‘No… just a phone call. I have it written down, you just read it, I pay you and I’m gone.’
‘You up to a little action?’
‘Not today.’
‘You’re one of those men, don’t pay for it… right?’
‘Sharon, let’s quit the analysis. You shut the fuck up, read the script and we’re done, can you do that.’
‘Let’s do it.’
I handed her the sheet of paper, she read it but skipped comment. I gave her the number. Here’s what she read: ‘Metropolitan Police… yeah, can you put me on to the robbery division.’
She gave me a sick smile as she was put on hold, then, ‘I have information regarding the country-wide bank jobs.’
Hold again. She clicked her fingers, indicated a pack of Major and matches. I loved those clickin’ fingers but got her one and handed it to her. The phone was now nestling between her chin and shoulder, so beloved of broads in movies and busy folks everywhere, she hissed, ‘The matches…’
Yeah.
I lit the cigarette and she drew dust from the very carpet. Her face contorted and was followed by a horrendous cough. One of those lungs to the roof of the mouth jobs. She spoke again. ‘Let’s say I was involved with one of the guys OK… yeah… fucked me over… get the picture. Hey, if you want to hear this or not… the proof? Well, if you go to the flat of Arnold White, accountant, you’ll find maps, diagrams, plans for all the jobs. The address?… wot, you want me to do all the bloody work, try detectin’ it. White, you want me to spell it… No… not Leonard… A… R… N… O… L… D… yeah, I’ll tell you how it works. These are the three big banks,
Barclays
Nat West
Lloyds
Yeah, in each of those, there is a clerk who supervises the transfer of large sums to provincial branches. Their names?… Detect them. They inform Mr White as to when and where. Yer cop Noble, he provides the data on local policing. Who and what to avoid. Course it’s simple… why cha fink it works.
‘ – Yeah, up yours too.’
And she banged the phone down. I said. ‘That went rather well, don’t you think.’
Her face was enraged and she moved to a cupboard, took out a whopper-size bottle of vodka, one glass. Poured a shoot amount, knocked it back clean. I remembered the gun dealer, his Yeltsin brand. If it hit the spot, she didn’t show it, said, ‘I’ve been a lot of things in my sorry time but never a grass. I don’t like the taste of it and I don’t think I like you a whole lot better – know wot I mean.’
I counted out her money, all crisp new bills, asked, ‘Do you like my new gear, only got it today.’
‘Wot?’
‘While you’re “finking”, lemme ask you this. When Jimmy told you about the job, did he say you’d have to like me, maybe we’d share sob stories, fight a little but eventually love would blossom? And we’d fade away to the Kinks playing in the background. Did he mention shit like that?’
‘Wotcha on about, course he didn’t!’
I stood, liked the way the new jacket hung – stylish but not blatant, said, ‘So, shut yer bloody mouth. I also suggest you forget this whole incident. You’re going to have to trust me on this but, you wouldn’t want me to come back.’
I expected further cheek but instead, ‘You’re an only child, aren’t you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I can always tell, you have that air of front and black-guardism.’
I liked that word, said, ‘To tell you the truth Sharon, I asked my old Mum if I’d been adopted. She said she’d tried but no one would have me.’
She took the money, counted it and I thought… when the Doc told me that yarn everyone cracked up but perhaps my timing was off. As I left she was lifting the vodka.
As I turned towards Waterloo Bridge, Jimmy came out of a doorway. He was grinning, not a pretty sight. I said, ‘This better be coincidence.’
‘Don’t be like that, I only wanted to make sure everything went smoothly. Iron out any problems, that’s all – cross my heart, straight up.’
‘It’s good, I’m glad I met you here.’
‘You are.’
‘See… see that spot over there, that’s where I near killed the mugger, you heard about it right… wot I went to the nick for.’
He backed off, not noticeably but a gradual edging away, I went with him, continued, ‘I never told anyone this Jimmy, not a soul, but I want to tell you… fuckit, I need to tell someone…’
He was glancing round, avenues for escape. I slapped my open right hand on his shoulder, said, ‘Jim, I enjoyed it… but wait… hang a mo’… I want to do it again so badly… Know wot I mean?’
THE LAST CALL
Both barrels in the cashier’s face and the blast threw her from her till. I’d been holding the shotgun in her direction, Doc a few feet away was roarin’, ‘Everybody get the fuck down –
And one of the great British traditions came to play – a bastard ‘had a go’. A fuck in a blazer, near seventy. I’d taken my eyes off him and he walloped me across my shoulders with his walking stick – my fingers had squeezed the trigger as I stumbled forward. Doc leapt for him, clubbed him with the gun’s stock. Now everyone was screaming. The girl was dead, had to be, so I thought I’d salvage something, shouted, ‘Who’s next… eh… who wants some more!’
And I cranked two shells in, let them see it.
Silence.
It had been going so well. The incendiaries Doc had planted at the cop shop, Tesco’s and the Masonic Lodge went off in sequence. More noise than damage and we’d been in the bank seconds later. Now it had turned to shit. Doc gave me a look and I roared, ‘Get the fuckin’ money.’
He did.
Filled two bin-liners, he’d been right in that department. Looked more than we’d ever pulled but we hadn’t looked at murder either. I mean… they’d believe it was an accident?… I didn’t mean it M’Lud… honest – that’s why I was carrying a 12-gauge, only for demonstration purposes. Yeah, a judge would understand. Good-night Irene. With good behaviour we’d be out in 2701.
As usual we’d two cars. Outside waiting was the ‘borrowed’ – a Vauxhall Tigre Coupe with automatic form. Our legit one was back at the Services Stop. A Volvo 850 GLT T5, the four-door saloon. Chosen purely for its top speed of 149 mph and the acceleration didn’t hurt either – 0-622 mph in 74 seconds. I could vouch for that. Its beauty though – drop a couple of gears to bring the turbo on line, kick on the throttle and yer off. Meatloaf’s ‘Bat outa Hell’ on yer tapedeck… eat fucking dust. I wished it was outside the bank. Our system was for Doc to now take my shooter, and double-armed he’d stand as I rushed to the car with the cash. It had always worked before. Seemed to again.
I slung the bags in back and shit, heard sirens, put the Coupe in gear. Doc came edging out slow, his back to me. A woman stepped from a doorway between us. Cassie!
Dressed in black, short bomber jacket and mini skirt, she took the pose beloved of movie posters. Feet apart, both hands on the pistol, ready to kick ass. Before I could react, she fired four times, taking Doc in the legs. He went down like an elephant, the shotguns sprawling uselessly. She turned, looked right at me and smiled, began to tighten her finger on the trigger. I hit the ignition, into gear and drove off. Near collided with a school bus and then I was outa Treesmead, going like a demented thing. My pounding near deafened me to all else and I kept shouting – ‘get to the rest stop, get the Volvo… get, get, get…’ – as if ritual would deliver me.
You ever see that movie
