Widows

‘No, no, no,’ Eddie insisted. ‘Let’s catch up properly.’ He produced a bottle of malt whisky from his coat pocket, banged it down on the table. ‘Got any glasses?’ he asked.

Boxer’s eyes widened. The longing for alcohol was back in a split second, but he gave a strong smile, ‘I’m off the hard stuff, Eddie, have been for months now. I don’t mind if you have a drink, though.’ Boxer passed Eddie a chipped, stained mug and they both sat at the small table beneath the window.

‘Come on, Boxer. Have a small one with me... let’s drink to Harry.’

Boxer smiled and held his hands up. Eddie must know everything, he must know Harry was alive and well and planning to take back his patch from the Fishers. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I guess a small one will be OK.’ He was even more excited: the old gang was getting back together.

Boxer put a second mug on the table and Eddie talked as he poured. He started by whining about his missus and the kids, then about the car-wrecking business, all the time topping up Boxer’s mug. Each time he poured Boxer a double measure, he poured himself a single and, after about half an hour, Boxer was on his way to being pissed.

Eddie waffled on so much that Boxer couldn’t get a word in. He was desperate to ask about Harry, but figured that Eddie would talk about him when he was good and ready. The next time Eddie went to pour Boxer a whisky, he put his hand over his mug.

‘I ain’t drunk in such a long time, Eddie. It’s gone straight to me head. I should stop.’

‘Don’t worry, Boxer, me old mate,’ Eddie said kindly. ‘I’ll look after you.’ Boxer removed his hand from his mug and Eddie emptied the bottle into it.

As Boxer took another sip, the pay phone on the landing started ringing. Boxer ignored it. ‘It’ll be for Fran,’ he said with a drunken shrug. But the phone still rang. ‘She’s a lazy old lard-arse.’

But Fran had shifted her huge bulk out of her armchair and waddled her way out to the landing. ‘Boxer! It’s for you!’ she shrieked up the stairs. Even Eddie winced.

Well pissed by now, Boxer knocked his chair over as he staggered to the door. Fran stood panting on the landing as Boxer gripped the rail for support and moved unsteadily down the stairs.

‘Thought you’d gone all deaf on me,’ she said as she handed him the phone.

Boxer grabbed Fran in his arms, squeezed her tightly and kissed her long and hard.

‘Ooh!’ she said and giggled. ‘When your friend’s gone I got a nice bottle of gin in my room,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘And an electric blanket warming up the bed...’

Boxer waved to Fran as she walked away, smiling stupidly and watching her huge bum with drunken lust. With his ‘whisky glasses’ on, she looked positively lovely.

‘Who is it?’ Boxer slurred into the phone. After a pause, he shouted, ‘Doll! How are you?’

‘You been drinking?’ demanded Dolly. She had only called Boxer to ask if he was packed and ready to go to the B & B she’d recommended.

‘I’ve had a little one, Dolly, but don’t worry, everything’s under control.’ Boxer hiccupped. ‘I’m packed and ready. ’Ere... guess what I saw in Soho — this’ll make you laugh — I only saw Joe Pirelli’s widow with an Italian lad called Carlos! She must really like the continental sort, eh? But, guess who he is, Dolly? He’s only Arnie Fisher’s bum-boy mechanic!’ Boxer was laughing so loud he failed to hear Dolly’s reply.

‘Carlos who?’ Dolly repeated in a stern voice. All she could hear was Boxer coughing and spluttering as he got his breath back, ‘Boxer! Carlos who?’

Oblivious, Boxer rambled on. ‘Ain’t that sweet, Doll? Between that little tart and us, Arnie’s lost everything and he don’t even know it!’ With the next belly laugh, Boxer dropped the receiver on the floor. By the time he’d risen unsteadily from picking it up, Eddie was behind him on the stairs. ‘’Ere, Dolly, you’ll never guess who come to see me...’ In a flash, Eddie’s gloved hand slammed down on the phone and cut off the call. Boxer swayed and stumbled as he turned but Eddie caught him, holding him up.

‘Come on, no time for gassing.’ Eddie said with a huge smile on his face. ‘I’m going to take you up West. My treat.’

Boxer didn’t need to be asked twice.

Resnick and Fuller were parked outside the last known address for Boxer Davis, which he had given when arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge six months previously. Andrews came down the steps of the seedy rooming house and got in the car.

‘Not here, but the landlady gave me an address in Ladbroke Grove she thinks he may be at now.’

Fuller drove off and Resnick pulled his hat over his eyes. ‘Boxer Davis is a huge piece of the puzzle, you mark my words. One huge, ugly, stupid piece of the puzzle. He’ll tell us everything we need to know.’ Smiling to himself, Resnick closed his eyes and was snoring in seconds.