Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  Angelo flushes the guilty face a child exhibits after being sprung sneaking biscuits from the pantry.

  McMaster dismisses the stunned response and steps inside, forcing Angelo back into the hallway. McMaster has made a career of conducting business in hallways, corridors, on doorsteps, in pubs, on railway station platforms, in shadows of cobblestoned alleyways, and the lowest of all – a toilet cubicle. His claim that all of those dealings were official carries no substance.

  Angelo closes the door: ‘Yeah. Mum’s happy to sell and very happy for you.’

  McMaster fixes a glare. ‘Yes, but my offer was 360 not 270. What do you know about that?’

  Angelo’s vacant gaze betrays him. He is trapped, so adopts the best defence: spit out the truth and talk his way out of trouble. ‘I don’t know how to put this. It might make me sound like a bastard, but I was snipping a bit from mum. She was happy to let me do the running around and negotiations, so that meant she wouldn’t go scrutinising all the copies. And I was right. You’ve ended up with one of the dud contracts which you’re not supposed to have. In fact you’re not supposed to have any of them. I was going to sort them and drop the 360 copy at your place and post the others to mum’s solicitor. She was only trying to help, but mum interfered by taking the documents from a folder I stupidly left at her place.’

  McMaster stretches a gleeful smile. ‘You reckon you were going to take her for “a bit”? We’re talking ninety large. A few grand and maybe no one’s the wiser. But fuck me – ninety grand? So where’s the proper contract? You can’t dupe anyone other than your mother by proceeding with the two hundred and seventy grand contract. How could you even think you’d get away with it? The way I see it, right, is that only I can guarantee your little scam remains between you and me. That’ll cost you a little ‘incentive’. It’s what we call a win/win situation. The difference here is that I win big-time, or, I trot ’round to your mother’s, drop the two contracts on her table and sympathise with her reaction on learning that her own son’s shafting her.’

  Angelo stands his full height. Sucks in his stomach. ‘She won’t believe you. Mama trusts you. She thinks you’re a great neighbour the way you’ve helped her with the farm.’

  ‘And she’s right. I am a great neighbour – great enough to protect her from the likes of you.’

  The roundhouse swing catches McMaster off guard. He falls against the wall, dazed and embarrassed about being jumped by the amateur embezzler. Angelo follows with a barrage of punches to McMaster’s stomach, winding him and sending him to the floor.

  McMaster wheezes: ‘Twenty years ago you’d be down here. For the moment I’ll forgive you. Let’s just say that by the time I recover, and I won’t need long, you’ll have come to your senses and realise that you need me. Putting your mother aside for a moment, there’s legal process that penalises financial deception. I’ll mind the Harley for three years while you’re in the big house.’ He pulls himself from the floor, brushes past Angelo and exits the front door. Crumples into his car, clutches his ribs and rubs his kidneys. Lights a smoke. He will not be made a fool of. McMaster knows only two ways of dealing with Caruso’s kind. Dominate them. Or recruit them.

  * * *

  Angelo kicks the door shut, wondering how he will explain the predicament to his mother. What she don’t know won’t hurt her. He plans to show McMaster that he won’t be bullied by anyone, and that he, and only he, will oversee his mother’s interests. He straightens a hall runner, realigns a group of family photo frames, and rights a hallstand knocked askew during the fracas. Angelo regrets voicing his devious plan, so plans to sew the conflict into an effortless settlement.

  Thirty minutes later, he charges to McMaster’s home, weaving and dodging, and ignoring the British motorists’ honourable code of respect. His arrogance extends to tail-gating a slower driver and intimidating the young woman until she pulls to the kerb. He swings out of the congestion, floors the accelerator, and for a full five miles, relishes the rural landscape he has forsaken for his council flat in Worcester.

  Dust flies from the loose-topped drive as his black Audi skids to a halt in Ashton Hill’s corralled car park. Alerted by the crackling stones, McMaster bursts from the door, a Winchester XPR rifle snuggled under his arm. He recognises the visitor. Rushes to the car. Easier to negotiate with the driver caged in his vehicle. He secures the rifle between arm and chest. Places his hands on the door frame and pokes his head through the window: ‘Hello there. Sorry, I was cleaning this. Don’t mean to appear threatening. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Let’s start again Phil. I think we can reach a deal.’

