by W H Oxley
‘Look, Foxy, I reckon I owe you one for looking after Alfie. I got a full report from Jack.’
‘Jack’s a real pro: knows how to handle himself, stays calm. He shouldn’t be wasting his time hanging around with a twat like Alfie.’
‘Don’t worry, he won’t be. The firm’s expanding, and I can use a good bloke like him. He’ll be working with Slasher.’
‘Heh-heh, they’ll make a good team. They can sharpen each others razors.’
‘Jesus, don’t you ever give up on the comedy routine?’
‘Nah, it’s being cheerful what keeps me going. Let’s face it, I spent Gawd knows how much time nicking a couple of cars for a robbery that paid bugger all, almost got a formal introduction to the hangman, was chased halfway across Hertfordshire by the woodentops, and now I’ve got the Sweeny up my arse. About the only bright spot on the horizon is that there’s a war coming – blimey, if I didn’t laugh I’d cry.’
‘Well, don’t cry, I’m going to do you a favour.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Foxy eyed him suspiciously, ‘what sort of favour?’
‘A lorry load of radios – five bob a piece.’
‘Five bob each…’ Foxy licked his lips; then sighed and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Sid, but thanks to that nephew of yours I’m a bit short of the readies at the moment. Shame though…’
‘Don’t worry, Foxy, no rush, you can pay me later.’
‘Erm, thanks… So where are these radios then?’
‘They’re still in the factory. I’ve got a little arrangement with the lorry driver.’ Sid tapped his nose. ‘He’s going to stop off for the night at a transport caff on the Great North Road, and the place ain’t got a phone. So, when he finds his lorry’s gone, it’ll take him ages to report it. By which time–’
‘Hold it, hold it! If you want me to do another driving job, you can bloody well forget it.’
‘Relax, Foxy, I wouldn’t expect a getaway man to drive a lorry, anymore than I’d send Slasher round to beat somebody up. You don’t send a skilled man to do a workman’s job, and Slasher’s a real craftsman with a razor, just like you’re a specialist in your game.’
‘Er, yeah … thanks for the compliment,’ mumbled Foxy, unsure of the comparison. ‘When can I expect delivery?’
‘Should be next Monday, is that okay with you?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Right, it’s a deal then.’ Sid extended his hand. ‘I’m relying on you. It’s got to go like clockwork. I want that van unloaded and abandoned before the coppers have even heard it’s gone missing.’
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Foxy shook the hand, ‘when it comes to shifting dodgy gear, nobody can move as fast as old Foxy.’
‘Yeah,’ Sid winked, ‘I heard you was a fast worker.’
‘Don’t tell me; let me guess. A little bird told you…’ Foxy smoothed his pencil moustache.
‘Just so long as it ain’t one of mine…’ Sid’s smile remained fixed, but the eyes hardened.
‘Don’t worry, mate, I heard what happened to that Dago who fancied himself. They say he ain’t been near a mirror since.’ Foxy’s voice remained calm but it had a slight edge.
‘Yeah, lovely bit of workmanship that was.’ Sid smiled like a friendly shark. ‘Slasher’s a real artist…’
‘Like Picasso.’
‘Picasso? Is he an artist?’
‘Yeah. He specialises in pictures of people with their faces messed up.’
‘Sounds like my kind of boy.’ Sid waved his cigar. ‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Nothing special. Why?’
‘I’m having a little celebration.’
‘What’s the occasion?’
‘An anniversary, me and Josie have been together a year.’
‘Congratulations.’ Foxy stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘She’s a lovely girl. Twelve months; doesn’t time fly; seems like only yesterday…’
Benjamin’s Banqueting Rooms were situated on the Mile End Road. The proprietor, Solly Benjamin, had very kindly laid on the evening for Sid (people were always being kind to Sid). As the assembled company waited for the guest of honour to put on an appearance, a small band played a foxtrot while a crooner in a white jacket sang Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.
Foxy checked out the scene…
Hmm, nothing fresh womenwise: a handful of tarts and a few of my old sleeping partners. If the worst comes to the worst, maybe one of ’em will oblige me for the night. Who else is here? Oh my Gawd, look what’s coming my way…
‘Wotcher, Foxy.’
