Widows

Tony sighed. ‘It is bullshit, bruv. You know it is. Leave it to me. I’ll sort it. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll get hold of Boxer and Dolly Rawlins and get the truth out of ’em.’

‘Don’t do nothin’ too crazy,’ said Arnie. He polished his glasses nervously. ‘We got a good business going, you and me. Speak to Boxer, speak to Dolly, ask a few questions. You don’t rough anyone up and you don’t go near the other two. We haven’t heard a peep out of Pirelli or that other one, so you leave them alone.’

‘Shirley,’ said Tony. ‘Her name’s Shirley.’ He was almost drooling. ‘Lovely little piece.’

‘That’s her,’ said Arnie. ‘And there’ll be none of that, Tony, you hear me?’

The door opened and Carlos walked in. Tony was on him like a shot.

‘You knock, you ponce... understand me? Knock before you just walk in.’

‘I come to get the Jag for fixing... again. You should drive more carefully, Tony.’

As Tony strode toward Carlos, Arnie bellowed: ‘Cool it!’ Tony stopped in his tracks, a few feet away from Carlos, who stared back, confident that Arnie would protect him. But one click of Arnie’s fingers in the direction of the sofa and Carlos was put in his place.

Arnie moved to Tony. ‘Be careful,’ Arnie said quietly. ‘There’s a lot at stake.’

‘Listen, petal,’ said his brother, ‘believe you me, Harry Rawlins is dead. We got nothin’ to worry about where he’s concerned. The only thing we got on our backs are the ledgers, an’ if I’d had my way we’d have had ’em by now. First, I’m paying that cousin Eddie Rawlins a visit, next I’ll talk to the Rawlins widow and then I’ll bring that idiot Boxer back here and we can all compare notes over a nice pot of tea.’

Tony gave a cynical kissing pout to Carlos and stomped out of the room.

Carlos looked at Arnie. ‘Trouble?’ he asked, opening a bottle of champagne.

‘Nothing for you to worry about, darlin’.’ Arnie moved to stand behind Carlos, from where he could stroke his pert butt cheeks. Arnie was a little shorter than Carlos and had to raise his chin slightly in order to rest it on Carlos’s broad, muscular shoulder. ‘Just got a few things to tie up,’ Arnie continued. ‘That Rawlins, Miller and Pirelli fiasco left a few loose ends.’

Carlos recognized the name Pirelli, but said nothing as he continued to pour the champagne. Arnie, wanting to lighten the atmosphere and change the subject, nodded for Carlos to open the large, tissue-wrapped box on the sofa. Inside was a neatly folded white silk suit. Carlos held it up, smiling.

‘I love it,’ he said, with a beaming white smile. ‘Pirelli...’ he added, casually, ‘I heard that name someplace before?’

Arnie fussed and fiddled, putting the jacket on Carlos. ‘Yeah, he was a tough son of a bitch. His wife works the cash till at an arcade in Soho — real slag. But Joe, he was heavy duty.’ He stepped back from Carlos, admiring the fit of the suit jacket.

Carlos thought of the photograph face down by the side of Linda’s bed. ‘I really like this suit, Arnie,’ was all he said.

Eddie Rawlins was sitting in his dirty, dank office with his feet up on the desk. It was an old shack stuck in the middle of a junkyard in Camberwell. In some areas the cars were piled three or four high. Eddie spent most of his days sitting in his office staring at them, daydreaming of the sky-blue Roller he’d buy when he made enough money. Harry had promised years ago that he would purchase an expensive top-of-the-range car crusher, which would make the business more productive. That had never happened.

Eddie was on the blower to a mate with a little betting shop near Epsom; he had been given a tip for the three fifteen at Haydock, and he placed a five-pound each way bet. Although he was the careful sort when it came to gambling, Eddie would spend a hundred quid on some tart who’d have him over a ‘sure thing.’ Most women he met, he reflected, as he flipped through the papers to mark a couple of other good runners, turned out to be as useless as the horses he backed.

As he chatted on the phone, Eddie heard a car draw up outside. When he saw who it was, he froze and his stomach turned over. He took his feet off the desk, put the phone down and, trying to act nonchalantly, opened the desk drawer and took out a bottle of Scotch.

‘All right Tony? Just in time for an afternoon nip. You’ll join me, won’t you?’ Eddie bustled over to the filing cabinet to get glasses, and took a quick glance through the dust-covered window at the horrible green Ford Granada parked outside. At least Tony Fisher had come alone.

A stream of drivel flowed from Eddie’s mouth. ‘Business is slow here,’ he babbled. ‘Nobody doin’ much in the breaker’s trade right now. How’s things with you, Tony? Nice club you and your brother run, a very nice place.’ Eddie started pouring Tony a drink.

‘What you know about your cousin Harry’s ledgers then, Eddie?’ asked Tony pleasantly.