Later that day, in the changing rooms after training, Ian thanked Buckshot for going along with his deception. It had surprised him that Buckshot hadn’t even asked him how he had got himself a car. Buckshot was still rubbing a towel across his back as he said, ‘Yout, after wha’ your ole man put me through I reckon you owe me one.’
‘Owe wha’?’
‘Owe me a favour one day. I was sayin to the guys the other day that out of us all, you’re the one who can mek it as a pro. An’ when you’re up there I don’t want you forgettin’ us down here. I mean I might want tickets for a cup final one day.’
‘Nah,’ Ian said happily, ‘I would never forget you guys.’ Buckshot looked at him more seriously. ‘But it was that rich white woman on the Wergs Road who gave you that car, isn’t it?’ he asked.
Ian was shocked that Buckshot knew about her; he had only told Kingsley her name and where she lived and had made him promise to keep it secret. ‘Who told you, was it Kingsley?’
The corners of Buckshot’s mouth turned down. ‘I don’t know any Kingsley, but I do know the guy who was asked by this woman to fit the stripes an’ wheels to that car. Look, Ian, I ain’t gonna tell you your business but there’s been plenty young guys who had talent like yours but they never made it ’cause them got distracted, right. So here’s a tip, ease out, guy, ease out now before tings get messy an’ gets you all distracted. I mean, look at all this business with bringin your ole man down to my place – that’s jus complication you don’t need.’
Ian stood trying to think of an answer that made out that things between him and Ruth Martell were simple, but as he stood there with his mouth open Buckshot laughed and slapped his shoulder. ‘Remember, cut the complication an’ I’ll be callin’ you one day for a few cup final tickets,’ he said.
5
Vince Buckshot Pinnock had to move on. His business was outgrowing the small workshop off Sweetman Street and the landlord, one of Clovis Beckford’s fellow churchgoers, was giving off signals that he was about to put up the rent. The crafty and flabby landlord, Rudolph Naylor, would peek at the cars from underneath the rim of his hat and mutter how well Buckshot must be doing. ‘An’ you ’ave dis place cheap, y’know,’ he’d always add.
When members of the congregation were speaking in tongues, Rudolph was one who could translate the words of the ‘’Oly Spirit’ into something that approximated to English, or more correctly, Hinglish. According to Rudolph, God was very worried that members of His flock were clinging to mammon too much; in other words, there wasn’t enough going onto the collection plates for the Lord’s liking. Rudolph gave another sort of gift, that over the years had led to four members of the choir bearing his children. There was a smugness about him (and a wealth that had been explained away by his property dealings) that sickened Buckshot. Every Jamaican in Wolverhampton knew, or had heard the tales, of how he had exploited his fellow countrymen by charging new arrivals exorbitant rents and outrageous prices for the winter coats that none of them had possessed or needed back home. As he got richer, Rudolph became a part-time preacher who indulged in nearly all of the deadly sins except for the deadliest of them all: getting caught.
It was only because Buckshot liked Ian Beckford’s attitude that he had not told his old man Clovis to sling his hook. Ian reminded Buckshot of himself as a teenager; always a little bit of an outsider no matter how much he tried to fit in. Clovis Beckford had started to get under Buckshot’s skin from the moment he asked if he were Everton Pinnock’s son. He knew damn well he was and as he spoke the corners of Clovis’s mouth betrayed his pleasure that Buckshot’s father was reaping the bitter harvest of his sinful sowing. ‘An’ me hear him an’ your mother split up an’ ting,’ Clovis remarked. He drew breath to follow up with some sort of biblical quotation but was pulled up short by the glares of both Buckshot and Ian. The break-up of his parents’ marriage was the one matter Buckshot refused to discuss with anyone, including either of his parents or his sister Shannon – before she left for Hamburg. He definitely wouldn’t have held his peace if Clovis had mentioned her.
Buckshot knew of several girls who had gone to Germany from Wolverhampton and figured that what he took to be ‘modelling’ must have been lost in the translation into German. He had warned Shannon of the possible dangers but his younger sister was too vain; urged on by their mother, who had paid for an expensive portfolio, she headed for Hamburg with dreams of becoming a model. To Buckshot’s embarrassment, news of Shannon’s venture quickly spread and even big Carl Hooper, who wasn’t normally one for passing comment, almost said what everyone believed: ‘Yeah, Buckie, she modellin’ her pus …’ The words died in the big man’s throat as he saw the look in Buckshot’s eyes.
