Prized Possessions (12 page)

*   *   *

It grew cold in the Conways' front room in the wee small hours. The glass in the window frame creaked with frost and, come morning, would be caked with white rime inside as well as out.

There would be no long lie-in either, even though it was Sunday. There was a tub wash waiting to be done and a fortnight's ironing piled up in the basket. Before noon the kitchen would be filled with steam, the ceiling pulleys dripping with wet clothes and there would be nothing much for midday dinner except soup and bread. Later in the afternoon one of the girls would have to go and visit Gran because Mammy would be too busy, and too tired.

Babs and Polly lay side by side in bed.

Snuggled against Polly's back, Rosie snored softly.

‘Did Tommy say what you'd have to do?' Polly whispered. ‘I mean, they're not going to give you a hundred quid for nothing.'

‘Didn't Patsy say anythin' to you about it?' Babs asked.

‘Not a flamin' word,' said Polly. ‘Maybe he doesn't know.'

‘Oh, he knows,' said Babs. ‘I could tell by the look on his face.'

Polly said nothing for a while, thinking.

It had come upon them much quicker than she had supposed, yet at the back of her mind had always been the notion that sooner or later she or her sister would be drawn back into the fold, into that circle of criminal activity from which her father had escaped only by going off to die in the war. There was something fitting – no, not fitting, inevitable – something inevitable about the Conway girls being persuaded to follow in Daddy's footsteps. In an odd way Polly was surprised that it had not happened before now.

Perhaps that was the reason she had drifted into a friendship with the Hallops and with Patsy Walsh. Perhaps that was the reason she could not dislike Patsy and that, even now, she was not repelled by the idea of being involved in what amounted to a crime.

‘A hundred pounds is a great deal of money,' Polly heard herself say.

‘Yeah, I know.'

Babs pressed her forearms to her breasts.

She remembered how Jackie had touched her tonight, out in the lane behind the Palais. If they hadn't been surrounded by other couples necking away like nuts then he might have gone the whole way, whether she liked it or not. She'd been so taken aback by his ardour that she hadn't had any opportunity to interrogate him about Tommy Bonnar's plan. She'd been too excited to settle for conversation. She'd wanted his mouth on hers, his tongue in her mouth. She said nothing about any of that to Polly, who would certainly disapprove.

Polly said, ‘Obviously they're planning a break-in.'

‘I guessed that much,' Babs said. ‘If they want me to get them a plan of the Central Warehouse you don't have to be a genius to work out where.'

‘Tommy Bonnar's no burglar.'

‘Patsy is.'

‘What's in the warehouse that's worth stealing?'

‘Plenty,' said Babs. ‘Wireless sets, clothing, statues, cutlery. You name it, we got it.'

‘Cash?' said Polly.

‘I never see the cash,' Babs said. ‘I'm just an invoice clerk. But there's a whoppin' big safe in Mr MacDermott's office on the second floor. You have to ask Mrs Anderson's permission before you're allowed in there. Her desk's right outside. I've only been in once. I was scared.'

‘Scared? Why?'

‘Because he's the big boss.'

‘No,' Polly said. ‘He's not the big boss. That's what puzzles me.'

‘Eh?'

‘Mr Manone's the big boss. Dominic Manone owns the warehouse.'

Babs sat up. A stream of cold air infiltrated the bed. Polly grabbed at the blankets and pulled them to her, sealing in warmth.

Babs said, ‘I didn't know that. How did you find out?'

‘Looked it up in the company register.'

‘What's that?'

‘In the Burgh Hall we keep a register of company holdings, not just for the burgh, for the whole southside,' Polly said. ‘When you got the job with CWC I looked it up. I mean, how do you think you got the job in the first place? There must have been fifty girls up for it, right? Dominic Manone probably used his influence. Lifted the telephone – and Bob's your uncle.'

‘Why would he do that for me?'

‘Because Mammy asked him to.'

‘Jeeze!' said Babs. ‘I really didn't know that.'

Polly drew her sister down again. Heads together on the long pillow, noses almost touching, Polly said, ‘If Tommy Bonnar is setting up a break-in, what's he doing robbing the CWC? He
works
for Dominic Manone, for God's sake. Surely he's not gonna steal from his own boss.' Polly paused. ‘Is he?'