‘Evening, Alfie. I see you managed to find your way home. Are you on duty as a waiter tonight?’
‘Nah, course not. What made you think so?’
‘You’re wearing a dinner jacket and black tie.’
‘Well, it’s a formal occasion ain’t it.’
‘Yeah, I s’pose you could call it that.’
‘The happy couple…’
‘Yeah, Sid’s a lucky man.’
‘Nice bit of stuff, Josie…’ Alfie leered.
‘I don’t reckon Sid would like to hear you calling her that.’
‘Come off it, Foxy. Don’t tell me you ain’t noticed.’
‘Noticing one thing, talking like that about someone’s old lady is another – as you will learn when you grow up.’
‘Stuff you, Foxy! Just cos that copper fucked up my bank job, it don’t mean I have to take shit from you.’
‘If you don’t want shit from me, don’t come round knocking on my door when the Sweeny are parked outside.’
‘How was I supposed to know they was the Sweeny?’
‘If you can’t spot a couple of coppers half a mile away, you’d better hang on to that outfit you’re wearing, cos you’re gonna have a great future waiting tables.’
‘I won’t have to, not after my next job.’
‘About time you got a job…’
‘It’s a bank job.’
‘I can’t see you working in a bank. You’ve got to be able to add up and know your multiplication tables…’
‘Ha-ha, very funny, I meant a bank robbery.’
‘Blimey, you’re a right little glutton for punishment ain’t you. Well just make sure you don’t have winkles for breakfast this time, though to be on the safe side you’d better wear a nappy.’
Alfie ignored the provocation and struck a defiant pose. ‘Jack’s already agreed.’
‘Pull the other one. It’s got bells on it.’
‘If you don’t believe me ask him.’
‘I will, next time I… Hello what’s going on?’
The band struck up Here Comes the Bride, and Sid swaggered into the room like a heavyweight champion entering the ring. Josie was on his arm. Her shimmering white dress clung to her body, emphasising every curve, while the dark tresses of her hair contrasted with the creamy skin of her shoulders. Instinctively, Foxy licked his lips. He was about to smooth his moustache when he became aware that Alfie was watching him intently…
When the band had finished playing, Solly grabbed the mike. Plump and balding, he sweated profusely as he made the announcement.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to welcome the guests of honour, Mr Sidney Weston and his bride-to-be Miss Josephine Hopkins.’
Moving swiftly, Foxy was at the head of the crowd that pressed forward. Grasping Sid’s hand and pumping it up and down, he yelled, ‘Well done, mate; I didn’t know you had it in you. Permission to kiss the bride?’
‘Yeah, but make sure you keep your hands behind your back.’ Sid’s tone was jocular and his smile, friendly, but his eyes remained cold and alert.
Chapter 8
On the first day of the following week Sid sent the word, and Foxy swung into action. His lock up was situated at the back of a large rambling house on the edge of the Hackney marshes. To ensure that it could not be traced back to him he rented it through an intermediary from the elderly gentlewoman who owned the house.
The day had be
en a hot one, and the cool of the night brought the mist rolling in gently across the marshes. Clutching a darkened lantern, Foxy stood in the shadows nervously smoking a cigarette. When he heard the faint distant sound of an engine, he dogged out his fag and waited. As the truck approached it flashed its light. Uncloaking the lantern, Foxy waved it in reply and opened the doors of the lock up. When the truck crept to a halt, the passenger door opened and Billy McConnell leaped out. In his early twenties and built like whippet, he had a ferret’s face and nervous eyes that darted about in the gloom.
‘Wotcher, Foxy, glad to see yer. The sooner we shift this lot and get the hell out of here the better. I’ve got old Ned driving; he’s getting to old for this sort of caper; he’s a bag of nerves.’
‘So, why did he take the job?’
‘Sid asked for a favour.’
‘Ah yeah of course, Sid has a habit of doing that, probably why he sent you along to keep an eye on him. From what I hear you’re on the way up in the firm.’
‘Not much bloody longer.’ The tone was bitter.
‘Why, what happened?’
