“Baz, there’s nothing there.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
It’s not that exciting, don’t see Jerry Bruckheimer making a film of it or nothing, but it’s odd. I’ll grant him that. It’s not like the rest of the house is spick and span. There’s stuff spilling out of cupboards, kitchen cabinets, old books sitting in piles on the floor. The carpet on the landing upstairs looks like something got spilled there and never cleaned up, and the whole place is dusty and smells of mildew or something. And yet these two drawers, perfect for storing stuff—could even have been designed for the purpose, ha ha ha—are completely empty. Why? You’ll never know. It’s just some private thing. That’s one of the weird bits about burglary. It’s intimate. It’s like being able to see what color pants everyone is wearing. Actually you could do that too, if you wanted, but that’s not what I meant Not my cup of tea. Not professional, either.
“There was nothing in there at all?”
“Just this,” Baz says, and holds something up so I can see it. “It was right at the back.”
I took it from him. It’s small, about the size and shape of the end of your thumb. Smooth, cold to the touch. “What is it?”
“Dunno,” he shrugs. “Marble?”
“Fucking shit marble, Baz. It’s not even fucking round.”
Baz shrugs again and I say “Weird,” and then it’s time to go. You don’t want to be hanging around any longer than necessary. Don’t want to be in a burning hurry, either—that’s when you can get careless or make too much noise or forget to look both ways as you slip out—but once you’ve found what you came for, you might as well be somewhere else.
So we go via the kitchen, grab the bin bag full of gear and slip out the back way. Stand outside the door a second, make sure no one’s passing by, then walk out onto the street, calm as you like. Van’s just around the corner. We stroll along the pavement, chatting normally, looking like we live in one of the other houses and walk this way every night. Get in the van—big white fucker, naturally, virtually invisible in London—and off we go.
It’s fucking magic, that moment.
The one where you turn the van into the next street and suddenly you’re just part of the evening traffic, and you know it’s done and you’re away and bar a fuck-up with the distribution of the goods it’s like it never happened. I always light a fag right then, crack open the window, smell the London air coming in the van. Warm, cold, it’s London. Best air in the world.
Weird thing, though. Even though it’s not that big a deal, the business with the drawers was still niggling me a few hours later. You do see the odd thing or two in my business—stuff that don’t quite make sense. Couple of months ago we’re doing over a big old house, over Tufnell Park way, and either side of the mantelpiece there’s a painting. Two little paintings, obviously done by the same bloke. Signed the same, for a start. Now, there’s huge photos all over the mantelpiece, including some wedding ones, and it don’t take a genius to work out that these two paintings are of the owners: one of the bloke, and the other of his missus. What’s that about? For a start, you’ve already got all the photos. And why get two paintings, one of each of you? If you’re going to get a painting done, surely you have the two of you together, looking all lovey-dovey and like you’ll never, ever get divorced and stand screaming at each other in some brief’s office arguing about bits of furniture you only bought in the first place because they was there and you had the cash burning a hole in your pocket. Maybe that’s it—you have the paintings done separate so you can split them when you break up. But if you’re already thinking about that, then . . . Whatever. People are just weird. Baz wanted to draw mustaches on the paintings, but I wouldn’t let him. They can’t have been cheap. So we just did one on the wife.
Anyway, couple of hours in the Junction and everything’s peachy. Already shifted most of the electrical goods to blokes we know are either keeping them for themselves or can be trusted to punt them on over the other side of town. Baz and I done a deal and he’s going to keep the little telly for his sister’s birthday. Couple bits of jewelry Baz found will go to Mr. Pzlowsky, a pro fence I use over in Bow. He don’t talk to no one—can barely understand what the old fucker’s saying, anyway—and can be trusted to only rob us short-sighted, not actually blind.
