Guns Of Malabor Read online

  GUNS OF MALABOR

  AN ERIC DIANKO NOVEL

  SIRRA ARRIS

  AVAILABLE IN AUDIO, HARDCOVER AND E-BOOK FORMATS

  Power is an invaluable resource. It is the reason behind the clamor for all other resources. It opens doors that don’t yet exist and throws away the keys to those that have been open for too long. Persuasive or coercive, hard or soft, it really doesn’t matter the form it assumes, it remains high in demand, and everyone wants some of it, but only a few keep all of it. It is also always ready for the taking, as long as you have the ‘big connections’, and even bigger guns.

  ‘Everybody got a plan until they get punched in the face’ – Iron Mike Tyson

  November 11, 2019. Logan Slim Stadium, Northern Province, Malabor.

  Tale of the Tape: Joshua vs Wilde #JOSWIL

  Brought to you by RapidK.O Promotions

  ‘Who do you think would win? Both men in their prime. Tyson or Ali? asked the fat man seated in the V.I.P box, at the biggest boxing match of the year. Joshua vs Wilde was to be preceded by the undercard match, Mawkins vs Marcelo, and so it wasn’t surprising to find the rest of the seats empty. Another reason for the sparseness was that he’d bought out most of them. He didn’t like the complaints about his smokes, they put him in a murderous mood.

  His plaything; a boy of seventeen at the most, did nothing but stroke his beard in response. ‘How much do you want to make tonight? Enzo asked again. The boy who was seated on Enzo’s lap, leaned in close and whispered in the deepest of tenors, ‘A fuckload’, and the fat man giggled like a little girl.

  The boy continued, ‘I don’t care really, I just think whoever hits the hardest deserves to win, and not just in the ring.’. He then drew a line with his finger from the gold, neck chain, down along the open chest area, and onto the top of his lover’s pot of a belly.

  Enzo leaned back on his chair smiling. He nodded and turned to one of the two bodyguards by his side. ‘Put down fifty for me and a twenty for the sweetness. I’m feeling lucky tonight. I think he is too. Then, get a suite prepared for me. Also, get my wife on the phone and tell her I’ll be there tomorrow. Tell her it’s a minor hang up on this end, or find a suitable excuse, Go.’

  ‘I’ll grab us a brandy and some more ice’ said the young man before getting up. Enzo grunted, then slapped his bony ass as he sashayed away. Almost immediately, the announcer’s voice rang out though the massive, sixty thousand seater arena.

  ‘WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN POUNDS, FROM SANDE, MALABOR, with a total of sixteen fights, fourteen of them being wins by knockout. Having drawn and lost just once, the man who asks his opponents to set aside one day for the knockout, Michael ‘ONE DAYYYYYYYYY’ Mawkins.

  The titan of a man appeared at the dugout, tapping his red gloved fists together and throwing multiple combination punches at the air. He was at least six feet, with a bald, oblong head that seemed to be a muscle on its own. His shoulders had mini shoulders attached to them. The biceps told tales of brute force waiting to be unleashed on an unlucky opponent. His sparkling robe added to the grandiose effect of the fiery props and hard hitting entrance music.

  The crowd’s applause for the second boxer was even louder. Enzo took out a pen and bet slip from his front pocket and began scribbling something down on it. He kept raising his head to watch the approaching Marcelo, and then returning his gaze to the slip.

  Upon his ascent into the ring, Enzo raised his neck for the last time. The second enforcer quietly slipped a fiber wire over the exposed tree trunk of a neck, and pulled tightly towards himself. The Ögaboss of the Elema dropped his pen and slip. His eyes bulged and began to redden in his struggle for oxygen. He grasped unsuccessfully at his killer’s fists, but each wriggling movement only served to turn his face more purple. The final sounds echoing in his head amidst the roar of the crowd were the words ‘The Arrow is not your mate.’

  BAD CREATIVE PUBLISHING

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sirra Arris.

  Cover artwork copyright © 2018 by Bad Creative.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording, or by any information

  storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

  from the publisher.

  GUNS OF MALABOR

  A Bad Creative Book / published by

  arrangement with the author

  BAD CREATIVE PUBLISHING HISTORY

  The Simplest Way To Learn French published March 2016

  The Simplest Way To Learn French 2, published March 2017

  MORE BY SIRRA ARRIS JUURO: THE NIGHT KEY

  Channel 7 TV News

  Saturday, September 16, 2016

  BREAKING NEWS REPORT

  ‘‘Following a shootout between gunmen and security operatives, a suspect standing trial for crimes including drug peddling and murder, has just escaped the Sokan High Court premises. Eight other inmates are said to have also escaped. Eyewitnesses pleading anonymity, gave an account of the gunmen as they stormed the court premises in a commando style display. Fifteen white Hilux trucks ferrying a small masked group of armed militia were said to have taken off with the criminals, after interrupting the court proceedings with a hail of bullets. The prime suspect Henry Chibuz, also known as The Vampire, is on the run and considered highly dangerous.”

