“Me nephew,” Flogger explained proudly. “Better than waiting in line with all the plebs.”
Garston studied the man who sat opposite him.
Flogger – no one seemed to know his real name – was freakish to look at. He had a lumpy bald head that resembled a Maris Piper potato, gigantic ears stuck out at right angles, saggy jowls, and a triple chin, and the lenses of his black-framed glasses were so thick that they made his rheumy eyes look about five times larger than they actually were.
Garston detected a faint accent, possibly Jewish but definitely Middle Eastern. The supplier wore a long winter coat over a thick, round neck jumper – at least Garston thought that it had a round neck; buried under so many chins it was rather hard to tell. Flogger had the calloused hands of a manual worker, but his liver-spotted fingers were adorned with expensive rings, suggesting he wasn’t short of a bob or two. Studying the well lived-in face, Garston decided that if Flogger was a day under sixty, he must have had a very hard paper round.
Flogger looked at him and smiled serenely, revealing two rows of tombstone-like yellow teeth. He leaned forward, beckoning Garston to do likewise. “Let me tell you a joke,” he said amiably. “A gorilla walks into a bar and asks for a scotch on the rocks. He hands over a brand new ten pound note to pay for it. ‘Well,’ the savvy bartender finks to himself, ‘surely, this gorilla won’t have a clue how much a shot of whiskey actually costs,’ so he pours out the spirit and pushes it across the bar along with fifteen pence in change. Making conversation a little while later, the bartender says, ‘You know, we don’t get a lot of gorillas in here.’ The gorilla looks at him and replies, ‘I’m not surprised. At nine pounds and eighty five pence a shot, I certainly won’t be coming back.’” Flogger burst into laughter, exposing a mouth full of dull fillings.
He seemed disproportionately amused by the story, Garston reflected, not even bothering to smile.
“You know why I like that joke?” Flogger asked, still chortling away. “The bartender reminds me of me, that’s why.”
“A slippery fucker with no morals?”
“No, an entrepreneur with an eye for making money.”
Before Garston could respond, the young man that Flogger had signalled to earlier reappeared and he came over carrying a serving tray that contained two pint glasses and a shot of JD.
“Your drinks, uncle,” he said, carefully placing a pint glass before each guest. The whiskey chaser was also for Flogger, Garston saw.
“Thank you, Joseph,” Flogger said, reaching for the beer. “Me friend ‘ere is paying for ‘em.”
Garston rolled his eyes but dutifully reached for his wallet. Should have seen that coming, he told himself.
“L’Chaim,” Flogger said, gulping down a mouthful of beer and sighing appreciatively.
“Cheers ears,” Garston said, following suit. As soon as he’d said it, he realised he had made a faux pas. Probably not the best choice of expressions to use when you’re sitting opposite a man whose lugholes could rival Dumbo’s, he thought, smothering a smile in his beer glass.
Thankfully, Flogger didn’t seem to notice.
“Did you get the stuff I asked for?” he enquired the moment the bartender was out of earshot.
Flogger paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Course I did,” he said indignantly. “Gave you me word, didn’t I?”
Garston held out an impatient hand. “Forgive my rudeness but I’m in a rush.”
Flogger drained the remainder of the glass in a single gulp, made an elaborate show of wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and then casually reached under his seat. After fumbling around for a moment, the hand reappeared carrying a paper dispensing bag. From inside this, he removed two small white boxes with printed labels on them.
“There you go, two weeks’ worth of antibiotics as promised,” he said, sliding them across the table for Garston to inspect.
Garston picked up one of the boxes and weighed it in his hand before reading the label. Almost immediately, his brow furrowed and he looked up at Flogger in disbelief. “Are you having a bloody laugh?” he demanded.
Flogger’s face was the picture of innocence. “I don’t know what you mean,” he insisted, scooping up the whiskey chaser and eyeing it with anticipation as he swirled the amber liquid around in the glass.
“These are fucking horse pills!” Garston raged. He read from the packet. “It says here, ‘Take as directed by the vet!’”
“You told me you didn’t care what I got you as long as they did the job,” Flogger pointed out defensively.
“Yeah, I know, but I was expecting human medication,” Garston said, shaking the box incredulously. “I can’t give him pills that are intended for animals.”
“Why not?” Flogger asked with a mischievous grin. “From what I ‘ear, Claude Winston’s a proper fucking animal, so I would ‘ave thought these pills were ideal.”
Struggling to contain his anger, Garston leaned across the table. “This is taking the piss, and if I tell Claude what you’ve given him and what you just said about him, he’ll hunt you down and slit your fucking throat, and you know I’m not exaggerating in the slightest.”
Subconsciously raising a hand to his Adam’s apple, Flogger swallowed hard and squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. Winston’s reputation for violence was well known.
“Listen, me ol’ mucker,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “I give you me bleedin’ word that these will do the trick. An’ I ain’t lying, I really did ‘ave to call in a big favour to get ‘em for you. I can’t get you anything else until the weekend at the earliest so, I’m afraid, it’s these pills or nothing.” He sat back and shrugged. “Tell you what, I’ll even waive my commission as a sign of good faith.”
Garston shook his head. “You’re putting me on the spot, you know that?”
“Take the pills. I promise they’ll make ‘im better, and that’s all that matters,” Flogger
