‘Pity,’ James said.
‘I’ve got a full complement of staff today,’ Teeth said, ‘but I could start you off on a special job if you want to earn straight away.’
James wanted to ride his new motorbike as soon as it was ready, but putting in some hours would be more likely to impress his new boss. ‘I’ll do anything,’ James said. ‘I’m a hard worker.’
Teeth gave James a security pass, a walkie talkie and a blue boiler suit to put on, then disappeared to collect a water jet sprayer. After leading James to the underground car park below the Marina View apartments they walked between lines of expensive cars to a patch of wall covered with the partially filled outline of a graffiti tag Eklipz 08.
‘We spotted the man with the spray can and gave him a good kicking,’ Teeth explained. ‘But the only way you’ll get that lot off the concrete is to blast it.’
After showing James where to rig up the hose and plug in, Teeth demonstrated how to blast off the spray paint.
‘Spray paint does shift, but concrete is porous so it takes a lot of doing,’ Teeth explained. ‘You’re looking at a good four or five hours’ work. Take a break when you’re halfway through, then come and find me when you’re done.’
As James took the face visor from Teeth and began blasting with the hose, the walkie talkie hooked to his waist began to crackle. ‘Cleaning team one to Donut Shack,’ it announced. ‘Kid puked up on the promenade. Let’s get it scooped before people start treading through.’
*
It was half three when James finished. The building manager’s office was behind the restaurants. Teeth sat at a cluttered desk. James recognised the Führer’s sixteenyear-old son Martin as he entered.
‘This is the kid I was telling you about,’ Teeth explained to Martin.
Martin was taller than James, but thin. He wore skinny-fit black jeans, a short-sleeve blue shirt with a thin leather tie loose at the neck and scruffy emo hair. He reached out and James shook a spindly hand.
‘Hey,’ Martin said. ‘Having fun?’
‘Spraying graffiti for four and a half hours,’ James smiled. ‘How could I not?’
Teeth looked at the area James had cleaned on one of the security screens behind his head. ‘Looks like you did OK.’
‘I hear you’ve got a new bike,’ Martin said. ‘What’s it like?’
‘Dunno,’ James said. ‘I’m itching to give it a blast.’
‘We just had Martin’s assistant call in sick for tonight,’ Teeth explained. ‘Saturday night is always busy, tonight particularly so because it’s a Brigands open night. Martin needs someone to help on the crêpe kiosk between six and midnight. Have you got any plans?’
James shrugged. ‘I was gonna phone my girlfriend Ashley, but nothing’s fixed so I guess I could.’
‘It’s best to get there early,’ Martin explained. ‘That way I can show you the ropes and let you practise cooking before we get busy.’
‘No problem,’ James grinned. ‘So if I’m serving food I’d better get home and clean up and stuff.’
‘Enjoy the bike,’ Teeth said, as James and Martin headed outside together.
James threw his wet overalls into a locker in the staff room and belted downstairs to the Leather and Chrome garage. The mechanic recognised him from earlier and dangled the key under his nose.
‘Good to go,’ he smiled. ‘Your mum took all the paperwork home. Just be careful, I’d feel guilty about taking that restrictor off if you wrap yourself around a tree on the way home.’
After putting his riding leathers over his shorts and T-shirt James fired up the bike. Everything about it from the weight and engine noise felt bigger than the Honda he’d arrived on that morning. He felt apprehensive as he opened the throttle and pulled away.
The Kawasaki growled as he cut down the side of the cars queuing to get out of Marina Heights. The streets were crowded with Saturday shopping traffic and James spent several minutes hemmed behind a white van in the high street. But once the traffic broke on to the A-road heading towards home he caught a break in the oncoming traffic and pulled out to accelerate.
The exhaust made a beautiful rumble and before James knew it he’d touched sixty miles an hour and had to dab the brakes to slow down as he dodged back into his own lane. He was tempted to gun the bike and see how fast he could go, but he wanted to get a feel for it, so for now he was content to roll at forty with the wind blasting him and the sun toasting his back.
