Shannon was crying by this point and screaming at Danny Rankin. Courtney sucked his teeth regretfully before taking hold of one her puny arms and leading her out with Buckshot. On their way down the stairs Danny shouted out that he hoped they’d win the cup on Saturday and that he might come along to give some support. Neither man was thinking about the cup: Courtney was feeling bad for Buckshot but he was also feeling ashamed of himself that he had not listened to his better instincts and had stayed away from the deal Nestor Riley and Desmond Palmer had offered. They had asked him what black person he knew who used nasty shit like heroin. He hadn’t known one then but he did now. As they put Shannon into the car, part of him was hoping that something would go wrong with the deal: he couldn’t afford to lose the money – and he would like to see it back – but now he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see a profit. It was tainted money now.
Buckshot sat in the back of his car with Shannon and asked Courtney to drive to their mother’s place. And as if he had been reading Courtney’s thoughts, he said, ‘Bwoy, when we was comin’ down the stairs I kept thinkin’ ’bout Nestor an’ Desmond …’
‘I know, man, I know,’ said Courtney. ‘I feel exactly the same way. Seriously, I hope they don’t get that stuff an’ we’ll jus end up with our money back.’
29
Although Buckshot and Courtney were having second thoughts about their involvement, the deal Nestor and Desmond had offered them had finally come to fruition. The Transit van had been away for more than five hours, and despite several invitations, none of the guys from Wolverhampton felt like eating pie and chips, or anything else for that matter. The most they had was a few sips of warm Lilt just to keep their mouths from drying out completely. The sun was high and shining through the skylights in the corrugated roof when the burble from the van’s exhaust got the three guys to their feet. Their legs weak and tingling, they walked from the tumbledown office and watched Snotser as he got out and went to the back of the van. He opened the rear doors and gestured for them to join him. Inside were the two coffins and Nestor’s guts twisted a little more. Perhaps the stuff they had brought from Birmingham was no good and they had been ripped off. Perhaps there had been a double-cross and they would be the ones to pay for it.
Stone-faced, Snotser said, ‘The gaffer said the gear is, erm, excellent. He’s very pleased. He said count the money before you leave, he won’t be offended.’ For the first time, there was a hint of a smile on his face. ‘Don’t just stand there, lads, like, start counting.’
Within seconds, the coffin lids were off and Steve, Nestor and Desmond were in the back of the van passing around bundles of money to one another as if it were Christmas. The three of them giggled excitedly. Steve Patel now seemed unconcerned that Nestor and Desmond were actually seeing and touching what he was making out of the deal. He brought about some cooling of their excitation when he cautioned that they should check the money by pulling a note out at random to make certain it was genuine and then count the bundles. ‘Otherwise we will be counting all night,’ he said, ‘and personally I’d like to head for home as soon as I can. I don’t feel safe in a strange place with all this money around.’
The money was mostly in five and ten pound denominations with a smaller amount of twenties in bundles of ten thousand pounds. Once the last of them had been checked the lids were replaced. ‘Happy you came?’ asked Steve. ‘’Appier when we ’ome,’ said Desmond.
‘You’re right. I’ll just make sure everything’s okay with Nigel and his friend and then we’ll head back to base.’
Nestor and Desmond each knew what was on the other’s mind. Before they had set out they thought they had finally agreed to let Cecil and Bryce take care of the Scousers and earn their cut but now they had actually touched and smelt the money they were back to skanking and having it all for themselves. ‘You know wha’,’ said Desmond, ‘me was thinkin’ about when we pull into the service station …’
‘About not botherin’ to ring Cecil?’
‘Yeah, man. Look, we’ll tell Steve go into a service station on the way back an’ then you tell him you wanna drive the rest-a the way. I’ll sit nex to you so Steve is by the door, right. Once we get to seventy I’ll lick him in im face, open the door an’ push him out.’
‘Wha’ about the two crazy bastards?’ asked Nestor.
‘Well, if them behind, them’ll pull up, or run him over. If them in front we jus carry on till the nex’ exit an’ let them go past it before we turn off.’
‘Yeah, man,’ whispered Nestor as he watched Steve Patel approach, ‘it sound good.’
