Take Care of Your Own Business Read online

  TAKE CARE OF YOUR OWN BUSINESS

  A Craig McIntyre Short Story

  Gordon Brown

  Copyright © 2019 by Gordon Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Darren Harkins

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Take Care of Your Own Business

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Preview from Darkest Thoughts, the 1st Craig McIntyre Thriller

  Preview from Furthest Reaches, the 2nd Craig McIntyre Thriller

  Preview from Deepest Wounds, the 3rd Craig McIntyre Thriller

  I know that the two men standing in the corner of the bar are planning to rob the convenience store next door. I also know that when I intervene, people will almost certainly die.

  My name is Craig McIntyre and I have a preternatural ability to bring out the worst in people. At the extreme I can cause those around me to maim and kill. All you need to know us that my psychic power is the result of a top-secret US military experiment.

  It’s a little after four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. My plane leaves at nine tomorrow morning and I’m watching the robbers as I sip a pint of Tennent’s Lager, a Glasgow brew, while looking forward to going home to LA.

  My time here in Scotland has been wonderful, tracing my Scottish mother’s heritage, visiting her birthplace, walking where her family walked. I’ve reveled in the stunning scenery and relaxed in the heartfelt hospitality of this land.

  The pub is a low-ceilinged affair with vinyl-covered benches ranging along one wall. A few pillars have chest-high shelves circling them. The rest of the place is strewn with wooden tables attended by a mish-mash of deep cushioned, high-back chairs. There are five of us in a space that could hold a hundred. Two men, one a tall red-head, the other smaller with heavily parted hair, are leaning on the bar, chatting quietly. The two robbers are standing in a corner and I’m head down, near the entrance, buried in the latest Stephen King. The bartender, a young woman dressed in a bright pink, pearlescent top and skinny jeans is killing time polishing glasses and rearranging the back-bar stock.

  Less than fifteen minutes ago, when I’d been in the convenience store, the two robbers had been standing next to a chiller cabinet.

  ‘Adi,’ the man behind the counter had shouted, just as I’d walked into the store. ‘We need to go soon, before the bank closes.’

  The man behind the counter had greeted me with a friendly smile. He was South Asian, maybe Indian, and wore a suit under which lay a crisp white shirt topped off by a neatly knotted tie.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he had asked.

  ‘I need some gum,’ I’d said.

  ‘Sure, take your pick.’

  He’d waved his hand towards a wire display unit. As I’d scanned the array I’d chatted.

  ‘How’s business?’ I’d asked.

  ‘Good,’ came the reply. His eyes had wandered to the two robbers and then back to me. ‘This has been the busiest weekend in months. I’ve owned this place for thirty-odd years and bank holidays can be hit or miss. This one just happened to be a bit of hit.’

  The confusion on my face and the depth of my American accent switched on a lightbulb in the owner’s head.

  ‘Bank holidays aren’t a thing in America, are they?’ he’d sussed.

  I’d shaken my head.

  ‘Bank Holidays are our name for some public holidays,’ he’d explained. ‘A bit like your federal holidays. You know, Labor Day, Memorial Day etc.—only ours are a little less celebratory.’

  ‘You’ve been to the States?’ I’d asked.

  ‘I should own shares in Disney given the number of times I’ve taken the kids to Orlando over the years. They love it. To be fair, so do I.’

  A young man with a wild mop of hair had appeared from the back store. He was wearing an oversized T-shirt, loose fitting jeans and had a face set in a post-pubescent scowl that suggested this was the last place he wanted to be. His feet were wrapped in heavyweight, steel-tipped boots.

  ‘Dad, where’s the bag?’ he’d asked.

  The owner had turned to him, ‘Adi, it’s in the usual place.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Adi had replied.

  ‘Do you want me to come back there and show you?’ the owner had said, resignation writ deep in his tone. ‘I’ve been doing the same run to the bank every week since you were crapping in cloth. The bag lives in the cupboard, top shelf, right at the back.’

  The boy’s scowl had deepened as he’d vanished into the rear.

  ‘Kids,’ said the owner. ‘Memory of a goldfish.’

  ‘More likely the concentration of whatever it is that doesn’t have a lot of concentration,’ I’d said with a smile.

  He’d returned the smile.

  I’d looked round and the two robbers had turned away, pretending to examine the chiller’s contents. One was dressed in gray jogging pants and a matching sweat top. The other wore ripped jeans crowned with a gnarled rock T-shirt sporting a fading picture of Ozzy Osborne. Both were wearing running sneakers and were clad in light-weight jackets, Ozzy’s jacket ballooning awkwardly at the waist.

  The owner had eyed up the robbers again, then he had looked at the CCTV camera sitting above his shoulder, just as the store door had swung open, allowing a gaggle of school kids to pour in.

  ‘Here we go,’ the owner had sighed. ‘School’s out and we have the Coke and chocolate brigade. Good for business, if they don’t shoplift me out of business.’

  More kids had rolled in and I’d heard the two robbers exchange some words. A few seconds later they’d pushed through the incoming wave of students and exited.