So the only thing left is the little thing I’ve got in my pocket. I get out, look at it. Funny thing is, I don’t really remember slipping it in there. Like I said, it’s small, and it looks like it must be made of glass. It’s so shiny, transparent in parts, that it can’t be anything else. But it’s got colors and textures in it too—kind of pinks and salmon, and some threads of dark green. And it feels . . . it feels almost wet, even though it had been in my pocket for ages. I suppose it’s just some special kind of glass or stone something.
“Wozzat?”
I look up and see Clive is racking up at the pool table a couple of yards away.
“What’s what?”
“What you got in your hand, twatface.”
I’m not trying to be funny, I don’t mind Clive, I’m just surprised he noticed it from over there.
I hold it up. “Dunno,” I said. “What do you think?”
He comes over, chalking up his cue, takes a look. “Dunno,” he agrees. ”Hold on though, tell you what it looks a bit like.”
“What’s that?”
“My sister-in-law went on holiday last year. Bali. Over, you know, in Polynesia.”
“Polynesia? Where the fuck’s that?”
“Dunno,” he admitted. “Fucking long flight though, by all accounts. Think they said it was in the South Seas or something. Dunno where that is either. Anyway, she brought our mum back something looked a bit like that. Said it was coral, I think.”
“You reckon?”
He leaned forward, looked at it more closely. “Yeah. Could be. Polished up, or something. Tell you what, though. It weren’t half as nice as your one. Where’d you get it?”
“Ah,” I said. “That would be telling.”
He nodded. “You nicked it. Well, I reckon that’s worth something, I do.”
And he wanders off to the table, where some bloke’s waiting for him to break.
“Nice one,” I said, and took another look at the thing.
Even though I’m sitting right in the back of the pub, snug into the wood paneling there, this little piece of coral or stone or glass or whatever seems to have a glow about it. Suppose it’s catching a glint from the long light over the pool table, but the light coming off it seems like it’s almost green. Could be the baize, I suppose, but . . . I dunno. Probably had a Stella too many.
I slipped it back in my pocket. I reckoned Clive was probably right, and it most likely was worth something.
Funny thing, though. I didn’t like the idea of getting rid of it.
Next few days just sort of go by. Nothing much going on. Baz had to head East to visit some mate in the London Hospital, so he goes over and does the business with Mr. Pzlowsky. Usually I’d do it because people have been known to take advantage of Bazza, but me and the Pole had words over it a year ago and he plays fair with him now. Fair as he plays with anyone, that is. The handful of jewelry we got from the house with the empty drawers gets us a few hundred quid, which is better than either of us expected. Old silver, apparently. American.
We play pool, we play darts, we watch television. You know how it is. Had a row with me bird, Jackie: she caught sight of the little coral thing (I’d just put it down next to the sink for a minute while I changed trousers) and seemed to think it was for her. Usually I do come back with a little something for the old trout, granted, but on this occasion I hadn’t. Pissed me off a bit, to be honest. She just sits at home all evening on her fat arse, doing nothing, and then when I come home she expects I’ll have some little present for her. Anyway, whatever. It got sorted out.
Couple days later Baz and I go out on the game again. Nothing mega, just out for a walk, trying back do
ors, side doors, garden gates, usual kind of stuff. What the coppers call “opportunistic” crime. Actually, we call it that too.
“Fancy a bit of opportunistic, Baz?” I’ll say.
He’ll neck the last of his pint. “Go on, then. Run out of cash anyway.”
We were only out an hour or so, and came back to the pub with maybe three, four hundred quid worth of stuff. Usual bits of jewelry, plus a Palm V, two external hard drives, three phones, wallet full of cash and even a pot of spare change (might as well, plenty of quid coins in there). That’s the thing about this business: you’ve got to know what you’re doing. Got to be able to have a quick look at rings and necklaces, and know whether they’re worth the nicking. Glance at a small plastic case, realize there’s a pricey little personal organizer inside. See things like those portable hard drives, which don’t look like anything, and know that if you wipe them clean you can get forty apiece for them in City pubs, more for the ones with more megs or gigs or whatever (it’s written on the back). Understand which phones are hard to clone or shift and so not worth the bother. Know that a big old pot of change can be well worth it, and also that if you tip it into a plastic bag it makes a bloody good cosh in case you meet someone on the way out.
