“Is your friend here?”
Terry placed a hand across Joe’s blank application card. “We were going to forget that.”
“Sorry.” Deliberately now, Joe removed the youth’s hand and asked: “Got a pen?”
“Before you fill it in – where do you live?”
“A flatlet in Bayswater.”
“Not good enough. Use my address...” A pen and business card were placed next to the application. “It’s phoney but it gets results. Make it “care of” the office...”
Joe was discovering there was a lot to this Mayfair con-game. The card Terry used said he was a director of William Blakison & Partners, Property Management Consultants. The address was in the City and there was also a telephone number. “Is this real?” Joe asked, pointing at the number.
“Sure it is. That’s where I work. I have a cubby-hole of an office with a private line.”
“Your own office?”
“Use your noggin’ mate. No! I’m not a director or anything like that. I’m a glorified message boy.”
“Why work when you’ve got loot?” Joe was confused.
“’Cause the bloody cops are still trying to find my cash, stupid.” Vera came with the drinks and Terry’s tokens. Taking his rum and the one-armed bandit’s fodder the youth hurried to the machine.
“He certainly has gambling fever,” Vera said confidentially.
“Yes, “Joe murmured and began writing. He didn’t enjoy being left alone with the woman. If she questioned him too closely he might give Terry’s game away. When he completed the application he pushed it back at Vera and quickly went to Terry’s side.
“I thought you’d be raping Vera by now,” the youth remarked.
“Is she...?”
“Easy. We’ve all had her.”
“I’m only here for the beer,” Joe laughed to cover his inability to mingle freely with these people. If it had been the East End he could have handled any situation but there was a barrier somewhere inside him when it boiled down to leaping into the high income gathering. His was a fumbling in the darkest night effort to get to grips with a new way of life. The mistakes he would surely make could not be allowed to happen in this his first Mayfair jaunt. Later, once he solo-ed he would brush aside those little embarrassments and treat them as experience gained. Not tonight. Not alone. Vera could wait. The day would dawn soon enough for her brand of passion.
“Take your bloody hat off. Hang your umbrella on a hook. Relax. Nobody’s going to debag you, Joe.” Another token slid into the machine and the wheels whirred as Terry manipulated the lever to some secret pattern of pressure.
Coming back to Terry with his drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Joe asked: “How did you learn to talk their language?”
“I studied books. Novels about dollybirds and Mayfair rogues. I went into Bond Street shops and listened. It didn’t take long to twig what they said and how they said it.”
Joe admired the Chelsea skinhead’s... ex-skinhead’s... determination to break loose and establish his name in society. Frankly, Joe didn’t read much. Headlines in the Standard or the sports news in the Mirror. A few times every year he bought a racy, sexy paperback but he seldom finished those. Once he devoured the violence and the sex he flung it away.
Three oranges came up for Terry and he scooped the coins into his hand. “Best way to get with it, Joe is to take one of their women to bed.” Another token vanished into the machine’s greedy jaw. “These birds talk all the while. They don’t ever stop chatting about what is happening.”
“Do you ever get into punch-ups?”
Terry scowled. “Not unless I have to.”
“Don’t you miss an aggro?”
“Bloody right, mate...” Terry glanced around. “Drop it, Joe.”
“You going to play that thing all night?” The infernal whirr, clatter, tink of the machine was driving Joe nuts. He felt tight inside. The sensation was an old one. Back in the old days when his mates were with him he’d have found some bastard to kick or some bovver to relieve his tensions. Now, what was there to do? Bloody nothing! If it hadn’t been for Terry’s loot and a slim chance of getting his fingers on some of it he’d have taken off right then. Instead, he stayed – and suffered, and bought fresh drinks contrary to the rules of strictly membership clubs...
CHAPTER SEVEN
Four oily sardines stared up at him from the dark toast. An open tin containing a few broken bodies lay beside his teacup like a cramped communal graveyard recently violated. “What a bloody breakfast!” he swore at the Norwegian product. He’d been skimping on food lately. Getting a wardrobe of suitable clothes counted for more than filling his stomach with the kind of food would-be Mayfair clan considered barely adequate to sustain flesh.