  Angelo motions to exit the car. McMaster leans against the door and hoists his brow in surprise at the man attempting to steal his thunder. It is he who put deals to others – not vice versa. But the proposal arouses interest. ‘What sort of deal?’

  ‘Fifty-fifty. That’s forty-five Gs to you for nothing, or, put another way, for copping a bit of roughage earlier on.’

  ‘I cop roughage from the likes of you every day of the week. Why the fuck would I want to deal with you when I’ve got a perfectly legal contract sitting on my solicitor’s desk? Your mother signed the contract, she delivered it, and I’ve verified its authenticity as a legal document. Too bad. Why would I accept half when I got a ninety gee discount on my offer? Thanks for nothing. Now piss off.’

  Angelo’s face reddens. No one makes him look like a dill. He raises his fists – an absurd action while facing a man clutching a rifle. ‘You can’t do that. I’ll see our family lawyers and explain what you’re doing.’

  ‘No. I don’t think you’ll do any such thing. You’d have to incriminate yourself. Fraudulently altering legal documents for financial gain, conspiring to defraud, and not to mention having to defend my claims of assault, injuries which will be treated and photographed. Yep, reckon you could earn a stretch of at least seven years. Now, please respect my stones on your way out.’

  * * *

  From his wallet’s coin pouch, McMaster removes a tiny gold pebble. At £990 per ounce on the official market he could pocket nearly £4,000 for his first sale. Here, inside the fashionable retail pawn shop that changes its trading name every year, he’ll receive less than half. And that is after serious bartering.

  Behind the counter is long-time acquaintance, ‘Onions’, the adopted street name of Daniel Owens. He does not know that the tag insults the memory of George Oliver Onions, British author and short story writer of 1873 – 1961.

  After rejecting the common ‘Danno’ tag – popularised by Steve McGarrett’s sidekick in Hawaii Five-O – Daniel inherited the unusual moniker from a drunken associate who slurred his surname as Onions. The name stuck. And rightfully so, because Daniel is a human simile of a mature onion: his large elliptical body balloons at its circumference, his mind precipitates tears in those who cut into his territory, and his cauliflower ears float beside sprigs of hair that appear as straggly, withered stems of a dried onion. Today, he is physically incapable of scampering from trouble. But his mind isn’t.

  Fifteen years earlier, Onions had fallen foul of the then Sergeant McMaster, when, as a sprightly, street-wise entrepreneur, he’d commanded most of the drug and stolen goods deals in Birmingham. Onions would arrange for his competitor’s hauls of contraband – from highly saleable stolen goods through to methamphetamines discreetly wound into tampons – to be retrieved in a process Onions likened to ‘criminal recycling’. Contrary to public perception, there is no honour amongst thieves.

  McMaster respects that trait as a valuable asset in his stable of dealers and informers, for he frequently unloads wares unsuitable for regular retail channels.

  ‘So what do you reckon?’ probes McMaster as he removes the pebble from a knob of tissue paper.

  Onions holds the piece between thumb and forefinger: ‘Haven’t seen anything like this for a while. Certainly not some g
ranny’s melted-down heirloom. Low grade though—’

  ‘Low grade, bullshit. We go back a long way. You know I only cop good stuff – no matter what.’

  Onions scratches his head. ‘Man’s got to make a quid, don’t he? I can’t easily shift a piece of rock. Jewellery? Not a problem. Counterfeit tenners? Done. But raw minerals? I got to wholesale it myself through the guild. Don’t think I got any contacts.’

  ‘Well get one. I know how you got tabs on everything illegal. You got more of a pulse on the street than in your arteries. See this little piece of “low grade” rock as you call it; there’s plenty more. Unlimited. Reckon I can deliver kilos of the stuff, right? So you create a market and I’ll supply the demand. Now, what are you going to give me for it?’

