Dark Angels

by Ron Thomas

  Benito pushed his cap back on his head, and scratched his temple thoughtfully. ‘You’ve done well, Meggsie. Did you see how much Uncle Guido paid for them?’

  It was Meggsie’s turned to look perplexed. ‘I didn’t see him pay anything. I suppose he might pay later or something.’

  ‘Much later, Gilberto. Guido didn’t pay for the clothes; Mr Abrahams gave them to you.’

  ‘Why? I don’t know him.’

  ‘No, and he doesn’t know you either. Did he seem happy when he gave you the clothes?’

  Meggsie thought for a moment as dawning came upon him slowly. ‘No; I suppose not.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. Remember what I told you last night. For certain sure, old man Abrahams donated the clothes rather than have trouble with Uncle Guido. That’s the way it works around here. I suppose you were observant enough to notice the old fellow’s scar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Abrahams got that about three years ago, when he tried to stand up to one of Jewey Freeman’s standover men. He’s learned the hard way that it’s easier to cooperate with whoever owns the turf. These days it’s Uncle Guido.’

  ***

  Having grown up in the Maggs household on Palmer Street, to Meggsie, this was the way of the world. Evidently, the strong, the angry, the violent would always hold sway, and his first thought was gratitude: gratitude for finding himself on Guido’s side of the equation. Better to be an ally of the powerful, who would always win, while the weak went under in the face of their threats. It didn’t appear that Benito took the same view.

  ‘I think you should take a walk up to Mr Abrahams’ place,’ Benito said suddenly. ‘I think you should go and personally thank him for all these clothes. After all, thanks is all he’ll get for them. He’ll not get nothing from Uncle Guido.’ Benito turned his head to the side and spat on the floor.

  ‘I’m supposed to pick up some shirts and shoes. I’ve never had shoes, except an old pair of Dad’s,’ Meggsie replied. Benito just shook his head sadly.

  ‘Well, old Abrahams works late every night,’ Benito said. ‘I see him still working most evenings as I pass. It took him a long time to make all these clothes. Pull that shutter down, and we’ll walk up together.’

  ***

  Even from the street, Meggsie could see the old tailor hunched over his sewing machine. He pressed the door. It was locked, but they could hear the music from within. It sounded the same as last time. Meggsie was most reluctant, and with the door of the shop firmly closed, he would have left had Benito not forced the issue.

  ‘Well, knock,’ Benito said quietly. ‘Abrahams won’t bite you.’

  Meggsie knocked on the window with a coin and the tailor immediately looked up and waved. Benito’s little sermon had given Meggsie food for thought and he was feeling embarrassed and somewhat resentful. He thought Abrahams would probably be angry with him, but the tailor stopped the music and smiled as he came to the door.

  Abrahams nodded, still smiling, at Benito, who was standing well away from the door, on the edge of the footpath. Benito returned his salutation, but remained standing, well back from the doorway.

  ‘We are closed,’ Abrahams said, his voice kindly. ‘But for such a customer, I’ll make an exception. Come in.’

  Meggsie followed the tailor into the shop, and immediately noticed two shirts, hanging from a rack, each silvery grey, with an apple and a banana embroidered neatly on the breast pocket. Meggsie felt an excitement that was more than he’d felt with the other clothes. Somehow, these shirts were affirmation of his status as a true fruit and veg man. Yosef Abrahams seemed to sense his excitement and appeared to get pleasure from it too.

  ‘You will look very spiffy in these togs, young Mr Maggs,’ he said, holding the shirt up to Meggsie’s chest. ‘These shirts will last you a long time, and if you grow out of them, I can move the buttons and make some adjustments.’

  The tailor’s words suddenly made Meggsie flush with shame. He glanced over his shoulder to see that Benito was still standing out on the Oxford Street footpath. It made him remember what he’d come for, and he no longer felt reluctant.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Abrahams. I appreciate what you’ve done for me,’ he said. ‘Benito told me why you had to give me the clothes. I didn’t know.’

  ‘That’s alright son. It’s the way of the world. There’s always someone ready to beat up on Jewish people. We get used to it.’

  ‘I could give the clothes back,’ Meggsie replied, even as he realised he didn’t want to give them back, especially his new fruity shirts.