He thumped a ketchup bottle, spilling sauce on sardines and naked thighs. Fingering the spilt ketchup back on to his plate he gazed across the small table to where a breeze blew his curtains aside from an open window. Directly across the street he could see the old biddy peeping from the shadowy interior of her room. He didn’t give a damn if she got a kick out of watching his total nudity. He enjoyed eating breakfast in the buff. He felt like flashing it at her but decided to concentrate on the bloody sardines instead.
Attacking the insipid meal he thought about last night. That Terry was a cagey bastard. All he knew for sure was that the deal would be made today at Baker Street underground station. Nothing else. He was invited to be present for what he conjectured would be a highly crooked transaction. There was no inkling how many others would attend the great ceremony nor if he would ever get the slightest opportunity to grab off a few hundred for himself.
That was the horrible dilemma for Joe. He wanted in with Terry but he wanted to make a profit from their association. And he knew that any sleight of hand on his part would alienate the new friendship. He liked being a member of a posh club but if he double-crossed the youth he could not return there. Not unless he wanted to risk getting the hell kicked out of his hide. An ex-skinhead could revert to bovver boots if the occasion was provocative enough.
Spearing a defenceless sardine from its tin he told it: “I’d be worse off than you poor bastards. I’d be crippled – you’re dead already!”
If only he could get his old mob back in action. They’d bleedin’ take care of Terry’s mates.
“Christ! Cut it out!”
The words exploded in the room, his head. Seizing the dirty dishes he dropped them into the sink and stared at his reflection in a stained mirror over it.
“The blokes you’re meeting don’t say bleedin’, “he told the unshaved image. “They don’t wish for mates, they don’t give a damn about anything. Think posh, talk posh, act posh – and bloody do the screw-happy lot of ’em when you can.”
He grinned and scratched his shoulder blade. Walking to the window he stood in full naked view of the woman over there. He made a gesture she could not fail to understand and saw a shape flit back into the dark interior away from the curtains. If only she would leave those curtains apart sometime he might get a peep and see if she was a worthwhile target for his frustrations.
Turning from the window, he considered what to wear. He wanted a change from the City suit and bowler. It may be a symbol of what he had become – in part. But a change did a guy good. He’d spent his ill-gotten gains extravagantly. He still had a nest-egg but he was nursing that. This room was getting on his wick. He wanted a bigger, better pad. One with private bath and decent kitchen, separate bedroom and a fashionable lounge. He’d studied these things recently; listened to the office wallahs talking about their mews cottage, or the flat in St. John’s Wood, or the pater’s town house. Dissatisfaction burned at his guts like hell’s fires. Going up in the world meant an abode to match one’s opinion of oneself.
Carefully selecting a frilled shirt, he put that on then flung it aside when he felt his stubbled chin. Quickly, he washed, shaved, applied talc and deodorant. He didn’t favour the smells
but his in-crowd insisted they were vital. Now, he donned the shirt, and buttoned it. Next, he chose a dark blue suit and highly polished shoes to match; a floral wide tie, brilliant white socks and lightweight cream-coloured gloves. He would not wear a hat but his umbrella belonged. It was, for Joe, a suedehead’s “bovver boots” insignia. Anyway, if Terry got nasty the umbrella was his weapon of escape. He fondled the sharp tip. He’d done a marvellous job on it – just like a sword point and skilfully blackened so not to attract undue attention from the uptight mob.
He frowned. Perhaps he should apply a covering coat of brass-gold paint to make it appear more like an authentic metal tip. He wished he could afford to buy a sword-stick – always providing he could find a dealer stupid enough to flog him one. That was the trouble with items classified as dangerous by the police. Dealers seldom left themselves open to... Hey, wait a mo! he thought. Those blokes in Terry’s club were antique merchants. If he could get the goods on one of ’em he might make a blackmailing switch. Sword-stick for dropping out of the picture.
