Ken Bruen - Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

‘Delighted?’

‘Animated… electrified… you were all lit up.’

‘Still am.’

‘You’ve found the thing that everybody wants.’

‘Wot’s that then, mega bucks?’

‘Don’t be an eejit Cooper. Something that brings them out of the herd, lets them kiss the heavens and fly, to soar on high.’

‘Doc… hey… lighten up… OK. We’re loaded, we robbed a bank… we’re not banged up… it’s not bloody religion.’

‘But that’s exactly it, you found religion, you’ll be doing this again… and again.’

We’d bought half a dozen bottles of Johnny Walker, three dozen cans of special and a shit heap of Chinese. I took the whisky straight from the bottle, let it coast and burn, popped some chow mein and washed it down with beer. Let the whole shebang blend, pour the friggin’ works, let them go figure what sent where, I asked, ‘Saying you’re right, let’s just suppose you are, where does that leave you?’

He didn’t answer for a bit, then, ‘With you… wot else, you mad bastard. How does Huntingdon sound, like the ring?’

I did… Staines, Milton Keynes, Crawley, Kidderminster, Haysham, East Trilling,… away days… and the mountain of cash began to shape. But, you’ve got to have a front. The old Bill are going to come sniffin’ sure as shooting. You need chameleon image. What you can show but can’t be pinned down. They look you over, yer business could be gold, could be shite.

Repo men. Yeah… that’s what we put out. Ain’t it the way of the world though, how it turns. First you got to get it, then you’ve got to bloody hide it. ‘GOD REPOSSESSES AND SO DO WE’.

It wasn’t going to hurt me to be up to me ass in cars. Money follows money. We rented a lock-up in Victoria, got the phone in and put small ads in the trades, in the locals. Here’s what it read:

‘Cat got yer tongue

they’ve got yer car

if you want to re-possess

give us a bell

THE R.R. (RIGHTEOUS REPO).’

And fuck me, ain’t it rich, the business took off. According to the Met, there’s a car nicked every two seconds in inner London alone. Jeez we were swamped. Had to take on staff and rent more space. Exciting too, see how long it took to track and move a vehicle. Then the movie came out, Repo Man with Emilio Estevez. Business boomed. I half fancied I was a touch like Emilio meself, that broody dark shit… yeah. You figure we packed in the banks? Never happen, no way. The Doc had my number. It was my very adrenaline, the juice in my veins. Sure, I liked the repo, the cars it brought me in contact with, the money, but it was like comparing a hand job to wild sex, a spoon of shandy up against a bottle of Walker.

We figured on a few rules early. No partners, strictly a two-man operation. If it needed more, then pack it in. Trust no one. The Doc had a prayer for us:

‘God keep us smart, fast

and mobile

the rest we’ll handle

ourselves.’

Seems God was listening. Then.

We must have got Him on a good day. Thing is, I reckon He enjoys a bit of villainy too. Else how to account for the Tory party. And mostly what we got was careful. Kevin Costner as Elliot Ness in The Untouchables is urged by his wife to be careful. He says, ‘like mice at a crossroads’.

Learnt the shit as we went along too. Out with the wool balaclavas, got us some light cotton jobs. No cumbersome gloves either. Those surgical skin-fit ones that make people instinctively edgy.

Experimented with the art of deception. The Doc would wear a larger size shoe and we’re talking big here, and bring along flour or baking soda. Sprinkle some of that on our way in and leave a nice clear print. Jeez, the filth adore a cosy fat clue. I had some fun with tattoos, those washable chaps. Put ‘I Love Me Old Mum’ in bold letters on my arm and let the sleeve ride up as I scooped the cash. Some whiz-kid bank trainee was hot to trot. A major breakthru for the investigation. After that one, half the old lags who lived with their Mums were rounded up. Even the Krays got a shout. Accents too, throw in some rasta and half of Brixton got turned over. We didn’t fuck with the Irish though. Doc said, ‘The last… the very last thing we want… is for the boyos to get pissed with us.’

I took his word on that.

Neither of us smoked so we ensured we dropped butts on our exit and all over the abandoned motor. One raid, Doc procured insulin and left the half-empty phial under the seat. That made it to CrimeStoppers. Kept our mouths tight shut. No braggin’, no hints, nada.

Things got hairy too. An old dear had a heart attack on our Hatton Cross job. Doc wanted to send flowers and cash. I lost it.

‘The fuck you saying…? You want to be Robin Hood, is that it… have the public love us. Jeez, mebbe we could cut a record. We’re in this for cash, not friggin’ sentiment.’

He sent the cash anyway. I could have sent the flowers.

Arnold L. White. Is that a name or wot. Our accountant. I wasn’t going to prison for VAT or any of that sneaky crap. He had an office in Camberwell. I had to ask, ‘What’s the L for?’

‘Leopold.’

‘You’re winding me up.’

‘Do I look like a kidder, as if humour is my forte?’

He didn’t.

Looked like a sour priest and hey, that’s how it should be. Money is a sacred business. He had a cheeky secretary named Iris, a pushy blonde, all mouth and nastiness.

I gave her one. Call it duty, to keep tabs on Leopold. She was the worst kind of leg-over… loud, came roaring and shouting as if I’d murdered her. The French call orgasm the little death. Guess they hadn’t heard of Iris. No doubts with that lady, she knew what she wanted and rode the daylights outa me. After, she’d say, ‘I’d kill for a bacon butty.’

She’d had a husband, Patrick, from County Kerry who’d gone MIA. The worst criminal ever to come outa Camberwell. Not dangerous, just useless. He’d attempted to rob a Pakistani shopkeeper, using a replica. The man near split his skull in two with a brick… a real one. Patrick got ten years. Prior to that, he’d been in a pub one night. A fella named Mick had given him a ferocious hiding. All Patrick remembered was the name. So, he packed a meat cleaver in an Adidas holdall and returned to the pub.

No sooner had he ordered, when the barman roared to a customer heading for the loo, ‘How’s about ye Mick.’

Patrick followed, missed with the cleaver, it was embedded in the wall. Mick and five of his mates then attempted to fit the cleaver to Patrick’s arse-hole. After she’d told me this, she added drily, ‘I said to ’im, you pathetic wanker, you like sex and travel so fuck off outa here.’

What Arnold also provided was information. Of the banking variety. Doc had a chat with him, suggested it would be mutual if the skinny on obscure banks were available. Their days for ‘holding’.

Arnold was yer classic accountant. He asked no questions but one, a highly indignant tone, ‘You think I can be bought?’

Doc named a figure.

He was bought.

Networking. Wot a lovely word:

Hip

Contemporary

Sassy.

Arnold networked a series of clerks in the major banks. Not too many, but sufficient to provide the dates without arousing suspicion.

It had risk… sure. The old fall-out factor, but it worked. Plus too, a clerk blew the whistle he was on the bank ‘suss list’. Banks don’t rate loyalty, only profit.

I’d put a portion of map on the wall, let the Doc have a look.

Asked, ‘See anything you like?’

‘Never heard of that Bicester, means we’d pass thru Morse country.’