“All his mates are here.”
“One of them isn't.”
I heard Jimmy's voice in the background asking what the fucking hell the performance was all about.
The voice told him some joker was on the other end of the line saying he was a mate. Then Jimmy said well for Christ's sake ask him his bleeding name.
The voice came back on the line.
“Now look here, Jokey, let's be having you. Jimmy only talks to names.”
“I'll give you one. Benny Beauty.”
“Do me a favour. Are you out of your tiny mind?”
“Just tell Jimmy Benny'll hear that he wouldn't talk to a mate of his. Benny won't always be where he is now.”
The voice started to explain that bit but Jimmy must have got sick of the game and the next voice that come on the line was his:
“All right, cunt. What's your problem?”
“Christ, Jimmy,” I said. “It was never so difficult to get to you in the old days.”
“Who's this?”
“Billy. And don't say my name.”
“Jesus. I've been hearing it all over the place during the last few days.”
“But not reading it in the papers, eh?”
“Hardly surprising.”
“Not really.”
I heard Jimmy clear whoever was in the room with him out of it and then there was a pause while Jimmy frantically tried to work out how to phrase the question that was scurrying around in his brain.
I saved him the trouble.
“Don't worry, Jimmy,” I said. “I'm not after a bed for the night. There's no danger of you ending up like Ronnie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Leave it out, Jimmy. You know what I mean. I'm not after any embarrassing favours. Except maybe one. But nothing that'll put you out on a limb.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I want putting in something. Doesn't have to be one of your tickles. But it has to be in with a safe firm. No ex-associates of Walter. No arse-lickers. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. But everybody's heard about Ronnie. They might not want to wear anything with you.”
“Maybe not. But you know as well as I do, Jimmy, the scene changes. There's plenty of young tearaways out to make a name who don't give a stuff about people like Wally. They'd be glad of the experience of working with Billy Cracken. And you know who they'd be, Jimmy. That's all I want you to do for me: just put me in with a firm that's about to go.”
“You're taking a big chance, Billy. You know that. You can't trust anyone nowadays.”
“Let's face it, Jimmy, I'm taking a chance talking to you. You could do yourself a bit of good here and there if you turned me over.”
“I'm no Walter lover, Billy. You should know that.”
“I know. I know what he did.”
There was another silence. Eventually Jimmy said: “All right, Billy. I'll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
“I can't promise anything.”
“I know.”
“Phone me back Sunday.”
“Thanks, Jimmy. I'll do that.”
I spent the following two days and nights at the flat in Barons Court. It was strange to wake up in a bed and find myself without Sheila and Timmy. The flat was lifeless and depressing. Only the rumpled bed and the few bits of multi-purpose crockery gave any sign that someone was living there. I spent my time on the phone to a few contacts I had, getting the current gen on what it would cost to get us out of it and what was available over the next month or so. When I wasn't doing that I sat around reading the papers and when I wasn't doing that I'd break up the monotony of prowling round the flat by doing my exercises. I'd neglected them over the last few weeks.
On Saturday I phoned Sheila. She told me she was being followed everywhere. She wasn't bothered by it. She said she got a lot of satisfaction out of the fact that the law thought any minute she was going to lead them to me.
On Sunday I phoned Jimmy.
“How's the job hunting going?” I said by way of a kick-off.
“Not bad,” Jimmy said. “I've got something that might interest you. If it's a goer, that is.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“There's a firm in Finsbury Park set to go on a Post Office van. Could be worth a few bob.”
“Why shouldn't it be a goer?”
“No reason. I mean, the firm'll take it on.”
“But?”
“Well, you know as well as I do, Billy. Some of these young tearaways . . . all cock and no balls.”
“I know all that, Jimmy,” I said. “But beggars can't be choosers.”
“Well, it's the only thing I can put you in right at the moment.”
“Have you mentioned me?”
“To one of them. The heaviest of them.”
“And?”