  Onions stands his ground: ‘Here’s the deal. If I can move it, I’ll give you a good price. Leave it with me for the day and I’ll get back to you.’

  McMaster accedes. Throws in the last word. ‘Don’t try shafting me on this, Onions, because I know it’s just shy of four ounces. It is high-grade purity and even your questionable appraisals should reward me with forty to fifty percent. On that basis, you’d better arrange some cash.’

  Onions waits five minutes and jumps to the phone. ‘Albert please.’

  ‘Lowenstein.’

  ‘Alby. Onions. Need a price on some gold. I can tell you I know the client – straight as a die – and he tells me there’s an unlimited supply. Piece of action for both of us.’

  ‘How hot is it?’

  Onions stalls. Surprised. He’s known Lowenstein for many years and has referred a lot of business to him during a mutually beneficial relationship. But he’s not comfortable being queried about the source of his product.

  ‘All I can say is that it’s reliable. I’ll put my stamp on the stuff and guarantee the supplier. Oh, all right. Between you and me – and this didn’t come from me or I’m done for – the guy’s on the local Bill. Got his fingers in everything. Goes by the name of Mac. That’s all I know, but I assure you he’s reliable.’

  ‘Good enough for me. I’ll get back to you.’

  Onions hesitates. ‘Tell you what. I’ll speak to my seller and call you back. You in all day?’

  ‘What do you think? Can’t make money sitting on my arse.’

  VIII

  Jeff Main stands in the office toilet block gelling his satin-black hair into ocean waves. At six-foot-two, his square shoulders and hips fill the mirror. His round head, and left hand set in a claw – the result of a failed Carpal Tunnel operation – has earned him the name: Lego Man.

  He is of capricious character, one minute exhibiting the strength and determination of a Scottish Highland caber tosser; the next, assuming the soft, gentle disposition of a needleworker threading yarn through tapestry. He frequents nightclubs as a hip, trendy player, often seen with the most glamorous women, and sometimes with quaint-looking young guys. Jeff is defensive about the latter, claiming he helps them with legal advice about entering the modelling profession. Full points for initiative.

  The mirror tells more. He struggles to suppress tears brought on by McMaster’s admonishment; his misty green eyes reveal scarred personal pride after his client suggested that he had tried to manipulate the property contracts.

  A thump on the bathroom door commands his return to the office. He splashes water over his face, swilling away spent emotion and embarrassment. As he saunters past reception – shielding his reddened eyes – the receptionist nods her over-made-up head towards a gentleman sitting in the waiting area.

  Main gulps, glares at the receptionist with a look of why didn’t you warn me? and strides with new-found confidence to the waiting client. ‘Afternoon Phil. What a surprise. Come on through.’

  McMaster extends his hand. ‘Excellent. Sorry to land unannounced.’

  Main shudders at McMaster’s stance: powerful (above the calorie-thickened waist) intimidating, conceited. ‘This way. We’ll use the conference room.’

  All prestigious legal offices have conference rooms – an eloquent description of its poorer synonym, the meeting room. The table spans six metres, its top planed from a one hundred-year-old slab of Californian Redwood, lacquered and polished to a bottomless lustre. Fourteen chairs surround this focal point. Winter’s sun streams through a wall of windows, spearing framed certificates and mirrors on the opposite wall.

  Main motions his client to the table’s side. McMaster ignores him, side-steps to the head of the table, rolls out a plush leather high back and plonks himself into the body-hugging chair.

  Round one to McMaster.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ he says, smooth as strands of silk spilling through a weaving loom. ‘You know I’m concerned about this contract, right? I’ve spoken with a person, no names mentioned, who admits manipulating the contract under the charade of “wanting to skim a few quid”.’

  ‘And you’re talking ninety grand?’

  ‘Yep. However, by my reckoning, that makes me the beneficiary of his intended scam. The property owner has legally executed the sale contract by signature, and, as you know, there’s no cooling off period for a seller.’

  Main warps into surprise. ‘Legally executed? Aren’t I the one to determine what’s legal and what’s not, Phil?’

  ‘Cut the formalities, Jeff. One thing we should get straight right now is that I’m the client and the client’s always right, right? Remember that from college, Jeff?’

