office.” Walter opened a door, ushered Tony in, and closed it, staying outside.
The office was tidy and clean. Tony sat at the desk and dialed a number.
A voice said: “Yeah?”
“Pick me up,” Tony said.
“Five minutes.”
Tony hung up. His cigar had gone out. When things made him nervous, he let his smoke go out. He relit it with a gold Dunhill, then went out.
He showed himself at the window again. “All right, mate, I’m off,” he said to Walter. “If one of the young detective-constables in the blue car takes it into his head to knock on the door, don’t answer it. I’ll be about half an hour.”
“Don’t w-worry. You can rely on me, you know that.” Walter nodded his head like a bird.
“Yeah, I know.” Tony touched the old man’s shoulder briefly, then went to the back of the hall. He opened the door and trotted rapidly down the fire escape.
He picked his way around a rusting baby carriage, a sodden mattress, and three-fifths of an old car. Weeds sprouted stubbornly in the cracked concrete of the yard. A grubby cat scampered out of his way. His Italian shoes got dirty.
A gate led from the yard to a narrow lane. Tony walked to the end of the lane. As he got there, a small red Fiat with three men in it drew up at the curb. Tony got in and sat in the empty seat in the back. The car pulled away immediately.
The driver was Jacko, Tony’s first lieutenant. Beside Jacko was Deaf Willie, who knew more about explosives now than he had twenty years ago when he lost his left eardrum. In the back with Tony was Peter “Jesse” James, whose two obsessions were firearms and girls with fat bottoms. They were good men, all permanent members of Tony’s firm.
Tony said: “How’s the boy, Willie?”
Deaf Willie turned his good ear toward Tony. “What?”
“I said, how’s young Billy?”
“Eighteen today,” Willie said. “He’s the same, Tone. He’ll never be able to look after hisself. The social worker told us to think about putting him in a home.”
Tony tutted sympathetically. He went out of his way to be kind to Deaf Willie’s half-witted son; mental illness frightened him. “You don’t want to do that.”
Willie said: “I said to the wife, what does a social worker know? This one’s a girl of about twenty. Been to college. Still, she don’t push herself.”
Jacko broke in impatiently. “We’re all set, Tony. The lads are there, the motors are ready.”
“Good.” Tony looked at Jesse James. “Shooters?”
“Got a couple of shotguns and an Uzi.”
“A what?”
Jesse grinned proudly. “It’s a nine-millimeter machine pistol. Israeli.”
“Stroll on,” Tony muttered.
Jacko said: “Here we are.”
Tony took a cloth cap from his pocket and fixed it on his head. “You’ve put the lads indoors, have you?”
“Yes,” Jacko said.
“I don’t mind them knowing it’s a Tony Cox job, but I don’t want them to be able to say they saw me.”
“I know.”
The car pulled into a scrap yard. It was a remarkably tidy yard. The shells of cars were piled three high in orderly lines, and component parts were stacked neatly round about: pillars of tires, a pyramid of rear axles, a cube of cylinder blocks.
Near the gateway were a crane and a long car transporter. Farther in, a plain blue Ford van with double rear wheels stood next to the yard’s heavy-duty oxyacetylene cutting gear.
The car stopped and Tony got out. He was pleased. He liked things neat. The other three stood around, waiting for him to do something. Jacko lit a cigarette.
Tony said: “Did you fix the owner of the yard?”
Jacko nodded. “He made sure the crane, the transporter, and the cutting gear were here. But he doesn’t know what they’re for, and we’ve tied him up, just for the sake of appearances.” He started to cough.
Tony took the cigarette out of Jacko’s mouth and dropped it in the mud. “Those things make you cough,” he said. He took a cigar from his pocket. “Smoke this and die
The office was tidy and clean. Tony sat at the desk and dialed a number.
A voice said: “Yeah?”
“Pick me up,” Tony said.
“Five minutes.”
Tony hung up. His cigar had gone out. When things made him nervous, he let his smoke go out. He relit it with a gold Dunhill, then went out.
He showed himself at the window again. “All right, mate, I’m off,” he said to Walter. “If one of the young detective-constables in the blue car takes it into his head to knock on the door, don’t answer it. I’ll be about half an hour.”
“Don’t w-worry. You can rely on me, you know that.” Walter nodded his head like a bird.
“Yeah, I know.” Tony touched the old man’s shoulder briefly, then went to the back of the hall. He opened the door and trotted rapidly down the fire escape.
He picked his way around a rusting baby carriage, a sodden mattress, and three-fifths of an old car. Weeds sprouted stubbornly in the cracked concrete of the yard. A grubby cat scampered out of his way. His Italian shoes got dirty.
A gate led from the yard to a narrow lane. Tony walked to the end of the lane. As he got there, a small red Fiat with three men in it drew up at the curb. Tony got in and sat in the empty seat in the back. The car pulled away immediately.
The driver was Jacko, Tony’s first lieutenant. Beside Jacko was Deaf Willie, who knew more about explosives now than he had twenty years ago when he lost his left eardrum. In the back with Tony was Peter “Jesse” James, whose two obsessions were firearms and girls with fat bottoms. They were good men, all permanent members of Tony’s firm.
Tony said: “How’s the boy, Willie?”
Deaf Willie turned his good ear toward Tony. “What?”
“I said, how’s young Billy?”
“Eighteen today,” Willie said. “He’s the same, Tone. He’ll never be able to look after hisself. The social worker told us to think about putting him in a home.”
Tony tutted sympathetically. He went out of his way to be kind to Deaf Willie’s half-witted son; mental illness frightened him. “You don’t want to do that.”
Willie said: “I said to the wife, what does a social worker know? This one’s a girl of about twenty. Been to college. Still, she don’t push herself.”
Jacko broke in impatiently. “We’re all set, Tony. The lads are there, the motors are ready.”
“Good.” Tony looked at Jesse James. “Shooters?”
“Got a couple of shotguns and an Uzi.”
“A what?”
Jesse grinned proudly. “It’s a nine-millimeter machine pistol. Israeli.”
“Stroll on,” Tony muttered.
Jacko said: “Here we are.”
Tony took a cloth cap from his pocket and fixed it on his head. “You’ve put the lads indoors, have you?”
“Yes,” Jacko said.
“I don’t mind them knowing it’s a Tony Cox job, but I don’t want them to be able to say they saw me.”
“I know.”
The car pulled into a scrap yard. It was a remarkably tidy yard. The shells of cars were piled three high in orderly lines, and component parts were stacked neatly round about: pillars of tires, a pyramid of rear axles, a cube of cylinder blocks.
Near the gateway were a crane and a long car transporter. Farther in, a plain blue Ford van with double rear wheels stood next to the yard’s heavy-duty oxyacetylene cutting gear.
The car stopped and Tony got out. He was pleased. He liked things neat. The other three stood around, waiting for him to do something. Jacko lit a cigarette.
Tony said: “Did you fix the owner of the yard?”
Jacko nodded. “He made sure the crane, the transporter, and the cutting gear were here. But he doesn’t know what they’re for, and we’ve tied him up, just for the sake of appearances.” He started to cough.
Tony took the cigarette out of Jacko’s mouth and dropped it in the mud. “Those things make you cough,” he said. He took a cigar from his pocket. “Smoke this and die
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