fox-with-a-chicken-in-its-mouth smile. “She wouldn’t know fair play if it bit her in the arse. Do you know why she is called Zipper?”
Paul didn’t answer. There was no point.
“She was also one of the main moneylenders in town. A great bitch of a woman. She carried her own bankroll, hid inside a concealed, zipped-up compartment of her sanitary towel, to deter would-be robbers. Shit, you’d have to be brave to venture near her undergarments. Talk about bloody blood money!”
Paul laughed so loud, snot and beer went flying from his nose, forcing him to snort back the snot just to breathe. “Getthe fuck out of here! You just made that up, there now.” Paul wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
“If I could make that sort of shit up, I’d make a fortune as a writer,” grinned Lucky. “They say she still carries her money in one, even though her days are long gone. Can you imagine the look on the undertaker’s face when he comes across that? A sanitary towel on an old woman, and it stuffed with money? Fuck! What I’d give to be there when that pops out.”
They both laughed, quietly this time, heeding the warnings from serious faces painted on the snooker players.
“Do you want to hear something even funnier?” asked Lucky.
“Funnier than Zipper?”
“Rumour has it that her husband, Philip, was a member of some sort of gang, years ago. One of their top men, I heard.”
“A gang? That old guy? What kind of gang?”
“It’s hard to pronounce their name. One of those secret gangs that everyone knows about! Something like N R Key. You know, one of them that goes about causing mayhem, shooting people and all.”
Paul grinned. “Don’t be daft. That old man couldn’t hit the toilet when he pisses. This time, Lucky, you’ve out-exaggerated yourself, mate. Could you picture him holding a gun, his hands shaking like jelly, before he shoots himself in the foot? I’m only telling you what I heard. He was a bit of a hard man, in his time. Happens all the time, doesn’t it?”
Paul grinned. “What happens all the time? You not buying a drink?”
“Go on, grin like a fucking baboon. Suits you right down to your red arse. Time. That’s what I’m talking about.It mellows a person. Doesn’t it? All that fighting has to do your head in after a while. Right? The old bones and reflexes no longer working. You want a bit of peace in your old age. Right? Anyway, it’s the quiet ones you need to keep an eye on. You can’t tell a book by the trousers it wears.”
They both laughed.
Apart from the bright lights hovering over the tables, the snooker room was a dark chamber of faded green wallpaper and woodworm-infested trimmings. A dim light was oozing through orange curtains painting everything in a misty colour of burnt copper. Racks of skinny cues lined the hall like rifles equipped for war. A montage of battered photographs – depicting snooker heroes – covered what the green paint missed.
“Now, tell me again about all those workers,” encouraged Lucky. “Seem a right bunch of nutcases. Thank god it’s not me working in that place. Did you get to see Shank, the owner? Heard he’s a real hard fucking case.”
“
See
him? He gave me a personal tour of the shit-hole. Do you know who he looks like?”
“No. Surprise me.”
“Do you remember that cop on the old TV show, years ago? The one who always sucked a lollipop and said something like ‘who loves ya, baby’? Big baldy head, all massive and lumpy? I can’t remember his name, but he’s a spitting image of him, only more muscular. Looks like two men built into one.”
“Yes. I think I know that cop show. What the fuck was his name? Ironside, wasn’t it? That was it,” stated Lucky, grinning, appreciating his knowledge of all things useless. “I’mone hundred percent certain. Ironside was his name.”
“No. He was the one in the wheelchair. He had plenty of hair.”
“Fuck! You’re right. Now I’ll torture myself all
Paul didn’t answer. There was no point.
“She was also one of the main moneylenders in town. A great bitch of a woman. She carried her own bankroll, hid inside a concealed, zipped-up compartment of her sanitary towel, to deter would-be robbers. Shit, you’d have to be brave to venture near her undergarments. Talk about bloody blood money!”
Paul laughed so loud, snot and beer went flying from his nose, forcing him to snort back the snot just to breathe. “Getthe fuck out of here! You just made that up, there now.” Paul wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
“If I could make that sort of shit up, I’d make a fortune as a writer,” grinned Lucky. “They say she still carries her money in one, even though her days are long gone. Can you imagine the look on the undertaker’s face when he comes across that? A sanitary towel on an old woman, and it stuffed with money? Fuck! What I’d give to be there when that pops out.”
They both laughed, quietly this time, heeding the warnings from serious faces painted on the snooker players.
“Do you want to hear something even funnier?” asked Lucky.
“Funnier than Zipper?”
“Rumour has it that her husband, Philip, was a member of some sort of gang, years ago. One of their top men, I heard.”
“A gang? That old guy? What kind of gang?”
“It’s hard to pronounce their name. One of those secret gangs that everyone knows about! Something like N R Key. You know, one of them that goes about causing mayhem, shooting people and all.”
Paul grinned. “Don’t be daft. That old man couldn’t hit the toilet when he pisses. This time, Lucky, you’ve out-exaggerated yourself, mate. Could you picture him holding a gun, his hands shaking like jelly, before he shoots himself in the foot? I’m only telling you what I heard. He was a bit of a hard man, in his time. Happens all the time, doesn’t it?”
Paul grinned. “What happens all the time? You not buying a drink?”
“Go on, grin like a fucking baboon. Suits you right down to your red arse. Time. That’s what I’m talking about.It mellows a person. Doesn’t it? All that fighting has to do your head in after a while. Right? The old bones and reflexes no longer working. You want a bit of peace in your old age. Right? Anyway, it’s the quiet ones you need to keep an eye on. You can’t tell a book by the trousers it wears.”
They both laughed.
Apart from the bright lights hovering over the tables, the snooker room was a dark chamber of faded green wallpaper and woodworm-infested trimmings. A dim light was oozing through orange curtains painting everything in a misty colour of burnt copper. Racks of skinny cues lined the hall like rifles equipped for war. A montage of battered photographs – depicting snooker heroes – covered what the green paint missed.
“Now, tell me again about all those workers,” encouraged Lucky. “Seem a right bunch of nutcases. Thank god it’s not me working in that place. Did you get to see Shank, the owner? Heard he’s a real hard fucking case.”
“
See
him? He gave me a personal tour of the shit-hole. Do you know who he looks like?”
“No. Surprise me.”
“Do you remember that cop on the old TV show, years ago? The one who always sucked a lollipop and said something like ‘who loves ya, baby’? Big baldy head, all massive and lumpy? I can’t remember his name, but he’s a spitting image of him, only more muscular. Looks like two men built into one.”
“Yes. I think I know that cop show. What the fuck was his name? Ironside, wasn’t it? That was it,” stated Lucky, grinning, appreciating his knowledge of all things useless. “I’mone hundred percent certain. Ironside was his name.”
“No. He was the one in the wheelchair. He had plenty of hair.”
“Fuck! You’re right. Now I’ll torture myself all
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