‘How would I know?' Babs said. ‘Maybe we should tell the boys. Maybe
they
don't know Mr Manone owns the warehouse.'

‘Don't be so flamin' daft, Babs,' Polly said. ‘Of course they know.'

‘I suppose they must,' Babs said. ‘Oh, hell! I told Tommy Bonnar to count me in. I wisht I'd known. I wisht I'd known.' She kicked her feet, making the bed shake. ‘That bastard Jackie. I could cut his bloody throat, stringin' me along. I thought all he wanted was – I mean, I thought he
liked
me.'

‘He does, Babs. I'm sure he does.'

‘It's all right for you.'

‘It isn't all right for me.' Polly sighed.

‘Patsy Walsh?'

‘Yes, Patsy Walsh.'

‘Oooooh,' Babs said. ‘Like that, is it? Serious?'

‘It's not like anything yet,' said Polly. ‘And I'm not sure it's ever going to become serious.'

‘Because of what I just told you?'

‘Because of a lot of things,' said Polly. ‘I'll tell you this, Babs: if Tommy Bonnar had asked you to help him rob anywhere other than the Manones' warehouse I would have been turning him over to the police.'

‘Squeal? You wouldn't do that to Jackie, would you?'

‘I might. I probably would,' said Polly. ‘But if they are just going to take money from a robber like Dominic Manone – well, I can't see that it's such a wicked thing to do. I imagine Patsy will consider it a justified redistribution of wealth. It's dangerous, though, very dangerous.'

Babs rolled on to her back and crossed her arms over her chest. She stared up at the ceiling, at the wedge of frosty light that cleft a gap in the curtains. ‘Maybe we should tell Mammy what's goin' on.'

‘We can't,' Polly said. ‘She'd go crazy if she thought we were chummy with guys like Jackie and Patsy. She'd never let us out of her sight again.'

‘Yeah, yeah, you're right,' Babs said. ‘So – what do we do?'

‘Just hang on,' said Polly.

‘To what, but?' said Babs.

‘To what we've got.'

‘An' what's that?'

‘Not much,' Polly said. ‘Look, leave it to me. I'll talk to Patsy. I'll try to find out exactly what they have in mind.'

‘When?'

‘Tomorrow, if I can,' said Polly.

*   *   *

After nightfall the couple from the Calcutta Road wouldn't have dared saunter along the old bridle path that hung above the river. It was well outside Patsy's territory and he, and Polly too, knew only too well what would happen if they were spotted by one of the kids who patrolled the borders of the beat.

Gang members would gather like jackals out of the frosty haze that hung over the Clyde; eight, ten or a dozen ill-clad, ill-kempt lads who gave themselves status by protecting their nondescript patch from intruders, as if something valuable were to be found in the dank closes and rubbish-littered streets, something worth fighting for.

On Sunday afternoons, though, on the waste ground among the canting basins and graving docks there was activity of another sort. Here gamblers met to play pitch-and-toss or cards or once in a while pit two mastiffs one against the other, to wager on which dog, weltered in blood, would survive. Gamblers had their own look-outs, their own rationale, which was more than could be said for the strutting little tyrants whose pitiless lack of motive was legendary.

Even Polly knew they'd nothing to fear from the gamblers, provided they kept their distance.

She had located Patsy without much difficulty. He had been hanging around the Black Cat Café waiting for it to open at noon.

It was his habit to pretend that he was a Frenchman, to infiltrate the churchy crowd and drink black coffee and read the Sunday newspapers, not, unfortunately, at a table on the pavement but tucked away in one of the booths at the back where he could find some peace and quiet. Why he went there every Sunday noon was a little mystery, one of many that surrounded Patsy Walsh, but Polly had the feeling that it had to do with ‘business' and did not ask him to explain himself.

That particular Sunday morning, however, there was no evidence to suggest that Patsy was waiting for a tick-tack man.

He seemed pleased enough to see her.

They drank coffee and smoked cigarettes in the chilly back booth until Polly had worked up enough nerve to raise the subject of the robbery.

‘Babs told you?'

‘Of course she told me,' Polly said. ‘She's my sister, after all.'

‘What do you think?' Patsy said. ‘Will she co-operate?'