  ‘Psshaw!’ Abrahams responded. ‘That would only bring trouble down on my head. We Jews learned to turn the other cheek a long time ago. To sway like the reeds, that’s how we have survived these thousands of years. You just enjoy the clothes, Gilibert, and when you are successful, and a big man, you walk past my shop, I will see you and we will both know.’ He tapped his index finger on the side of his prominent nose.

  ‘Now, do you want to try one of them on. Benito is still out there and he’ll be green with envy.’ As he spoke, Yosef Abrahams was already taking the shirt from the hanger. It fitted Meggsie perfectly, and as he admired himself in the mirror, Abrahams beckoned Benito into the shop.

  ‘Whatcha think, Benito?’ Abrahams said with evident pride. ‘I thought I would give your tatty old fruit shop a touch of class.’ It was clear that Benito was mightily impressed. ‘The customers will all think he owns the place,’ Abrahams said as an afterthought.

  ‘If you give me a mates price, I’ll buy another two, for me. Can’t have my offsider looking better than me, can I? How much are they?’

  ‘Two pounds ten,’ Abrahams said.

  ‘Two pounds ten!’ Benito replied. ‘God above! Is that the mate’s price?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘How much is it for someone who just walked in off the street?’ Benito asked. Meggsie noticed that both men were smiling, apparently enjoying the negotiation.

  ‘One pound ten shillings,’ Abrahams replied, with a widening grin. ‘I left some negotiating room.’

  ‘Ha! I’ll give you two pounds for the two. How’s that?’ Benito said. Abrahams shrugged and lifted his palms to the sky.

  ‘I should be so lucky! I’m fortunate to be getting anything at all!’ he replied. ‘Now clear off and let me find a pair of shoes for the boy. Come back Tuesday and your shirts will be ready.’

  ***

  Over the months that followed, Meggsie settled into life as a fruit-shop convict. Of course, he found that his schoolwork had suffered by his absence, but Mr Mills, despite his occasional use of the ruler rapped with deadly accuracy across unwary knuckles, was a committed teacher and he seemed to feel he was obliged to help Meggsie catch up to the other boys. Each day was a round of markets-school-shop-homework-bed. With Benito’s guidance, Meggsie learnt all about the fruit and vegetables business. He quickly learnt that Guido and another man, named Scottie McCormack owned a fruit barrow in Oxford Street, because Benito would have him pack up a selection of fruit and veg and McCormack would pick it up each day in a battered old Ford. But it soon became evident that Guido Caletti’s business interests weren’t confined to spuds and onions, and that whatever they were, Benito didn’t approve of them.

  On occasions, Caletti brought other tough looking men to the shop for ‘discussions’. Meggsie learned to expect them through the back door and sometimes Guido would send Meggsie out into Hopewell Lane to ‘keep nit’. Guido sometimes introduced the visitors, but none of them seemed terribly interested in conversation. Charlie the Cutter, Joey Pozziano, Weasel Beasley became familiar names to Meggsie, and always, there was the creepy Mickey Milligan.

  Meggsie quickly learnt that when Guido was in residence, the back room was for his exclusive use, and that could only increase a boy’s natural curiosity. If Guido and his accomplices were plotting some big major crime, he desperately wanted to know all about it.

  ‘You don’t wanna know wha
t goes on in there, son,’ Benito advised. ‘Better you stay out here in the front shop until he goes. Darlo Push business ain’t any of our business. I don’t want anything to do with them, and if you’re smart, neither will you.’

  Benito spat whenever he mentioned their names and said he wished them all to hell.

  The Friday night visitors were a different matter. Though Benito often left before they arrived, he seemed to have a much higher regard for Charlie Sorley and Bert Rushford, and on occasions would stay back until they arrived, simply to have a chat with them. Both these men were much friendlier than the other visitors, and would always stop to have a chat with Meggsie. From their casual conversations, Meggsie soon worked out that their game was something called ‘swy’, and Charlie and Bert ran it. He liked games. By keeping his ears open, he learnt that swy was played with pennies and it involved betting. Curiosity grew.

  ***

  Another Friday. Soon after Benito left, Guido turned up as usual, but this time he was accompanied by Charlie the Cutter and Mickey Milligan. There seemed to be some tension. Guido just nodded to Meggsie and neither the Cutter nor Milligan acknowledged him at all. The trio just stalked through the shop and closed the door to the back room behind them. A few minutes passed, then he could hear angry voices, then Bert Rushford’s voice, always loud. He’d apparently come in through the back door.

