by Ken Bruen
Lisa gave an excited cry.
‘They were stealing his shoes?’
‘They’d tried but the bastard had sea-manned the laces, merchant navy knots, and they’d strangled him.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Yeah… but I got them loose.’
‘You saved his life.’
‘No, I saved his boots.’
Lisa left shortly after and the Doc said, ‘You could do worse, in fact you’ve frequently done worse.’
‘Thanks. So what do you reckon on this Cassie lunatic?’
‘I’ll put the word out, how hard can she be to find. Plus, I think she’ll stay close, she seems fond of you.’
‘You don’t think I need get another shooter.’
‘Naw, I’ll do it, a fella offered me a grand yoke last week, I was going to buy it anyway.’
‘What is it?’
‘A Smith and Wesson 38. The Bodyguard Airweight one. It holds a little heavy in yer hand but I like that.’
‘Where’d he get it?’
‘You know those holiday apartments over in Kensington, the Arabs rent them? Turning one of those over, he found it in the fridge.’
‘On ice so to speak.’
‘Yeah. Best of all, it has a shrouded hammer.’
‘Which does what exactly?’
‘Stops it tangling if you’re carrying it in yer pocket.’
‘Ammunition?’
‘Does the Pope have beads.’
The first bank we took was in Chingford. Yeah, like that, how many folks have you met who’ve been there… let alone heard of it. These small areas, who’d rob them… who’d bother. Yet they usually hold a shitpile of money. Can’t be bothered moving it on and security is a joke. We didn’t see it as a career move, we were hurting for readies and didn’t want to play in our own manor. Doc said to me, ‘I’d like to rob a bank in Chingford.’
‘They have a bank?’
‘Let’s find out.’
First we had to find the whorin’ place. But even then, the pattern was being set. We ‘borrowed’ a car in Ealing and hit off. Went in hard. Wearing balaclavas and boiler suits, shouting like fuck. I thought all the roaring was to intimidate the customers and staff. But it’s to keep you rolling, keep you hyper. It was so easy, they near threw the money at us. In and out in six minutes and the buzz was so manic, we took down the post office as well. Fuck knows, we’d have gone in the building society but they’d closed. I was cooking, a white energy moving through me, like sex, I wanted to rob every premises on the High Street. Doc grabbed my arm, shouted, ‘Enough, let’s go… get a fucking grip on yourself.’
Burned rubber outa there and tore off the masks. Those fuckin’ things are hot and itchy. As I hit fourth gear, revving like a lunatic, I glanced at Doc. He felt it too. Rivers of sweat pouring down his face and his eyes like major bullets, near popping out of his skull. The back seat was jammed with money. We knew we’d been incredibly lucky and blatantly stupid. But the foundation was good and I could see a blueprint for serious profit.
It was intended as a one-off, for walking round money. That evening, at Doc’s flat, he said, ‘You really got off on that, yeah.’
‘Fuckit, I never expected to take so much. If we’re not careful, we might be bordering on actual fuckin’ wealth here.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘You’re not happy with the cash, take less, what’s the matter with you.’
‘You liked it… the job I mean… no… you adored it. I’ve never seen you so… gimme a word…’
‘Delighted?’
‘Animated… electrified… you were all lit up.’
‘Still am.’
‘You’ve found the thing that everybody wants.’
‘Wot’s that then, mega bucks?’
‘Don’t be an eejit Cooper. Something that brings them out of the herd, lets them kiss the heavens and fly, to soar on high.’
‘Doc… hey… lighten up… OK. We’re loaded, we robbed a bank… we’re not banged up… it’s not bloody religion.’
‘But that’s exactly it, you found religion, you’ll be doing this again… and again.’
We’d bought half a dozen bottles of Johnny Walker, three dozen cans of special and a shit heap of Chinese. I took the whisky straight from the bottle, let it coast and burn, popped some chow mein and washed it down with beer. Let the whole shebang blend, pour the friggin’ works, let them go figure what sent where, I asked, ‘Saying you’re right, let’s just suppose you are, where does that leave you?’
He didn’t answer for a bit, then, ‘With you… wot else, you mad bastard. How does Huntingdon sound, like the ring?’
