Tonight, Jameson’s patience was rewarded. Within the hour, the man he knew to be Mikey Tilson had arrived. Jameson jotted down the time on his pad, and watched as the man first checked over his shoulder to see if he was being followed, then let himself in to the staff entrance of the club.
‘Hello, Jeff.’
Jeff, shocked at hearing a voice in the little office, spun round to find Mikey Tilson standing behind him. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’
‘Never you mind yourself about that, Jeffy boy.’ Tilson pointed at four thick piles of used notes and nodded approvingly. ‘Tonight’s takings? This place is doing well. And on a week night. With all them little pill-heads in buying gear of a Friday and Saturday, it must be like a bloody harvest.’
‘Don’t try anything stupid, Mikey.’ Jeff put down his glass of milk – he considered it a weakness to drink anything else when he was working: leave the booze and the pills to the punters – and scratched uneasily at his neck. He didn’t like Mikey Tilson, didn’t like him one bit, but he particularly didn’t like being surprised by the slimy, arrogant, little arsehole.
‘Who said I was trying anything?’
‘No one said anything about you collecting tonight. How did you get them keys?’
‘Never you mind that. That ain’t your business. I just come in to tell you that I’m going to be collecting every night over the next few weeks. A little tax. The five per cent you’ve been putting in your bin is going to stay in the safe till I turn up. And it’s going straight in my bin, not yours. Got it?’
‘Mikey. Don’t do this. It’ll lead to all sorts of trouble, mate.’
‘Mate? I’m not your mate, you black bastard.’ Mikey reached into his jacket and pulled out a Luger, one of the many souvenirs that were still to be bought all over London a full twenty years after the war had ended. ‘See this? This means you don’t start getting lairy. You just leave the five per cent in, and we’ll say no more about it.’ He held out his hand.
Reluctantly, Jeff counted out the minimum number of notes he thought he could get away with – he suspected, rightly, that Mikey wasn’t the brightest when it came to maths – and handed them over. He not only hated giving it to Tilson, he hated letting Dave down.
Mikey fanned out the money, waved it, sniffed at it, and smiled greedily. ‘Lovely. See you tomorrow.’ He put the notes away in his inside pocket, turned on his heel and walked over to the door. He took hold of the handle, then looked over his shoulder at Jeff. ‘Aw, and by the way, I’m also going to be collecting a nice big bagful or two of gear off you. French Blues and some Black Bombers’ll do for now. So, if you’ll have them ready bagged up for me.’ He smiled coldly. ‘See you.’
*
Bobby sat opposite David in the Greek Street office, with a glass of Scotch in his hand and a wide grin on his big, broad face. ‘No kidding, Dave? She’s really a virgin?’
David grinned back. ‘No kidding.’
‘Blimey, who’d have thought you’d have found one of them in a club nowadays?’
‘Not me, Bob, I’m telling you. And I nearly wasted the chance to savour it. If you know what I mean.’
Bobby’s grin wilted a little. He could talk about birds with the best of them, but nothing in too much detail.
‘All right, Bob, don’t go all shy on me. I’m getting her sorted out. Taking her to see that quack up Marylebone tomorrow morning.’
Bobby frowned. ‘What, the one who took the bullet out of Bill’s arm that time?’
‘That’s the feller. He’ll do anything for a few quid.’
Bobby really didn’t get it. ‘What’s she need to see him for?’
‘He’s gonna give her the once-over and stick her on the Pill for me.’
Bobby hid his embarrassment by taking a big swig of whisky. Too big. He started choking.
‘Calm down, Bob.’
‘I leave that sort of thing to my Maureen,’ he spluttered, his eyes streaming.
‘Good thing too, by the look of it.’
‘Why’re you getting involved with all this women’s lark?’
‘I’m not sure how old she is.’
‘So?’
‘Look, if she’s under age, I don’t want her getting up the duff and having her mother causing trouble for me, now do I? I know you can usually pay someone off, but it’d be my luck her old girl’s some sort of nutty churchgoer or something. I mean, why else would she be a virgin at her age?’
‘How old d’you reckon she is?’
‘Dunno. And I don’t much care, to tell you the truth. But I’m telling you, she’s got a body on her …’
They sat, finishing their drinks, each lost in his own thoughts.