The split in his parents’ marriage of twenty-three years had been coming for some time. Everton Pinnock had been having affairs from early on and Buckshot had heard he had a brother somewhere who was only a year younger than he was. It had never been a marriage made in heaven. Buckshot’s mother Susan was a Jamaican of Indian descent and her family had been against her marrying Everton, not so much because he was black (although that was a factor) but because her mother had heard of his reputation around Port Antonio. ‘If it only was im eye that did the rovin,’ she had told her daughter. The marriage had only lasted as long as it did because of Susan Pinnock’s reluctance to prove her mother right. But, subconsciously at least, it had affected the way she had reared Shannon. She had encouraged her daughter to go out with white boys; they were ‘more respectful’. Why or how Shannon had ended up with a black man like Danny Rankin was a source of both mystery and heartbreak to her mother.
Everton did not want Buckshot sharing his house, but he allowed him to do so just to spite Susan. He was still a good-looking forty-something who could pull the gals and bring them home, or so he thought. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want his son seeing what he was up to but, as he explained to him, ‘Two bull can’t share the same pen. You-a big bull now, Vincent, an’ it time you found your own pen. You ’ave to the end of the month an’ then you ’ave to go.’ After Buckshot’s own had disintegrated, Sabina Park Rangers had become more like his family.
On Thursday, the day after the Post Office robbery, the local police made door-to-door inquiries in the Newhampton Road area but got little in the way of useful information. When the cops turned up at Buckshot’s garage in the early afternoon, their appearance was not entirely unexpected. After any robbery involving a stolen car, the cops paid him a visit.
Buckshot raised his head from under a bonnet. ‘Yeah, wha’ you want, Sergeant Boyd?’ he asked, not bothering to look at the warrant card thrust in his direction. He knew the detective sergeant well, just as he knew the answer to his own question. The detective had a reputation for being a racist and a planter of evidence if the opportunity arose. Boyd put away his warrant card and said, ‘Vince, Vince, what’s with the hostility? I’m only here for a chat and to offer my congratulations on your team getting to the final.’
He was bluffing, but with the assurance of an innocent man, Buckshot said, ‘Cut the bullshit, sergeant, I’m busy, okay. So to save us all time, I don’t know a ting ’bout the Post Office job.’
Boyd and another plainclothes cop began to wander around the small workshop and lifted a tarpaulin that was draped over a vehicle. ‘Didn’t think you would, Vince,’ Boyd said as he continued to examine the old Mercedes convertible. ‘They used a 1600cc Cortina, not your style.’ He paused and looked over his shoulder to gauge Buckshot’s reaction to his insinuation before he continued, ‘I’ve heard it was two kids, bloody inept kids at that. One of them tripped up as he backed out and let off a round. The silly bugger nearly shot someone and all he got was about ninety quid in cash and a load of vehicle tax discs. So if you get offered any I’ll expect a call.’
‘But of course, officer,’ Buckshot said sarcastically, ‘Now if you don’t mind I have to get this cylinder head finished.’ ‘All right, Vince, I can see you’re busy,�
�� Boyd said, failing to sound sympathetic. He nodded to his colleague and started to make his way out but stopped near Buskshot and put his head under the bonnet. He stared down at the engine as if he knew what he was looking at. ‘How’s your sister, is she still modelling in Germany?’
Buckshot looked hard into Boyd’s eyes and it crossed his mind how pleasurable it would be to smack him with a wrench. But he knew that DS Boyd was trying to provoke him, and was only really interested in him because he played in the same team as Cecil Grant. Detective Sergeant Boyd suspected (but could not prove) that Buckshot had prepared some of Cecil’s high-powered getaway cars. In response to the cop’s question, Buckshot merely sucked his teeth and got on with his work.
