Maps of Hell. Paul Johnston

Чтение книги онлайн.

       5

      They sat outside in the car and looked at the shop. They were Max’s boys, and they were following orders. One of his most trusted lieutenants had told them to do the shop late on the Saturday afternoon when the information was that there would be upward of three thousand quid in the till.

      They knew that they were on the Delaney patch. They knew the shop-owner was paying protection to the Delaneys, and this had caused them some concern.

      ‘Just do the fucking job, leave the thinking to those that can,’ came the orders when they questioned this action.

      There were four of them, all of them handy but still worried. If the Carters were looking to take a pop at the Delaney manor, there was going to be seven kinds of shit flying about, and they weren’t happy.

      Some things were set in stone. The Richardsons and the Frasers had the South, the Regans the West, the Nashes had The Angel, the Delaneys held Battersea – and a small pocket in Limehouse down by the docks, often disputed over – the Krays had Bethnal Green and the Carters had Bow. You never argued with that. But the boys were loyal, and there was a bonus in it for them. When they had asked what their cut was to be, the answer had come swiftly back from Jonjo Carter.

      ‘Take the fucking lot. Piss it all up against a wall if you want to, just take it.’

      Which was very unusual. The Carters were notoriously keen on taking their pound of flesh. The boys took this to mean that this job was intended as an insult to the Delaneys, a message to say, look you cunts, we can take you any time you like, no worries.

      They were worried all right. There had been rumours that Tory Delaney was out of circulation, maybe ill, maybe God knew what.

      But orders were orders, and Max Carter was the guvnor. He knew what he was doing, and he didn’t like people questioning his judgement.

      ‘Right then, here we go,’ said the driver when the last of the punters departed at five to five, then one of Max’s boys pulled on his mask and gloves and ran into the shop.

      The owner was there, mopping up after the day’s trading. He froze like a deer in headlights, which was good. The till was one of those big heavy efforts, but Max’s boy was tasty and could lift it easily, he’d already taken care to look it over.

      He leaned over and grabbed the thing.

      Or he tried to.

      ‘Shit!’

      It was screwed down.

      The shop owner started gabbling away in a foreign language. Christ knows what he was saying. Fuck you, probably. The man started slapping at Max’s boy with the wet mop. It was a bit funny but Max’s boy was getting steamed up.

      Two of the others had seen there was a problem and came running in to help, while the driver stayed put. The mop attack and the slopping of water all over the place and the shouting was getting worse and worse. Then the shop-owner chucked the remains of the bucket of water over the lot of them and suddenly they were skidding and sliding all over the fucking place. Then he reached for the phone.

      One of the boys yanked the cord out of the wall and gave him a cautionary slap.

      Another went back out to the car and grabbed a pickaxe from the boot. With it he demolished the counter and then they had it away with the till, no problem.

      They took the till, with bits of broken counter clinging to it, outside and got it into the car. They piled back in and the driver gunned away. They pulled off their masks and gloves and roared with laughter in the aftermath of the excitement. They were drenched to the skin.

      ‘Jesus, it was like being slapped in the face with a cod,’ said one, trying to dry himself on a rag from the dashboard. ‘Good job Jonjo wasn’t there, he’d have wrung his fucking neck.’

      Two of them were in the back with the till.

      They opened it.

      Plenty of notes.

      They sat back, smiling.

      ‘That’s what I call a good day’s work,’ said one.

      ‘Yeah,’ agreed his companion.