Then David said: ‘Marshall did his job for Christina. She was back working tonight.’
Bob grimaced. ‘Don’t know for how much longer. She’s looking a right state.’
‘You’re right there, Bob. Still, as long as she pays her full whack every week. How’s Albert getting on in the caravan? All right?’
‘Sort of. But it’s making him a bit stir crazy. And all that countryside makes him nervous. I think we’re gonna have to move him.’
‘Time for a quick one?’ David stated, rather than asked, filling the other man’s glass almost to the brim.
‘Ta.’ Bobby sipped at the whisky – his fourth very large one in a row – and it began loosening his tongue. ‘Dave?’
‘Yeah?’
‘This Mikey Tilson business,’ he began, then added quickly, so that his boss would know he wasn’t talking about Tilson and Sonia. ‘What Jeff just said on the phone. About him binning that five per cent from the Canvas, I mean.’
‘What about it?’
‘No disrespect, Dave, and you know I’d never interfere, but, out of interest, why are you letting him do it?’
David’s face creased into a wide, handsome smile. ‘Bobby, my old son, it amuses me to see that idiot thinking he’s having me over, when all I’m doing is setting up the little prick for a really hard fall.’ He swallowed a drop more Scotch and winked. ‘Saves me from getting bored, you see, Bob. You know how much I hate getting bored.’
Bobby nodded, hoping he looked as if he understood. But, even though his boss had just given him the same sort of explanation he himself had tried to give to Maureen about Tilson, Bobby, in truth, didn’t have the slightest understanding of what Dave actually meant. But that’s why he was the boss.
Thank gawd.
‘Tell you what, Bob. Talking about being bored, how about a ride down Ernie’s spieler for a few hands of cards? I’m not tired yet. Are you?’
Bobby knew what his answer had to be.
‘Bob, get me Mikey on the blower.’ David Fuller didn’t look up as he spoke, he was too engrossed in the column of figures that he was checking off with a pencil. Despite their previous late night, David still looked immaculate, as if he’d had not only his full eight hours but had also had a soothing lullaby thrown in for good measure.
Bobby, on the other hand, despite Maureen’s best efforts, looked even rougher than usual. With his chin unevenly shaved, his tie askew and one of his shirt collar peaks standing up at an angle, he had a slightly comical, less menacing look about him than usual. But mistaking Bobby for anything other than the tough, bull-necked thug he actually was would have been a bad mistake.
It took Bobby some considerable effort to focus on the dial, then as soon as the number began ringing, he handed the receiver, gratefully, over to David.
‘Mikey? It’s Dave here.’
‘Right. Dave.’ Mikey’s voice was thick with sleep. He screwed up his eyes and stared in disbelief at his bedside clock.
Half past eight? Half past fucking eight?
He didn’t even think of waking up until noon. What was the bastard playing at?
‘You owe me some money, son.’
Mikey was suddenly wide awake. His heart and mind were racing. He’d been collecting his ‘tax’ from the Canvas for just one nigh
t and he’d really thought it had all gone so smoothly. He’d kill that bastard Jeff when he got hold of him.
‘You there, Mikey?’ David’s voice sounded soft, concerned.
‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.’
‘So, how about my money?’
‘Money, Dave? How d’you mean?’
David was enjoying the fear in the little runt’s voice, but he had too much to do to string his pleasure out for too long. ‘You had a sub on your wages a couple of weeks ago. Remember? Said you needed a new suit or something?’
‘Right. Yeah. Course. The sub. I’ll drop it round the office. End of the week, all right?’
‘Good. And, Mikey.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did you know the takings went down at the Canvas last night? Five per cent or so, I’d say.’
‘Did they?’
‘They did. Why do you think that was?’
‘Dunno, Dave, but I’ll make sure I keep a special eye on that Jeff for you.’
‘Good kid.’
Kid? Mikey’s lips twisted into a sneer. He’d not only kill Jeff if he didn’t keep his mouth shut, he’d kill David fucking Fuller as well – once he’d creamed off enough to make a break for it. He was sick of all this. Sick of the lot of them. Jeff. Fuller. Sonia moaning on about babies. And even the little blonde sort in the coffee bar, who’d started whining on about not seeing enough of him. It was all doing his head in.