‘For a hundred quid,' Polly said, ‘my sister will do almost anything.'

‘She won't come to any harm,' Patsy promised.

‘No,' Polly said. ‘I imagine all you need from her is inside information. What's Tommy Bonnar got to do with it, though?'

‘It's his tickle.'

‘Robbing the Manones is Tommy's idea of a tickle?'

Patsy shrugged. ‘It's there for the takin',' he said. ‘I've got no scruples about robbin' the Manones. They're just capitalists, black-hearted capitalists like everybody else in this lousy world.'

‘Except the workers,' Polly said.

‘Yeah.' Patsy had the decency to grin. ‘Except the workers. You wanna take a walk, Polly?'

‘What? Now?'

‘No time like the present.'

‘I should be at home helping out with the washing.'

‘How excitin'!' Patsy said. ‘I repeat, you wanna take a walk?'

‘Where?'

‘Down by the river.'

When she looked at him she felt a strange guilty thrill transmit itself through her. He wasn't handsome, not conventionally handsome, but he was rugged in his own individual way. More important, he was intelligent, well educated and well travelled. He cared about things that mattered, things other than money and motorcycles, betting and booze. He was so different from most of the other men she had met that she felt oddly privileged to be his companion.

‘How long will it take?' she asked.

‘Couple of hours.'

‘All right,' Polly said. ‘Let's go.'

She was hardly dressed for hiking and felt conspicuous in the empty wasteland behind the graving docks, even more so on the stretch of bridle path that perched over the river.

Unselfconsciously, she held on to Patsy's hand.

Patsy was dressed in a tweed jacket, collared shirt and chewed-up tie that gave him an air of near respectability. He carried no weapons. He knew that if they were caught on the bridle path by one of the young gangs there would be no way to avoid trouble except by plunging into the Clyde.

He didn't anticipate trouble this early in the afternoon. While respectable members of society trailed off to Sunday School or Bible Class or assembled for one sort of parade or another, most hooligans would be sleeping off hangovers or mooching about in front of the shuttered pubs or, if boredom had really taken hold, padding over to the park to kick a ball about or, better still, one of the drunken old down-and-outs who hadn't had the sense to scarper.

It wasn't where he'd have chosen to bring Polly Conway. It wasn't the Tuileries or the Tiergarten or any of the places that he dreamed of taking her and might take her one day, one day soon. But there were compensations: the vague, slightly uncomfortable excitement of sharing his work with her, knowing that beneath her almost middle-class restraint she was still enough of her father's daughter to understand, if not condone, what he was doing here and why he had brought her along.

‘Is that it?' Polly said.

‘That's it,' Patsy answered.

‘Have you ever been inside?'

‘Nope.'

‘Thought you had been, dumping off stuff?'

‘Non permesso,'
Patsy said.
‘Impedire.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Not allowed. Taboo. Entry forbidden to guys like me.' Patsy shrugged. ‘I don't blame the Eye-tie, actually. The warehouse is part of a strictly legitimate business. Wouldn't look right for somebody with my reputation to go lollopin' in the front door with an armful of stolen goods, now would it?'

‘How does Mr Manone shift the hot stuff?'

‘No idea,' Patsy said. ‘I collect my rake, that's all that concerns me.'

‘You could collect more than your rake from this one,' Polly said. ‘You all could, if you steal money from the Manones.'

‘That's for Tommy to worry about.'

‘That's what bothers me,' Polly said. ‘Why is Tommy Bonnar setting up his boss's warehouse?'

‘He needs fast cash,' Patsy told her. ‘Tommy's up to his neck in debt to Chick McGuire, a guy who won't take no for an answer. McGuire's not one of Manone's bookies so Tommy can't go cryin' to Dominic to get him off the hook.'

‘Couldn't he take out a loan?' Polly suggested.

‘Maybe he has,' Patsy said. ‘I don't reckon he'd have the gall to ask Manone, though. Old Guido would be furious if he thought Tommy'd been placin' bets with the opposition. I mean, hell, we all know what Chick thinks of the Manones. There's been trouble before.'

‘Even so,' Polly said. ‘Surely Tommy's taking a big risk. How can he be sure that you won't tell Manone?'