Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  It was during his final school year that Angelo fell into the drug scene. Since then, he’s immersed himself in the trade, starting out by purchasing small wads of marijuana and dividing them into smaller saleable quantities. He furthered his standing after creating a mini processing station in the loft of a disused barn on his parents’ property. To dispel questions about the amount of time he spent in the barn, he set up two easels and decorated the walls with pieces of artistry that wouldn’t sell from a cardboard box in the back corner of a charity shop. His drug equipment – bowls, racks, a small drying oven and two sets of scales – were passed off as necessities for making and mixing paint pigments.

  The barn eventually gave way to the practicality of importing. Adopting modern multi-level marketing techniques, Angelo found it easier and safer to act as middle-man by purchasing the product from overseas. He now cuts and divides it, and wholesales the lot to a dealer to distribute through his own network. Angelo takes forty percent of the street value for doing next to nothing – and with little risk. But there’s a catch. The imported product is inferior. Ever the thinker, he overcomes that problem by using his own quality crop as samples, and then fills the orders from the inferior product.

  In responding to his mother’s call to ‘look some papers’ Angelo ogles McMaster’s offer. The glowing £٣٦٠,٠٠٠ sale price is like reading the dividend of Lotto’s Division One prize pool. He visualises not what he can do for his mother, but what he could do for himself. He peers to the future. ‘Mama, this is a good idea. You don’t need the land. With Tony and Vince overseas, none of us can help. You’ve got no crops and no stock. All you do is pay for hay cutting and then lose money selling it.’ He takes his mother’s hand and offers rarely imparted sincerity: ‘Mama, with this, you’ll have it off your mind. You can have an easy life. You have the offer. You don’t have to worry about advertising and agent’s costs; you just sign and let a solicitor do the legals.’

  He narrows his focus to the end-benefit. Grabs a local paper from the recycling pile. Checks listings of similar properties in the surrounding area. Sees that McMaster has offered a fair price. He phones McMaster and compliments a passion fruit screen, and then slips in that he is dealing with the property’s sale process, save for the actual signing. He requests a meeting to discuss settlement.

  McMaster knows that a person who deals drugs has the requisite mind-set to pluck a quid from helping an old lady cross the street. On hearing the words ‘passion fruit’, he suspected that Angelo was sizing him up. McMaster has used the deflection many times: ‘How you going Shorty. Get those half a dozen bottles I sent you? By the way, got that name for me?’

  Angelo cuts short the visit to his mother. ‘Mama. I’ll go and see Phil. We have to know if he’s serious about this. After that, I’ll go home, look over the documents, and come back later.’

  Slouched in McMaster’s conservatory, Angelo sips beer and drags on a thick joint. ‘So what’s the go with my oldies’ farm?’

  The abrupt question doesn’t flummox McMaster. ‘Mutual benefit,’ he replies. ‘You should know your mum will find it hard to cope. I’m looking to maximise my land potential by planting out crops. With an extra 25 acres, I’m sitting pretty. I’m not desperate though, so it’s a take it or leave it offer. There’s no pressure on your mother.’

  ‘You’re trying it on.’ Angelo can’t visualise McMaster abandoning suits and handcuffs for baggy coveralls and pitchforks. Nor can he see the white-collar worker adapting to life on the land, especially in an era where farmers themselves stress over underproduction and falling financial returns. ‘So what are you going to grow?’

  ‘Not quite sure. Depends on soil evaluation and how much actual acreage will be available. That’s where your parents’ land comes in.’

  ‘Okay. No big deal to me. I’m just the messenger; helping with the documents.’

  ‘Fine. Probably the least you can do for her.’ McMaster extends a handshake, knowing full well that Angelo’s level of written comprehension would rise no higher than Muscle and Fitness magazine.

  With Angelo Caruso dispatched, McMaster sets about formalising the deal. He advises Jeff Main of the proposed transaction and details preliminary instructions, stressing that no legal obstruction should compromise the conveyance. Main accepts the file with accompanying fear of McMaster’s penchant for getting what he wants, be it by treading on toes, sacrificing relationships, or discarding ethics.

