Paper Money (7 page)

Gain," he would bark if they put their arms on the table.

The only thing Tony held against him was the way he treated Mum. Being

so handsome and that, he had a few women on the side, and at times he

would spend his money buying them gin instead of bringing it home.

Those times, Tony and his brother would go up the Smithfield market,

stealing scraps from under the tables to sell to the soap factory for a

few coppers. And he never went in the Army--but then, a lot of wise boys

went on the trot in wartime.

"What are you going to do--go back to sleep, or pour that tea out?"

Lillian put a plate in front of Tony and sat down opposite him. "Never

mind, I'll do it now."

Tony picked up his cutlery, holding his knife like a pencil, and began

to eat. There were sausages, hot fried eggs, a mess of canned tomatoes,

and several slices of fried bread. He took a mouthful before reaching

for the brown sauce. He was hungry after his morning's exertions.

His mother passed him his tea. She said: "I don't know, we was never

afraid to use the phone when your father was alive, God rest his soul.

He was careful to stay out of the way of the Old Bill."

Tony thought they had had no phone in his father's day, but he let that

pass. He said: "Yeah. He was so careful, he died a pauper."

"But an honest one."

"You know bloody well he was, and never let me hear you say no

different."

"I don't like you to swear, Mum."

"You shouldn't provoke me."

Tony ate silently and finished quickly. He emptied his teacup and began

to unwrap a cigar.

His mother picked up his cup. "More tea?"

He looked at his watch. "No, thanks. I've got a couple of things to do."

He set fire to the cigar and stood up. "That's set me up lovely, that

breakfast."

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you having a fickle?"

This annoyed him. He blew smoke into the air.

"Who needs to know?"

"It's your life. Go on, then, I'll see you later.

Mind you look after yousseff."

He looked at her a moment longer. Although she gave in to him, she was a

strong woman. She had led the family since the old man went: mending

marriages, borrowing from one son to lend to another, giving advice,

using her disapproval as a powerful sanction. She had resisted all

efforts to move her from Quill Street to a nice little bungalow in

Bournemouth, suspecting--rightly--that the old house and its memories

were a potent symbol of her authority. Once, there had been queenly

arrogance in her high-bridged nose and pointed chin; now, she was regal

but resigned, like an abdicated monarch; knowing she was wise to release

the reins of power, but regretting it all the same. Tony realized that

this was why she needed him: he was king now, and having him to live

with her kept her close to the throne. He loved her for needing him. No

one else needed him.

She stood up. "Well, are you going?" "Yes." He realized he had been lost

in thought.

He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed briefly. He never kissed

her. "Ta-ta, Mum." He picked up his coat, patted the dog, and went out.

The interior of the Rolls was hot. He pressed the button that lowered

the window before settling himself in the leather seat and pulling away.

He took pleasure in the car as he threaded it through the narrow East

End streets. Its shameless luxury, in contrast with the mean streets and

undignified old houses, told the story of Tony Cox's life. people looked

at the car--housewives, paper boys working men, villains--and said to

each other: "There's Tony Cox. He did well."

He flicked cigar ash through the open window.

He had done well. He had bought his first car for six pounds when he was

sixteen years old. The blank Ministry of Transport certificate had cost

him the shillings on the black market. He filled in the blanks and

resold the car for eighty pounds.

Before long he had a used car lot which he gradually turned into a

legitimate business. Then he sold it, with the stock, for five thousand

pounds, and went into the long firm racket.

He used the five thousand to open a bank account, giving as a ponce the

name of the man who had bought the car lot. He told the bank manager his

real name, but gave a false address-the same false address he had given

the purchaser of the car business.

He took a lease on a warehouse, paying three months' rent in advance.

He bought small quantities of radio, television, and hi-fi equipment

from manufacturers--and resold it to shops in London.

He paid suppliers on the dot, and his bank account was busy. Within a

couple of months he was making a small loss, and had a reputation for

credit-worthiness.

At that point he made a series of very large orders. Small manufacturers

to whom he had promptly paid a couple of bills of five hundred pounds

each were glad to supply him with three or four thousand pounds' worth

of goods on the same credit terms: he looked like becoming a good

customer.

With a warehouse full of expensive electronic gadgetry for which he had

paid nothing, he held a sale. Record players, color television sets,

digital clocks, tape decks, amplifiers, and radios went for knockdown

prices, sometimes as little as half their retail value. In two days the

warehouse was empty and Tony Cox had three thousand pounds in cash in

two suitcases. He locked the warehouse and went home.

He shivered in the front seat of the warm car as he remembered. He would

never take risks like those again. Suppose one of the suppliers had got

wind of the sale? Suppose the bank manager had seen Tony in a pub a few

days later?

He still did the occasional long firm, but these days he used front men,

who took long holidays in Spain as soon as the ax fell. And nobody saw

Tony's face.

However, his business interests had diversified.

He owned property in Central London which he let to young ladies at

extremely high rents; he ran nightclubs; he even managed a couple of pop

groups. Some of his projects were legitimate, some criminal; some were a

mixture, and others were on the nebulous borderline between the two,

where the law is unsure of itself but respectable businessmen with

reputations to worry about fear to tread.

The Old Bill knew about him, of course. There were so many grasses about

nowadays that nobody could become a respected villain without his name

going into a file at Scotland Yard. But getting evidence was the

problem, especially with a few detectives around who were prepared to

warn Tony in advance of a raid. The money he spent in that direction was

never skimped. Every August there were three or four police families in

Benidon on Tony's money.

Not that he trusted them. They were useful, but they were all telling

themselves that one day they would repay their debt of loyalty by

turning him in. A bent copper was still ultimately, a copper. so all

transactions were cash; no books were kept, except in Tony's head; all

jobs were done by his cronies on verbal instructions.

Increasingly, he played even safer by simply acting as a banker. A

draftsman would get some inside information and dream up a plan; then he

would recruit a villain to organize the equipment and manpower. The two

of them would then come to Tony and tell him the plan. If he liked it,

he would lend them the money for bribes, guns, motor cars, explosives,

and anything else they needed. When they had done the job they would

repay the loan five or six times over out of the 5.

Today's job was not so simple. He was draftsman as well as banker for

this one. It meant he had to be extra careful.

He stopped the car in a back street and got out.

Here the houses were larger--they had been built for foremen and

craftsmen rather than dockers and laborers--but they were no more sound

than the hovels of Quill Street. The concrete facings were cracking, the

wooden window frames were rotten, and the front gardens were smaller

than the trunk of Tony's car. Only about half of them were lived in: the

rest were warehouses, offices, or shops.

The door Tony knocked on bore the sign "Billiards and Snooker" with most

of the "and" missing. It was opened immediately and he stepped inside.

He shook hands with Walter Burden then followed him upstairs. A road

accident had left Walter with a limp and a stammer, depriving him of his

job as a docker. Tony had given him the managership of the billiards

hall, knowing that the gestura--which cost Tony nothing--would be

rewarded by increased respect among East Enders and undying loyalty on

Walter's part.

Walter said: "Want a cup of tea, Tony?"

"No, thanks, Walter, I just had my breakfast."

He looked around the first-floor hall with a proprietorial air. The

tables were covered, the linoleum floor swept, the cues racked neatly.

"You keep the place nice."

"Only doing my job, Tone. You looked after me, see."

"Yeah." Cox went to the window and looked down on the street. A blue

Morris 1100 was parked a few yards away on the opposite side of the

road. There were two people in it. Tony felt curiously satisfied: he had

been right to take this precaution. "Where's the phone, Walter?"

"In the 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 towards 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 his self 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