Steve got behind the wheel and said, ‘I told the guys I would pay them at Chorley service station, I think it’ll be safer for us if it was somewhere with a lot of people around. And then maybe one of you guys can do the driving because I’m feeling bloody knackered.’
Nestor gave Desmond a sly smile; the only outward sign of his growing excitement. It was if Steve was playing into their hands.
After a few miles of careful driving they pulled into the service station with Nigel and Psycho behind them. Steve drove around for a few minutes, looking for a spot so they could keep a watch on the van as they got themselves something to eat. The two Scousers would stay in their car and keep guard. Desmond didn’t like the way Psycho looked at him as he walked past the car and for a moment (and only a moment) thought it would be worth the money to have Cecil and Bryce take care of him.
The food was of the usual standard for service station fare – total crap – but all three were starving as none of them had eaten a thing all day. Steve Patel had managed three barely warm chips and one bite of a sausage, which tasted more of sawdust than meat, when he told the other two he’d had enough. ‘I’m off to the toilet, okay, guys?’
Nestor sent crumbs of a burger bun over the small square table as he snarled at Steve to leave the keys. Steve Patel sighed and shook his head as he pulled the keys from his jacket pocket and slammed them onto the red laminate tabletop. In his frustration he had also pulled out a white envelope with the keys and did not notice that it had fallen to the floor. ‘Your bloody suspicious mind is really starting to piss me off. As far as I’m concerned this is the last time we do business,’ he hissed before storming off.
‘Him never spoke a truer word, to ras,’ snorted Desmond.
‘To ras. Hey, wha’ you think is in the envelope?’ asked Nestor, as he lifted it from the floor.
‘Cha, man, jus open it an’ see. Him didn’t even notice it came out of im pocket.’
After looking over his shoulder to check that Steve was out of sight, Nestor ripped it open. For several seconds he turned the contents through 180 degrees and back again as he tried to make sense of the black and white Polaroid. ‘Wha’ is it, guy?’ Desmond asked impatiently. When the moment of realisation came, Nestor dropped the photograph as if it had given him an electric shock. ‘Man, oh man,’ he mumbled, ‘it’s like Cecil is doin’ a ting with Beanie.’
Not understanding what he had heard, Desmond asked to have a look for himself. He too turned the photograph through 180 degrees and back again. ‘Bwoy,’ he muttered, ‘it Cecil alright an’ him looked vexed … Mi rahteed, it does look like dem doin a ting … But wait, it look like him tied up too …’ He put down the photograph and looked at Nestor as the truth dawned on him. ‘Blues-beat, dem both tied up.’
But Nestor wasn’t paying attention: he was too busy looking over Desmond’s shoulder and through the window as a smiling Steve Patel held up what looked like an ignition key before he climbed inside the Transit van. Desmond asked what was wrong as Nestor got to his feet but he had temporarily lost the power of speech and it was all he could do to raise a hand and point as the van reversed. Desmond looked: slowly hauling himself upright, along with Nestor, he watched as the Transit van disappeared behind the petrol pumps as it headed for the southbound lanes of the M6. Desmond instantly knew that was the last they would ever see of Steve Patel and became overwhelmed by visions o
f the terrible vengeance that would now await them in Wolverhampton. He reacted in the only way he could in the circumstances – and fainted.
He woke up with Nestor bending over him and attempting to haul him upright by his lapels. ‘Bwoy, wha’ a dream,’ he said, ‘me jus dreamt Steve drove away wid all the money.’
As their faces became level, Nestor snarled that it had been no dream and Desmond’s knees gave way again, but Nestor kept hold of his lapels and said, ‘Hey, you can quit this faintin’ shit ’cause it ain’t savin’ our ras!’
‘Blouse and skirt, man, wha’ we do now?’ whined Desmond. ‘Dem will kill our clarts if we step back in Wolves now an’ nah forward the money.’
‘Think straight, man,’ Nestor replied, while giving Desmond a little shake. ‘We have to go back. We have to Collec’ your cars, sell them an’ anyting else real quick an’ then we go. We have a few days, right? No one knows wha’ go on today an’ them don’t need to know.’
‘But wha’ if anyone find out?’