The other thing is the mental attitude. I remember having a barney with an old boyfriend of Baz’s sister, couple years ago. She’d met him in some wine bar up West and he was a right smartarse, well up himself, fucking student or something it was.
He comes right out and asks me: “How can you do it?”
Not “do,” notice, I’d’ve understood that (and I don’t mind giving out some tips): but “can.” How can I do it? And this from some little wanker who’s being put through college by Mummy and Daddy, who didn’t have a lazy girlfriend to support, and who was a right old slowcoach when it came to doing his round at the bar. Annoying thing was, after I’d discussed it with him for a bit (I say “discussed”: there was a bit of pushing and shoving at the start), I could sort of see his point.
According to him, it was a matter of attitude. If someone came round and turned me mum’s place over, I’d be after their fucking blood. I knew that already, of course, he wasn’t teaching me nothing there: I suppose the thing I hadn’t really clocked was this mental attitude thing. I know that Mum’s got some bits and pieces that she’d be right upset if they was nicked. Not even because they’re worth much, but just because they mean something to her. From me old man, whatever. If I turn someone’s place over, though, I don’t know what means what to them. Could be that old ring was a gift from their Gran, whereas to me it’s just a tenner from Mr. Pzlowsky if I’m lucky. That tatty organizer could have phone numbers on it they don’t have anywhere else. Or maybe it was a big deal that their dad bought them a little telly, it’s the first one of their own they’ve had, and if I nick it then they’re always going to be on their second, or third, or tenth.
The point is I don’t know all that. I don’t know anything about these people and their lives, and I don’t really care. To me, they’re just fucking cattle, to be honest. What’s theirs is mine. Fair enough, maybe it’s not great mental attitude. But that’s thieving for you. Nobody said it was a job for Mother Teresa.
Anyway, we’re back in the Junction and a few more beers down (haven’t even shifted anything on yet, still working through the change pot) when who should walk in the door but the Pole. Mr. Pzlowsky, as I live and breathe. He comes in the door, looks around and sees us, and makes his way through the crowd.
Baz and I just stare at him. I’ve never seen the Pole anywhere except in his shop. Tell the truth, I thought he had no actual legs; just spent the day propped up behind his counter raking in the cash. He’s an old bloke, sixties, and he smokes like a chimney and I’m frankly fucking amazed he’s made it all the way here.
And also: why?
“I’d like a word with you,” he says, when he gets to us.
“Buy us a beer, then,” I go.
I’m a bit pissed off at him, truth be known. He’s crossing a line. I don’t want no one in the pub to know where we shift our gear. As it happens it’s just me and Baz there at that moment, but you never know when Clive’s going to come in, or any of the others.
He looks at me, then turns right around and goes back to the bar. “Two Stellas,” I shout after him, and he just scowls.
Baz and I turn to look at each other. “What’s going on?” Baz asks.
“Fucked if I know.”
As I watch the Pole at the bar, I’m thinking it through. My first thought is he’s come because there’s a problem with something we’ve sold him, he’s had the old Bill knocking on his door. But now I’m not sure. If it was grief, he wouldn’t be buying us a pint. He’d be in a hurry, and pissed off. “Have to wait and see.”
Eventually Mr. Pzlowsky gets back to us with our drinks on a little tray. He sits down at our table, his back to the rest of the pub, and I start to relax. Whatever he’s here for, he’s playing by the rules. He’s drinking neat gin, no ice. Ugh.
“Cheers,” I say. “So: what’s up?”
He lights one of his weird little cigarettes, coughs. “I have something for you.”
“Sounds interesting,” I say. “What?”
He reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out a brown envelope. Puts it on the table, pushes it across. I pick it up, look inside.
Fifties. Ten of them. Five hundred quid. A “monkey,” as they say on television, though no fucker I know does.
“Fuck’s this?”
“A bonus,” he says, and I can hear Baz’s brain fizzing. I can actually hear his thoughts. A bonus from the Pole, he’s thinking: What the fuck is going on?
“A bonus, from the Pole?” I say, on his behalf. “What the fuck is going on?”
“This is what it is,” he says, speaking quietly and drawing in close, I won’t do his accent, but trust me—you have to concentrate. “It is from that jewelry you bring me last week. The silver. The American silver. I have one of my clients in this afternoon, he is the one sometimes buys unusual things, and I decide I will show this silver to him. So I get one of these things out—I always show just one first, you understand, because it can be more expensive that way. He looks at it, and suddenly I am on high alert. This is because I am experienced, see, I know what is what in my trade. I see it in his eyes when he sees the piece: he really wants this thing, yes? I was going to say two hundred to him, maybe two hundred fifty, this is what I think it was worth. But when I see his face, I think a moment, and I say seven hundred fifty! Is a joke, a little bit, but also I think maybe I see what is in his eyes again, and we’ll see.”
“And?”
“He says ‘done,’ just like that, and he asks me if I have some more. I almost fall off my stool, I tell you truthfully.”
I nearly fell off my own stool, right there in the pub. Seven hundred and fifty fucking notes! Fuck me!
The Pole, sees my face, laughs. “Yes! And this is just the smallest one, you understand? So I say yes, I have some more, and his eyes are like saucers immediately. In all the time I do this thing, only a very few times do I see this look in a man’s face which says ‘I will pay whatever you want.’ So I bring them out, one by one. You bring me five of them, you remember. He buys them all.”
Baz gapes. “All of them? For seven fifty each?”
The Pole goes all sly, and winks. “At least,” he says, and I knew there and then that one or two of them went for a lot more than that. There’s quiet for a moment, as we all sip our drinks. I know Baz is trying to do the sums in his head, and not having much luck. I’ve already done them, and I’m a bit pissed off we didn’t realize what we had. Fuck knows what the Pole is thinking.
He finishes his gin in a quick swallow and gets up. “So, thank you, boys. Is a good find. He tell me is turn of the century American silver, from East Coast somewhere, he tell me the name, I forget it, something like Portsmouth, I think. And . . . well, the man says to me that if I find any more of this t
hing, he will buy it. Straight away. So . . . think of me, okay?”
And he winked again, and shuffled his way out through the crowd until we couldn’t see him any more.
“Fuck me,” Baz says, when he’s gone.
“Fuck me is right,” I say. I open the envelope, take out four of the fifties, and give them to him. “There’s your half.”
“Cheers. Mind you,” Baz says, over his beer, “he’s still a fucker. How much did all that add up to?”
“Minimum of seven fifty each, that’s three grand seven fifty,” I said. “But from that fucker’s face; I’m thinking he got five, six grand at least. And if he got that off some bloke who knows it’s nicked, then in the shops you got to double or treble it. Probably more.”
“Sheesh. Still, good for him. He didn’t have to see us right.”
“Yeah,” I said, because he wasn’t completely wrong. The Pole could have kept quiet about his windfall. His deal with us was done. “But you know what that cash is really about?”
Baz looked at me, shook his head. He’s a lovely bloke, don’t get me wrong. He’s my best mate. But the stuff in his head is mainly just padding to stop his eyeballs falling in. “What it means is,” I said, “is he’s very fucking keen to get some more. In fact, probably says he was lying about the seven fifty for the cheapest. He got more. Maybe much more. He got so much dosh for them, in fact, it was worth admitting he did well, and paying us a bonus so we go to him if we find any more.”
“Better keep our eyes open, then,” Baz said, cheerfully. “More beer?”
New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird Page 5