‘I’ve got me bleeding call up papers: got ter report for the army.’
‘Blimey, that’s a turn up for the books.
‘Yeah, well let’s get shifting this stuff.’
As Billy rolled up his sleeves, Ned shuffled up. He was coughing, wheezing and moaning.
‘A light just went on in the house,’ he whined, ‘let’s get out of here.’
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ hissed Foxy. ‘The old girl usually gets up for a pee around this time. She’s as deaf as a coot and her eyesight ain’t that good either, so relax.’
Ned may have been old and wheezy but he could move fast when he had an incentive – and getting the hell out of here was the best. The operation took less than ten minutes, and before the last of the cartons had cleared the tailboard Ned was back behind the wheel. He didn’t even wait for Billy, who had to jump onto the running board of the moving vehicle.
Foxy wasted no time in locking up and following them.
Not much happened for the rest of the week, apart from Hitler invading Poland. On Sunday, Britain and France declared war on Germany. But just when things were looking up, trouble struck in the form of Alfie Peck. He ran Foxy to ground in the Baker’s Arms.
‘Oh my Gawd, look what the wind’s blown in,’ groaned Foxy, when he caught sight of Alfie’s reflection in the giant mirror behind the bar.
‘Wotcher, Foxy, I thought I might find you here. What can I get yer?’
‘No thanks, I’ve just got one.’ Foxy eyed him uneasily. ‘So what’re you after then? You didn’t come sneaking up behind me just to buy me a drink.’
‘You sure you ain’t going ter let me get you something?’
‘Bloody sure. What do you want?’
‘I’m gonna do you a favour and–’
‘Piss off! I’m still recovering financially from the last bloody favour you did me.’
‘That’s why I’m going to help you out.’
‘I need your help like a one-legged man needs an amputation.’
‘Hah hah, I always did like your sense of humour.’
‘I wasn’t being funny…’
‘Come on, Foxy, we’re mates.’
‘Are we?’
‘Course we are. That’s why I want you drive on my next job.’
‘Get stuffed.’
‘It’s a piece of cake. A little bank that–’
‘Ain’t you heard there’s a war on?’
‘Course I have. Didn’t Hitler invade some country or other?’
‘It was Poland.’
‘Was it? Where’s that, then?’
‘In eastern Europe.’
‘Yeah, well I didn’t go to grammar school, did I? But what’s all that shit about the war got to do with my bank job?’
‘I thought you might want to join the army and do your bit for King and country.’
‘Stuff that! Do I look that stupid?’
‘Are you sure you want me to answer that question?’
A brief scowl flickered across Alfie’s face, before vanishing. ‘Come on, Foxy,’ he wheedled, ‘think of the money.’
‘I’m thinking of the hangman…’
‘Bollocks!’ Alfie’s acne flushed. ‘I didn’t kill that copper, did I? It was a misunderstanding.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘I heard you was a bit short of the readies…’
‘Yeah? Well you been hearing wrong, ain’t you?’
‘Mmm, yes of course, I was forgetting about that lorry load of radios you got stashed away.’ Alfie grinned and his little eyes glinted with malice.
Foxy eyed him uneasily before silently finishing his drink. Then, placing his hat firmly on his head, he stalked out of the pub without another word – though he failed to wipe the smirk off Alfie’s face.
In another pub on the other side of town, Detective Inspector Hawker downed another pint. His face was flushed, and he leered at the barmaid as he handed her the empty glass.
‘Come on, drink up, Brightwell. Have another one.’
‘I’d rather not, sir, if you don’t mind.’
‘Humph, you’d have not lasted long in France.’
‘Er, yes, it must have been tough in the trenches.’
‘Trenches, perish the thought, I kept well away from the trenches.’
‘Really, sir…’ Brightwell raised one of his eyebrows.
‘Yep,’ Hawker smacked his lips and winked at the barmaid as she handed him his pint, ‘I was in the military police. Our job was to round up deserters.’
‘What did you do with them, sir?’
‘If they were lucky, they were shot…’
‘And the ones that were not lucky?’
‘Oh them … heh-heh … we sent them back to the trenches. Take my advice, Brightwell, if you do decide to do your bit in the present conflict, join the military police.’