“He gave me some smart talk but he's interested. He wants to meet with you tonight.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Out of town. Pub in Woodford.”
“Woodford? Christ.”
“Well, there you are. I said they were like that. If I was you . . .”
“What am I likely to make?”
“I'll be honest, Billy. I don't think they'll be divvying-up. They know the position you're in.”
“I thought it'd be like that. Just so long as it's worth my while.”
“That I couldn't say, Billy. But they know why you need it. So they must know what you expect.”
“Yes,” I said. “Anyway, I'll give it a throw. What's the name of the pub?”
I parked the Mini on the pub forecourt and got out.
The pub had a string of fairy lights draped across its mock-Tudor frontage and soft pinks and oranges glowed behind the frosted glass casements. Just the kind of place I'd imagined they'd choose.
I walked across to the saloon bar entrance. I noticed a big Zodiac parked at the far end of the forecourt. That would be them. Apart from that there was an Eleven Hundred and a Viva and nothing else. There was nobody about. But I was past caring about that kind of scouting. The thoughts of the job and the money and getting Sheila and Timmy out of it made the risks seem light, negligible. In an odd way this biggest risk of all had given me a kind of fatalistic calm. I had a peaceful feeling that I wouldn't be caught, that the job would progress through smoothly, that Sheila and Timmy and me would make it with no trouble. Maybe I had these feelings because I had no choice: that to think the other way would automatically bring everything down on my head. I didn't know. All I knew was that this was what I had to do to clear up the mess we were in. There was no way I could allow myself to fail.
I walked into the pub.
They were sitting in a corner, in one of those booths carved in a phony medieval style. There were only two of them. Both flash, all the gear, beige leather and soft suede and rings and identity bracelets and the hairstyles and the arrogance. Nobody was ever going to put them away. Nobody was smart enough.
I walked to the bar and got a drink and waited for them to come to me. They didn't move for a while. They were playing the same game. After three or four minutes one of them left his seat and came over to the bar and stood behind me. I could tell he was behind me because of his aftershave.
“Evening,” he said.
I turned round and looked at him. He was grinning at me, but I didn't like the grin. It was arrogant, full of condescension.
I nodded in reply.
“You must have missed us,” he said. “We're over in the booth.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I said.
I walked past him and over to the booth and sat down. The other one watched me all the way. This one wasn't grinning but the same arrogance and conceit were there.
The first one slid into the seat, next to me.
There was a silence.
“I'm Vince,” said the first one. “And this is Dave.”
I nodded again.
“And you're Billy,” said the one called Dave.
I didn't answer.
“And you want to work,” he continued.
“That's right,” I said.
There was another silence.
“Jimmy tell you what we're on?” Vince said.
“Yes.”
“All we want,” said Dave, “is some extra muscle.”
I didn't say anything.
“Five minutes' work, really.”
I waited.
“Thing is, for five minutes, we can't count you in on the divvy. I mean, we've been sorting this one for a couple of months now.”
“See what we mean?” Vince said. “We'll be glad to give you the work. But as to the divvy . . .”
“Did Jimmy tell you I'd expect to be in on the divvy?” I said.
“No, but . . .”
“Then the conversation we're having's pointless, isn't it?”
“Just wanted to make sure you understood our position,” said Dave.
“Fine,” I said. “Now you understand my position: I'm working for a grand. Half first, half after. No ifs, no buts. Just tell me what needs doing and I'll do it. But leave out the lip and leave out the clever glances and on Wednesday evening you'll both be a lot better off. Thanks to me. Because you two couldn't knock over my Auntie Nora's karsi on your own. And she's been dead ten years.”
I took a sip of my drink. They both looked at me. After a little while Dave said: “We don't need you, cunt.”
I smiled at him.
“Then why am I here?”
“We're doing a favour for Jimmy.”
