Read Online He Died with His Eyes Open by Derek Raymond - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Derek Raymond
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aren't they, born to moan. Now, Creamley Cars,' he added proudly, 'that's my son's—that's Clive's own outfit. Three Rollers e's got on the strength, three Mercs an a couple of bran-new four-door BMWs. Nice, nice little leasehold in Cannon Street.' He sighed. 'Smart lad, my Clive, bright as you like, 'n idle as a whore on a Monday morning— all he thinks about is goin off to Greece where he's layin this bit of local shirley temple. Yet e's got this sweet little business, pays off better'n any bird and it don't talk back—sweet's a nut, right under his feet, I set im up, I should know. E works the City, see, we works the West End here at Planet. Mind, there was the time he tried to muscle in on me, did Clive. "At least," I says to im dignified, "leave your old dad the bit where Planet got started." No—e thinks e's a ard man.' He shook his head; it wobbled like an oyster on the end of a drunkard's fork. 'Mind, Clive knows what's good for im, which side the old bread's buttered. Don't e, Eileen?' he said, looking over at one of the adoring girls.
'Oh, yes, Mr Creamley,' she glittered, adoring away like mad.
'That's how we operate here at Planet, see?' said Creamley with satisfaction. 'All one happy family, get it?'
'I'll bet!' I said.
'I don't play rough anymore,' he said, sucking his lips. 'No need, see? Not nowadays. Wait till they go into liquidation. Buy em up, don't rough em up, that's my motto. That's why you don't see no firm but Planet round here anymore. Not round here. Mind you—'.
'Mind you,' I said, 'you're talking to a copper.'
'Christ, so I am,' he said, smacking his forehead, 'it's funny, you don't come on like a copper somehow; you must be either a good one or a fucking bad one. Anyway, this boy you're here about, I know him from this snap of yours, that was Planet Two Four.' He took a deep draught of his Scotch and looked reminiscently at the photograph between us. 'I can recognize him, just,' he said, 'but Christ they din't half carve him up.' He exhaled and nodded introspectively several times.
'My time's the taxpayer's,' I remarked, 'so I'm always in a hurry. I don't know who pays you for yours.'
'Oh, that's the punters,' he said. 'I've got all my time, I've won it before I've got up.'
'Bully for you, Tony,' I said. 'Can we get back to Two Four?'
'Oh, sure.' He drew a bead on a French spotlight with his forefinger. 'Not much of a driver, Two Four—always behind with his rent and his drops. Didn't know how to present himself to a customer, neither. Nor the motor. I asked and asked him, went down on my bleedin knees, but e wouldn't even wear a peaked cap and dicky for a wedding. I said to him: Look, you know how it is, Two Four, you gotter say lick your arse, sir, touch the hat, bit of the abdabs, morning madam, fine day, carry your bags, then stick the old hand out for a bit of the dropsy. But no, Two Four wasn't into any of that. We ad some right complaints about Two Four back ere at the office. First off, I recall, e'd got this big old banger rented him, a Renault 16, so e got a few airport jobs—e'd race out to Heathrow, undred mile an hour, frighten the punter half out of is wits. Mind, the geezer always caught is plane—usually with a bit too much time to spare for is liking. E used to leave em gaspin, did Two Four. But e wouldn't chat em up the way you've gotter if you want a good tip. I mean, they're only business cunts and that; they only want to be made to feel they're somethin special while they're on their way out to the plane, don't cost the driver fuck all to feed em a bit. Other way round: the driver scores an the punter thinks, that firm Planet, they've got a bit of class. But no, Two Four'd only talk to the punters who din't wanter talk, and even then it was all about France an such. Yes, we lost a few nice accounts down to Two Four; folks used to ring up an complain to me personally something rotten.'
'A bit eccentric.'
'I don't know what that word means,' said Mr Creamley
'Oh, yes, Mr Creamley,' she glittered, adoring away like mad.
'That's how we operate here at Planet, see?' said Creamley with satisfaction. 'All one happy family, get it?'
'I'll bet!' I said.
'I don't play rough anymore,' he said, sucking his lips. 'No need, see? Not nowadays. Wait till they go into liquidation. Buy em up, don't rough em up, that's my motto. That's why you don't see no firm but Planet round here anymore. Not round here. Mind you—'.
'Mind you,' I said, 'you're talking to a copper.'
'Christ, so I am,' he said, smacking his forehead, 'it's funny, you don't come on like a copper somehow; you must be either a good one or a fucking bad one. Anyway, this boy you're here about, I know him from this snap of yours, that was Planet Two Four.' He took a deep draught of his Scotch and looked reminiscently at the photograph between us. 'I can recognize him, just,' he said, 'but Christ they din't half carve him up.' He exhaled and nodded introspectively several times.
'My time's the taxpayer's,' I remarked, 'so I'm always in a hurry. I don't know who pays you for yours.'
'Oh, that's the punters,' he said. 'I've got all my time, I've won it before I've got up.'
'Bully for you, Tony,' I said. 'Can we get back to Two Four?'
'Oh, sure.' He drew a bead on a French spotlight with his forefinger. 'Not much of a driver, Two Four—always behind with his rent and his drops. Didn't know how to present himself to a customer, neither. Nor the motor. I asked and asked him, went down on my bleedin knees, but e wouldn't even wear a peaked cap and dicky for a wedding. I said to him: Look, you know how it is, Two Four, you gotter say lick your arse, sir, touch the hat, bit of the abdabs, morning madam, fine day, carry your bags, then stick the old hand out for a bit of the dropsy. But no, Two Four wasn't into any of that. We ad some right complaints about Two Four back ere at the office. First off, I recall, e'd got this big old banger rented him, a Renault 16, so e got a few airport jobs—e'd race out to Heathrow, undred mile an hour, frighten the punter half out of is wits. Mind, the geezer always caught is plane—usually with a bit too much time to spare for is liking. E used to leave em gaspin, did Two Four. But e wouldn't chat em up the way you've gotter if you want a good tip. I mean, they're only business cunts and that; they only want to be made to feel they're somethin special while they're on their way out to the plane, don't cost the driver fuck all to feed em a bit. Other way round: the driver scores an the punter thinks, that firm Planet, they've got a bit of class. But no, Two Four'd only talk to the punters who din't wanter talk, and even then it was all about France an such. Yes, we lost a few nice accounts down to Two Four; folks used to ring up an complain to me personally something rotten.'
'A bit eccentric.'
'I don't know what that word means,' said Mr Creamley
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