*
‘I think Teeth likes you,’ Martin said, as James stood inside the crêpe kiosk wearing jeans, a white polo shirt and a Marina Heights apron.
‘I recognised him from his wrestling days,’ James explained, watching as Martin ladled batter on to one of the three circular hot plates used for cooking the French-style pancakes.
‘He’d have loved you mentioning that,’ Martin said, using a wide plastic paddle to spread the batter into a thin circular layer. ‘The trick is to make sure there’s enough fat to stop the batter sticking. Then watch until the top of the batter starts to harden. That’s when you flip her over with the paddle to brown the other side.’
‘It’s boiling hot here,’ James said, wiping the beads of sweat off his brow as he studied the tubs of ingredients and machines on all sides. Crêpe fillings ranging from banana ice cream to chilli-beef were lined up under a glass counter. Behind was a coffee and tea machine and a fridge full of cold drinks.
‘You get used to the heat,’ Martin said. He moved his steaming crêpe across to a plastic shelf where they added the fillings and sauces. ‘OK, grab the ladle and have a try. No pressure, but the girl who called in sick tonight is worse than useless, so if you get this right you might find yourself in here permanently, rather than with your rubber-gloved mitt unclogging a toilet.’
James misted the hotplate with oil before carefully ladling out some pancake batter. As he spread it with the paddle a couple of drips ran off the side of the plate.
‘You used a bit too much,’ Martin explained, ‘but it’s spread nicely. Now you just need to flip it before it burns. You see how the batter glistens when it’s wet? As soon as that stops, that’s your cue to flip it over.’
‘Ah-ha, look at the working man!’ Julian laughed from the other side of the counter.
‘Hey cock stain,’ James said, as he glowered at Julian’s curly hair and grinning face.
‘Keep your eye on the hotplate,’ Martin cautioned. ‘Now, get the skillet under and flip her before she burns.’
‘I saw you cleaning graffiti earlier,’ Julian said with a superior tone as James flipped the crêpe. ‘I don’t have to work because my family aren’t poor.’
‘Piss off, Julian,’ Martin said.
Julian grinned. ‘What was that, my little gay friend? Have you come out to your daddy yet?’
‘I’m not ashamed of my sexuality, Julian,’ Martin said.
‘Oh and I saw your new motorbike, James. I might buy an ice cream and stroll across for a proper look at it later on.’
James was determined to get his first crêpe right, but as soon as he dropped it on to the prep board he lunged across the counter so fast that Julian couldn’t move back. James grabbed a handful of Julian’s shirt and yanked him forward so that his face squished against the clear plastic display cabinet.
‘Touch my new bike and I’ll drag you over this counter and fry your head on the hotplate,’ James warned, before letting go.
Julian straightened his shirt up and tried not to look flustered as he backed away. ‘Have a nice night,’ he grinned.
‘I will,’ James said. ‘Especially after my shift when I’m banging your ex.’
As Julian walked away Martin cracked a big smile. ‘Julian’s the biggest moron. If he touches your bike again, tell Teeth. That whole car park is covered with CCTV and the Brigands have no time for people who vandalise motorbikes.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ James nodded, as his attention turned back to his crêpe. ‘So how did I do
?’
‘Good,’ Martin said. ‘It’s a bit doughy in the middle because you used too much batter, and when we get a real customer I’d recommend more pleases and thankyous and slightly less of the threatening to fry their face and shag their ex-girlfriend.’
*
The South Devon Brigands had an open night every third Saturday. For poorer chapters open nights were a way of getting people through the door and making money selling food and drugs. For the South Devon chapter it had more to do with community relations.
Closed doors, security cameras and noisy bikes scared the public, especially when Devon police regularly described the Brigands as a menace. But for many locals and tourists, their only contact with South Devon Brigands was on the open nights when the Führer put his crew on their best behaviour.
There was free food and drink, while the outdoor compound behind the clubhouse was opened up for local kids and teenagers to have a separate party. The events were capped off with midnight fireworks, after which the public was kicked out and the clubhouse went back to being a private club.