‘Shannon’s her name isn’t it?’ chuckled Boyd sardonically. ‘Very good-looking girl as I remember. Didn’t think much of the company she kept … Danny Rankin, nasty piece of work, record for living off immoral earnings. I just hope her trip has nothing to do with him, Vince.’
The sneer in the cop’s voice almost had Buckshot at breaking point and at that moment he hated his sister and mother for all the humiliation they had caused him. A few years back, Horace McIntosh had once told the team that Sergeant Boyd had visited his barber shop and suggested a friendly match between Sabina Park Rangers and a police eleven. The idea was quickly shouted down; no one wanted any relations with the police that could be described as friendly. But as he listened to the cop laughing while he sauntered out of the workshop, Buckshot would have done almost anything right then for an opportunity to break Boyd’s legs with a two-footed sliding tackle.
The cops hadn’t been gone long before big Carl Hooper appeared. He usually turned up with his little three-legged mongrel that he called Eastwood after his favourite film star in one hand and a curry patty for Buckshot in his other.
Buckshot was always happy to see them because he got peckish in the afternoons and the patties made by Wong the Jamaican Chinaman always hit the right spot. Once they’d eaten, and if there wasn’t too much work on, Carl would get in the goal made up of two oilcans and Buckshot would have a bit of shooting practise. He also liked to see the little black and white dog, as his best friend while growing up was a Labrador-cross he called Tex. ‘Wha’ is up with Eastwood today?’ he asked Carl.
The big man gently put his whimpering tri-ped on the ground and watched him squat and deposit a pile of steaming mess. ‘Me ’ad a good win today,’ explained Carl, as the little dog continued to whine, ‘so me thought me would celebrate and buy Eastwood two curry patties. Well, he shit an’ shit an’ shit, ever since, Buckie. I’m worried ’bout him.’ Buckshot suddenly didn’t feel hungry any more and handed back the patty as Carl asked him, ‘Would you ’ave somethin to put on his backside, some kind-a cream or somethin’?’ ‘Man, this a garage me-a run, wha’ mek you think me would ’ave ointment for a dog’s batty?’
‘I just thought when you cut up your hand, you’d have somethin’ to rub on it.’
‘Yeah, well if I did, it ain’t squirtin’ anywhere near Eastwood’s rashole, me-a tell you.’
‘Right, right,’ said Carl, as his brow creased even deeper. ‘I’ll go to the vet then.’
‘Probably the best place, man.’
‘True, true. Look, before we go, you trainin’ tonight?’
‘Depends if me fix this car in time, why you arks?’
‘Somethin’ I heard.’
‘Yeah, like wha’?’
‘Somethin’ like there’s some kind-a talk ’bout makin’ some big money.’
‘Like sponorship?’
‘Nah.’
‘It ain’t some pyramid-sellin’ bullshit is it, ’cause if it is I ain’t interested.’
‘Nah, man, somethin’ else.’
‘Then wha’?’
‘Not sure, I just heard that everyone is to turn up tonight an’ then we find out.’
Eastwood whined more loudly and began to drag his backside over the workshop floor, leaving a trail behind him. Carl picked him up and Buckshot looked down at the streaks and the pile of dog shit at his feet.
‘So see you later?’ asked Carl.
Buckshot was preoccupied with the prospect of cleaning up the mess, but figured that he had nothing to lose. ‘Yeah, man,’ he said, ‘me see you later. But mek sure you get somethin done ’bout that dog’s battyhole before me see him again.’
6
Nestor Riley and Desmond Palmer had turned up late and missed the Thursday evening training session at Aldersley Stadium but had somehow still managed to get two tickets off Horace McIntosh for the ‘beauty contest with a difference’ at the Star and Moon club the following night. The two men went to the changing rooms to find their teammates showering and drying themselves and as usual all of them refused to shake either of the men’s hands while they were in their work clothes. Still dressed in black suits and white shirts, they would have passed for nightclub doormen but they actually worked for a funeral director named Steve Patel who had set up a company specialising in services for ethnic minorities in the West Midlands. Steve had tried his hand at several businesses and thought he had finally found a niche in a market that would never run out of customers. It was not long before he spotted other, related business opportunities, especially if the deceased had no relatives around the place, but he needed personnel who had no respect for the dead – or as he put it, ‘Graverobbers who don’t want to go to the trouble of burying their victims first.’ He had known Nestor Riley and Desmond Palmer from the days when they used to steal from his father’s shop on their way to school and they were the first people who came to mind. Normally their belief in duppies (ghosts) would have made them reluctant to take up this line of work but the opportunity to remove items of value and cash along with the corpse helped them to overcome their reservations. The deal they had agreed was that Steve got antiques and jewellery and the two guys kept the cash.