  ‘And if I’ve learned one thing in this life,’ the owner had said, as he’d watched the robbers leave. ‘It’s that you need to take care of your own business.’

  Unsure what to say to that I chose a couple of packs of sugar-free gum, paid, said my goodbyes and left.

  Outside I’d discovered a street thick with huddles of kids, all dressed in matching dark purple blazers, school badges emblazoning their breast pockets. Most were paying more attention to their cell phones than their friends.

  I’d slipped into the bar, ordered up a beer, pulled my paperback from my pocket and settled down for a quiet bout of literary escapism. The two robbers had followed me in five minutes later.

  I now have three choices. Choice number one involves me continuing to read my book, sipping at my beer and living in my head for a while longer. My second choice is to front up to the two robbers. The third choice is to set my inner demon free.

  The latter choice may well avert the upcoming robbery but setting my demon free rarely ends well. Every time it’s let loose I’m left, after the dust has settled, drained, spent and in agony. My demon works best on friends and acquaintances and the two robbers could easily kill each other under its influence. But that’s not my real worry. I’m more concerned that the two friends standing at the bar might
do the same. So, all things considered, I’d like to avoid choice number three if I can.

  The pub clock tells me it’s four twenty and that means I need to act.

  I close my book and place it on the table next to my beer. Rising, I cross the pub floor and approach the two robbers.

  Sweat-Top moves out from behind the table, aiming to cut me off. I stop and let him approach me.

  ‘What do you want?’ he says.

  His accent is strong. Glaswegian. In the few days that I’ve been here I’ve learned to recognise its guttural notes.

  ‘To give you two a little advice,’ I say.

  ‘Piss off,’ he spits.

  His friend, Ozzy, is leaning against the wall, watching.

  ‘The advice is good,’ I say. ‘You might want to give it a listen.’

  Sweat-Top steps in closer and says, ‘I don’t give a shit if it’s tomorrow’s lottery numbers, Yank,’ he breathes on me. ‘I told you to piss off.’

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I know you’re going to try to rob the convenience store next door.’

  His hands are a giveaway. He clenches one hand into a fist and dips the other into his pants’ pocket.

  ‘I take it you have a knife in there,’ I say, nodding at his pocketed hand.

  In the US I’d have been guessing a gun but not in the UK. More likely a blade of some sort.

  Ozzy pushes himself away from the wall.

  ‘Crow bar?’ I say, pointing at Ozzy’s jacket ‘I know you have something heavy in there. It was weighing your jacket down in the store.’

  He stops moving and I check on the two guys at the bar. They are looking at us. They sense something’s not square here.

  ‘I’ve told you once,’ Sweat-Top says and I return my attention to him. ‘I’ll not say it again. Piss off.’

  ‘You two are not good at this are you,’ I say.

  Sweat-Top glares. Ozzy plays with his hair.

  ‘Look,’ I continue. ‘I know you’re regulars in this bar. The bartender greeted you by name. But you don’t live near here. That’s why you mis-timed things back there in the store. If you lived around here you’d know the local school empties at 3:45pm. Back in the convenience store you were waiting for me to leave before acting, but then you were surprised when all those school kids came in. That’s why you left the store. Then I’d guess you spent five minutes hanging around outside waiting to see if the shop got quiet again. But it didn’t. Kids take their time when shopping. So the robbery was put on hold.’

  Both are trying to stare me down.

  ‘What’s plan B?’ I ask. ‘Steal the bag of cash from the owner when he goes to the bank? That would be my move. Smart. Grab the bag and run. All you have to do is be quicker than an old man.’

  Ozzy steps around the table to join Sweat-Top. A sliver of gun-grey metal pokes from the bottom of his jacket. Definitely a crow bar.

  ‘A bank holiday weekend,’ I say. ‘That’s why you’re here. The banks were closed yesterday. So the convenience store owner is sitting on a long-weekend’s takings. You figured that much. That would make it more than worthwhile for you to rob him.’

  Ozzy bends down and fingers his jacket.

  I keep talking, ‘The convenience store owner said he wanted to get to the bank before it closes. You heard that. Now there two banks I passed on the way here and both shut up shop at 5.00 p.m. That’s why the son was looking for the bag to put the weekend’s takings in. Now, given the bank closes in—’ I pause and look at the pub clock ‘—thirty-five minutes, the owner will leave as soon as the school kids are gone.’

  Sweat-Top smiles, ‘Smart arse, aren’t you? Are you finished?’

  ‘Just about,’ I reply. ‘The nearest bank is ten minutes away. The convenience store owner will want to allow a little time to let the bank staff count the money. So, I’d guess, if he uses the closest bank, he’ll leave in the next few minutes. He has to. He can’t risk having that much cash on the premises for another night.’

  I stop.

  ‘That it?’ asks Sweat-Top.

  ‘More or less,’ I reply.

  ‘Good, now you can really piss off.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t going to tell me to do that again?’ I say.