By 9:30 the sky was dark and Marina Heights throbbed gently with rock music coming out the back of the Brigands compound. Lauren walked across the promenade with Joe, Dante, Anna and a few other mates. She had sand in her trainers after paddling on the beach and a chocolate, banana and nut crêpe burning her fingertips.
‘This is good,’ Lauren grinned. ‘I can make better pancakes than this, but when you consider that my brother cooked it …’
‘Your brother definitely didn’t like it when you kept calling him boy and clicking your fingers,’ Joe smiled.
They’d only get soft drinks in the Brigands clubhouse, so the thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds had all boozed on the beach before heading uphill to Marina Heights.
For Lauren it was a can of beer and a couple of slugs from Joe’s vodka bottle. Joe and Dante were more adventurous. They were sucking breath mints and behaving themselves because they wouldn’t get into the clubhouse if they were obviously drunk.
But they needn’t have worried. As soon as Joe approached the clubhouse he got a hug and a pat on the back from a thuggish looking Brigands prospect named Fluffy.
‘Your dad told me to send you over if you came in,’ Fluffy said. ‘He’s in his usual spot.’
Joe looked worried and wondered if it was to do with a letter home from school about a teacher he’d sworn at earlier in the week.
All the kids except Lauren and Dante had been in the clubhouse before. The main hall was as bland as the brick exterior. A polished wooden floor, fold-out tables piled with food, seats around the edge and a small stage with a DJ and little kids bopping in front of the disco lights. All it needed was a couple of basketball hoops and it could have passed for a secondary school gym.
The free bar was decorated with giant signs telling people to support their local Brigands by buying raffle tickets, and even with the Brigands on their best behaviour it still took a brave soul to take drinks without contributing.
Lauren’s biggest surprise was a group of frail oldies by the door, tapping feet and drumming walking sticks as they sat in plastic seats or wheelchairs. They were being looked after by some of the youngest members of the Monster Bunch and Dogs of War. No biker wanted to spend his Saturday night this way, but the Führer ordered them to keep smiling because the man from the local paper was due and bikers hugging grannies made perfect publicity.
Joe had disappeared to find his dad, but came running back before his gang crossed the room to join the other youngsters outside.
Joe looked at Lauren. ‘My dad wants to meet you,’ he said awkwardly.
Lauren raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t know, but he’s the big cheese around here, so it’s best to do what he says.’
Joe took Lauren’s hand. As they cut between people standing at tables eating and a few groups of dancing women Lauren spotted Chloe on one of the leather benches around the edge of the room having an intense conversation with Rhino.
‘This is her,’ Joe said.
Lauren looked uncomfortable as she stood in front of circular tables and leather armchairs. The Führer was a small man, with his Hitler moustache and his long leather coat draped over the back of the chair. But you could tell he was the boss by the way the other bikers had their chairs facing towards him.
She recognised full-patch Brigands from the London and South Devon chapters, along with senior Dogs of War and more exotic guests wearing Brigands patches from Australia and South Africa.
‘My son’s got his first girlfriend,’ the Führer roared proudly. ‘And about time too.’
Teeth laughed noisily. ‘Your boy Martin hasn’t had one for some reason, has he?’
‘That poof’s not my son,’ the Führer grumbled. ‘My theory is that Marlene was being humped by the milkman just before that one was born.’
Lauren and Joe both burned red with embarrassment. The Führer pointed at the fat man sat next to him. ‘You remember this man, don’t you Joe? Sealclubber, President of the London chapter?’
‘Course,’ Joe nodded. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘We’re just debating who has the best clubhouse,’ Sealclubber said. ‘Our thirty-five years of history versus your sterile brick box.’
‘You gotta hand it to South Devon,’ one of the other London Brigands said. ‘We’ve got Fords while these boys are riding Mercs that they park up in garages bigger than my flat.’
‘Look at my boy,’ the Führer roared, making all the other bikers laugh. ‘I’ve never seen Joe so quiet. Why so shy, son? Tell your girl to come here and give her future father-in-law a kiss.’