‘Listen up,’ Nestor called out to his teammates, ‘me an’ Des have a way of you guys mekin some serious money. An’ before any of unno arks, it don’t involve sellin soap or shit like that, right. Our spar Steve Patel has a contact in India an’ he wants to import some high-class caskets, you know, serious mahogany an’ ting. Man, these tings are so comfortable once you see one you jus wanna ’urry up an’ die. Now these caskets from India are half the price any funeral director can buy in this country so Steve is gonna buy in a few thousand an’ sell them wholesale. But there’s a catch, for the best price he’s gonna have to buy a shipload, to rasclart. So now he’s havin to raise some serious shekels an’ the deal is this – anyone who puts in at least a grand will have his money doubled in one month. So put in two grand an’ you get back four, put in twenty an’ you make another twenty … fe doin nutten.’
Nestor Riley braced himself in the expectation of a rush that never came. Most of the responses were made up of loud suckings of teeth and several cuss words directed at the two guys. Some told Nestor and Desmond that they must be insane if they seriously thought that they had that sort of money (and they, in turn, would also have to be insane to hand it over to the likes of Nestor and Desmond). ‘You guys must be crazy,’ snorted Norman Longmore, ‘since when does a coolie cut a black man into a deal that’s any good. No, sah, if the coolie ’ave a good deal him tell only coolie. You too fool, man, the two-a unno, too fool to believe dat, or to see any of my hard-earned money, to rahteed.’
Several players followed Norman and shouldered their way out while shaking their heads scornfully. ‘If you need money for ya coolie spar,’ Audley Robinson said to Desmond as he left, ‘why don’t you go arks ya daddy fe some-a im t’irty-five grand winnins?’
From his puzzled expression and the way he kept silently mouthing ‘t’irty-five grand?’ it was obvious that Desmond Palmer was one of the few people in the town who had not heard about his father’s pools win. Both he and Nestor stood with their mouths open as Courtney Wright explained about the win and Mervyn’s purchase of a brand new Austin Princes
s for five grand. Desmond’s mind was filled with questions of how so much money could be so close by without him knowing about it and he exchanged a disbelieving glance with Nestor.
‘Me know, man, me know wha’ you’re thinkin,’ said Nestor. ‘A rasclart Austin Princess. The man jus’ go waste five-rasclart-t’ousand pounds!’
‘Well, that too,’ Desmond muttered. But he was thinking more about his greedy older brothers and sisters who had probably already got their shares. But it only took a second or two for him to rethink that: his old man was too mean to start sharing. The one lesson Mervyn had taught Desmond was to look after yourself first … second … third … fourth … and to only do someone a favour if you know you will get more back.
With their minds busy with thoughts of thirty grand, they didn’t notice how few men were left in the changing room until Cecil Grant spoke. ‘Now the hupstandin members ’ave gone,’ he said, ‘you can cut the foolishness ’bout coffins from India an’ tell us wha’ the real deal is.’
Nestor’s eyes refocused and surveyed those who had remained. Besides Cecil the bank robber there were the usual guys who were up for any dodgy business. Courtney Wright, who traded in herbal matter; Buckshot Pinnock, a man who dealt with the odd stolen car; Bryce McBean who was currently selling stolen goods in the Birmingham area and had done his fair share of robbing; and lastly (and most surprisingly to Nestor and Desmond) Mark Beckford. ‘No offence, church-bwoy,’ Nestor Riley said to him, ‘but these men here ’ave ways an’ means of raisin serious cash, if you know wha’ I mean. That’s unless you’re gonna rob them teefin pastors you see every Sunday. Bwoy, there’s not a man here who can get near them men fe skanks an’ robbery, to ras.’
MORE THAN a GAME Page 5