‘I see, sir…’ Brightwell shuffled his feet uneasily and tried to change the subject. ‘What were you just saying about Fredrick Fox, sir?’
‘Fox? Ah yes, our slippery friend the Fox.’ Hawker dragged his attention away from the barmaid’s cleavage. I’ve had a whisper from one of my snouts that Peck has another bank robbery planned.’
‘Are you sure your source is reliable, sir?’
‘Impeccable: I even know which bank.’
‘But he’s Sid Weston’s nephew. Surely no informer would dare…’
‘I get the distinct impression that Mr Weston would be happy to see the back of his sister’s son – like I said,’ Hawker winked, ‘my source is impeccable.’
‘I see, sir, but what about Fox, do think he will be involved?’
‘I’m hoping that Little Alfie will be able to use his persuasive charms…’
‘Please, Foxy, please … yes, Foxy, yes … ah ah, … ooh ooh ooh … ah ah ah … yes-yes-yes … oh Yes!!!’
‘Phew…’ Kitty lay back on the brass bed as Foxy slid off her and began to cover her body with kisses. In her mid twenties, she was married to a middle-aged travelling salesman who’s lack of interest in the more intimate side of marriage had created a void in Kitty – a void that Foxy was happy to fill.
Afterplay over, he lit a couple of cigarettes and passed one to her, asking, ‘How long’s the old man away for this time?’
‘He’s gone up north; won’t be back ’til Friday; said it was his patriotic duty to help the war effort.’
‘What’s he selling?’
‘Corsets.’
‘Blimey, that really will help the war effort. Once all the women in England are equipped with corsets old Adolf won’t stand a chance.’
‘Silly bugger.’ She gave him a dig in the ribs.
‘Do you know what that word really means?’
‘Um … no…’
He leant over and whispered in her ear.
‘Oh…’ Her eyes widened.
‘So?’
/>
‘So, what?’
‘So how about it?’
‘Oh no you don’t,’ she giggled, leaping out of bed.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing ’til you try it,’ he laughed. ‘And if you won’t do that, then at least you could make me a nice cup of tea, cos I’m gasping for–’
‘Yap yap yap … yap yap yap…’
‘What’s up with that bloody poodle of yours?’
‘Mind your language, Foxy. Mitzi’s a jolly good watchdog. She must have heard something. I’d better pop down and find out what’s upset her.’ Kitty reached for her dressing gown.
‘I hope it’s not your old man.’
‘I shouldn’t think so. She never barks at people she knows. It’s probably a cat.’
When she reappeared, Foxy had just finished knotting his tie and was almost dressed. She had a worried expression on her face.
‘Foxy, love, I don’t want to sound like a nervous schoolgirl, but I think there’s someone hiding in the shrubbery in the back garden.’
‘Blimey, I hope it ain’t one of them German paratroopers.’
‘I should be so lucky – but I wish you’d just take a quick look. It could be a burglar.’
In the kitchen, Mitzi greeted him with a yelp, then trotted over to the door leading to the garden and gave another yelp.
‘You see, she’s trying to tell us something,’ said Kitty.
‘Maybe she just wants a wee-wee.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well there’s only one way to find out.’ Foxy gave a reluctant shrug. ‘Could I borrow your rolling pin?’
‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’
With Kitty watching, he strode purposefully into the garden. Dusk was creeping in, and the smell of damp earth wafted into his nostrils. Mitzi trotted at his heels until he was halfway to the end of the garden. Then she dashed up to the rhododendron bushes, yapped twice and ran back.
‘All right,’ shouted Foxy, waving the rolling pin, ‘if you don’t come out at once, I’m going to come in there and beat the shit out of you!’
There was a slight rustling but nothing else.
‘I’m going to count to ten, and if you don’t– Blimey, it’s you!’
The leaves parted and Alfie Peck emerged. ‘Wotcher, Foxy.’
‘Never mind that, what the fuck are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to talk business.’ Alfie brushed a couple of leaves off his jacket.
‘Do you always do your business in the bushes?’
‘Course not. It’s just that–’