  My heart is beginning to race a little. Not good in my world. That can be a signal that my inner demon is about to let loose, but I can’t back down. The crow bar and the knife are not for show. These guys will use them on the store owner. Even now Ozzy’s hands are shaking badly. His face has a sheen of sweat washing it, his pallor is pasty. A heavy drug user would be my guess. He’s starting to hurt and Sweat-Top doesn’t look much better.

  Sweat-Top looks past me, at the clock.

  I need to keep them here for ten minutes more. That will do the trick. Enough time to let the store owner get to the bank safely. I start talking again. Stalling.

  ‘I’d guess you really need that money. Then off to your dealer for a fix. And that habit is why you’re in here. You required something to take the edge of your craving. Something to help with the pain while you waited for the kids to clear’ I point out. ‘You paid for those drinks with a stack of small change and that means you’re down to the lint in your pockets. That convenience store is the money shot for both of you. A good few thousand pounds I’d say. Maybe more. Enough to feed your craving for a while.’

  Ozzy speaks for the first time, ‘Screw this prick. Si, let’s go.’

  Si’s face flares at Ozzy’s use of his name but he says nothing. Instead he grabs his jacket and tries to push past me.

  My hand touches his upper arm. Hard, tight, muscled. This guy looks after his body when not pushing junk into it.

  I can feel my stress level rising fast. Not good news. I want to keep the pair of robbers here but if my demon escapes in the pub the guys at the bar are in for a rough ride. It’s how things fly with me.

  Si clips my head with his hand before rushing past, sending me spinning to one side. The shock of the blow stuns me enough to let them both slip by. The tall, red-head at the bar gasps as he witnesses the punch. Si and Ozzy move to the exit quickly. I shake my head and follow.

  As I step onto the sidewalk Si and Ozzy are already jogging up the street. The store owner is a little further up, just stepping out of his front door. A large black duffel bag dangles from one hand. His son is nowhere to be seen. Si and Ozzy will be on the store owner in a few seconds.

  I take a quick look around. Fortune is on my side. The road is empty. No collateral damage if I go nuclear. I fumble in my pocket for my Swiss Army knife. I don’t carry it for defense, it’s too lightweight for that. It travels with me to be used when things are desperate and I need to inflict the pain on myself that will unleash my inner demon. My heartbeat starts to motor as I flick out the largest blade and place the tip against my thigh. Ready to plunge it in. To let loose the chaos.

  I walk towards the store and watch Si and Ozzy. They only have eyes for the prize. Fixated on nothing but the bag. Ten steps behind them I press the blade harder, pressuring skin and I brace myself for the pain that will release the demon.

  The store owner stops and turns. He sees me and shakes his head, raising his hand to tell me to stop moving.

  I halt, confused by his signal.

  Si and Ozzy go for goal and rush at the store owner. The store door opens and the son appears. Snapping out his forearm he neatly clothes-lines Ozzy across the neck. Ozzy’s head snaps back and he goes down. Si spins to see what has happened and the store owner swings the duffel bag in an arc and strikes high on Si’s head. Si falls back, crashing on top of Ozzy. The son steps forward and with a perfect one, two—places two kicks from his steel toe-capped boots into Si and Ozzy’s midriffs. I hear grunts as both curl up. The son ensures the store door is locked before lashing out with another two kicks, one more for Si, one more for Ozzy. Satisfied they are not getting up any time soon he walks away and catches up to his father.

  As t
hey both cross the road the father waves in my direction and mouths the words thank-you to me. A second later they both vanish from sight around a corner.

  Si and Ozzy are left squirming on the sidewalk. Moaning.

  I put my blade away and return to the pub.

  Thinking back it was obvious the store owner had been on high alert from the start. I’d seen him eye up the robbers in his store. He must have known they’d hear his comments about the bank. He even used me to tee them up by chatting about how good the weekend’s takings had been. To prime their pump. He wanted them to act so he could teach them who was in charge. He’d even told me as much.

  You need to take care of your own business, he’d said.

  And he had done just that.

  There was never going to be any need for Craig McIntyre’s madness. I’d been destined to be little more than a spectator on this one from the start.

  Back to TOC

  GORDON BROWN has been writing since his teens and has six crime thrillers published.

  A founder member of Bloody Scotland—Scotland’s International Crime Writing Festival, Gordon lives in Scotland. He’s married with two children and he once quit his job in London to fly across the Atlantic to be with his future wife. He has also delivered pizzas in Toronto, sold non-alcoholic beer in the Middle East, launched a creativity training business called Brain Juice and floated a high-tech company on the London Stock Exchange.

  He almost had a toy launched by a major toy company, has an MBA, loves music, is a DJ on local radio, compered the main stage at a two-day music festival and was once booed by 49,000 people while on the pitch at a major Soccer Cup Final.

  GordonJBrown.com

  Back to TOC

  BOOKS BY GORDON BROWN

  Craig McIntyre Thrillers

  Darkest Thoughts

  Furthest Reaches