man himself. There wasn’t a car on the forecourt that had a price tag of less than ten grand, and most were in the low twenties.
I stopped on the way and deducted the twenty per cent I’d been promised for recovery. I calculated that I’d earned two hundred and fifty three pounds and ten pence. I couldn’t be bothered with the odds so I just took five fifty-pound notes and stuck them in my back pocket.
Ted wasn’t best pleased. He was fatter, balder and sweatier than I remembered from the previous day, and in a worse mood. ‘You can’t take commission on VAT,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to pay that to the government.’
I sat perfectly still in his office at the back of the showroom overlooking the service bays and said absolutely nothing.
‘I meant you to take twenty per cent of the eleven hundred pounds. That’s two hundred and twenty. You owe me thirty quid,’ he said. He had all the figures in his head. I’d had to use a calculator.
‘The deal was for gross,’ I said. ‘Take it or leave it.’
He collapsed into his big leather chair behind a desk that was big enough to declare UDI and wrung his hands. I could almost hear the perspiration oiling the skin.
‘I’m sorry Nick,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, things are not good.’
‘That’s not what you said yesterday.’
‘I know. But circumstances can change very quickly in this business.’ He looked at me for comment but I kept schtum. ‘You’ve done well with this debt,’ he went on, ‘better than I expected. Perhaps you’d like to earn some more commission.’
‘On the VAT,’ I interrupted.
He waved away the comment. ‘We can come to an arrangement. I have some beautiful motors on the lot, perhaps you’d fancy one.’
‘Charlie does my cars,’ I said sharply.
‘I know, but it never hurts to have more than one iron in the fire, does it?’
‘I’m not interested, Ted,’ I said. ‘I don’t like debt collecting. It makes me do things I don’t like to do, like telling lies to old ladies. And sometimes you can get your head kicked in.’
‘But you’re good at it,’ he insisted.
‘No thanks, mate,’ I said. ‘I got you a bit of dough, more by luck than judgement. If you’ve got more outstanding debts I suggest you go to a firm that specializes.’
‘I can offer you more,’ he pleaded. ‘Twenty-five per cent of the gross.’
‘No.’
‘Thirty.’
‘Forget it Ted,’ I said. ‘I’ve done what I said I’d do as a favour to Charlie, and that’s that.’ Before he could say more I got up and went. I left Ted Dallas waiting for the earthquake that would finally pull his fun house down and went home.
On the car radio the weather man was forecasting snow.
6
T he snow came the next morning, before dawn. By the time I got to the office there was maybe an inch-and-a-half of the stuff lying on the ground.
I was wearing my navy Armani, because with two-and-a-half hundred burning a hole in my bin, tax free and definitely no VAT to pay, I’d given old Eddie a bell and asked her if she wanted to get together for the evening. We’d decided to bloat out on Dim Sum and dive down The Limelight or somewhere, score some socially unacceptable drugs and fuck all night. I arranged to meet her after she’d finished work at the biscuit factory, dump the BMW and get significant. The biscuit factory bit was a joke – actually she worked in publishing. The rest was serious.
But that was the day everything warmed up except the weather and arrangements had to be changed.
First there was Cat.
There was something wrong with the animal. He was eating ten times a day and swelling up like a blood blister. He was getting too damned affectionate as well. Very unlike him. Purring and rubbing up against my legs and generally making a bloody nuisance of himself. That morning he was so over the top he nearly drove me radio rental. Finally I picked him up by the scruff of the neck and threw him out of the front door. He spat at me, just like
I stopped on the way and deducted the twenty per cent I’d been promised for recovery. I calculated that I’d earned two hundred and fifty three pounds and ten pence. I couldn’t be bothered with the odds so I just took five fifty-pound notes and stuck them in my back pocket.
Ted wasn’t best pleased. He was fatter, balder and sweatier than I remembered from the previous day, and in a worse mood. ‘You can’t take commission on VAT,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to pay that to the government.’
I sat perfectly still in his office at the back of the showroom overlooking the service bays and said absolutely nothing.
‘I meant you to take twenty per cent of the eleven hundred pounds. That’s two hundred and twenty. You owe me thirty quid,’ he said. He had all the figures in his head. I’d had to use a calculator.
‘The deal was for gross,’ I said. ‘Take it or leave it.’
He collapsed into his big leather chair behind a desk that was big enough to declare UDI and wrung his hands. I could almost hear the perspiration oiling the skin.
‘I’m sorry Nick,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, things are not good.’
‘That’s not what you said yesterday.’
‘I know. But circumstances can change very quickly in this business.’ He looked at me for comment but I kept schtum. ‘You’ve done well with this debt,’ he went on, ‘better than I expected. Perhaps you’d like to earn some more commission.’
‘On the VAT,’ I interrupted.
He waved away the comment. ‘We can come to an arrangement. I have some beautiful motors on the lot, perhaps you’d fancy one.’
‘Charlie does my cars,’ I said sharply.
‘I know, but it never hurts to have more than one iron in the fire, does it?’
‘I’m not interested, Ted,’ I said. ‘I don’t like debt collecting. It makes me do things I don’t like to do, like telling lies to old ladies. And sometimes you can get your head kicked in.’
‘But you’re good at it,’ he insisted.
‘No thanks, mate,’ I said. ‘I got you a bit of dough, more by luck than judgement. If you’ve got more outstanding debts I suggest you go to a firm that specializes.’
‘I can offer you more,’ he pleaded. ‘Twenty-five per cent of the gross.’
‘No.’
‘Thirty.’
‘Forget it Ted,’ I said. ‘I’ve done what I said I’d do as a favour to Charlie, and that’s that.’ Before he could say more I got up and went. I left Ted Dallas waiting for the earthquake that would finally pull his fun house down and went home.
On the car radio the weather man was forecasting snow.
6
T he snow came the next morning, before dawn. By the time I got to the office there was maybe an inch-and-a-half of the stuff lying on the ground.
I was wearing my navy Armani, because with two-and-a-half hundred burning a hole in my bin, tax free and definitely no VAT to pay, I’d given old Eddie a bell and asked her if she wanted to get together for the evening. We’d decided to bloat out on Dim Sum and dive down The Limelight or somewhere, score some socially unacceptable drugs and fuck all night. I arranged to meet her after she’d finished work at the biscuit factory, dump the BMW and get significant. The biscuit factory bit was a joke – actually she worked in publishing. The rest was serious.
But that was the day everything warmed up except the weather and arrangements had to be changed.
First there was Cat.
There was something wrong with the animal. He was eating ten times a day and swelling up like a blood blister. He was getting too damned affectionate as well. Very unlike him. Purring and rubbing up against my legs and generally making a bloody nuisance of himself. That morning he was so over the top he nearly drove me radio rental. Finally I picked him up by the scruff of the neck and threw him out of the front door. He spat at me, just like
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