‘You still there, Mikey?’
‘What? Yeah. I’m here.’
‘Good. I mean, we wouldn’t want nothing happening to you, now would we?’
David replaced the receiver and shook his head in wonder at how someone as thick as Tilson could actually think he’d ever get one over on him, David Fuller. If the challenge was going to be this pathetic, then Mikey Tilson would soon begin to bore him again. And this particular game would have to be brought to an end.
As Mikey lay on his bed, smoking furiously and plotting revenge on just about everybody he knew, Angie was sitting at the kitchen table with her transistor playing softly, so as not to wake her mum, making up her face, transforming herself into Angel.
She was taking even more care than usual, doing her best to cover up the fact that, despite her early night, she had hardly slept. She had tossed and turned, fretting about what might be happening to her nan and to Doris’s friend Lily, and going over and over what was going to happen to her. This morning. When she went to see David’s friend.
As she looked down her nose into her magnifying mirror, painstakingly sticking on individual false eyelashes to her top lids, Vi suddenly appeared in the reflection behind her.
Angie, tweezers in hand, turned round to see her mum dragging across the kitchen to the other side of the Formica table with a cigarette dangling from her lips, her housecoat undone, revealing a sheer, black, baby-doll nightie and her hair scragged up in a nylon leopardskin scarf.
‘Why haven’t you gone to work?’ she asked, dropping on to the chair facing Angie.
‘Day off.’ Angie returned to her lashes.
‘Then why are you getting all done up?’
‘Interview.’
‘Liar.’
‘No, I’m not.’
Vi reached across the table and pinched her daughter’s cheek. ‘Angie darling, give me some credit. You can’t kid a kidder. You’re just hopping off. Being a lazy mare.’
‘Shame you don’t get a job.’
‘You nasty, ungrateful little madam.’
Angie tossed the tweezer aside and gave up. She would have to do. ‘If you weren’t so lazy, Mum, maybe you wouldn’t be putting on so much weight.’
Violet ran her hands down over her hips. She wasn’t putting on weight. Not at all. ‘I can tell you’ve been talking to your bloody grandmother again. I’ll have her one day. Poisoning my own daughter’s mind against me. It’s not right.’
‘Nan never says a word against you. Never. Only ever asks how you are.’
Violet snorted scornfully.
‘Anyway, what are you doing up so early?’
‘I went to bed at bloody nine o’clock. Remember? Because I had nothing to do.’
‘It’s not my fault you can’t entertain yourself for more than five minutes.’
‘You are getting such a mouth on you, Angela.’
Angie gathered up her things and shoved them into her make-up bag. ‘I’m just standing up for myself. And it’s about time, I reckon.’
‘It’s about time you learned some manners.’
‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Aren’t you even going to make me a cuppa tea?’
‘No, Mum. You can manage that yourself.’
Vi stayed at the kitchen table until Angie had left the house – there was always the hope that she might have given in and made her some. But she hadn’t.
Defeated, Vi made herself a cup and stomped grumpily back up the stairs to her bedroom. She pulled back the curtains, flooding the room with bright July sunshine, and sat at her dressing-table.
She leaned on her elbows, propped her chin on her hands and examined the dark rings under her eyes and the ever-increasing number of grey hairs that were threatening to dull her once-glowing chestnut tint to a miserable, muddy brown.
What had happened to her? How had she got to be like this? Her, a bright, beautiful woman, who had had everybody in the palm of her hand, and now she couldn’t even control her spiteful bloody scrap of a kid. It was all her mother’s doing.
‘Well,’ she vowed to her reflection, ‘if that little mare can change, then I certainly can. I can change anything I like. Be anyone I want to be. I’ll bloody show her. I’ll show bloody all of them.’
She stubbed out her cigarette in the slops in her saucer and stood up.
‘First things first,’ she announced brightly, and began to make the bed. Her interest, and efforts, soon waned and she merely threw the satin counterpane over the rumpled sheets.
She could finish that later. After she had been to the shops. She’d get in something for tea. Some ham. Then she’d get some chips later from the fish shop to go with it. That’d give her something to tell her precious grandmother.
