James Benn - Rag and Bone

The atmosphere was calmer down below, with a steady stream of East Enders carrying blankets, pillows, and bags to their places on the platform. The chances of another raid with all the cloud cover tonight were slim, but the place was filling up. Last night’s terror was replaced by laughter and smiles of recognition as neighbors from above met each other below. A small group of girls was trying to sing the new song “A Lovely Way to Spend an Evening,” but ended up giggling each time they got to the chorus.

The bunks in the siding were near to full, the soft murmur of conversation marking the more regular residents. Some read newspapers, others magazines and paperbacks. One man, old enough to have served in the last war, was reading No Orchids for Miss Blandish, a recent book that had caused a sensation in 1939 over its depictions of beatings, killings, torture, and rape. Odd, with one war behind him and another driving him underground, that he passed his time by turning the page from one act of brutality to another. Or maybe it made perfect sense. At least he wasn’t deluding himself.

“Hi, Charlie,” I said, as the boxer looked up from his newspaper. “I’ve got a present for Mr. Chapman.”

“Let’s have a look then,” he said. I dropped the cover off the crate and watched him raise an eyebrow. “You can take that back, Topper’ll see you. But hand the gun over first.” I gave him my. 38, and he folded the newspaper over it. I wondered how much they paid off the local constables, or if they were just too afraid to come down this way.

“Well, Boyle, I see you don’t take advice,” Topper said as I entered the room. The blankets to Archie’s sanctum were drawn. “Can’t say I didn’t give fair warning.” He was playing cards with two guys in brand-new suits. It was noticeable since nobody had a new suit in London, due to rationing and the desire of most people to do their bit. But not Topper and his pals. Elegant tailoring, silk shirts, patent-leather black shoes.

“All dressed up and nowhere to go?” I said, setting the crate down on their card table.

“Shut up, Yank,” one of Topper’s boys said, pulling the deck of cards away from the crate of canned peaches.

“You know, my dad always told me to make a good first impression when you meet new people,” I said. “Because that sets the tone for everything that comes afterward.”

“Ain’t nothing coming afterward, Yank, so shut up before I get mad and do it for you.”

“That’s just what I’m talking about,” I said, gazing at Topper across the table from me. The guy with the mouth was on my left, looking up at me. Topper made a show of studying his cards. The well-dressed thug on my right watched Topper, waiting for a sign. “This guy is going to give me a hard time every time I see him now, because of the lousy first impression he has of me, letting him mouth off like that.”

“So why don’t-”

Before he could tell me what I should do about it, I grabbed him by the back of the head and snapped it down, smashing his face against the wooden crate. The pine wood and the cartilage in his nose cracked, and he started howling as blood christened his shirt. I didn’t look at the other two. I knew I had to show disdain for whatever they might do. Charlie didn’t stir, likely used to the sound of pain coming from behind the wall of blankets.

“Now,” I said, still grasping his hair and holding his face back so I loomed over him, “wouldn’t it have been better to start off politely, so we could’ve been pals?” He looked at Topper, waiting for him to have me dismembered. All Topper did was blow out a breath in mock boredom and toss his cards onto the table.

“Pals?” the tough guy said through the blood filling his nostrils, unable to follow what I was saying, stunned at the lack of support from his boss.

“Have some peaches,” I said. Topper laughed.

I’d hoped for a chance to get their attention, beyond the gift of six cans of Uncle Sam’s finest Georgia peaches. I needed to demonstrate that I was a tough guy, too, and the only way to do that with a bunch of crooks is to not let one of them give you any lip. That was one of the lessons Dad had taught me. Never take guff from a guy unless you’re willing to take it every time you run into him.

“Stanley, get cleaned up. I’ll get you a new shirt tomorrow,” Topper said. He nodded to the other fellow, who stood, took the box from the table, cleaned up the cards, and stood behind me. “Thank you for the gift, Boyle.”

“Lots more where that came from.”

“I hope your delivery method improves. I won’t let you get away with that again. But it was worth it to teach Stanley a lesson. He should think before he speaks.”

“I don’t intend on delivering these in person. If you’re interested in acquiring more, I’ve got sixty cases to move. But the gift-giving season is over.”

“Where are they?”

“Close, ready to unload.”

“I don’t intend to be drawn into a trap, Lieutenant Boyle. I appreciate this gift from the U.S. Army, but I have no interest in the black market.”

“What’s the clothing ration these days? Thirty-six coupons a year, right? You’re each wearing about two-thirds of that.”

“It pays to have friends, Lieutenant. In the same way it pays to not make enemies. It helps one get ahead.”

“Five pounds per can,” I said. “That’s my price.”

“What?”

“I’m making the offer to sell you army property. I don’t know about the law here, but back in the States I’d have to wait for you to offer to buy if I wanted to entrap you.”

“That’s not what I meant. I must’ve misunderstood you. I thought you said five pounds per can.”

“I did. You can’t find peaches anywhere in England except on a U.S. Army base. They’re priceless. You can sell them to fancy restaurants, rich folk, gangsters, anyone with a pocketful of cash. You could charge five pounds per peach, for crying out loud.”

“Clive,” Topper said, beckoning to the guy standing behind me. I tensed, waiting for a sap to my skull. “Open those cans. Take them around to the good people outside. Make sure they share them out, women and children first. Got it?”

“Yes, boss. You want any?”

“No. Leave a bowl for Dad, though. And yourself and Charlie, too.”

“None for Stanley?” Topper shook his head, and Clive got to work with a can opener.

“I’ll buy your sixty crates at four pounds each. That’s two hundred and forty quid. My only offer.”

“You going to give those away, too?”

“We’re not a charitable institution,” Topper said. “But these are all East Enders in here. Our folk. We take care of our own.”

“And they take care of you.”

“What’s fair is fair,” he said, as a chorus of cheers went up from the residents of the Chapman siding. “Take the two forty or take your leave.”

“I want three hundred, and some information.”

“Information has value, Billy, it’s not something to be given away.”

“OK, I’ll knock fifty pounds off for the info. Two fifty, and you tell me what I need to know.”

“My price is two forty, firm. Tell me what you need to know, and I’ll tell you if that information is available and for sale. And for how much.”

“Shouldn’t we be talking to your father about this?”

“We will, once the terms are agreed. He’s not one to haggle. What do you want to know?”

“I need to know who killed the Russian, Gennady Egorov. I don’t care what business he may have been doing with you. If you had him killed, there’s no reason for me to go to Scotland Yard, it’s not my beef.”

“You are seriously asking if I’m an accessory to murder? If I was, do you think I’d ever tell you? That’s a foolish question.”