Lauren stepped up nervously and pecked the Führer on the cheek. He smelled of some weird aftershave, but Sealclubber’s rank odour was competing. The Führer made a big gesture of pulling out his wallet and giving Joe two twenties.
‘Show her a good time,’ the Führer grinned. ‘You’re beautiful, Lauren, it was good to meet you.’
Joe took the money, then turned anxiously to Lauren as they walked away. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he grovelled. ‘I had no idea that my dad was gonna make me do that.’
‘I’ve survived worse,’ Lauren shrugged.
As if to prove this, the Führer stood up, punched the air and shouted so that half the room could hear. ‘Go on my son, give her one from me!’
The Brigands all roared with laughter as a blushing Lauren and Joe dashed across the floor to meet their friends outside.
25. SCOUTS
Twelve nights after first working the crêpe stand, James had mastered the circular hotplates, knew how to make cappuccinos and lattes without burning his fingertips on the steam nozzle and how to look busy when Teeth or one of the other managers came by wanting an extra hand to wipe tables or empty bins.
James had become friendly with his new boss Martin. Getting a job alongside the Führer’s sixteen-year-old son had been an unexpected bonus, but Martin kept distant from his old man and despite hours of conversation inside the kiosk James hadn’t picked up any useful information.
Martin had been badly bullied at school because he was gay. He’d dropped out before taking GCSEs and worked on the crêpe stand seven days a week saving up to travel the world with a friend.
The Führer wasn’t proud of having a homosexual son, but Martin’s mum Marlene protected him and the family name counted for something: as a kiosk manager Martin earned decent money, and compared to the much busier diner or the fish and chip stand the crêperie was a doddle.
‘So how’s it going with Ashley?’ Martin asked. It was just after eight and the sky was orange. He stood on the pavement outside the kiosk, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. James was inside, leaning on the counter and trying to cool down in the blast of a small plastic fan mounted atop the drinks cooler.
‘She’s nice,’ James said. ‘A good laugh.’
‘Gettin’ any action?’
‘No such luck,’ James sighed. ‘She might smo
ke a lot of dope on Saturday night, but she goes to confession on Sunday morning and her parents have indoctrinated her with all that love and marriage bullcrap.’
Martin laughed as he flicked his cigarette end over the edge of the promenade and stepped into the stiflingly hot kiosk. ‘At least I’m not the only one suffering from sexual frustration then,’ he smiled.
James broke into a big grin. ‘Tell you what, bend over the counter, pull your trackies down and I’ll sort you out.’
‘Oh I wish!’ Martin said, putting on his campest voice.
James turned around to hear a fifty pence being tapped on the counter top. A thirty-something mum holding a little girl stood at the counter frowning. ‘I don’t think that talk’s appropriate, do you?’ she said irritably.
‘Yeah, sorry,’ James said, clearing his throat and putting his hand over his mouth to disguise a smirk. ‘What would you like?’
‘Do you sell ice cream?’
James shook his head and pointed out the front of the kiosk to a queue of people. ‘Two along,’ he explained.
The woman pointed to the tubs of ice cream. ‘What’s that then?’
‘If you want it in a hot crêpe, I’m your man,’ James said.
‘They’re fresh cooked, very nice,’ Martin added. ‘But if you want ice cream we don’t have cornets or anything to put them in.’
‘You could put a scoop in a cardboard coffee cup.’
James and Martin exchanged glances. ‘Can’t,’ Martin said. ‘There’s no button on the till.’
The woman shook her head. ‘I’m sure you’d be a lot busier if you sold ice cream,’ she said, before reluctantly heading over to join the queue two kiosks over.
‘And that’s exactly why we don’t sell it, you dippy tart,’ Martin said, as he yawned and stretched theatrically.
‘Now you’ve had your smoke, you mind if I take a break?’ James asked.
‘Dead here,’ Martin said, as he checked his watch. ‘Take half an hour, but check back just in case I get busy.’
Brigands M.C. Page 18
