Guns Of Brixton (73 page)

    'Donkeys.
That's all I fucking back lately.'

    'I
know the feeling,' said Mark. 'It's a mug's game.'

    'Yeah.
But the sport of kings.' Lee tossed the paper on to the bar, adding: 'And you
need to be a king to afford it.'

    'Bit
skint?' said Mark.

    'Up and
down, you know.'

    'Only
too well. What's your game then?'

    'This
and that,' said Lee.

    Mark
drained his glass and called to the barmaid for a refill. 'Want one?' he said
to Lee.

    'Why
not? I ain't going nowhere.'

    Mark
ordered another lager and a pint of bitter for Lee. When the drinks arrived,
they saluted each other. 'Cheers,' said Lee.

    'Cheers
mate. That your motor outside?'

    Lee
suddenly looked suspicious. 'What motor?'

    'The
classic Capri.'

    'What
makes you think that?' said Lee, taking a cigarette from the packet in front of
him, but not offering one to Mark.

    'Because
I'm looking for a man who drives one.'

    'Is
that so?'

    'Yeah,'
said Mark, lighting a cigarette of his own and squinting though the smoke. 'I
heard that this particular man could handle himself behind the wheel.'

    'Where
did you hear that?'

    'Around
and about.'

    'Are
you Old Bill?'

    Mark
laughed out loud. 'Fuck me, hardly,' he said. 'Now that is funny.'

    'Why's
that?'

    'Because
me and the filth aren't exactly mates. Old Bill, me? I'll have to remember
that.'

    'So
what are you looking for a driver for?'

    'A
little job.'

    'No,
mate,' said Lee. 'I'm booked.'

    'Just
a few hours' work. Nothing too strenuous. It's worth a grand.'

    'I
don't know you.'

    'My
name's Steve, Steve Sawyer. And you must be Toby Lee.'

    'Might
be,' said Lee.

    'Come
on, mate,' said Mark, moving closer and dropping his voice. 'Don't be shy. Your
reputation precedes you.'

    'Is
that right?' Despite himself, he was flattered. Toby Lee didn't have much to
boast about in his life, except for his driving, of which he was, quite
rightly, inordinately proud.

    'That's
right.'

    Toby
nodded and smiled.

    'So
Toby, you interested?' asked Mark.

    'Who
told you about me?'

    This
was going to be the difficult part for Mark. He knew the little bloke would be
suspicious about working for a stranger. 'Gerry Goldstein,' he said. He took
out his mobile and put it on the bar in front of Lee. 'Give him a ring.'

    Gerry
hadn't been overjoyed when Mark told him that he intended to use him as a
reference. 'Why me?' he'd asked.

    'Don't
be silly, Gerry,' Mark had replied.

    'He
knows you.'

    'He
might tell Butler.'

    'Why
would he? He'll be on an easy grand or whatever.'

    '1
don't like it.'

    'Then
learn to like it,' said Mark. 'You're a fucking traitor, Gerry. And you know
what Butler thinks of traitors. And what he does about them. Lee will phone
you, and you'll tell him I'm golden, or else I'll find a way to grass you up.'

    Goldstein
had given Mark a look that told him he'd better watch his back. Goldstein was
scared of him. What he might do. And so he should be. But Goldstein had
friends, nasty friends, and Mark could tell he was getting close to the end of
his tether. Fuck his luck, he thought. Just a little while more and it probably
won't matter.

    Lee
tapped in the numbers and waited for the pickup. 'Gerry,' he said, 'got a bloke
here named Sawyer.' Pause. 'Wants me to do a bit.' Another pause. Mark saw
Lee's look. 'So he's all right? OK, fine,' he said. Lee broke the connection
and handed the phone back. 'Fifteen hundred,' he said. 'Half in advance.'

    'Don't
you want to know what you've got to do?'

    'You
said a few hours. That's it. You piss me about and I'll make sure you don't do
it twice.'

    Hard
man, thought Mark. Let's see how hard he is when I've finished with him. But he
said nothing, just smiled and said: 'Let's take a walk by the river.'

    It was
a fine afternoon, couples were strolling hand in hand, even though it was
midweek. The river was calm and swans sailed by, like galleons in full sail.
Pretty, thought Mark, but underneath, those webbed feet are going nineteen to
the dozen. Just like life. They found a bench and sat down, watching a small
child tearing off hunks of bread and throwing them to the birds. More like, at
them, thought Mark as one lump of crust caught a swan in the eye.

    'So,'
said Lee. 'Where's the dough and what's the job?'

    Mark
reached into his jacket, took out an envelope containing a thousand pounds in
fifties, counted out fifteen, and handed them over. 'I want you to collect a
car and deliver it,' he said. 'Simple.'

    'What's
in the car?'

    'None
of your business.'

    'Fair
enough,' said Lee. ''Where and when?'

    'Tomorrow
night,' said Mark, taking a set of keys out of his pocket and handing them to
Lee. 'A black Beemer seven in the carpark of the Ibis hotel at Heathrow. Know
it?'

    'I'll
find it.'

    'Fair
enough. Registration S411 YEV. Take it to the underground carpark at the East
London Uni, at Beckton. Know that?'

    'I'll
find it.'

    'Good.
It's Saturday so it'll be open but empty. Leave the car there and take a walk.
The rest of your money will be in the glove compartment.'

    'That's
all?'

    'That's
all.'

    'Seems
like a lot for a run across London.'

    'Better
than bus driver's wages, that's for sure.'

    'Why
don't you do it?'