I did… Staines, Milton Keynes, Crawley, Kidderminster, Haysham, East Trilling,… away days… and the mountain of cash began to shape. But, you’ve got to have a front. The old Bill are going to come sniffin’ sure as shooting. You need chameleon image. What you can show but can’t be pinned down. They look you over, yer business could be gold, could be shite.
Repo men. Yeah… that’s what we put out. Ain’t it the way of the world though, how it turns. First you got to get it, then you’ve got to bloody hide it. ‘GOD REPOSSESSES AND SO DO WE’.
It wasn’t going to hurt me to be up to me ass in cars. Money follows money. We rented a lock-up in Victoria, got the phone in and put small ads in the trades, in the locals. Here’s what it read:
‘Cat got yer tongue
they’ve got yer car
if you want to re-possess
give us a bell
THE R.R. (RIGHTEOUS REPO).’
And fuck me, ain’t it rich, the business took off. According to the Met, there’s a car nicked every two seconds in inner London alone. Jeez we were swamped. Had to take on staff and rent more space. Exciting too, see how long it took to track and move a vehicle. Then the movie came out, Repo Man with Emilio Estevez. Business boomed. I half fancied I was a touch like Emilio meself, that broody dark shit… yeah. You figure we packed in the banks? Never happen, no way. The Doc had my number. It was my very adrenaline, the juice in my veins. Sure, I liked the repo, the cars it brought me in contact with, the money, but it was like comparing a hand job to wild sex, a spoon of shandy up against a bottle of Walker.
We figured on a few rules early. No partners, strictly a two-man operation. If it needed more, then pack it in. Trust no one. The Doc had a prayer for us:
‘God keep us smart, fast
and mobile
the rest we’ll handle
ourselves.’
Seems God was listening. Then.
We must have got Him on a good day. Thing is, I reckon He enjoys a bit of villainy too. Else how to account for the Tory party. And mostly what we got was careful. Kevin Costner as Elliot Ness in The Untouchables is urged by his wife to be careful. He says, ‘like mice at a crossroads’.
Learnt the shit as we went along too. Out with the wool balaclavas, got us some light cotton jobs. No cumbersome gloves either. Those surgical skin-fit ones that make people instinctively edgy.
Experimented with the art of deception. The Doc would wear a larger size shoe and we’re talking big here, and bring along flour or baking soda. Sprinkle some of that on our way in and leave a nice clear print. Jeez, the filth adore a cosy fat clue. I had some fun with tattoos, those washable chaps. Put ‘I Love Me Old Mum’ in bold letters on my arm and let the sleeve ride up as I scooped the cash. Some whiz-kid bank trainee was hot to trot. A major breakthru for the investigation. After that one, half the old lags who lived with their Mums were rounded up. Even the Krays got a shout. Accents too, throw in some rasta and half of Brixton got turned over. We didn’t fuck with the Irish though. Doc said, ‘The last… the very last thing we want… is for the boyos to get pissed with us.’
I took his word on that.
Neither of us smoked so we ensured we dropped butts on our exit and all over the abandoned motor. One raid, Doc procured insulin and left the half-empty phial under the seat. That ma
de it to CrimeStoppers. Kept our mouths tight shut. No braggin’, no hints, nada.
Things got hairy too. An old dear had a heart attack on our Hatton Cross job. Doc wanted to send flowers and cash. I lost it.
‘The fuck you saying…? You want to be Robin Hood, is that it… have the public love us. Jeez, mebbe we could cut a record. We’re in this for cash, not friggin’ sentiment.’
He sent the cash anyway. I could have sent the flowers.
Arnold L. White. Is that a name or wot. Our accountant. I wasn’t going to prison for VAT or any of that sneaky crap. He had an office in Camberwell. I had to ask, ‘What’s the L for?’
‘Leopold.’
‘You’re winding me up.’
‘Do I look like a kidder, as if humour is my forte?’
He didn’t.
Looked like a sour priest and hey, that’s how it should be. Money is a sacred business. He had a cheeky secretary named Iris, a pushy blonde, all mouth and nastiness.
I gave her one. Call it duty, to keep tabs on Leopold. She was the worst kind of leg-over… loud, came roaring and shouting as if I’d murdered her. The French call orgasm the little death. Guess they hadn’t heard of Iris. No doubts with that lady, she knew what she wanted and rode the daylights outa me. After, she’d say, ‘I’d kill for a bacon butty.’