“They’re worse than any heavy mob,” he told himself after a few minutes exciting contemplation. “They’d cut me into so many bloody pieces I’d be lucky to have a leg left for burial.”
It had been a lovely thought though. One to forget in the light of cold, hard reasoning. He didn’t want undue trouble. Terry was bovver enough for the moment.
*
Drugs – that’s what they’re bargaining for!
Joe stood frozen as the realisation struck home. Terry didn’t need to tell him anything. He recognised those samples being secretively passed from hand to hand – all except his, naturally. He was the outsider looking in; the guy who wasn’t there.
“A quick sale’ll make you two cool grand, mate,” a thick-necked man was saying to Terry. He got his samples back and dropped them into a jacket pocket. “I’ll give you a few addresses for starters.”
“How come you don’t flog the stuff?” Terry asked with suspicion shadowing his features.
“You must be jokin’,” the man snorted. “The fuzz know me by sight. I’d get within a mile of Soho and the bastards would nick the lot.”
“Has it got to be right in Soho?”
Joe had the same idea. Something about the deal stank. He couldn’t see a middle man backing off from a handsome profit this close to payday.
The man shuffled, passing a handkerchief across a sweat-filmed forehead. “Sonny, lemme explain how we operate. I import it, have it mixed and packaged and up the ante to include my rake-off. You take the big – and I mean BIG – risk getting in touch with the street pushers. I’m not a mug. I want a return on my investment – not two, maybe three years.”
“I still can’t see why you...” Terry mumbled.
“Crissakes, it’s bleedin’ simple,” the man said in exasperation. “I’m not goin’ to push the stuff. I’m selling for a big price. You make yours and we all go home happy. Okay?”
Terry turned to his mate – a small, fat guy with glasses and pimples on his neck. He dressed neat but no amount of new clothes would ever make him appear more than a cheap spiv.
“How about it, Fred?”
“It’s up to you, Terry. I like the deal.”
Terry’s eyes flashed at Joe. “And you?” he asked.
Joe hesitated. There were a few questions he would have liked to ask but just putting himself that far into the picture would have given away his ultimate aims. “Do we have to cart loads of packages in plain sight of the law?”
The man chuckled. “Easy seen you kids are rank amateurs,” he said sarcastically. “It’s all in those lockers...” He pointed at a row of storage lockers nearby and produced six keys from a trouser pocket. “Each locker has enough stuff to make one delivery. There are three of you. If the fuzz gets wise then you don’t lose too much profit.”
“Hey,” Joe said. “If they grab the stuff they also grab the bloke.”
“S’truth...” Terry exclaimed.
“Jeeze,” the man exhaled. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about getting nicked?”
Terry covered fast. “Of course we have, old chap.”
The man laughed. “Old chap? God, you kids!”
“I’ll take it,” Terry said suddenly. “Pay the man, Fred.”
As Fred handed over Terry’s cash, the youth drew Joe aside. “Are you in with us?” he asked.
Joe hesitated dramatically. He was in – right up to getting a few of those locker keys. But he wanted Terry to believe he felt apprehensive. It wouldn’t do to jump too fast. Not now. Not knowing how bloody suspicious his new mate could be. “Well...”
“Ahhh, come on, Joe. I need your help. I’ll pay.”
“How much?”
“Half of what we make on your deliveries. How’s that?”
“Fair,” Joe allowed. “I’m in, Terry.”
The youth breathed relief. “God, this is not going to be a quick turn-over,” he said softly. “We’ve got to find buyers.”
“Your friend mentioned some addresses,” Joe reminded.
Terry tore back to Fred. Speaking to the man he asked: “Where’s the addresses?”
The man wadded the money into his small case which had been ready by his left leg all through the discussion. “Got a pencil and paper?”
Terry found an old envelope and used Fred’s pen. The man reeled off five names and club addresses adding a few words of caution after each. One struck Joe as being a complete waste of time when the man said: “He always takes deliveries in the club as he makes his contacts. You may wait a few hours but he’s not mean. You’ll get top whack there.”
Like being a sitting duck for any cop doing an undercover job, Joe thought. That one is not for me!
