say no
different."
"I don't like you to swear, Mum."
"You shouldn't provoke me."
Tony ate silently and finished quickly. He emptied his teacup and began
to unwrap a cigar.
His mother picked up his cup. "More tea?"
He looked at his watch. "No, thanks. I've got a couple of things to do."
He set fire to the cigar and stood up. "That's set me up lovely, that
breakfast."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you having a fickle?"
This annoyed him. He blew smoke into the air.
"Who needs to know?"
"It's your life. Go on, then, I'll see you later.
Mind you look after yousseff."
He looked at her a moment longer. Although she gave in to him, she was a
strong woman. She had led the family since the old man went: mending
marriages, borrowing from one son to lend to another, giving advice,
using her disapproval as a powerful sanction. She had resisted all
efforts to move her from Quill Street to a nice little bungalow in
Bournemouth, suspecting--rightly--that the old house and its memories
were a potent symbol of her authority. Once, there had been queenly
arrogance in her high-bridged nose and pointed chin; now, she was regal
but resigned, like an abdicated monarch; knowing she was wise to release
the reins of power, but regretting it all the same. Tony realized that
this was why she needed him: he was king now, and having him to live
with her kept her close to the throne. He loved her for needing him. No
one else needed him.
She stood up. "Well, are you going?" "Yes." He realized he had been lost
in thought.
He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed briefly. He never kissed
her. "Ta-ta, Mum." He picked up his coat, patted the dog, and went out.
The interior of the Rolls was hot. He pressed the button that lowered
the window before settling himself in the leather seat and pulling away.
He took pleasure in the car as he threaded it through the narrow East
End streets. Its shameless luxury, in contrast with the mean streets and
undignified old houses, told the story of Tony Cox's life. people looked
at the car--housewives, paper boys working men, villains--and said to
each other: "There's Tony Cox. He did well."
He flicked cigar ash through the open window.
He had done well. He had bought his first car for six pounds when he was
sixteen years old. The blank Ministry of Transport certificate had cost
him the shillings on the black market. He filled in the blanks and
resold the car for eighty pounds.
Before long he had a used car lot which he gradually turned into a
legitimate business. Then he sold it, with the stock, for five thousand
pounds, and went into the long firm racket.
He used the five thousand to open a bank account, giving as a ponce the
name of the man who had bought the car lot. He told the bank manager his
real name, but gave a false address-the same false address he had given
the purchaser of the car business.
He took a lease on a warehouse, paying three months' rent in advance.
He bought small quantities of radio, television, and hi-fi equipment
from manufacturers--and resold it to shops in London.
He paid suppliers on the dot, and his bank account was busy. Within a
couple of months he was making a small loss, and had a reputation for
credit-worthiness.
At that point he made a series of very large orders. Small manufacturers
to whom he had promptly paid a couple of bills of five hundred pounds
each were glad to supply him with three or four thousand pounds' worth
of goods on the same credit terms: he looked like becoming a good
customer.
With a warehouse full of expensive electronic gadgetry for which he had
paid nothing, he held a sale. Record players, color television sets,
digital clocks, tape decks, amplifiers, and radios went for knockdown
prices, sometimes as little as half their retail value. In two days the
warehouse was empty and Tony Cox had three thousand
different."
"I don't like you to swear, Mum."
"You shouldn't provoke me."
Tony ate silently and finished quickly. He emptied his teacup and began
to unwrap a cigar.
His mother picked up his cup. "More tea?"
He looked at his watch. "No, thanks. I've got a couple of things to do."
He set fire to the cigar and stood up. "That's set me up lovely, that
breakfast."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you having a fickle?"
This annoyed him. He blew smoke into the air.
"Who needs to know?"
"It's your life. Go on, then, I'll see you later.
Mind you look after yousseff."
He looked at her a moment longer. Although she gave in to him, she was a
strong woman. She had led the family since the old man went: mending
marriages, borrowing from one son to lend to another, giving advice,
using her disapproval as a powerful sanction. She had resisted all
efforts to move her from Quill Street to a nice little bungalow in
Bournemouth, suspecting--rightly--that the old house and its memories
were a potent symbol of her authority. Once, there had been queenly
arrogance in her high-bridged nose and pointed chin; now, she was regal
but resigned, like an abdicated monarch; knowing she was wise to release
the reins of power, but regretting it all the same. Tony realized that
this was why she needed him: he was king now, and having him to live
with her kept her close to the throne. He loved her for needing him. No
one else needed him.
She stood up. "Well, are you going?" "Yes." He realized he had been lost
in thought.
He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed briefly. He never kissed
her. "Ta-ta, Mum." He picked up his coat, patted the dog, and went out.
The interior of the Rolls was hot. He pressed the button that lowered
the window before settling himself in the leather seat and pulling away.
He took pleasure in the car as he threaded it through the narrow East
End streets. Its shameless luxury, in contrast with the mean streets and
undignified old houses, told the story of Tony Cox's life. people looked
at the car--housewives, paper boys working men, villains--and said to
each other: "There's Tony Cox. He did well."
He flicked cigar ash through the open window.
He had done well. He had bought his first car for six pounds when he was
sixteen years old. The blank Ministry of Transport certificate had cost
him the shillings on the black market. He filled in the blanks and
resold the car for eighty pounds.
Before long he had a used car lot which he gradually turned into a
legitimate business. Then he sold it, with the stock, for five thousand
pounds, and went into the long firm racket.
He used the five thousand to open a bank account, giving as a ponce the
name of the man who had bought the car lot. He told the bank manager his
real name, but gave a false address-the same false address he had given
the purchaser of the car business.
He took a lease on a warehouse, paying three months' rent in advance.
He bought small quantities of radio, television, and hi-fi equipment
from manufacturers--and resold it to shops in London.
He paid suppliers on the dot, and his bank account was busy. Within a
couple of months he was making a small loss, and had a reputation for
credit-worthiness.
At that point he made a series of very large orders. Small manufacturers
to whom he had promptly paid a couple of bills of five hundred pounds
each were glad to supply him with three or four thousand pounds' worth
of goods on the same credit terms: he looked like becoming a good
customer.
With a warehouse full of expensive electronic gadgetry for which he had
paid nothing, he held a sale. Record players, color television sets,
digital clocks, tape decks, amplifiers, and radios went for knockdown
prices, sometimes as little as half their retail value. In two days the
warehouse was empty and Tony Cox had three thousand
Similar Books
