indignation. He had the quick aggressiveness of small people, and their characteristic backward tilt of the head. Jesse hated him instantly. He looked like a sergeant major. Jesse would have liked to punch his face, or better, shoot him through the forehead.
'We all make mistakes,' he said with forced amiability. 'Let's just give each other our names and everything, and get on. It's only a little bump. Don't make a federal case of it.'
It was the wrong thing to say. The short man became even redder. 'You're not getting off that lightly,' he said.
The traffic in front had moved on, and drivers behind were getting impatient. Several of them sounded their horns. One man got out of his car.
The Marina driver was writing the number of the van in a little notebook. That type of man always does have a little notebook and pencil in his jacket pocket, Jesse thought.
He closed the book. 'This is bloody careless driving. I'm going to ring the police.'
The driver from behind said: 'How about moving this little lot out the way, so the rest of us can get on?'
Jesse sensed an ally. 'Nothing I'd rather do, mate, but this fellow wants to call in Kojak on the case.'
The portly man wagged a finger. 'I know your type-drive like a hooligan and let the insurance pay. I'm having you up, Sonny Jim.'
Jesse took a step forward, clenching his fists, then stopped himself. He was getting panicky. 'The police have got enough to do,' he pleaded.
The other man's eyes narrowed. He had seen Jesse's fear. 'We'll let them decide whether they've got better things to do.' He looked around, and spotted a phone booth. 'You stop here.' He turned away.
Jesse grabbed his shoulder. He was scared now. He said: 'This is nothing to do with the police!'
The man turned and knocked Jesse's hand away, 'Get off, you young punk-'
Jesse seized him by the lapels and pulled him onto his toes. 'I'll give you punk…' Suddenly he became conscious of the crowd that had gathered, looking on with interest. There were about a dozen people. He stared at them. They were mostly housewives with shopping bags. The girl with the tight trousers was at the front. He realized he was doing all the wrong things.
He decided to get out of it.
He let the aggrieved man go and got into the van. The man stared at him disbelievingly.
Jesse restarted the stalled engine and backed up. There was a wrenching sound as the vehicles parted. He could see that the Marina's bumper hung loose, and its rear-light cluster was smashed. Fifty quid to put right, and a tenner if you do the work yourself, he thought wildly.
The portly man moved in front of the van and stood there like Neptune, waving an officious finger. 'You stay right here!' he shouted. The crowd was growing as the row became more spectacular. There was a lull in the oncoming traffic, and the cars behind began to pull out past the accident.
Jesse found first gear and revved the engine. The man stood his ground. Jesse engaged the clutch with a jerk, and the van shot forward.
Too late, the portly man dived toward the curb. Jesse heard a dull thud from the nearside wing as he swung out. A car behind braked with a squeal of tires. Jesse changed up and tore away without looking back.
The street seemed narrow and oppressive, traplike, as he hurtled along, ignoring pedestrian crossings, swerving and braking. He tried desperately to think. He had screwed it all up. The whole tickle had gone beautifully, and Jesse James had pranged the getaway motor. A vanload of paper money blown on a fifty-nicker crunch. Arseholes.
Stay cool, he told himself. It wasn't a blowout until he was locked up. There was still time, if only he could think.
He slowed the van and turned off the main road. There was no point in attracting attention again. He threaded his way through a series of backstreets while he figured it out.
What would happen now? A bystander would phone the police, especially as he had knocked down the portly man. The van's number was in the little notebook; besides, somebody in the crowd would have noted it too. It would be reported as a hit-and-run, and the number would go out over the air to patrol cars. Anything from three minutes to fifteen to get that far. Another five minutes, and they would broadcast a description of Jesse. What was he wearing? Blue trousers and an orange shirt. Arseholes.
What would Tony Cox say, if he were here to be asked? Jesse recalled the guvnor's fleshy face and heard his voice. Tell yourself what the problem is, right?
Jesse said aloud: 'The police have got my number and description.'
Think what you'd have to do to solve the problem.
'What the hell can I do, Tone? Change my license plate and my appearance?'
Then do it, right?
Jesse frowned. Tony's analytical thinking only went so far. Where the hell could he get license plates, and how could he fit them?
Of course, it was easy.
He found his way to a main road and drove along until he came to a garage. He pulled on to the forecourt. Quad stamps, he thought: jolly good show. There was a repair shop back of the pumps. A tanker was discharging on the far side.
The attendant approached, cleaning his spectacles on an oily rag. 'Five quids' worth,' Jesse said. 'Where's the khasi?'
'Round the side.'
Jesse followed the jerked thumb. A rough concrete path led alongside the garage. He found a broken door marked GENTS and went past it.
Behind the garage was a small patch of waste ground where newish cars in for repair jostled with rusty doors, buckled wings, and discarded machinery. Jesse could not see what he was looking for.
The back entrance to the repair shop gaped open beside him, big enough to drive a bus through. There was no point in being furtive. He walked in.
It took a moment to adjust to the gloom after the sunlight outside. The air smelled of engine oil and ozone. A Mini was on a ramp at head height, its entrails hanging down obscenely. The front end of an articulated truck was wired up to a Krypton tester. A Jaguar on chocks had its wheels off. There was no one about. He looked at his wristwatch: they would be having their dinner. He looked around.
He spotted the things he needed.
A pair of red-and-white trade plates stood on an oil drum in a corner. He crossed the floor and picked them up. He looked around again, and stole two more things: clean overalls hanging on a peg in the brick wall, and a length of dirty string off the floor.
A voice said: 'Looking for something, brother?'
Jesse jerked around, his heart in his mouth. A black mechanic in a grimy overall stood on the far side of the shop, leaning on the gleaming white wing of the Jaguar, his mouth full of food. His Afro haircut shifted as he chewed. Jesse tried to cover the trade plates with the overalls. 'The khasi,' he said. 'Want to change my clothes.' He held his breath.
The mechanic pointed. 'Outside,' he said. He swallowed, and took another bite out of a Scotch egg.
'Thanks.' Jesse hurried out.
'Anytime,' the mechanic called after him. Jesse realized the man had an Irish accent. Irish spades? That was a new one.
The pump attendant was waiting beside the van. Jesse climbed in and threw the overalls and their contents over the seat into the back. The attendant looked curiously at the bundle. Jesse said: 'My overall was hanging out the back door. It must be filthy. How much?'
'We generally charge a fiver for five quids' worth. I didn't notice it.'
'Nor did I, for fifty bleeding miles. I did say five quids' worth, didn't I?'
'That's what you said. No charge for the bog.'
Jesse gave him a five-pound note and pulled away rapidly.
He was a little off his route now, which was good. The area was quieter than the places he had traveled through earlier. There were oldish detached houses on either side, set back from the road. Horse-chestnut trees lined the pavements. He saw a Green Line bus stop.