    'I'll
be doing something else. Now this ain't a quiz show. Do you want the job or
not? If not, gimme the cash and the keys back and I'll find someone who does.'

    Lee
though for a minute and nodded. 'I'll do it.'

    'Get
the motor to the carpark by ten. Don't be too early and don't be late. OK?'

    'OK.'
'OK, Toby. And try Lancaster Gate in the three-thirty at Think tomorrow. You
might double your money.' And with that, Mark got up and left.

    Dev
had supplied the stolen BMW, two sets of keys and a new set of plates, and Chas
had driven it over to Heathrow. He'd left it in the hotel car park, with an
envelope in the glove box containing another fifteen fifties, then caught the
tube home. It was good for him to have something useful to do for a change -
and this wasn't his only job that weekend. Just like old times.

    At
seven the next night, Mark picked Chas up in his Ford Explorer, and they drove
over to east London. They were early, but they didn't want to miss Lee's
arrival. Mark had scoped out several locations before he'd settled on the Uni,
but he'd found that the campus carpark was the only one open that could be
counted on to be dead on a Saturday night. He parked the truck close to the
entrance, its tinted windows hiding the two occupants from view, and they
waited.

    'I
miss John, you know,' said Chas.

    'Course
you do.'

    'It's
a bit dull without him.'

    'I
bet. And Hazel too, yeah?'

    'For
sure.'

    'It
must've been great, the three of you in the old days.'

    'Are
you kidding?'

    'Tell
me about him and Hazel.'

    'Like
what?'

    'Like
what they were like back then.'

    'Back
then. The old days. You make me feel like Methuselah.'

    'You
know what I mean. Come on, we've got time.'

    'That's
what we always thought. Loads of time. But time flies. There was one day…'

    'Yeah?'

    'Yeah.
They were bad you know, the pair of them. Very bad. We all were. But John… He
was the worst. And she didn't help. Not at first. She calmed down when they got
married and Martine came along. No, not calmed down. Just… Christ, I don't
know. She just managed it better.'

    'So
what happened?'

    'When?'

    'That
one day you were talking about.'

    'Oh
yeah. It was summer, 1967. Great summer that was. The real summer of love.
'Cept we didn't love much, not our little firm. Only each other. Real hippy
days, but John always hated hippies. Anyway, we found out that there was this
bunch of public school boys doing a roaring drug trade up in Notting Hill. That
was when it was a real dump. Not that's it's any better now, just property
values are higher. Being from down south, I don't know. We never felt right
over in west London. Streatham, Brixton, Clapham, Battersea, that was our
manor. Chelsea for clothes and the West End for nights out. But I always felt
that Notting Hill, Shepherd's Bush, round there was like alien territory. But
anyway, these kids had a great big house in one of the squares up there. I
forget which: one now. Belonged to one of their dads. He was something big in
the ' admiralty, of all things, and he let his kid live in this house. Massive
it I was. One of those like in
Performance.
You've seen that movie?'

    Mark
nodded.

    'Good
film. Realistic, if you know what I mean. White the house was, with a bloody great
set of steps at the front, and white pillars on either side of the door. Christ
knows what it would be worth these days, but then they were mostly split into
bedsits for students and lowpaid workers and spades and all. Anyway, we heard
these fuckers were doing good business. They ran some kind of underground
newspaper and the dope paid the bills that Daddy didn't. But what got under
John's skin was that they were posh fuckers pretending to be the lads, if you
know what I mean. Pissed John right off.

    'Anyway,
how you got the gear was to phone up, tell 'em that so-and- so had told you the
SP and pop round with the readies. Not before two. in the afternoon though.
These people liked to sleep late. And that, fucked John off too. Always was an
early riser, John was. The get in was easy. No steel doors like nowadays. These
kids thought they were golden. Hardly ever even locked the door. Mugs. So we
got the phone number and Hazel says she'll go in first, sweeten 'em up, if you
like. But she really only did it to wind John up, if you ask me. You should've
seen her. Fuckin' 'ell. Did she look the business that day? Like I told you, it
was summer. Hot, sticky. And she turns up in this little flowery dress that's
so short it hardly covers her arse. And you can see right through it. No bra
and just a little pair of white bikini pants. The rest of us didn't know where
to look. Oh, I forgot. There was me and Martin, who used to be called the Goon,
in the motor too. Some great big thing. A Zephyr I think, we'd got off Dev.
Always had to have a big motor we did, even if it burnt a bit of oil. So the
four of us shoot off to Notting Hill in the car, but it's still a bit early, so
we go to a pub and start getting tanked up. Hazel loved a drink, remember?'

    Mark
nodded again.

    'Christ,
she couldn't have been more than eighteen that summer. They'd've called her a
"wild child" in the 80s, but then she was just a mad bird. So, like I
said, she volunteers to go in first and John ain't happy about that at all. But
he stays calm. Or at least as calm as he ever was, back then. I mean, when you
knew him, he'd quietened down too, so's you can imagine what he was like
before. Fucking mental when he got on one. So she goes to a phone box and does
the business,. comes back and everything's hunky dory. "Cool," she
says. "They're holding. Give me half an hour," and off she flounces,
wiggling her bottom and I can see John seething, but he doesn't say anything.
So we're in the pub and John keeps looking at his watch, and after twenty minutes,
he says "Fuck this," and goes to the phone too. Now the plan is,- he
phones, goes in, susses out the situation and thirty minutes later I phone up
too and go in with Martin and we take them down. Rip off what we can and split.
Sweet as. But of course, as you know, plans can go wrong.'