  Back home, Angelo studies the contracts. Looks for a means to fill his wallet. He knows that any scam must allow the documents to pass through both the vendor’s and purchaser’s solicitors. Angelo’s résumé of schoolyard extortions and immature pranks wouldn’t succeed in an illicit gaming hall, let alone cut the mustard against the legal fraternity. His ambitions exceed his ability and his status as a small-time, bit player in drug and protection racquets. Those ambitions do, however, include the successful entrepreneur’s prime attribute: confidence. Prosperous self-made men and women of the world uphold one ideal: Anything is Possible. Angelo poaches the Nike Corporation tag line: Just do it.

  He switches on his computer, slides the original offer into the scanner, and with a Character Recognition program, copies the document into his computer. The Contract of Sale fills the screen – a replica of the offer proposed by Phillip McMaster. Gloria McMaster’s signature joins her husband’s, in name only, for Gloria is to Phillip as Gibraltar is to the United Kingdom – joined in sovereignty but separated by distance, culture and emotional attachment. Angelo drops the cursor onto the sale price, changes it from £360,000 to £270,000 – at the same time adjusting the ten percent deposit and balance figures – prints out three copies and slips them into a folder ready to receive his mother’s signature. He then photocopies the original document and inserts both the original and its three copies into a separate folder.

  He returns to Blackshaw’s Mill with a tray of pastries. His mother welcomes the snack, preferring to talk about cakes and Cannolis rather than property matters. When Angelo insists on working through the documents Maria pushes them aside.

  Just as I expected, he smiles, before opening the folders and displaying the contracts. The top copy notes the agreed price of £360,000, but the lower copies reflect £270,000.

  Never a procrastinator, Maria pushes Angelo’s finger-pointing aside. ‘I’m a just sign here and here, and you’re witness there and there.’

  Angelo blushes at his mother’s trusting naïvety. The execution is simpler than signing a credit card transaction at a supermarket. Maria flicks over each of the five pages to scrawl her signature alongside fluorescent green Post-it notes. Angelo divides the contracts into two folders and smiles to his mother: ‘I’ll return your copy later, after the solicitors have filed and stamped.’

  Maria has no reason to suspect ill doing. What loving parent would ever dream that their devoted child would attempt to scam the proceeds of their life’s work? She’s attuned herself to moving, and is now preoccupied with financial projections and trust funds. Her mind spirals back to the day, fourteen years ago, when she and Giuseppe purchased the run-down property for only £66,000. Tears sting her eyes.

  Mercilessly, Angelo excuses himself with the pre-arranged obligation of having to cover a shift at work. In his eagerness, he leaves a folder of signed contracts on his mother’s kitchen table.

  VII

  Phillip McMaster pulls the contracts from the envelope.

  The discrepancy stands out like a Rolls Royce on a council estate. He drops the wad of papers on his table, scurries to his study and retrieves a copy delivered by Maria Caruso. The head page discloses the sale price as £270,000. There’s been no further negotiation, and there’s been no correspondence notifying a lien or escape clause to reduce the sale price. He snatches the phone and calls Jeff Main: ‘This contract’s not as agreed. What’s going on?’

  ‘What are you talking about? All’s
above board; signed and witnessed by both parties. Two hundred and seventy grand, our fee calculated and displayed as an “on attendance” basis.’

  ‘Two-seventy bullshit. I’ve got the original here – a legal document – that shows I offered £360,000 for Blackshaw’s Mill. Are you trying to pull another one over me?’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  McMaster smoulders as the phone clicks through the switchboard.

  ‘Phil. Hello. Steve Weston. Jeff tells me you have a problem.’

  ‘Fucking problem all right,’ McMaster counters before declaring the contract’s conflicting details.

  Heated discussion ensues until McMaster, having repeated the contract’s irregular detail, bangs down the phone, furious that both Weston and Main refuse to accept responsibility for the contract’s execution. He scoops up the documents and charges to the offices of Craggill, Weston and Rubenstein. After ditching his car in a No Standing zone (confident he’ll smooth over any parking infringement with the council) he wheezes up two flights of musty concrete stairs to the solicitors’ office, bypasses the receptionist, and barges straight into Weston’s suite.