  The Malabor Vanguard

  Saturday, September 16, 2016

  ROME MENTHOL PRICES SOAR THROUGH THE ROOF, TRADERS BRACE FOR HINTED IP OFFERING, AMIDST SHUTDOWN RUMORS

  SEVEN KILLED IN GANG RELATED CLUB SHOOTING

  Seven students have met their untimely ends in a gang shootout, with 3 of them having been identified as children of top dignitaries. They were said to have been hanging outside the prestigious Jasper 121 nightclub when it occurred. Preliminary investigations have been launched into… Contd. on Pg. 2

  1

  ____________________

  THIS IS MALABOR

  April 2018, Northern Province, Malabor.

  Judging from the sound of its patter on the asphalt streets, the rains had begun to subside. Staying true to its nature, the downpours of Malabor were often short and torrential; but being an island nation, it wasn’t uncommon to hear talks of an impending great flood via the incessant rains.

  Another defining feature was the lifestyle variety of its provinces; all four of them being linked by the Mayne bridge. To the south was Sande, where blue rust buckets passed for taxis, and children hawked candies, beef snacks and dried plantain chips for their daily bread. It was home to all kinds of people and institutions, and the general belief was that if you could make it here, you could make it anywhere else. Divorcees, crackheads, gamblers, loan sharks and sports bet shops all managed to eke out a living somehow, amidst the economically challenging environment.

  The western and eastern provinces were a dotted mix of high rises and low-cost housing, with minarets that called for prayer at least seven times a day, roadside shanties that formed a microeconomic nerve center, and churches lined up within a spitting distance of each other.

  The northern province was called Sokan, and was the hub of corporate financial activities and administration in Malabor. Owing to the income profile of its residents, it was by default, chock full of hotels, nightclubs, and casinos. College escorts loved it here, as well as scores of potential entrepreneurs searching for a big hit. Eric Dianko was one of those.
r />   He had lived here for a decade and was now ready for his big break. But for that to happen, he would need some seed money. In his mind, that didn’t pose much of a problem, as there was a plan in place; a retirement plan in fact. A few more years at the Agency, and he would make it into its topmost echelon. Once there, the stock options combined with his rental income, would pay for Nella’s treatment and launch a surf business. The finer details would be worked on later, but for now, the plan was still mainly nested in his head. If things went as planned, he would be reasonably comfy well into his golden years. All that was required was a little patience.

  On the morning of the 18th, Eric strolled into a street dotted with numerous hair and nail salons. A goo majority of them were lined up opposite the Red Table restaurant. It was his lunch spot, and where he wined and dined most of his female conquests, before taking them back to the Lily’s Grand.

  Inside, huge glass windows provided a periscopic view of the street. It was well-lit, and a motley mix of clientele sat around thick, round tables made from well-polished dark opepe wood. Ornate designs had been sculpted into the sides and as a result, the table covers stopped short of the edges to aid in their display. Soft, pop music played from the wall speakers.

  ‘Man, the only reason you should be doing missionary, is if you plan to head-butt her mid-stroke. Fix up.’ he yelled excitedly at a voice on the other end of his call, as he approached the restaurant’s entrance.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, we’ll go drinking and get your balls back. Obviously, the ones you had are now in that little purse you got her.

  Oh…... yeah… that figures…

  Alright stay safe man, wish you the best. Need to save battery.’

  He switched the phone off and headed straight towards his usual spot within the restaurant. From where he sat, he could see a steady stream of cars through the glass walls, as they zoomed by and splashed rain water onto the walk pavement.

  Seated across from him was a female couple. Both had dyed, blonde hair and carelessly punched at mac keyboards as they awaited their orders. He watched as they ate their food in silence, and even tried making eye contact with one of them. It was a favorite pastime of his, holding stares at random strangers until they either looked away or gestured at him. Today however, it was almost as if he didn’t exist.

  When it became obvious that they wouldn’t be willing partners in his ocular game, he got bored and turned his phone back on to a flood of notifications. Most were messages from work, and a few others were from social media apps. He was grateful for these apps because half the time, they did most of his work for him.

  His eyes soon left the screen, and he began racking his brain in search of a witty remark, as a young, curvy, waitress in a brown apron approached his table. Before she arrived, a call came in. He picked it and said a friendly ‘hello’, but the voice on the other side was brash and straight to the point.

  ‘Have you printed it? Where are you!’ the voice inquired.

  ‘Nope, still too many variables to consider. On my way, big hold up here. Pass that across for me, will you? I’ll owe you.’

  ‘I won’t pass shit! This is the third time this month. Seriously! Eric.’

  ‘Thank you, Catherine. You’re so sweet, my tooth aches as I say this. Bless your soul.’

  ‘Just get here soon!’

  He glanced at the huge digital clock above the service counter. There had been a third query this month, and no excuse for his latest bout of tardiness, but he was already later than usual. The worst-case scenario would be a dock in his pay, which really meant no fine dining for a month at the most for him. Besides, the meeting was going to be about the same thing; selling land and apartments, and so he wasn’t really missing much by his estimation.

  ‘What would you like today sir? We have full Italian, full American and full English for breakfast today.’ asked the waitress. She placed some cutlery and a plate with two sausages in front of him.

