Burman had used. ‘Diversify and that. I’ve been taking a bit of advice about expanding more in the property game.’ He paused again. ‘And a bit more on the import-export side. Distribution.’
‘But the Canvas is still a good earner. You always say so. Like the snooker clubs.’ Jeff didn’t like the sound of this. He didn’t fancy being put out of a job, especially not now his Jean had another baby on the way. It wasn’t so easy to get a job when most of the adverts said ‘no coloureds’, even the completely trashy jobs, never mind well-paid, responsible ones like this.
‘The snooker clubs I’m not so thrilled with any more, but you’re right about the Canvas, Jeff. Clubs like this are getting a lot of very nice publicity at the minute.’ David thought about the photographs in the Sunday papers of celebrities having a good time in West End night spots, including a few in his very own Canvas Club. That sort of publicity never did a business any harm. Who knows, maybe they’d have some of the nobs favouring the place. They seemed to spend as much time in night-clubs as rock-and-roll stars nowadays, and to use plenty of the merchandise he was about to get into in an even bigger way. ‘And that’s why I ain’t going to let some two-bob little tool like Mikey Tilson go spoiling things.’
He wiped the back of his hand roughly across his mouth as he pictured punching Mikey Tilson’s grinning, stupid, face to a pulp. ‘Hold back five per cent of the takings, Jeff. That’s what I reckon that arsehole’s been pocketing every night. Let’s see him get a bit worried. See what he does.’
‘Sure.’ Jeff dabbed gingerly at his nose. ‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Be all right to handle this by yourself? Or shall I send Mad Albert round for back-up? He’s due out soon, and I can easily get cover for him on his usual debt-collecting if you reckon you need him.’
‘No, Dave. I’ll be fine.’
‘Good man, Jeff.’
‘No offence about the bloody hooter, eh, mate?’ Bobby held out his hand. Jeff shook it. He and Bobby both knew he was only following David Fuller’s orders. And that he would have been very silly not to.
‘This week’s really going to drag, Jack. I don’t know if I can wait till Saturday.’
Jackie, her arm linked through Angie’s, jerked her friend to a rough halt, saving her from the 145 bus
en route
to the Heathway.
‘I know you’re excited, Ange, but pull yourself together. You nearly got us killed.’
‘I’m sorry, Jack, I’m just really excited.’
‘Angie, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to wish I’d never bothered getting you that bloody appointment. It’s all I’ve had out of you all the way home. You’re only going to the sodding hairdresser’s.’
‘I know, but Michaelton’s.’
‘Let’s just hope they do a better job on you than his barber did on him.’ Jackie raised her chin to indicate the man standing outside Spicer’s the greengrocer’s, on the other side of Gale Street. He was in his thirties and was dressed in the drapes and brothel creepers that had once been favoured by the Teddy Boys. Stuck like a butterfly on a pin for the past ten years in the style of his youth, his hair was slicked and greased, moulded into an extravagant, gravity-defying quiff.
Jackie and Angie looked at each other and collapsed into giggles.
‘How embarrassing,’ snorted Jackie. ‘What a prize twerp.’
‘Yeah, what a twit,’ agreed Angie, but as soon as she’d said it she felt guilty. Angie knew what it was like to look stupid, to be an object of derision.
It hurt.
Angie pushed open the front door with her shoulder – her mum never bothered to lock it – and hauled the two bags of groceries through to the kitchen. It had been a real rush at lunchtime. But she knew that if she didn’t get some shopping in, they’d have nothing.
It was in a complete mess: an ashtray full of fag-ends on the table, a sink full of dishes, and a puddle of partly
‘But the Canvas is still a good earner. You always say so. Like the snooker clubs.’ Jeff didn’t like the sound of this. He didn’t fancy being put out of a job, especially not now his Jean had another baby on the way. It wasn’t so easy to get a job when most of the adverts said ‘no coloureds’, even the completely trashy jobs, never mind well-paid, responsible ones like this.
‘The snooker clubs I’m not so thrilled with any more, but you’re right about the Canvas, Jeff. Clubs like this are getting a lot of very nice publicity at the minute.’ David thought about the photographs in the Sunday papers of celebrities having a good time in West End night spots, including a few in his very own Canvas Club. That sort of publicity never did a business any harm. Who knows, maybe they’d have some of the nobs favouring the place. They seemed to spend as much time in night-clubs as rock-and-roll stars nowadays, and to use plenty of the merchandise he was about to get into in an even bigger way. ‘And that’s why I ain’t going to let some two-bob little tool like Mikey Tilson go spoiling things.’
He wiped the back of his hand roughly across his mouth as he pictured punching Mikey Tilson’s grinning, stupid, face to a pulp. ‘Hold back five per cent of the takings, Jeff. That’s what I reckon that arsehole’s been pocketing every night. Let’s see him get a bit worried. See what he does.’
‘Sure.’ Jeff dabbed gingerly at his nose. ‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Be all right to handle this by yourself? Or shall I send Mad Albert round for back-up? He’s due out soon, and I can easily get cover for him on his usual debt-collecting if you reckon you need him.’
‘No, Dave. I’ll be fine.’
‘Good man, Jeff.’
‘No offence about the bloody hooter, eh, mate?’ Bobby held out his hand. Jeff shook it. He and Bobby both knew he was only following David Fuller’s orders. And that he would have been very silly not to.
‘This week’s really going to drag, Jack. I don’t know if I can wait till Saturday.’
Jackie, her arm linked through Angie’s, jerked her friend to a rough halt, saving her from the 145 bus
en route
to the Heathway.
‘I know you’re excited, Ange, but pull yourself together. You nearly got us killed.’
‘I’m sorry, Jack, I’m just really excited.’
‘Angie, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to wish I’d never bothered getting you that bloody appointment. It’s all I’ve had out of you all the way home. You’re only going to the sodding hairdresser’s.’
‘I know, but Michaelton’s.’
‘Let’s just hope they do a better job on you than his barber did on him.’ Jackie raised her chin to indicate the man standing outside Spicer’s the greengrocer’s, on the other side of Gale Street. He was in his thirties and was dressed in the drapes and brothel creepers that had once been favoured by the Teddy Boys. Stuck like a butterfly on a pin for the past ten years in the style of his youth, his hair was slicked and greased, moulded into an extravagant, gravity-defying quiff.
Jackie and Angie looked at each other and collapsed into giggles.
‘How embarrassing,’ snorted Jackie. ‘What a prize twerp.’
‘Yeah, what a twit,’ agreed Angie, but as soon as she’d said it she felt guilty. Angie knew what it was like to look stupid, to be an object of derision.
It hurt.
Angie pushed open the front door with her shoulder – her mum never bothered to lock it – and hauled the two bags of groceries through to the kitchen. It had been a real rush at lunchtime. But she knew that if she didn’t get some shopping in, they’d have nothing.
It was in a complete mess: an ashtray full of fag-ends on the table, a sink full of dishes, and a puddle of partly
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