You
stay in the background, that’s all you’ve gotta do. I’ll do the all the talking. Just act the part. Flex yer muscles and look ugly.’
Vinnie turned to the door. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy this. He was glad he had worn his new overcoat. They would see he had style.
‘Door’s open,’ said Bert cautiously.
‘Yeah. Safe as ’ouses.’
They advanced into the dimly lit warehouse. High piles of wooden planks rose to the rafters and wood shavings littered the floor. Down at the end there was a light, another oil lamp hanging from
a beam.
‘What’s that stink?’ Bert asked hoarsely.
‘Tar,’ said Vinnie over his shoulder. ‘Don’t you know tar when you smell it? They use it on the wood.’
They walked slowly down the aisle. Vinnie’s heart was thumping. All he could see was the silhouettes of woodpiles and shadowy corners. When they came to the last stack of wood, he stood
still and craned his neck to look round it. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was just like Mik had said it would be. In the light of the lamp, he could see the large wooden crates marked
FRAGILE. How many bottles of booze did that lot contain, he wondered? His pulse raced as he savoured the adrenaline rush.
He stepped forward slowly. Bert was right on his heels. Vinnie groaned and turned, hissing, ‘I told you, stay in the background.’
Bert stood with his jaw sagging. Vinnie gave his brother a long, hard glare. Then a movement in the shadows caught his eye.
Out of the gloom stepped three figures. They were dressed in overcoats and hats and none of their faces was visible. Two were tall, broad and muscular. The third and smallest figure walked
slowly towards the crates.
A potent mixture of fear and excitement filled Vinnie’s veins. His throat was dry, his palms sweaty. He told himself to stay calm. Mik’s instructions were to make certain the booze
was in the crates; Vinnie intended to follow them to the letter.
‘State yer business,’ the small figure said.
Vinnie swallowed. ‘Mik sent me. To inspect the goods.’
Vinnie wondered if Bert could handle the two goons. More importantly, could he himself match this man in front of him? This was the big league. The real McCoy. Mik had sent him on a serious
errand. If he lost face on this one he’d never live it down.
In silence, the overcoated figure leaned across one of the crates and lifted the top. Vinnie moved forward and looked into it. All he could see were bottle tops. He felt a flood of relief. He
moved to the next crate. His fingers clamped round the top. He felt the rough edge of the wood prickle his skin. The feeling of power was intoxicating. The smell, the atmosphere, the high he was
getting from doing the deal. This was what he was made for.
He jerked up the top. Dozens more bottles. He needn’t have worried. Everything was perfect. ‘How many crates?’ he demanded, his confidence returning.
‘Twenty.’
The crates behind were stacked in twos. Too high to reach the top ones. He looked around. No ladders. Nothing on which to climb. Odd for a timber yard. A jolt of suspicion went through him. He
tried to calm himself. If he panicked, he’d blow it. ‘Open them all,’ he said.
There was a long pause. ‘You ain’t very trusting.’
‘Why should I be?’
‘You saying them crates ain’t full?’
‘I ain’t sayin’ nothing. Not till I’ve had a butcher’s.’ Vinnie was getting nervous. He squared his shoulders. ‘Me boss is very particular.’
‘Your boss wants a bit bloody much,’ came the reply. ‘Ain’t you gonna take me word?’
‘I dunno who you are,’ Vinnie gulped. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘Seems to me you ain’t got much choice.’
‘Oh yes I have,’ Vinnie answered in a bolshie tone. He didn’t like this one bit.
‘Oh no you ain’t.’ The small figure stepped forward and Vinnie gasped audibly as his lapels were clenched. He stared into a pair of dark, dangerous eyes.
‘If you think
stay in the background, that’s all you’ve gotta do. I’ll do the all the talking. Just act the part. Flex yer muscles and look ugly.’
Vinnie turned to the door. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy this. He was glad he had worn his new overcoat. They would see he had style.
‘Door’s open,’ said Bert cautiously.
‘Yeah. Safe as ’ouses.’
They advanced into the dimly lit warehouse. High piles of wooden planks rose to the rafters and wood shavings littered the floor. Down at the end there was a light, another oil lamp hanging from
a beam.
‘What’s that stink?’ Bert asked hoarsely.
‘Tar,’ said Vinnie over his shoulder. ‘Don’t you know tar when you smell it? They use it on the wood.’
They walked slowly down the aisle. Vinnie’s heart was thumping. All he could see was the silhouettes of woodpiles and shadowy corners. When they came to the last stack of wood, he stood
still and craned his neck to look round it. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was just like Mik had said it would be. In the light of the lamp, he could see the large wooden crates marked
FRAGILE. How many bottles of booze did that lot contain, he wondered? His pulse raced as he savoured the adrenaline rush.
He stepped forward slowly. Bert was right on his heels. Vinnie groaned and turned, hissing, ‘I told you, stay in the background.’
Bert stood with his jaw sagging. Vinnie gave his brother a long, hard glare. Then a movement in the shadows caught his eye.
Out of the gloom stepped three figures. They were dressed in overcoats and hats and none of their faces was visible. Two were tall, broad and muscular. The third and smallest figure walked
slowly towards the crates.
A potent mixture of fear and excitement filled Vinnie’s veins. His throat was dry, his palms sweaty. He told himself to stay calm. Mik’s instructions were to make certain the booze
was in the crates; Vinnie intended to follow them to the letter.
‘State yer business,’ the small figure said.
Vinnie swallowed. ‘Mik sent me. To inspect the goods.’
Vinnie wondered if Bert could handle the two goons. More importantly, could he himself match this man in front of him? This was the big league. The real McCoy. Mik had sent him on a serious
errand. If he lost face on this one he’d never live it down.
In silence, the overcoated figure leaned across one of the crates and lifted the top. Vinnie moved forward and looked into it. All he could see were bottle tops. He felt a flood of relief. He
moved to the next crate. His fingers clamped round the top. He felt the rough edge of the wood prickle his skin. The feeling of power was intoxicating. The smell, the atmosphere, the high he was
getting from doing the deal. This was what he was made for.
He jerked up the top. Dozens more bottles. He needn’t have worried. Everything was perfect. ‘How many crates?’ he demanded, his confidence returning.
‘Twenty.’
The crates behind were stacked in twos. Too high to reach the top ones. He looked around. No ladders. Nothing on which to climb. Odd for a timber yard. A jolt of suspicion went through him. He
tried to calm himself. If he panicked, he’d blow it. ‘Open them all,’ he said.
There was a long pause. ‘You ain’t very trusting.’
‘Why should I be?’
‘You saying them crates ain’t full?’
‘I ain’t sayin’ nothing. Not till I’ve had a butcher’s.’ Vinnie was getting nervous. He squared his shoulders. ‘Me boss is very particular.’
‘Your boss wants a bit bloody much,’ came the reply. ‘Ain’t you gonna take me word?’
‘I dunno who you are,’ Vinnie gulped. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘Seems to me you ain’t got much choice.’
‘Oh yes I have,’ Vinnie answered in a bolshie tone. He didn’t like this one bit.
‘Oh no you ain’t.’ The small figure stepped forward and Vinnie gasped audibly as his lapels were clenched. He stared into a pair of dark, dangerous eyes.
‘If you think
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