do, And? What plans you got, now you’re a free man?’
‘Work.’
‘At?’
His pride was up. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
‘There you go then.’
The kettle began to hiss. Lee took down two mugs from a rail above his head.
‘I’m looking for people. Always lookin’.’
‘No chance.’
‘Just listen, will you?’
‘No. Where’d you get all this? House. Car. You don’t tell me thisis hard graft. No one gets this lot in a year or two for grafting. You was skint, you was living two rows from Michelle last I knew. You didn’t even bloody go down for that job. Half the time I did, I did for you, Carter.’
‘I didn’t smash a man’s head down into the concrete.’
‘You –’
‘Oh shut it, Andy. Here.’ He shoved the mug of tea across the table. ‘It’s done with. You’re out of there, aren’tyou?’ Lee pulled out a chair with his foot and sat down.
Andy drank the hot sweet tea. Prison tea. In spite of himself he wanted to hear. Maybe it was true and something legit had bought all this. He looked out of the window behind Lee’s head. The garden was mainly lawn and elaborate trellis, with a bird bath, a couple of urns, a white-painted iron pump. There was a single bed of roses whichhad been pruned down to their stumps. They stood out of the bark chippings at their base like rotten teeth out of a septic mouth.
He thought of the prison market garden. He didn’t want to be back there but he wanted to be outside.
‘Horses.’ Lee said, following his eye. ‘Horses bought this lot.’
Andy remembered now. Lee had always been at the bookies, or on the phone to one. He’d kept on atAndy to go to the races with him but he’d never been that interested.
‘Bollocks,’ he said now. If he knew anything about gambling, on horses or anything else, it was that in the long run you lost. ‘Mug’s game.’ It had to be drugs. Had to be. He wanted the fresh air more than ever.
‘Too right.’
Lee picked up the teapot and held it out. Andy shook his head.
‘I woke up one morning and there itwas in front of me. Big red letters. Mug’s game. So that was the answer. There’s always mugs.’
‘You bought a betting shop then?’
Lee laughed.
‘Listen. All the years I was at it, ten, twelve years – backing the gee-gees, winning some, losing some, but mainly losing, and I saw who was really making money. Yes, right, the bookies. But apart from them … tipsters, that’s who. Not your sad littleone-man, some no-hope ex-jock. Top stuff. Classy. Like an exclusive club. I paid out a fortune in my day to them tipping agencies. Promising to make you a fortune, inside information, all that crap. You got to have something different and you gotta do more than read the sports pages trying to pick nailed-on chances. The ones who can tip the realbig winners, the winners nobody’s picked, the 10–1and 25–1 shots, those services can charge what they like … ten, fifteen grand a year, maybe more. That’s nothing. I used to play in fifties, hundreds. My clients now, they deal in thousands every bet. First thing you got to do is let them believe it’s hard to get in, that your service is exclusive and membership’s limited. You turn people down flat. Don’t give them a reason. Word soon gets roundand they’re crawling on their hands and knees to you. Clubs do it, it even goes on with fuckin’ clothing, for Christ’s sake – designer gear. Lynda has her name down for six months for some fuckin’ handbag that costs two grand because there’s only ever going to be fifty of them made. It’s bollocks but it’s a must have. So’s membership of my service.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘LER. For Limited EditionRacing.’
‘So you find the outsiders that win.’
‘Right.’
‘How?’
‘There’s ways.’
‘Doping.’
‘No. Not these days. They test everything that moves.’
‘Fixing.’
‘I told you, there’s ways.’
‘How many members in this club?’
‘Six hundred
‘Work.’
‘At?’
His pride was up. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
‘There you go then.’
The kettle began to hiss. Lee took down two mugs from a rail above his head.
‘I’m looking for people. Always lookin’.’
‘No chance.’
‘Just listen, will you?’
‘No. Where’d you get all this? House. Car. You don’t tell me thisis hard graft. No one gets this lot in a year or two for grafting. You was skint, you was living two rows from Michelle last I knew. You didn’t even bloody go down for that job. Half the time I did, I did for you, Carter.’
‘I didn’t smash a man’s head down into the concrete.’
‘You –’
‘Oh shut it, Andy. Here.’ He shoved the mug of tea across the table. ‘It’s done with. You’re out of there, aren’tyou?’ Lee pulled out a chair with his foot and sat down.
Andy drank the hot sweet tea. Prison tea. In spite of himself he wanted to hear. Maybe it was true and something legit had bought all this. He looked out of the window behind Lee’s head. The garden was mainly lawn and elaborate trellis, with a bird bath, a couple of urns, a white-painted iron pump. There was a single bed of roses whichhad been pruned down to their stumps. They stood out of the bark chippings at their base like rotten teeth out of a septic mouth.
He thought of the prison market garden. He didn’t want to be back there but he wanted to be outside.
‘Horses.’ Lee said, following his eye. ‘Horses bought this lot.’
Andy remembered now. Lee had always been at the bookies, or on the phone to one. He’d kept on atAndy to go to the races with him but he’d never been that interested.
‘Bollocks,’ he said now. If he knew anything about gambling, on horses or anything else, it was that in the long run you lost. ‘Mug’s game.’ It had to be drugs. Had to be. He wanted the fresh air more than ever.
‘Too right.’
Lee picked up the teapot and held it out. Andy shook his head.
‘I woke up one morning and there itwas in front of me. Big red letters. Mug’s game. So that was the answer. There’s always mugs.’
‘You bought a betting shop then?’
Lee laughed.
‘Listen. All the years I was at it, ten, twelve years – backing the gee-gees, winning some, losing some, but mainly losing, and I saw who was really making money. Yes, right, the bookies. But apart from them … tipsters, that’s who. Not your sad littleone-man, some no-hope ex-jock. Top stuff. Classy. Like an exclusive club. I paid out a fortune in my day to them tipping agencies. Promising to make you a fortune, inside information, all that crap. You got to have something different and you gotta do more than read the sports pages trying to pick nailed-on chances. The ones who can tip the realbig winners, the winners nobody’s picked, the 10–1and 25–1 shots, those services can charge what they like … ten, fifteen grand a year, maybe more. That’s nothing. I used to play in fifties, hundreds. My clients now, they deal in thousands every bet. First thing you got to do is let them believe it’s hard to get in, that your service is exclusive and membership’s limited. You turn people down flat. Don’t give them a reason. Word soon gets roundand they’re crawling on their hands and knees to you. Clubs do it, it even goes on with fuckin’ clothing, for Christ’s sake – designer gear. Lynda has her name down for six months for some fuckin’ handbag that costs two grand because there’s only ever going to be fifty of them made. It’s bollocks but it’s a must have. So’s membership of my service.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘LER. For Limited EditionRacing.’
‘So you find the outsiders that win.’
‘Right.’
‘How?’
‘There’s ways.’
‘Doping.’
‘No. Not these days. They test everything that moves.’
‘Fixing.’
‘I told you, there’s ways.’
‘How many members in this club?’
‘Six hundred
Similar Books