“Don't make me tired,” I said. “You've never done anybody a favour in your life. You need me. You can't get any of the pros to work with you. It's plain as day. You're only getting me because I want out of my present situation. You're just a couple of wankers. Without me you don't stand a snowball's chance.”
“Listen, clever sod,” Dave said, “there isn't only you, you know. There's two other geezers in on it. You're just insurance. One more isn't going to make all that much difference.”
“If it's me it will,” I said. Vince began to speak but I cut him off. “Look, is it on or isn't it? Otherwise I can think of other places to do my drinking.”
They looked at one another. Dave said:
“What makes you think we can put the bread up front?”
“Oh, you can,” I said. “Couple of affluent lads like yourselves. You'll be able to manage that.”
“Supposing we don't want to?”
“Then you don't want me, do you?”
There was another silence.
“Are we having another drink, or what?” I said.
Dave looked at Vince. Then he nodded.
Vince got up and went to the bar. Neither of us spoke until Vince got back with the drinks. When Vince sat down I said: “The other two you mentioned. They know I'm in it?”
“Not yet,” Vince said.
“Who are they?”
“What does it matter?”
“I said who are they?”
“George Fulcher and Mickey Reeve.”
I shook my head.
“Don't know either of them.”
“Well, you wouldn't, would you,” Dave said.
I looked at him.
“Well, you know what I mean,” he said.
I left it and took a drink.
“All right,” I said. “Tell me all about it.”
“Nothing to tell,” Vince said. “It's a doddle. Just a Post Office van. Ram and scram. Two cars, one posted on the route, one following the van. Once we've stopped the van we take the stuff in the second car, drive two streets and get into the straight cars.”
“A doddle,” I said. “I've been on doddles before.”
“What can screw it up?”
I scratched my head.
“Well?” said Vince.
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”
I finished my drink.
“And you want me to supply some muscle,” I said.
“You and the other two. Dave and me'll concentrate on the rear doors.”
“Which car am I in?”
“The first one. The waiting car.”
“I take it you don't intend going tooled up.”
“Tooled up? On this kind of job?”
“Just so's I know what I'm into,” I said.
“Christ, we don't want ten-stretches.”
“I thought you were the types that were never going to get your collars felt. I thought that was just for old timers like me.”
“Yeah, well. There's always the possibility. I mean, you have to think of these things, don't you?”
I didn't phone Sheila when I got back to the flat. I felt too tired and depressed.
The two tearaways had put the mockers on me. Had I been like that ten years ago? Christ, I hoped not. I'd hate to have thought I'd been nicked as a result of being as stupid as they were.
I made a cup of tea and put the pot and the milk on a tray and set it down on the bedside table and got straight into bed.
The job had sounded straightforward enough. Even if they screwed it up I reckoned I could get myself out of it without concerning myself with them. And have the half a grand. But the whole thing seemed unreal to me. There was none of the old elation, no excitement at the prospect of action. Maybe the tearaways were right. Maybe I was an old man without any appetite.
I drank my tea and switched out the light. Outside the distant sound of traffic drifted up into the sky. For some reason I thought of myself as a boy, lying in my bed just this way, listening to the noises of the outside world, wondering what was happening out there, inventing stories to fit the sounds of the night.
“Sheila, it's me.”
“Billy, love. I thought something had happened . . .”
“Nothing's happened, sweetheart. Look, I think it's time for us to get back together. I think it'll be OK now.”
“Billy, that's marvellous.”
“Yeah, well listen. I want you to go to this flat in Fulham. Now you'll be followed, we know that, but don't worry about it. Just go to the flat and go in. The door'll be open. On the hall table there'll be an envelope with the keys to the Mini and the address of where I'm living, right? Don't bother reading it then. Just pick it up and go through the flat to the back bedroom window and out and down the fire-escape. You'll be quite safe because there's a courtyard that can't be seen from the way you go in. Just cross the courtyard and there's a passage under the flats behind, right? Go down the passage and the Mini'll be opposite the passage in the next street.”