  ‘Charlie and me run a fair game. That’s the way we do it,’ Bert said loudly. The others were speaking more quietly now, and Meggsie couldn’t make out what they were saying. His curiosity aroused, he edged closer. The apple stand was by the door, so he pretended to polish apples.

  ‘I’m with Bert,’ Charlie was saying. ‘We get found out, the word will get around and we’ll be out of business. The cops leave us alone if we run it straight and we don’t have no grog or cocaine. It’s best that nobody complains.’

  ‘We could get someone else to run it, Charlie,’ Guido’s voice said. ‘We’re leaving money on the table.’

  An apple rolled off the stack from where a distracted Meggsie had placed it. It fell to the concrete and rolled away under the shelves. Just as Meggsie bent to retrieve it, the door was flung open and Charlie the Cutter stood framed in the doorway. He held a shiny razor in his raised hand.

  ‘You little prying bastard,’ he shouted. ‘The kid was spying on us!’ He moved menacingly towards Meggsie, who took off around the fruit and veg displays, with the Cutter in hot pursuit, followed by Milligan and Caletti. With the roller door closed and Charlie Sorley and Bert Rushford blocking escape through the rear, it was clear that Meggsie was trapped. However, fear lent him wings. As the Cutter came for him around one side of the potato stand and Milligan moved to cut him off from the other side, he dived under the stand and scrabbled his way on hands and knees out the other side in a shower of russet burbanks and sebagos. He armed himself with a couple of spuds as he scrambled to his feet. As the Cutter turned to pursue his elusive quarry, Meggsie hurled a sebago, that struck him squarely between the eyes.

  ‘You little turd,’ the Cutter yelled. A string of obscenities followed as Meggsie ducked behind the citrus stand, spilling lemons and oranges across the floor. He armed himself with a couple of grapefruit, and, although he couldn’t stem his tears, stood defiant and ready to throw. Suddenly, Guido’s laughter filled the shop.

  ‘He’s got the better of you!’ he shouted, then laughed again. ‘Some heavies you are! A little kid’s bested the pair of you!’

  ‘You go that side and I’ll go this, Charlie,’ Milligan said. They were closing in on Meggsie who threatened to throw a grapefruit.

  ‘Leave the kid,’ Guido ordered. ‘He’s not going to say anything. Put the bloody grapefruit down, Meggsie. We’re not going to hurt you.’

  Milligan and the Cutter stopped moving forward and Meggsie slowly lowered his projectile.

  ‘Now come over here, mate,’ Guido ordered reassuringly. Meggsie edged his way past his assailants and stood in front of Caletti.

  ‘Now, the truth. Tell me what you heard.’

  ‘I heard Mr Rushford. He’s got a loud voice.’

  ‘Tell me why you were listening. You were listening, weren’t you? I don’t want to get the razor out, so tell me the truth.’ Meggsie considered his options pretty quickly.

  ‘It’s boring, standing out there in the shop all that time. There’s nothing else to do. I wanted to find out about the game. I’m never allowed to go. I like games.’

  Guido chuckled. ‘Well, Mr Meggs, I want you to forget every word you heard. Every word, hear?’ he said. Meggsie nodded vigorously.

  ‘Benito will be shitty. He can’t stand bruised fruit. You’ll have to work out the cost of the stuff you ruined.’ Meggsie nodded again.

  ‘Meeting’s over, boys,’ Guido said amiably, turning to where the Cutter and Milligan stood. He nodded in the direction of the roller shutter. ‘We’ll go out the front way,’ he added. ‘Meggs will have to clean up the mess he’s made of Benny’s shop.’ They filed out, with Bert Rushford bringing up the rear. As he passed where Meggsie stood, he tousled the boy’s hair, and Meggsie looked up to see him grinning widely. He winked. Clearly, Bert had enjoyed Meggsie’s humiliating of Guido’s toughs. It was a badly shaken Meggsie who began to pick up the potatoes scattered across Benny’s floor.

  Chapter 11

  The Truth of It

  For the third night in a row, the dream came again. The realisation was dawning on Meggsie that if he didn’t talk to someone about the demise of Harry Moon, he would never find peace.

  With few real friends, particularly more experienced ones whose opinions might offer him guidance, his options seemed very limited.