An idea lit up Joe’s brain. A brilliant notion for getting away with his haul and not having Terry on his back. One of those million-to-a-quid brainwaves. He felt immensely better for having had the solution to his problem landed right inside his mind.
At last, the locker keys changed hands and the man lost himself in the growing crowds fighting their way in and out of the station. Joe noticed another man join their late associate, and smiled. Trust that type to bring along protection in case the buyers decided to pull a fast one!
Terry rubbed his hands and chuckled. “We’ve got it made, mates,” he announced. “Let’s get started...”
*
By seven-thirty exactly, Joe had collected six hundred quid near enough. He had given Terry the bulk of it and kept his profit percentage – a mere eighty five pounds. Fred had departed for his third contact’s pad and Terry was all set to send Joe into the lion’s den when Joe suddenly said: “I got a tip from my last sucker.”
Terry’s face tensed. “Bad news?”
Joe laughed and slapped the youth on the back. “Great news, mate!” He eased two packets into his pocket, hating the way they spoilt the cut of his jacket. “I’ll have an extra lot. This guy gave me a sure thing. Said he’d personally make a telephone call and describe me in advance.”
Terry frowned at the envelope in his hand – the one with the address of their last contact. “I wanted you to handle this, Joe,” he said slowly. “I could make your delivery and explain...”
“Too late for that, Terry,” Joe said apologetically. “I can’t get hold of this bloke again and he did say how...”
“Hell! “Terry exploded. “Okay, it’s all loot. When you’ve got the money meet me here. Looks like I’ll be there for a few hours.”
Joe studied the address carefully and nodded. “Is Fred coming along too?”
“Yeah. We might as well finish the day having a few drinks. We can unload the last lockers tomorrow night.”
“I won’t be long, Terry. Let me have those five packages, eh? If my man doesn’t take ’em I can bring it back to your bloke.” Joe held his breath. This was the vital moment.
Without anticipating trouble, Terry handed the extra over. Probably trusts me after all, Joe thought. A typical
Shed idiot!
Waving his farewell, Joe sauntered into the mainstream of traffic, moving down into the bowels of London’s rabbit warren. When he reached the bottom he waited five minutes and hurried back to the lockers. One was empty and he emptied his pockets, placed a coin in the slot and removed the key. Whistling and twirling his umbrella, he walked out into Baker Street and across the road to a pub. Two large Hundred Pipers’ and he went back to the underground station. There were telephones inside and his call was most important...
CHAPTER EIGHT
The story had been buried inside the newspaper. Joe read it with unsuppressed excitement as his train slowed at Marble Arch. He had expected a front page banner headline, but he appreciated the eventual outcome of his tip-off regardless.
LONDON DRUG RAID...
Police last night raided the premises of Soho’s Oblique Club and confiscated a large quantity of narcotics. Two men are presently facing charges following an anonymous telephone call. The club management denied any connection with the men. A spokesman told our reporter: “We operate within the law. Any member suspected of using drugs is automatically out.”
The Oblique Club is normally frequented by teenagers and has a good reputation although, as the owners point out, “Rotten apples are found in every barrel and I suppose we’re no exception.”
The men are due to appear this morning at magistrate’s court.
The locker key felt very comfortable in Joe’s pocket. He could afford to allow a few days to pass before capitalising on Terry’s misfortune.
Smiling at a bird seated across the aisle, Joe calmly progressed to the sports pages. Nothing old Totter would say today could damp his high spirits. Tonight he had a date with Lois. In this mood she would lose her cherished – but hardly priceless – possession. He would buy a bottle and ask her to help him find a decent flat somewhere closer to Mayfair. Being a suedehead had more compensations than being crowned king of all skinheads. What did he need with gangs backing him! He had accomplished a masterful stroke without even resorting to violence. Not that he would ever outgrow the basic need to use force whenever the occasion demanded, or whenever he felt it necessary to relieve pent-up frustrations. The world was a savage place and only the strong and the brutal could ever rightfully claim a niche. That was his thinking!
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