Civvies

'Bingo!'

The warehouse was in darkness but there was a light burning in Newman's office. Dillon walked in without knocking. Under his arm he carried a shapeless parcel wrapped in newspaper. Jimmy stayed by the open door, trying not to look at anything specific, in particular Newman's face, a pale, gaunt death mask in the light of the desklamp.

Colin uncoiled from his chair, and Newman made a tiny fluttering motion with his fingers. 'S'all right.' He motioned the minder to leave. Colin went out, giving Jimmy a hard stare, and shut the door.

'Sit down, Frank. Want a drink?'

Dillon placed the parcel in the middle of the blotter and folded his arms. Newman unwrapped it. His face didn't alter when he saw the battered elephant, nor even the empty headpiece, the stones plucked out. He merely sat hack in his chair, his pointed tongue flicking out across the wide slit of his mouth.

Dillon took a small canvas bag from his pocket and dangled it.

'Eight crates. That was a big shipment, Mr Newman. Very decorative.'

'Very lucrative.' Newman reached out. 'Hand them over, Frank.'

'Five grand?' Dillon's face went ugly. 'We been caught, we'd have got more than five years each.'

'I can pick your kids up any time, Frank – understand me?' The soft voice, dipped in acid, was back. 'This isn't some two-bit racket, this is an organised -'

Enraged, Dillon said venomously, 'And I can have the law pick you up – Mister Newman – any time. You want to play it that way…' he nodded, 'fine by me. If I'm not out of here in ten minutes, I got one of my lads waitin' by a phone.' He held up the canvas bag, clutched tight. 'An' if you want to try an' get these by force -' Dillon lifted his head and bellowed, 'Harry!'

The door was kicked open. Framed in the doorway, Harry and a mate of his, built like a brick shithouse, had a furious, struggling Colin pinioned between them. Newman stared at Dillon, tight-lipped with fury, a tiny muscle twitching near his left eye.

'How much?'

Dillon sat down and leaned forward, forearms flat on the desk.

'I want a legit lease on the premises – four years'll do. We'll pay you a fair rent.' Newman tried to interrupt. 'I'm not finished. Plus, we want it re-wired, telephones installed, and an agreement to run a business on the premises. Then the damages to the furniture, re-decoration…'

'An' that's it?' Newman said after a little silence had collected. He reached for a cheroot and moistened the end of it.

Dillon nodded. 'One more thing,' and the husky softness in his voice made Newman pause in the act of lighting it. 'I see them near my kids -' Dillon turned his head and looked deliberately into Colin's face and deliberately back again ' – then it becomes personal. I'll do ten for you, Newman, understand?'

CHAPTER 27

I'll do ten for you, Newman, understand?

He'd understood all right. In the flare of the match as he lit his cheroot, Dillon had seen it in the flat grey eyes. And Dillon had meant it. Not big, empty words, running off at the mouth, but the complete, literal truth. One more move like that and he'd gladly, willingly, definitely do for the bastard.

Dillon blamed himself. Everything Newman touched was corrupt, rotten, and yet he'd allowed Jimmy to get them involved, given way easily and weakly just at the moment when he should have toughed it out. Better to go to the wall, jack it all in, than sink into Newman's pit of slime. He wanted nothing more than to provide for Susie and the boys, but he'd be doing them no favours stuck in a prison cell for five years, Barry Newman's prize mug and fall guy for one of his crooked enterprises. And that's what would happen, as inevitable and predictable as clockwork.

He was still tensed up, an odd mixture of anger and elation jumping inside him, when he arrived back at the estate just before midnight. Driving into the courtyard, Dillon saw Jimmy sitting in the jeep. He was slumped down in his seat, as if he'd been waiting for some time, holding a quarter-full bottle by the neck. There was something going down; Dillon didn't know what, and he wasn't keen on finding out. His skin felt prickly, as if charged with static electricity, his chest tight. He locked the Granada, taking his time, and strolled across.

'I just dropped Harry off, then went to see if Cliff's all clued-up for the bank manager.' Dillon snorted ruefully. 'He's at his soddin' weddin' rehearsal.'

Jimmy wasn't pissed. He'd drunk himself beyond that, into a kind of sullen, dead-eyed edginess, just this side of hysteria. His voice wasn't at all slurred, but it was sneering.

'Ah ha! Cliff goin' into the bank, is he? I don't believe it. I get the premises, get everythin' set up…' He stared. 'Why, Frank? It should just be you and me at the bank, those two assholes'll screw up!'

He jumped out, suddenly manic, jabbing his finger into Dillon's chest. 'This was us – partners.'

'The deal was the four of us, Jimmy. We're in it together, but we want it legit – no scams.'

'You came out on top, an' you could have asked ten times the amount.' Jimmy's tone was scathing, as if talking to a cretin. 'Newman was laughin' -'

'You can't stay away from him, can you?' It was an effort, but Dillon kept his temper. 'Sooner or later you'll go down.'

Jimmy turned away, as if to get back into the jeep, then he hesitated. He didn't seem to know what to do, where to put himself, so he swung back, thrust out the bottle of vodka.

'No thanks.' Dillon watched him throw his head back, take a long swig. 'There's no easy money, no easy way, we got to do it by hard graft,' Dillon said. He looked into Jimmy's eyes, bloodshot in the corners. 'If it's not for you-'

Jimmy said nastily, 'Oh, I see – this is the kiss off, is it?'

Dillon's barely-controlled temper went up a notch or two.

'Nobody's kissin' anybody off. You want out, say so, you'll get whatever dough you put in.'

Jimmy swallowed hard, as if what he really wanted to do was cry. 'Have a drink with me, Frank.' Quiet, plaintive. 'Frank!'

'No, Jimmy, not tonight.'

'When then? When Frank?'

'I'll see you tomorrow.'

'You won't, I'm gone,' Jimmy said. 'I'm out of here.' He hurled the bottle against the wall.

Dillon tried to take his arm. 'Don't be like this, Jimmy…'

Jimmy yanked free. 'Get off me! Go in to your screechin' wife and kids -' He blundered forward swinging, a clumsy punch that knocked Dillon backwards. Jimmy's eyes were hot and wild, urging him to take a swipe, goading him on. Dillon wiped blood from his mouth. He said quietly, 'You're pissed, Jimmy.'

'Am I? What about just pissed off!' All of a sudden he seemed to cringe down, abject, pleading. 'I want you to have a drink with me.'

Dillon said nothing. He just shook his head slightly, as if his tolerance level had finally, at long last, been breached. He was as confused as Jimmy in a different way, feelings of anger, contempt, pity and compassion all jangled together, making no kind of sense.

As if realising he had overstepped the mark, Jimmy hesitantly reached out and touched Dillon's burst lip.

'I'm sorry… Frank, come on, you know, know I care about you. You need me…'

'No,' Dillon said, muted, 'you got it all wrong, I don't -'

He went stiff. Jimmy had his arms around him, hugging him. He was crying, sobbing, like a broken-hearted child. Dillon felt Jimmy's hot tears against his cheek, the scrape of his chin, and then the slobbering mouth as Jimmy tried to kiss him. Dillon stepped back, shuddering. He hit jimmy open-handed across the face. Jimmy took it and stood, head bowed, tears dripping down, and Dillon slapped him again, as hard and viciously as he could.

'I've always covered for you, Jimmy, now I'm warnin' you, you're out. And don't you come anywhere near my kids.' He wiped his mouth where the blood had smeared. 'You sick bastard.'

Dillon turned his eyes away from the wretched sight and walked towards the concrete stairwell.