Twenty-five minutes later, Violet was fit to face the world. Her hair was lacquered into place and her tired complexion had been brightened with make-up that she’d suddenly decided was looking just a little out of date compared to what her daughter Angie was wearing. She would have a word with her about all the stuff she used; go out and get herself a few new bits maybe. It wouldn’t do any harm to update her look a bit. Pep up her appeal.
But the first item on Violet’s shopping list wasn’t lipstick or mascara, it was cigarettes. She couldn’t even begin to think, let alone make plans, without knowing she had at least a spare packet of twenty in hand.
Vi sauntered along the street towards the small, local parade of shops, knowing that her short, tightly belted, floral print dress showed off her wiggle, her curves and her legs to perfection. Her earlier lack of confidence had immediately been dispelled the moment she had stepped outside the house and Reg, the man across the street, who was polishing his beloved car – he was a shift worker at Ford’s and was usually around during the day while his wife was at work in Peark’s the grocers – gave her his customary long, low whistle of approval.
‘Reg!’ she had chided him. ‘Good job your Betty’s not around. She’d have your guts for garters.’
‘It’d be worth it,’ Reg had growled in reply, blowing her a kiss.
She had then rewarded him with a flirtatious glance over her shoulder, a cheeky wave, and a pouting reply of: ‘Sauce pot.’
By the time she reached the shops, Vi was singing ‘It’s Not Unusual’ happily to herself, and swinging her handbag in time to the beat. As always, she had a quick glance at the postcards in the tobacconist’s window before she went inside. She had once, on a whim, bought a portable sewing-machine advertised there and, although she had never actually used it, it had been a real bar
gain and she didn’t like the thought that she might miss another such opportunity.
Today, one card stood out.
‘Smart lady assistant required. Afternoons only. Apply within.’
Vi had done little bits of part-time work before; she’d had to whenever there wasn’t a bloke on the scene, and before Angie had got herself a job. And the idea of being a ‘smart lady assistant’ was quite appealing, especially to the new, dynamic Violet who was changing her life for the better. A job. That’d rub all their noses right in it.
‘Twenty of my usual, please, Sam.’ She sparkled brightly, turning on the charm for the balding man behind the counter. ‘And, now what else was it? I know! How much are you paying the assistant?’
The man took down a packet of cigarettes from the shelf behind him, then leaned over the counter and looked at her legs. ‘Three hours a day, at five bob an hour. Seeing as it’s you, Vi.’
She slapped her hand on her chest, knowing that Sam’s eyes would follow its every movement. ‘Five bob? I’d need at least twice that to make it worth my while.’
‘Don’t suppose it does seem much compared to what she can earn laying on her back,’ muttered a woman in a dull serge coat, who was picking bad-temperedly through the racks of greetings cards.
Vi spun round. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
Vi snatched up the cigarettes. ‘Never mind no jobs, Sam. If you go letting sour old bags like her in here, I might have to take my custom elsewhere. Put these on my bill.’ With that she stuck her nose in the air and marched out of the shop.
Sam followed her on to the street. ‘We could come to an arrangement.’
Vi stopped, plastered on a suitably friendly smile, turned and directed it straight at the hapless tobacconist. God, he looked exactly like a pudding with no currants. But he had a few bob.
‘Sam,’ she beamed. ‘I’d love that.’
Sam puffed up like a turkey cock. ‘Would you?’
‘Not half.’ She took a step closer and ran a finger up and down his chest. ‘You know, Sam, I think I know your wife. Cissie, isn’t it?’ Vi didn’t actually know her personally, but, like everyone else in the neighbourhood, she knew all about her. It was a good story. Cissie had married Sam years ago, when she’d been left a destitute young widow, and had taken him on as her husband not out of love but out of desperation. And now they owned a whole chain of shops all the way from the East End right out to Romford. What everyone else knew was that, despite the money they must have earned over the years, Cissie still made sure they both worked every hour God sent. Most people agreed it was because she couldn’t stand the sight of the man and wanted him out of the way, and that she had only ever loved her first husband, who, those in the know reckoned, had turned out to be some sort of crook, something to do with the underworld.
Playing Around Page 19