She’d had a husband, Patrick, from County Kerry who’d gone MIA. The worst criminal ever to come outa Camberwell. Not dangerous, just useless. He’d attempted to rob a Pakistani shopkeeper, using a replica. The man near split his skull in two with a brick… a real one. Patrick got ten years. Prior to that, he’d been in a pub one night. A fella named Mick had given him a ferocious hiding. All Patrick remembered was the name. So, he packed a meat cleaver in an Adidas holdall and returned to the pub.
No sooner had he ordered, when the barman roared to a customer heading for the loo, ‘How’s about ye Mick.’
Patrick followed, missed with the cleaver, it was embedded in the wall. Mick and five of his mates then attempted to fit the cleaver to Patrick’s arse-hole. After she’d told me this, she added drily, ‘I said to ’im, you pathetic wanker, you like sex and travel so fuck off outa here.’
What Arnold also provided was information. Of the banking variety. Doc had a chat with him, suggested it would be mutual if the skinny on obscure banks were available. Their days for ‘holding’.
Arnold was yer classic accountant. He asked no questions but one, a highly indignant tone, ‘You think I can be bought?’
Doc named a figure.
He was bought.
Networking. Wot a lovely word:
Hip
Contemporary
Sassy.
Arnold networked a series of clerks in the major banks. Not too many, but sufficient to provide the dates without arousing suspicion.
It had risk… sure. The old fall-out factor, but it worked. Plus too, a clerk blew the whistle he was on the bank ‘suss list’. Banks don’t rate loyalty, only profit.
I’d put a portion of map on the wall, let the Doc have a look.
Asked, ‘See anything you like?’
‘Never heard of that Bicester, means we’d pass thru Morse country.’
‘Put the wind up Sergeant Lewis, eh.’
Thursdays were best as the payrolls would be in but we didn’t want to establish a pattern. Sooner or later though, you had to figure on getting a tug. I’d only recently moved to Meadow Road, was burning money with the decorators. Jeez, what is it with those fucks, all that shouting. I’d said, ‘Hey… this isn’t the Grand Canyon, you don’t have to check for echo. Let’s keep the damn shouting to a minimum. How would this be… if a roar has to be made, and I don’t dispute the necessity, I’ll do it… OK I’m paying, so I’ll be roaring.’
Which I think put it across rather well. An informed and civilised outlay of the rules. They listened almost attentively and then continued roaring.
‘Hey Joe, where’s my hammer?… Cyril, wot’s gonna win the 3.30?… That Dettori ain’t worth shit… Three sugars and a sausage sarnie…’
Yeah, like that. I was contemplating a short stay in a hotel but I liked to keep an eye on the fucks. The doorbell rang. Would one of the decorators answer? Course not…
‘Not in my portfolio mate.’
I flung the door open, the hammerin’ behind me a decibel louder. Two men in raincoats, the hard-eyed look. You knew when they weren’t flogging double glazing or Mormons. Coats were too cheap.
‘Mr Cooper.’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr David Cooper.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry to trouble you Sir, I’m Chief Inspector Noble and this is Detective Sergeant Quinn, might we have a word?’
‘Not a quiet one I’m afraid.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
I gestured behind me. Noble gave a tight smile, humour not even distantly touching it. In his fifties, he’d the recent health of an ex-drinker and the tension it bestowed. I looked at my watch, said, ‘Down the road, there’s The Roebuck… very quiet at this hour, would that do… are ye allowed… fraternise in… public houses.’
A look passed between them said… ‘got a friggin’ live one.’
Quinn was thin, in his thirties. He’d the face of a grey-hound gone rogue, a rabid light in his eyes. This guy liked to sink his teeth and never let up. The worst kind of cop, it was always personal with him. Noble said, ‘In the line of duty, we could force ourselves I think.’
‘Okey-dokey then, you lads scuttle on down there, I’ll get my coat and be with you… in say… five, how would that be.’
‘That would be fine, five minutes.’
