Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

‘Hello, Joe.’

‘Oh. Oh, it’s you, Mr Connor?’

‘Aye, Joe. I wanted a word with you.’

‘Oh well, Mr Connor, I’m off on a message you see.’ He brought his two unusually long and fine-shaped hands in a sweeping movement down the front of his short coat, and Rory, nodding, smiled and said, ‘Aye, you’ve got your best toggery on, must be some special message.’

He had never before seen little Joe dressed like this. He had never imagined he had any other clothes but the greasy little moleskin trousers and the old broadcloth coat he usually wore. Not that he couldn’t afford to buy a new suit because he must do pretty well on the side; besides being a bookie’s runner, little Joe could be called upon to negotiate odd jobs, very odd jobs, along the waterfront. Last year it was said he almost went along the line when two lasses went missing. They couldn’t prove anything against him for he was a wily little beggar. But the case recalled the outcry of a few years earlier when some lasses were shipped off. Afterwards of course this line of business had of necessity quietened down for a time, but nature being what it is a demand for young lasses, especially young white lasses, was always there, and so was Joe.

He said to him now, ‘I want you to get me in some place the night, Joe, like you promised. But no back-yard dos.’

‘Aw, it’ll take time, Mr Connor, an’ I told you.’ He came out into the lane now and pulled the door closed, and as he walked away Rory suited his steps to the shorter ones.

‘Now you can if you like, Joe. You said . . .’

‘I told you, Mr Connor, it takes time that kind of thing. And they’re on to us . . . coppers; they’re hot all round the place.’

‘You have ways and means, you know you have, Joe. An’ I’d make it worth your while, you know that.’

‘Oh, I know that, Mr Connor. You’re not tight when it comes to payin’ up. Oh, I know that. And if I could, I would . . . There’s Riley’s.’

‘I don’t like that lot, I told you last time.’

‘Well, I’ll admit it, they’re a bit rough.’

‘And twisted.’

‘Aw well, you see, I don’t play meself, Mr Connor, so I wouldn’t know.’

‘There’s other places, Joe.’

‘But you’ve got to be known, Mr Connor, an’ . . . an’ it’s me livelihood you know.’

‘You could do it, Joe.’

And so the conversation went on, flattery pressing against caution; but by the time they parted caution had won.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Connor, but . . . but I’ll let you know. I’ll take a walk around your office as soon as I can manage anything for you. That’s a promise; it is.’

Rory nodded, and as he stood and watched the small shambling figure hurry away and disappear around the bottom of the street he repeated bitterly, ‘That’s a promise.’ Then he asked himself the question, ‘Where’s he off to, rigged out like that?’ He wouldn’t need to dress up to go round his usual haunts. He was going some place special?

As if he had been pushed from behind he sprang forward, but when he came out into the main street he slowed to a walk. Little Joe was well ahead, but he kept him in sight until he turned into Fowler Street.

There he was impeded in his walking by a number of people who had stepped hastily up on to the pavement from the road to allow a private coach and a dray-cart to pass each other. There were angry shouts and strong language among those who had their clothes bespattered with mud, and as he didn’t want his own mucked up, he kept as near as he could to the wall, and because of the press he was only just in time to see little Joe turn off into Ogle Terrace.

Ogle Terrace, apart from Westoe, was in the best end of the town. Who was he going to see up there? On the small figure hurried until at the top of Plynlimmon Way he disappeared from view.

Rory, now about to set off at a run towards the end of the terrace, was impeded for a second time by a party of ladies coming through an iron gateway and making for a carriage standing at the kerb.

When he eventually reached the top corner of Plynlimmon Way there was no sight of little Joe.

He stood breathing deeply, working things out. Joe wouldn’t have had access to a front door, not around here he wouldn’t, yet it was into one of these houses he had disappeared. So the place to wait was the back lane.

The back lane was cleaner than many front streets. It was servant territory this, at least two or three maids to a house, hired coaches from the livery stables for the owners and trips abroad in the fashionable months. And little Joe was in one of these houses delivering a message. He was on to something here.

When a back door opened and a man wearing a leather-fronted waistcoat swept some dust into the back lane, he did a brisk walk past the end of the lane and as briskly returned. The man was no longer in sight, all the back gates were closed. He moved up slowly now, past the first one, and the second, then stood between it and the third. It was as he paused that the third door opened and out stepped little Joe.

The small man stood perfectly still and gazed at Rory with a pained expression before he said, ‘You shouldn’ve, Mr Connor. Now you shouldn’ve. You don’t know what you’re at.’ He cast a glance back to the door he had just closed, then hurried on down the lane. And Rory hurried with him.

They were in the main street before the little man slowed his pace, and then Rory said, ‘Well now, Joe, what about it?’

And again Joe said, his tone surly now, ‘You don’t know what you’re at, you don’t.’

‘I know what I’m at, Joe.’ Rory’s voice was grim. ‘The buggers that live along there are like those in their mansions up Westoe, they run this town; they control the polis, the shippin’, they own the breweries, an’ have fingers in the glassworks, chemical works . . . Aye, the chemical works on the Jarrow road. There’s one in Ogle Terrace who’s on the board. You forget I’m a rent collector, Joe. There’s no rent collected in this area. No, they’re all owned. But I know about them. Who doesn’t? By the morrow I’ll find out who’s in that particular number and that’s all I’ll need to know because now I know he’s on the fiddle. What is it, Joe? Gamin’ or girls . . . lasses?’

‘Mr Connor, you’d better mind yourself, aye you’d better.’ Little Joe’s voice held a note of awe now. ‘You want to be careful what you say, he’s . . .’

‘Aye, aye, I’ve got the message, Joe, he’s powerful. Well now, let’s sort this thing out, eh? He’s one of two things: he’s a man who likes a game or he’s a man who runs a game. We’ll leave the lasses out of it for the time being, eh? Now havin’ the kind of mind I have, Joe, I would say he’s a man who runs a game, and likely in that house, ’cos if he wanted to go some place else for a game he wouldn’t need you as a runner. A man in his position would have a key to open any door, even the ones in Newcastle. And there’s some big games there, aren’t there, Joe? No pitch an’ toss, Joe, it’s Twenty-Ones, or Black Jack, whatever name they care to call it; isn’t it, Joe?’

He looked down on the little man, and although the twilight was bringing with it an icy blast Joe was sweating. He now said in some agitation, ‘Let’s get out of this crush.’

‘Anything you say, Joe. Where you makin’ for now?’

‘I’ve got to go up Mile End Road.’

‘Another message?’

‘No, no.’ The little man now turned on him and, his tone for the first time really nasty, he said, ‘An’ there’s one thing I’m gona tell you. Whatever comes of this you’d better not let on ’cos . . . an’ I’m not funnin’, Mr Connor, with what I’m about to say, but things could happen, aye, things could happen.’