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ roars McMaster, flinging the file onto Weston’s desk. ‘Someone’s doing the dirty, right, and it ain’t bloody me.’

  Weston buzzes his secretary: ‘Grab us a couple of coffees will you, Jade.’ He turns to McMaster. ‘Now listen, Phil. If we’ve got a problem, we’ll sort it. Take a breather, then show me what you’ve got.’

  McMaster points to the folder. Reaches for his cigarettes.

  ‘Sorry Phil. O.H.&S. Can’t let you smoke. You should give those things away.’

  ‘That’s fine for you to say when I’m frazzled by problems caused by your office.’

  Weston ignores the comment and scans the head page. Draws his brow into an inverted ‘V’. ‘Something’s grossly wrong.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling you, and that halfwit, Main!’

  And then the unconscionable thought strikes: The old granny’s ripped me. No one rips Phil McMaster.

  * * *

  ‘No, Mr Mac. All I do is sign for you. Why I change something? You fair man and offer good price.’

  ‘Mrs Caruso. I’ve just returned from my solicitor’s office. Here’s the original contract – see, £360,000.’

  ‘I already sign that. I tell my Angelo you want to buy and he read and say, “Good mama, go ahead” and he gives me the papers and I’m signing. I’m having the copy right here.’ Maria hobbles to a kitchen drawer and removes a manila folder. Lays it in front of her guest. Opens it. ‘Whatsa happen. I thought I’m having the papers. Maybe Angelo’s take for something. Why you ask about this?’

  McMaster removes a folded copy from his pocket. ‘Because this is what I’ve got.’ He points to the £270,000 and Maria’s signature.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sign that.’

  ‘But look, two different figures.’

  ‘Angelo’s tell me the fees and the commissions and the taxes. I don’t know more about the figures. Angelo’s help with the paperworks; he’s reading and taking to solicitors and I’m bring the papers to your home for my Angelo. He’s such a good boy.’

  ‘All right. Let me speak to Angelo. I can’t wait to hear what he says.’

  ‘He’s no here. I give the number. And I give also the address. Angelo’s fix for you. He’s know the paperworks.’

  McMaster leaves his neighbour’s home wondering how such a straight-forward transaction has morphed into a giant crisis. The setback accompanies him to his office. Contracts flutter into and out of his head and pens march across his desk before assembling in perfect rows of a ceremonial army parade. Maria Caruso is the drill sergeant, a pleasant, upstanding grandmother who’s never uttered a harsh word in his presence. She has no motive or malicious morals to take advantage of anyone. Likewise Weston. He showed a distinct lack of knowledge about the bungle. Could be a good act, but believable, nonetheless.

  That leaves Jeff Main. He’s tried it on before. Would he dare repeat an act he’d already failed? Does time heal all wounds and leave an unblemished complexion? Not for many. But how could he think he’d get away with it? And then there is Angelo Caruso. He did say he was handling it all – for his mother. Could he have handled it for himself?

  McMaster springs to a computer and runs a criminal check on Angelo Caruso. The screen throws up six years of petty-crime. Perhaps he’s come of age. Time to enter the big time. But not at my expense. He doesn’t raise an official enquiry, but confirms Angelo’s address and scribbles names of his known associates into his notebook.

  * * *

  The Criminal History screen jolts McMaster’s memory of unfinished business. He clicks in the name Hernandez. Rose. A red bar flashes across the screen: Rose has served six months of two years’ probation. He creases a wry grin at the accompanying report: Convicted of theft.

  That’ll do fine.

  Set to action both the Caruso and Hernandez files, McMaster scrawls his absence on the duty board. En route to Caruso’s home he stops by Heavenly Spirits. Rose stands beside a counter, wearing the smile of a person who loves her work.

  The smile shrinks as McMaster approaches. ‘Coffee? I have something to discuss.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m on my own. There’s no one to cover me.’