  His first thought was that Guido Caletti might perhaps be best suited to guide him. After all he was beginning to realise that Guido’s reputation was based around a penchant for violence. Perhaps it was possible he’d been in a similar situation himself. He’d quickly learned that Guido had no love for the law, and to Meggs, that indicated he’d be less likely to rat on a juvenile murderer.

  Meggsie viewed Benito as something akin to a father figure, and he offered a more sympathetic possibility. After all, he’d had the chance to turn him in for theft and instead, had provided food, shelter and employment. Twice Meggsie decided that Benito would offer the best advice, but he couldn’t bring himself to raise the subject.

  ***

  ‘Getcha Sinny Morning Herald!’ Moe shouted at the top of his voice, as Meggsie approached to pick up Benito’s daily newspaper.

  ‘G’day Meggsie,’ he said. His voice was raspy, probably from all that shouting, but it was friendly enough. ‘You’re earlier than usual.’

  ‘Yeah. Benito’s driving faster, these days.’ Meggsie grinned. Benito’s low-speed driving had already become a standing joke between them.

  ‘Yer want The Truth? Get it right here!’ Moe bellowed, almost in Meggsie’s ear as he handed Meggsie The Herald, without being asked. ‘Perhaps he was the driver of the getaway car last night,’ he added in his normal voice.

  ‘Getaway car?’

  ‘I forgot you hadn’t read the paper yet. Someone shot Guido, up in Liverpool Street. Five times! It’s on page three. The word on the street says it’s Eric Connolly who done it.’

  To this point, Meggsie had presumed that Guido Caletti was bulletproof. From the moment they’d met, it was Guido who was the tough guy, and others who feared him. Meggsie couldn’t picture him as a victim.

  ‘Is he dead?’, Meggsie asked, his voice betraying his shock.

  ‘No, amazingly enough. Connolly mustn’t be much of a marksman. Apparently, later in the night, despite being shot, Guido caught up with Connolly at a party in Womerah Street and shot him in the stomach. Connolly’s in hospital and Guido is still on the prowl. The cops are looking for him. It’s all in the paper.’ Meggsie flicked The Herald open and searched for the story.

  ‘You won’t find much in there,’ Moe said. ‘Only about ten lines. The Truth’s the p
lace to find this sort of stuff. He handed Meggsie a copy, and there, splattered across the front page was the lurid headline ‘RAZORHURST STANDOVER MAN SHOT!’ In smaller type, beneath, it read, ‘SHOOTS ASSAILANT AT UNDERWORLD PARTY’.

  ‘You can have that one. Compliments of the management,’ Moe added.

  ‘Getcha Smith’s Weekly, out now! Getcha Sinny Morning Herald!’ Moe yelled, as Meggsie read the gory details. An argument in the street had led to the shootings and that it might have been over a woman. Guido, still carrying five bullet wounds, had found Connolly later that night, celebrating, and taken his revenge. Now he’d disappeared. The article only increased Meggsie’s awe of Guido Caletti’s toughness.

  ‘Nellie Cameron,’ Moe said. Meggsie just looked confused.

  ‘Nellie Cameron. That’s who the fight would have been over.’

  ‘Is she Mr Caletti’s girl?’ Meggsie asked uncertainly.

  Moe threw his head back and laughed. ‘Caletti’s girl, Eric Connolly’s girl, Frank Green’s girl. Anyone else’s girl too, as long as they’ve got money. Nellie doesn’t mind people fighting over her. In fact, she seems to welcome it.’

  ‘How do you get to know about all this stuff, Moe?’ Meggsie asks suddenly.

  ‘Half a lifetime standing on this shitty corner, that’s how. People tell their news hawker things they wouldn’t tell their wives. The wives tell stuff they wouldn’t tell their husbands, too. Only half the news is in The Truth, and only about ten percent in The Herald. The real interesting stuff is on the street.’ He turned away to serve a customer The Herald.

  ‘‘You want The Truth? Get it right here!’ Moe bellowed again.

  ‘I’d better go and tell Benito. He’ll want to know about Mr Caletti,’ Meggsie said.

  ‘He might know already, if he was driving the getaway car.’ Moe’s grin told Meggsie he wasn’t serious.

  ‘Nah! He’s not really driving any faster,’ Meggsie replied. ‘I just said that.’