pounds in cash in
two suitcases. He locked the warehouse and went home.
He shivered in the front seat of the warm car as he remembered. He would
never take risks like those again. Suppose one of the suppliers had got
wind of the sale? Suppose the bank manager had seen Tony in a pub a few
days later?
He still did the occasional long firm, but these days he used front men,
who took long holidays in Spain as soon as the ax fell. And nobody saw
Tony's face.
However, his business interests had diversified.
He owned property in Central London which he let to young ladies at
extremely high rents; he ran nightclubs; he even managed a couple of pop
groups. Some of his projects were legitimate, some criminal; some were a
mixture, and others were on the nebulous borderline between the two,
where the law is unsure of itself but respectable businessmen with
reputations to worry about fear to tread.
The Old Bill knew about him, of course. There were so many grasses about
nowadays that nobody could become a respected villain without his name
going into a file at Scotland Yard. But getting evidence was the
problem, especially with a few detectives around who were prepared to
warn Tony in advance of a raid. The money he spent in that direction was
never skimped. Every August there were three or four police families in
Benidon on Tony's money.
Not that he trusted them. They were useful, but they were all telling
themselves that one day they would repay their debt of loyalty by
turning him in. A bent copper was still ultimately, a copper. so all
transactions were cash; no books were kept, except in Tony's head; all
jobs were done by his cronies on verbal instructions.
Increasingly, he played even safer by simply acting as a banker. A
draftsman would get some inside information and dream up a plan; then he
would recruit a villain to organize the equipment and manpower. The two
of them would then come to Tony and tell him the plan. If he liked it,
he would lend them the money for bribes, guns, motor cars, explosives,
and anything else they needed. When they had done the job they would
repay the loan five or six times over out of the 5.
Today's job was not so simple. He was draftsman as well as banker for
this one. It meant he had to be extra careful.
He stopped the car in a back street and got out.
Here the houses were larger--they had been built for foremen and
craftsmen rather than dockers and laborers--but they were no more sound
than the hovels of Quill Street. The concrete facings were cracking, the
wooden window frames were rotten, and the front gardens were smaller
than the trunk of Tony's car. Only about half of them were lived in: the
rest were warehouses, offices, or shops.
The door Tony knocked on bore the sign "Billiards and Snooker" with most
of the "and" missing. It was opened immediately and he stepped inside.
He shook hands with Walter Burden then followed him upstairs. A road
accident had left Walter with a limp and a stammer, depriving him of his
job as a docker. Tony had given him the managership of the billiards
hall, knowing that the gestura--which cost Tony nothing--would be
rewarded by increased respect among East Enders and undying loyalty on
Walter's part.
Walter said: "Want a cup of tea, Tony?"
"No, thanks, Walter, I just had my breakfast."
He looked around the first-floor hall with a proprietorial air. The
tables were covered, the linoleum floor swept, the cues racked neatly.
"You keep the place nice."
"Only doing my job, Tone. You looked after me, see."
"Yeah." Cox went to the window and looked down on the street. A blue
Morris 1100 was parked a few yards away on the opposite side of the
road. There were two people in it. Tony felt curiously satisfied: he had
been right to take this precaution. "Where's the phone, Walter?"
"In the office." Walter opened a door, ushered Tony in, and
two suitcases. He locked the warehouse and went home.
He shivered in the front seat of the warm car as he remembered. He would
never take risks like those again. Suppose one of the suppliers had got
wind of the sale? Suppose the bank manager had seen Tony in a pub a few
days later?
He still did the occasional long firm, but these days he used front men,
who took long holidays in Spain as soon as the ax fell. And nobody saw
Tony's face.
However, his business interests had diversified.
He owned property in Central London which he let to young ladies at
extremely high rents; he ran nightclubs; he even managed a couple of pop
groups. Some of his projects were legitimate, some criminal; some were a
mixture, and others were on the nebulous borderline between the two,
where the law is unsure of itself but respectable businessmen with
reputations to worry about fear to tread.
The Old Bill knew about him, of course. There were so many grasses about
nowadays that nobody could become a respected villain without his name
going into a file at Scotland Yard. But getting evidence was the
problem, especially with a few detectives around who were prepared to
warn Tony in advance of a raid. The money he spent in that direction was
never skimped. Every August there were three or four police families in
Benidon on Tony's money.
Not that he trusted them. They were useful, but they were all telling
themselves that one day they would repay their debt of loyalty by
turning him in. A bent copper was still ultimately, a copper. so all
transactions were cash; no books were kept, except in Tony's head; all
jobs were done by his cronies on verbal instructions.
Increasingly, he played even safer by simply acting as a banker. A
draftsman would get some inside information and dream up a plan; then he
would recruit a villain to organize the equipment and manpower. The two
of them would then come to Tony and tell him the plan. If he liked it,
he would lend them the money for bribes, guns, motor cars, explosives,
and anything else they needed. When they had done the job they would
repay the loan five or six times over out of the 5.
Today's job was not so simple. He was draftsman as well as banker for
this one. It meant he had to be extra careful.
He stopped the car in a back street and got out.
Here the houses were larger--they had been built for foremen and
craftsmen rather than dockers and laborers--but they were no more sound
than the hovels of Quill Street. The concrete facings were cracking, the
wooden window frames were rotten, and the front gardens were smaller
than the trunk of Tony's car. Only about half of them were lived in: the
rest were warehouses, offices, or shops.
The door Tony knocked on bore the sign "Billiards and Snooker" with most
of the "and" missing. It was opened immediately and he stepped inside.
He shook hands with Walter Burden then followed him upstairs. A road
accident had left Walter with a limp and a stammer, depriving him of his
job as a docker. Tony had given him the managership of the billiards
hall, knowing that the gestura--which cost Tony nothing--would be
rewarded by increased respect among East Enders and undying loyalty on
Walter's part.
Walter said: "Want a cup of tea, Tony?"
"No, thanks, Walter, I just had my breakfast."
He looked around the first-floor hall with a proprietorial air. The
tables were covered, the linoleum floor swept, the cues racked neatly.
"You keep the place nice."
"Only doing my job, Tone. You looked after me, see."
"Yeah." Cox went to the window and looked down on the street. A blue
Morris 1100 was parked a few yards away on the opposite side of the
road. There were two people in it. Tony felt curiously satisfied: he had
been right to take this precaution. "Where's the phone, Walter?"
"In the office." Walter opened a door, ushered Tony in, and
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