  ‘Excellent. No trouble. I’ll grab the coffee.’ He turns and leaves the store.

  Rose stands with mouth agape. She can’t stop him. Nervous tension prompts the thought: Why would a police officer want to conduct a meeting in a shop over coffee? A previous experience taught Rose that police are hospitable only when they want something.

  McMaster returns and sets two coffees and a cardboard tray of croissants on the counter. ‘Relax, Rose. I’m not here for work. I was passing by and thought I’d call in to make sure you’re all right. I think I might have upset you yesterday – I want to put that right. How about a guided tour?’

  Rose scrunches her face in sync with the question: ‘Guided tour? It’s a small shop. What do you mean?’

  ‘Just an ice-breaker. Don’t want you feeling nervous.’

  She stalls. Looks to her feet. She returns an informal, but thoughtless, response: ‘I’ll give you anything if you’ll keep me out of trouble.’

  McMaster grins, not knowing whether to take her words as an over-exuberant reaction or a veiled invitation. He slurps the froth off his cappuccino. ‘So, you have a secret locked away? You’re afraid I’ll out you, and that’ll be the end of your career?’

  ‘Something like that.’ A tear rolls from her eye. Head drops. ‘You know, don’t you? You checked on me.’

  ‘Yes. Part of the procedure, right? I’m sure we can come to an agreement.’

  McMaster has built a career on agreements, siphoning information from informers, covering his fellow officers’ indiscretions for reciprocated favours, and overlooking the criminal element’s offending in exchange for a percentage of their loot.

  ‘An agreement?’ Rose is no stranger to the male’s interpretation of ‘agreement’ in such a context. Remember, she works in an environment where alcohol-fuelled men unmask more bravado than in any other place – save for the bastion of maledom: bucks nights. She foresees her interrogator’s motive. Fear wraps around her like a straitjacket compressing apprehension into her core.

  McMaster relishes her distress. ‘I think I could lose your details in exchange for a little cooperation, right? I’ve a project we can work on together, but for the moment I’m in need of a couple of bottles of Dewar’s. I’m sure you could, er, consider a goodwill donation?’

  Rose is amenable to anything that might absolve her from further trouble, but she knows there is a limit. ‘I can’t do that. You know I’ve already been done for theft; why would I do it again?’

  ‘It’s all right, Rose. You don’t have
to. I’m only suggesting a means to an end. Thought I might save myself a spot of paperwork, right? Gee, I meant to review the sentencing protocols for breach of probation.’

  Rose spits out a threat: ‘You can’t do that. I could report you.’

  McMaster warps his cheeks into an evil grin. ‘Of course you could. You reckon you’d be up for a job in the prison canteen?’

  ‘All right. All right. I’ll get two bottles, and then we’re done. Okay?’

  ‘Sure. You have my word.’ He lights a cigarette, directly in front of a ‘No Smoking’ sign, while Rose creeps to the spirits shelves. ‘So what say I meet you at Cheltenham McDonald’s? Let’s make it Friday after work, eh? Six-thirty?’

  With refusal spinning her head, Rose nods, unable to refuse. She does not know that many before her had relied on McMaster’s assuring words, only to later find that the guarantee had dissolved like a mouthful of fairy floss.

  A wisp of grey smoke follows McMaster from the store, knotting another victim to his team of innocent conspirators.

  * * *

  The glass-fronted apartments are trademark office block conversion, courtesy of the Thatcher Conservative Party’s privatisation sell-offs of the 1980s. At first glance, the frontage is at odds with the heavily tattooed Angelo Caruso. McMaster revises his opinion as he appraises the Harley Davidson Softail tucked under a blue plastic tarpaulin. Sundry oil containers, chain lube, and a well-worn tyre litter the porch. He raps on the door. Creaking floorboards signify occupation.

  ‘Hello Angelo. Nice to see you.’

  Hesitation. ‘Why? Is this official?’

  ‘Not yet. But it could be. We’re going to talk about a contract your mother signed.’