‘Them find out nothin’, man. I mean, Steve ain’t gonna go around tellin’ anyone, is he? The bastard will never even step foot in the place again.’
‘Man, if me hever get mi hands on that double-dealin’ coolie, me-a cut off im bloodseed. Me tell you he was a deceiver!’
‘Cha, the only ting me lay on Steve is mi ole man’s mashate,’ snarled Nestor, ‘but right now we’s gotta think survival. You get me? Sur-vi-val an’ get back to Wolves. You have money?’
‘A pound. The rest of mi money is in the back of that van, to rasclart.’
‘Look, Des, we ain’t countin’ no money in the van, otherwise me would suggest hirin’ a ’elicopter. Well, all me got is four quid so it looks like we’s hitchin’ a lift.’
‘Wha’ about ringin’ Cecil an’ tell him come pick us up? Tell him we ’ave a photo he needs to come an’ collec.’
Nestor pondered over Desmond’s suggestion for a few moments. It was a good idea, supposing that Cecil and Bryce had untied themselves and were in a position to even answer the phone. He thought it was worth a try but reckoned he would only mention the photo as a last resort, after all, both Cecil and Beanie had access to firearms and might just shoot them rather than risk word getting out about the photograph. Four hours and thirty-three attempted calls later, they decided they had better get to the slip road and try thumbing it.
30
It was in the early hours of Friday morning that Nestor and Desmond arrived back in Wolverhampton. After several hours of fruitless thumbing, a Goodyears lorry had finally stopped. The driver was a Jamaican who’d said that two black guys standing together looking for a lift must be born optimists. He said he was heading for the tyre plant on the Stafford Road if that was any good to them.
‘Good?’ laughed Desmond, ‘it only a mile from where we-a go. Any chance you can tek a route that can drop we on the Newhampton Road?’
Such brazenness had the driver angrily reaching for his door, but Desmond prevented it closing and assured him he had only been joking. ‘Cha, man,’ said the driver, ‘me can see you too feisty. Typical, man, typical. Me see two black men an’ stop to ’elp dem out an’ unno start tryna tek a liberty before unno heven get into mi cab.’ He drew a machete from underneath his seat and started to threaten. ‘Let go-a mi door or me chop up your blood …’ Desmond jumped back as Nestor protested that he hadn’t opened his mouth but the door slammed shut and the truck drove away. Nestor was contemplating finding a rock and hitting Desmond on the back of his head with it just as another truck stopped. The driver was a white man this time but they were strangely comforted to hear a Black Country accent when he asked where they were heading to. ‘Wolverhampton,’ answered Nestor, ‘but we’d be happy with anywhere close so we can get a taxi.’ The truck was heading to Willenhall and Nestor shot a threatening look at Desmond before he said that would be just fine. They spent most of the journey talking about the Wolves’ lousy season. It confirmed in Nestor’s mind that most Wolves’ supporters would talk happily for hours about all that was wrong with the side, and its perilous flirtation with relegation, with only a few begrudging moments on what had gone right – reaching the semifinal of the FA Cup for example. ‘Wolves would do all right,’ the driver told them, ‘if it wasn’t for the shit players and the shit manager.’
‘At least them doin someting ’bout the shit ground though, with that new stand, ain’t they?’ ventured Desmond.
The driver looked across at him as if he were considering stopping the truck and putting them out. ‘It’s the one thing about the Wolves that the true supporters like,’ he said. ‘It’s part of the history, that ground, and it also gives us something to complain about when the twats are playing well. That’s what we pay our money for, a good excuse to be bloody miserable without having anyone around to tell us to snap out of it.’
Nestor and Desmond nodded as if they understood, but white people and how they enjoyed themselves had just become an even deeper mystery to them.
After a few hours of rest at Desmond’s place and a breakfast made by Jas (who was in a dressing gown Nestor thought was a suspiciously feminine shade of pink), they headed to the funeral home only to find Cecil and Bryce had got there ahead of them. Nestor’s first instinct was to ask how they had got free and his second was to lie to Cecil and pretend that the hand-over had yet to take place; but both were successfully suppressed when he saw Cecil’s vexed expression and the gun in his hand. ‘So wha’ happen?’ snapped Cecil.