I went and got my leather jacket, a Georgio Armani and it knows it. Leather so soft it croons, goes out by itself. I swear it wept when Brazil stole the World Cup. I’d met women who wanted an evening with the jacket. Makes me feel good and I needed that. Had figured they’d come but now, I didn’t know was I ready. My body said. ‘No you’re not’ and sweat made lakes on my torso. Ever have one of those situations, like the following. You’re moving along the footpath, see a person coming towards you. In this instance, a woman in her late twenties, bit of a looker. Not earth shattering but cookin’. There’s only the two of you, not another punter on the path. Bags of time to move easily by. Yet… and here’s the fuck of it. Ye begin the manoeuvres early so as not to collide. Despite all the rules of gravity, you end up nose on nose, flappin’ uselessly as ye attempt to get by. I smiled, one of those knowing world-weary jobs to say, ‘Oh… silly us.’ She gave a loud sigh of aggressive annoyance, said, ‘Oh get out of my way for heaven’s sake.’
I grabbed her arm, hissed, ‘Hey, don’t pissin’ sigh at me lady, I’ll break yer bloody face… hear me.’
Didn’t affect her, as she moved on she shouted, ‘Damn Yuppie.’
I guess it was the jacket.
I arrived in The Roebuck, up for it. The two were sitting at a corner table, untouched glasses of orange like prayers before them. I opened: ‘On the old Britvics eh.’
‘But let us not curtail… your inclinations.’
This from Noble, again the dead smile. I sat opposite them. The barman shouted, ‘What’ll it be guv?’
‘Same as these chappies.’
He brought it over and it sat with the other immobile glasses. I said, ‘Ah, the juice.’
Noble gave me the long look, said, ‘Nice bit o’ leather, expensive was it.’
‘Are you in the market for one, that it?’
‘Alas, a policeman’s salary wouldn’t run to such an item.’
The juice looked forlorn, I extended a finger, said, ‘Eeny, Meeny, Miny… Mo.’
And Quinn spoke, South-East London hard, but inroads of Irish, ‘Catch a blagger by the toe.’
Noble added, ‘Quinn here is a plastic Paddy… second generation, he hates blaggers.’
‘And who would blame him?’
‘Precisely David. It is David isn’t it… You don’t mind if I call yo
u that, or are you more comfortable with Davy or Dave even?’
‘Cooper is fine.’
‘Touch hard is it not, are you a hard man Dave?’
‘Not according to my old mum, bless her heart.’
Quinn leaned over, ‘You’ve got form Davy boy.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And keeping clean, are yah?’
‘With the decorating, it’s not easy.’
His dog face was working up to it.
‘Not hurting for the readies… business good, was it?’
I knew I could go either way. Kiss ass and have him enjoy it or, ‘Ever keep greyhounds Quinn?’
‘That’s sergeant to you. Wotcha mean?’
‘Oh nothing, you remind me of White City, I thought perhaps yer Dad was into them, know wot I mean?’
Noble cut in, but first a glance at Quinn that said ‘Jeez, he does look like one!’
‘Davy, we have a problem, there’s been a string of bank jobs, all over the bloody shop. Two-man outfit, very pro, very classy. Would you know anything about these?’
‘Can’t help you there, repo is what I do.’
Noble sighed.
‘I feel it in my water Dave that you could help us, wouldn’t do for the nick to repossess you.’
The barman came over, asked, ‘Is the orange off or wot?’
Quinn didn’t look up, said, ‘Fuck off.’
He did.
Noble stood and gestured to Quinn, who kept his eyes locked on me, said, ‘We’ll be in touch Dave, I just know you’re going to be a big help.’
When they were gone, I carried the glasses over to the bar, said, ‘Sorry about those wankers, mebbe you could recycle these.’
He slung ’em down the sink, said, ‘Naw, they’re friggin’ contaminated, am I right.’
‘Absolutely.’
Three days passed, no sign or light of Cassie. Doc had the heavy word out but no show. I began to relax, figured she’d headed for higher ground. Kept thinking of her though, the leather sex, the bloody chemistry of the crazy bitch. But I knew I was better off without her. The hell of it is, trouble is so exciting and I’d been sliding along, not bored but heart not beating rapid either. The repo business was doing good and I’d gone to Brixton to suss out a major job. Done that and drifted into the big pub on the corner. Ordered mash and a banger, half a bitter. Found a table at the window and dug in. Never heard her till she sat opposite, she glanced at the food, said, ‘No shit Cooper, but is that phallic or wot.’