'The answer's no, Micky.'
'Well, I don't see why you're so against it,' Micky countered irritably. 'Knocking out that stuff is child's play. It was only in the beginning that we made mistakes. Me and Lenny got it down to a fine art in the end. Blimey, look at all those Yanks we serviced in the war. They couldn't get enough of it. And we was only using Dad's lock-up just the same. At four quid a bottle, we could be running a little goldmine.'
Ronnie sat down at the table. 'It was industrial spirit, Micky. No matter what the label is you shove on the bottle, the truth is, it's gut rot. I don't want to be held responsible for innocent punters drinking what is in effect, neat poison.' He turned slowly, his eyes suspicious. 'I take it you got rid of any incriminating evidence? You pulled the plug on the lock-up?'
Micky nodded sullenly. 'Yeah, yeah, the place is as tight as a drum.'
'It had better be.'
'And there was no way them dead GI's was ever traced back to me,' Micky persisted truculently. 'They could've picked up the hooch from anywhere in the city. In fact if they'd stuck to ours, they might be alive to this day.'
But Ronnie was having none of it. 'I'll say this again for your benefit Micky, cos you seem to be having trouble with your hearing lately.' He arched heavy eyebrows. 'Your distillery career is well and truly over. It's too dangerous for the poor sods who drink it. And His Majesty's revenue men are rubbing their hands in glee at the thought of nicking people like you and Lenny Rigler.'
Micky slid off the draining board. 'It just not fair, that's all. We was on to a good thing.'
'And so was Crippin.'
Micky slouched down in a chair. 'So what time did Joyce go home, then?'
Ronnie began to pour another cup of tea. 'I drove her back to Poplar this morning.'
'So you've not been to bed or is that a leading question?'
Ronnie frown darkly at his brother. 'It's none of your bloody business. And while we're on the subject, that kid upstairs is going to have one hell of a lump of lead when she wakes.'
'Yeah,' Micky grinned as he watched Ronnie pour milk into a jug. 'She must've drunk more champagne than she let on. She was talking away one minute and out cold the next.'
'It was a bad idea, taking her. I should never have let you talk me into it.' Ronnie lit himself a cigarette.
'But she's perfect for club work.'
Ronnie's grey eyes flashed. 'I hope you don't mean what I think you mean.'
Micky looked shocked. 'Course I don't. Not that. But even you Ron, must have noticed she has potential. A real punter's darling. She'd be perfect just swanning around the club, entertaining like. She's got the gift of the gab has our Bells. She just needs a bit of coaching. And Joyce would do that, easy as wink.'
Ronnie inhaled sharply and shook his head. 'It's all irrelevant, now, Micky. I've told you the club's off.'
'Aw, Ron …. just think about it – '
'I have and it's a non starter.' He wagged a finger in his brother's face. 'And as far as the kid goes, she's already got a job and can make it on her own.'
Micky pulled the blanket around his waist and slurped his tea noisily. 'She'd be better off with us though.'
'Says who?'
'You was all for it last week.'
'I was all for her doing the books. The legit side. The market accounts and the scrap. And maybe a bit of driving.' He rattled his spoon around his cup. He paused, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. 'But what does interest me is the fact that the Indigo had a couple of rooms out the back with tables. And they were taking plenty of cash. Now, a sporting club along those lines …'
'What about girls?'
'What about them?'
'You have to have girls.'
Ronnie began to smile. 'That's all you think about Micky. It's a wonder you've not had had more accidents tripping over your dick.'
They both laughed and Ronnie relaxed. He thought he was going to have serious opposition from Micky this morning.
'Right, let's get to work.' Ronnie pulled out a big, dog-eared ledger from the drawer of the table. He placed it before them and opened it carefully, sliding his index finger down the left-hand side of the page. 'We've got Foxy Mason running the stalls up Roman Road, right? And Buster on the Lane. What about Cox Street?'
'All done.' Micky rubbed his palm across his mouth to stifle another yawn. 'Lol Partridge and her old man are on the barrows and we got a couple of suitcases at either end.'
'And the running?'
'Six at least, all good reliable boys.'
Ronnie nodded in satisfaction. 'Now there's two or three lorry loads out the back to get shot of. I want the yard clear before P.C. Plod makes his social call.'
'How much are we slipping him?' Micky asked curiously.
'Five notes for the time being.'
'Saucy bugger!'
'It's an investment,' Ronnie shrugged. 'He's in too deep to back out now and he knows it. And he just got lumbered with another dustbin lid.'
The brothers were grinning at each other when a noise at the kitchen door made them look round. Terry was standing there, his tall and lanky body clothed in a crumpled suit.
Micky chuckled. 'He didn't even get his kit off last night. Just slept on the landing outside Bells' door, curled up like a bloody dog.'
'Cup of tea, Terry?' Ronnie lifted the pot. He knew that the boy hadn't budged an inch all night.
'Terry give Bella tea.'
'Yeah, I'll pour one and you can take it up.'
'Bella's sick, isn't she Ron?'
'No, it was just the booze, chum. Get this down her and she'll be okay.'
Ronnie watched Micky studying Terry and he wasn't sure what he saw in his brother's eyes. Whatever it was, he didn't care for it much and he found he wasn't surprised when Micky stood