‘The coolie skank us!’ replied Nestor without hesitation. ‘Him tek all the money, the whole million an’ left us at Chorley service station with a fiver between us! He had them two guys with him …’
‘… The guys who tie you up, like you an’ Beanie go on like batty-men,’ Desmond interjected.
‘An’ ’ow you know about that?’ bristled Cecil.
‘’Cause we see the photo, to rasclart,’ Desmond chuckled.
‘Where is it?’ Cecil demanded as he put his gun to Desmond’s head.
‘Mi yard,’ Desmond answered. ‘Steve left it on the table in a henvelope to distract us while him teef the money. An’ it definitely distracted us, seein you an’ Beanie go on so …’ Nestor looked at Desmond and wondered if the shock of losing so much money had turned him daft. It was bad enough that he had rubbed up the Jamaican truck driver the wrong way but at least that had only left them stranded for a little longer. However, riling a man who has a gun at your head was to risk losing something worth a lot more than money; a piece of brain for instance. Nestor thought he’d better say something before Cecil pulled the trigger. ‘Ole man, we’ll give you the photo as soon as we done here. An’ heveryting cool, man, me an’ Des ain’t gonna say a ting about it, are we, Des?’
‘We ain’t worryin about that,’ Beanie said through tight lips, ‘because you guys is dead once the people hear them money-a garn. Mi rahteed, me wouldn’t wanna be unno when them find out them ’ave been skanked.’
Suddenly back in the real world and aware of his predicament, Desmond gave a nervous nod of his head. ‘We give you the photo as soon as we done ’ere,’ he said. ‘But wha’ are we gonna do ’ere?’
Cecil lowered his gun and Bryce said, ‘We’s gonna wait for Steve’s cousins to turn up for work an’ do everyting an’ anyting to find out where him gone.’
Twenty minutes later, two men came into the premises but they weren’t Steve Patel’s cousins. The two white men gave the four black men a curious look and asked what they were doing there. ‘We work here,’ said Nestor, ‘well two of us do, anyway.’
The older white man scratched the back of his neck. ‘I don’t know how that can be, we told Mr Patel that we would be using our own staff.’
‘Own staff? Sorry, man, but I don’t unnerstan.’
‘When we bought the company, we told Mr Patel that …’
‘Hol’ on, man, hol’ on. Wha’ you mean when you bought the company?’
‘I mean my partner and I boug
ht this company more than a month ago. Didn’t Mr Patel say?’
Nestor, Desmond, Cecil and Beanie simultaneously muttered curses through their clenched teeth in a moment of shared fury before they brushed past the two white men and went outside. It would, over the years, become part of the local folklore that Steve Patel (probably aided by his two cousins) had pulled one of the greatest skanks ever perpetrated on the town’s black people – with the possible exception of the African slave trade. But right then Cecil Grant and Bryce McBean were simply counting their own losses while Nestor Riley and Desmond Palmer were realising that they had less time than they thought to raise what money they could before getting out of town.
‘Right,’ said Cecil. ‘Me an’ Beanie give you three grand so me reckon that means you owe us six.’
‘But …’ Desmond began to protest.
‘But nutten, that the deal we mek an’ you’re gonna go sell them cars of yours an’ bring we the money by Monday or we mek sure everyone knows wha’ go on an’ let them kill unno.’
Desmond drew breath to say something that would appeal to Cecil’s better nature but he could tell Cecil was having none of it, and then, in a moment of insanity, he almost said that the Polaroid would cost them the six grand. Cecil sensed what was going on in Desmond’s mind and said, ‘But before all that, the first ting we do is go back to your yard an’ get that photo.’
When the four arrived at Desmond’s place they discovered that Jas had slipped into something more comfortable, namely a miniskirt and blouse. Nestor began to curse profusely as he laid eyes on the freshly shaven legs and then protested to Cecil and Beanie that he found this sort of behaviour totally out of order. ‘Nah, man,’ he said to Desmond, ‘this is me an’ you finished, guy. If you wanna carry on with this foolishness then carry on but I ain’t lettin’ no one accuse me of bein’ no battyman because of you an’ the girly-man.’
MORE THAN a GAME Page 19
