brought it home to him that I knew who he was. He got the implications, I could find him, any time, anywhere I wanted.

As I was leaving I almost bumped into another city boy going in.

"I'd give it five minutes if I were you," I told him, "the bloke before me left the place in a bit of a state."