  He motioned for her to come closer, and as she bent towards him, he whispered in her ear.

  ‘How about some of your fine self as an appetizer’. She immediately went red in the face and straightened back up.

  ‘We also have a continental menu sir. Gari and egusi, beans and plantain, fried yams and eggs.’ she said, tapping sternly on her notepad with a pencil.

  ‘Nothing heavy, just toast and coffee will do, thanks.’ He replied with a stoic cool.

  She turned and left, and his eyes followed closely, until she had disappeared behind the kitchen door.

  He began to cut up the sausages into tiny chunks and gobble them down, savoring every bite as he looked back at the lesbian couple. Pausing the fork's transit to his mouth momentarily, he proceeded to hold his phone to his ear and began a conversation with his WhatsApp messenger still open.

  ‘Of course there are hundred other offers, but I deal with the best properties, and the one best suited to your pocket… Call me as soon as you can, because I will not hold down the room for you… Yeah, if someone else comes with money, its gone. …Okay?... Yes…. Yes… A gas station. 10 pumps. 2800 square meters. Wansell Avenue… Yes, that’s right. 6 million. Okay.’

  He dropped the phone and looked away in time to see the waitress returning with his bill and desert.

  She had arrived his table with a smile, but her countenance quickly changed when he requested for a POS machine.

  ‘Our network is kind of slow, sir.’ she said, staring at him in veiled scorn, as he gestured towards making payments with his card.

  ‘I don’t have any cash if tips are what you want. Make it work.’ he said.

  When she turned to leave, he stopped her and kept her waiting while he continued with the mock call. He then wrote down and crossed the words ‘Satellite town - ten rooms –’ off the napkin list in his hand. Further down the list, the words read as follows:

  Full Furnished 2-bedroom serviced Apartment - 10. Million - BQ available

  480 sqm Land. 120 million - Certificate of occupancy available.

  600 sqm Land, Osapa - 124 million - Governor’s consent available.

  He circled the last option with a pen he had swiped from an earlier visit to the bank. Tired of the wait, she turned to leave but he stopped her again and handed her a generous tip, which she surprisingly tucked into her bra at lightning dexterity.

  She thanked Eric, left and soon returned to his table with a tray containing a glass of orange juice and his bill.

  “The juice is on the house.” she said.

  Eric nodded, finished up his meal and gulped down the glass of juice as she left. A phone number had been scribbled on his bill in red lipstick. He shifted his gaze back towards the couple, but they were no longer there. As he made his exit towards the restaurant’s door, he shot off a quick text to the red number, asking its owner to meet him at The Doris motel later that evening. It was there that he waited until the rains dried up completely, before heading to the office.

  -------------

  Thunder boomed outside the offices of the DNS building, which housed Malabor’s premier, narcotics intelligence agency, the Department of Narco Security. With the exclusion of the janitors and guards, all but the head of the special narcotics division had closed for the night. He sat, hunched over at his desk, as he went through the numbers in his case dossier with sleep laden eyes. They seemed to replicate themselves the longer he stared at them. He circled the numbers ending in 20 with a black ink marker, crossed his hands on his chest, and reclined deeper into his chair to think.

  On another night, Special Agent Gene Karo would be in bed with his wife Esther. It was a Saturday night, so all his children, excluding the youngest one Lewis, would normally be out somewhere against his wishes. Unlike David and Anne, Lewis held several leadership positions in the church they attended and believed himself to be something of a pariah. Gene had always been silently grateful for this trait, as it was the only thing that had saved him from being in a drug induced coma, like his elder siblings.r />
  Glancing up at the wall-framed dual degrees in criminal law and psychology, he wondered if he had done enough in his capacity as an officer of the law, if his own children could become victims of the very thing he had sworn to protect the city from.

  The detective pushed himself out of the chair and sauntered towards the glass windows, staring out into the heart of the city in deep thought. From the laptop repair shanties dotting the streets, to the tall, beige and blue of buildings in the central district; there was a silent burst of life to the city that could be felt amidst the dreary melody of power generating sets. Electricity supply was intermittent at best, but its traders kept their lights on regardless, and were often filled with hopes of making a quick buck or two more, because as an old Malabor saying puts it, ‘where there is light, there is money to be made’. But truth is often always stranger than tales. Trading wasn’t the fastest path to the money in the city, drugs were.

  Whoever controlled the drugs, controlled the money, whoever controlled the money, gained power, and with power came all of the perks a red blooded man would ever want in life, most times for free. An irony which had remained puzzling to the seasoned detective till date.

  Gene stepped away from the window and back to his desk. He’d resolved to go over the data in the dossier once more, perhaps there was something they had missed. Something he hadn’t cracked yet. The facts of the matter were simple. The cocaine business was still booming despite the DNS’s best efforts at clamping down on the source.

  It wasn’t a matter of enforcement, as they had conducted multiple lab raids and busted up the major dealers in the city, effectively reducing its consumption levels to the lowest it had been in five years. This was the case for most of the small-time peddlers, but it wasn’t the case for the ruling crime families, or cabañs as they were known in local parlance.