Games start, so I rang them and asked if they'd be interested in a nice building wrap to hide all their builders' hairy arses. Nastro Azzurro rang last week looking for a site, so I paired them up. You know how Italians like doing business with each other – the Godfather and all that.'
'And how much money are they paying for it?' asked Jon, examining the mass of scaffolding. 'Thousands.'
'And what sort of commission do you get on the deal?'
'Thousands,' repeated Tom, unable to help smiling.
Jon sat back in his seat and blew out his cheeks.
At the junction to the half-built station concourse Tom asked, 'You really want to drink in the Bull's Head?' He looked down the road to the pub.
'Yeah,' answered Jon. 'Why?'
Tom laughed. 'Nothing. It's just that we come all the way into town – Castlefield, Deansgate Locks, the Northern Quarter – and you choose an old boozer behind the station.'
Jon shrugged. 'I told you. Give me somewhere with decent beer, music that lets you talk and enough seats. It's not like we're out trying to pull, are we?'
Tom nodded. 'Tell you what, let's have a look at my office first. It's only round the corner in Ardwick.' He leaned forward to address the driver. 'That all right, mate?'
'You're the boss,' he replied. 'What's the address?'
'Seven, Ardwick Crescent.'
The car carried on through the lights, past the redeveloped rear of the station with its new taxi rank. Within seconds, they'd pulled up outside what had once been a cramped terrace of residential housing.
Above the front door of the house before them was a sign reading,' It's A Wrap'. The office was two old houses turned into one, the narrow alley between them sealed off with plated glass which arched backwards to form a curved atrium between the two buildings.
'This is where it all happens,' said Tom, looking up at the building and seeing the windows lit up on the first floor. 'I don't believe it; Creepy George is in.'
They flicked the driver a fiver each and climbed out.
'Who's Creepy George?'
Tom shook his head. 'Don't ask. Hopefully someone's just left the lights on and he's not there at all.'
He pulled out his keys and opened up the heavily reinforced front door. When the alarm didn't start up with its warning beeps Tom said over his shoulder, 'He's here.'
Jon followed him into a foyer that continued the theme of a modern office carved from an industrial town house. The walls were stripped back to the brickwork and an old mangle stood in the corner. Hessian sacks with the word 'cotton' were piled to the side of the brushed stainless steel desk.
Tom opened a side door that led into the main boardroom. He pulled open the pale yellow Smeg fridge in the corner, took out two bottles of Becks, popped the caps on the wall-mounted opener and handed one to Jon.
'You can just help yourself?' said Jon, surprised.
'As long as you don't take the piss.'
Jon stepped into the room, opened up the fridge and saw it was stacked full of bottles. 'Bloody hell! Why am I in the public sector? We even have to pay for our coffee and tea.'
Tom laughed. 'Come on, I'll show you my office.'
They proceeded through an archway that led into the flagstone alley. Beneath the protective glass panels, two giant rubber plants thrived. Stepping through into the adjoining building, Tom pointed towards a door marked 'Head Honcho'. He raised his hand to his forehead and made a dickhead gesture, then began climbing up the circular iron staircase that curled up to the first floor where former bedrooms had been knocked through to form a single, open-plan office. Inside five workstations had been crammed in for the account handlers. The corner alcove was entirely taken up by a fortress of monitors and computer equipment.
Tom stepped through the doorway and was about to wave a hand at his desk when a flurry of activity started up. Visible behind the barricade of equipment in the corner was a mass of black hair. Creepy George. Their sudden appearance had
'And how much money are they paying for it?' asked Jon, examining the mass of scaffolding. 'Thousands.'
'And what sort of commission do you get on the deal?'
'Thousands,' repeated Tom, unable to help smiling.
Jon sat back in his seat and blew out his cheeks.
At the junction to the half-built station concourse Tom asked, 'You really want to drink in the Bull's Head?' He looked down the road to the pub.
'Yeah,' answered Jon. 'Why?'
Tom laughed. 'Nothing. It's just that we come all the way into town – Castlefield, Deansgate Locks, the Northern Quarter – and you choose an old boozer behind the station.'
Jon shrugged. 'I told you. Give me somewhere with decent beer, music that lets you talk and enough seats. It's not like we're out trying to pull, are we?'
Tom nodded. 'Tell you what, let's have a look at my office first. It's only round the corner in Ardwick.' He leaned forward to address the driver. 'That all right, mate?'
'You're the boss,' he replied. 'What's the address?'
'Seven, Ardwick Crescent.'
The car carried on through the lights, past the redeveloped rear of the station with its new taxi rank. Within seconds, they'd pulled up outside what had once been a cramped terrace of residential housing.
Above the front door of the house before them was a sign reading,' It's A Wrap'. The office was two old houses turned into one, the narrow alley between them sealed off with plated glass which arched backwards to form a curved atrium between the two buildings.
'This is where it all happens,' said Tom, looking up at the building and seeing the windows lit up on the first floor. 'I don't believe it; Creepy George is in.'
They flicked the driver a fiver each and climbed out.
'Who's Creepy George?'
Tom shook his head. 'Don't ask. Hopefully someone's just left the lights on and he's not there at all.'
He pulled out his keys and opened up the heavily reinforced front door. When the alarm didn't start up with its warning beeps Tom said over his shoulder, 'He's here.'
Jon followed him into a foyer that continued the theme of a modern office carved from an industrial town house. The walls were stripped back to the brickwork and an old mangle stood in the corner. Hessian sacks with the word 'cotton' were piled to the side of the brushed stainless steel desk.
Tom opened a side door that led into the main boardroom. He pulled open the pale yellow Smeg fridge in the corner, took out two bottles of Becks, popped the caps on the wall-mounted opener and handed one to Jon.
'You can just help yourself?' said Jon, surprised.
'As long as you don't take the piss.'
Jon stepped into the room, opened up the fridge and saw it was stacked full of bottles. 'Bloody hell! Why am I in the public sector? We even have to pay for our coffee and tea.'
Tom laughed. 'Come on, I'll show you my office.'
They proceeded through an archway that led into the flagstone alley. Beneath the protective glass panels, two giant rubber plants thrived. Stepping through into the adjoining building, Tom pointed towards a door marked 'Head Honcho'. He raised his hand to his forehead and made a dickhead gesture, then began climbing up the circular iron staircase that curled up to the first floor where former bedrooms had been knocked through to form a single, open-plan office. Inside five workstations had been crammed in for the account handlers. The corner alcove was entirely taken up by a fortress of monitors and computer equipment.
Tom stepped through the doorway and was about to wave a hand at his desk when a flurry of activity started up. Visible behind the barricade of equipment in the corner was a mass of black hair. Creepy George. Their sudden appearance had
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