  ‘You’re missing something. That might work in some tin-pot haberdashery where the customer is said to be always right, but here, if the client is always right, well, there’s no need for me. May as well call it a day.’ Main shrinks into his seat and contemplates whether to hold ground or scamper off to Steve Weston to suggest that he take over the file. Then he sees the downside: Weston would be furious to learn that a contractual error had escaped scrutiny.

  McMaster leans across the table, slides Main a copy of the fabricated contract and steadies his glare: ‘Now, you tell me who’s right. You’re representing me. This is a contract that falls £90,000 short of my instructions.’ He plucks the original instrument from a folder. ‘Let me tell you what’s happened. I made an offer, as you know, to purchase Blackshaw’s Mill for £360,000, right? A person known to the vendor intercepts the contract and thinks he can make a quick quid for himself. He keys in a fancy computer-generated duplication of the contract by changing the agreed selling price to £٢٧٠,٠٠٠. This person, for argument’s sake we’ll call him Angelo, has the vendor sign the dud document and duplicates of the original offer before collating them into sets for each party. You get the picture, right? We now have two sets of ‘legal’ contracts; one selling the vendor’s property at three-sixty and the other at two-seventy.

  ‘Consider you’re getting this first-hand. His close association with the vendor means he had no difficulty convincing her that she is entitled to only £٢٧٠,٠٠٠ of the proceeds. Now, you might question how that could happen, right, but I have it on good authority that this Angelo is very influential. He apparently convinced the vendor that deductions for commission, surveyor’s fees, solicitor’s fees, land tax and capital gains tax would account for the ninety gees. The vendor has my sympathy.

  ‘So, this Angelo character plans that on settlement, he’ll pull £٩٠,٠٠٠ from the proceeds and hand the vendor a banker’s draft for two-seventy. The vendor’s none the wiser, right? But how’s this? The vendor, believing she is helping the process, has inadvertently delivered the false copies to me!

  ‘To summarise, what’s supposed to happen is that I pay the three-sixty and Angelo laughs all the way from the bank after duding the vendor. Bloody brilliant, if you ask me.’

  McMaster continues: ‘Now, the way I see it, since you’ve sanctioned this transaction, right, I’m standing my ground as contractually bound to two-seventy. I’ll leave it to you to arrange how to fund th
e balance to the vendor.’

  Main’s mouth forms a huge ‘O’. His left eye twitches like a motor-drive camera snapping off shots of a lingerie model. He shifts in his seat, turns and looks out of the window. A tattered career returns the glare.

  ‘So, what do you want me to do, Phil? I could do my job and my Practicing Certificate over this.’

  ‘That’s not my concern, Jeff. There’s a thirty-day settlement. That should give you ample time. But there’s another catch. The vendor’s just lost her husband, right? I don’t want you dropping this shit on her. Finding out that someone’s tried to swindle ninety gee from the deal would just about see her into her own grave. What say we get our heads together and strengthen our solicitor/client relationship with a pint over lunch? Keep your billing open. Remember, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.’

  Too right, Main hisses as he escorts McMaster from the room. He flashes reception a smile: ‘We’re out to grab a bite.’

  McMaster rues the day government banned smoking in pubs and clubs. ‘A man can’t enjoy his pint anymore,’ he complains to Main as they hijack a beer-sodden table in one of the lower-class venues cramped into the High Street. ‘Now listen, Jeff. There might be a way of sweeping this whole situation under the table. I can keep quiet and reward you handsomely for your assistance. What I’m talking about is far more important to me than ninety grand. And, I’m sure you’re more interested in keeping your certificate and progressing to the pinnacle of legal challenges.’

  Main sips his lemon squash, tries to compose himself, but falters into prolonged babble: ‘I don’t know what’s going on here. I received the contracts, couriered from the vendor’s solicitor, with the instructions: “Both parties are agreed; simple conveyance,” and so proceeded to complete what I expected to be a routine document execution. You now claim the document has been amended. How was I supposed to know? You say I’m wholly responsible, yet you offer to fix the mess?’