No one but a Para would know it, Dillon realised, but the name was sort of appropriate -'stag' being the term for sentry duty in the Parachute Regiment. Thus: 'stag on – stag off,' alternate periods on guard and standing down.
'Well, we got the premises, we got the phones,' beamed Cliff. 'How we doin' with the kitty, Frank?'
It was an innocent question, but it stung Dillon on the raw. He felt he was on a treadmill that was spinning faster and faster, and he couldn't keep pace, couldn't even pause to catch his breath.
'Still got a few quid!' he snapped irritably.
'Few quid?' Harry's eyebrows shot up in his big beefy face. 'What we gonna drive – dinky toys? We've not even got a motor, never mind a security wagon -'
'Friend of mine's got a garage,' Jimmy winked. Of course, Dillon thought, rely on Jimmy to have a friend who just happened to own a garage. 'He's got somethin' to show us,' Jimmy said, already vaulting into the jeep. He bashed the horn. 'Come on you dozy buggers!'
The treadmill was spinning out of control.
The 'garage' turned out to be more of a wrecker's yard. Half an acre of quagmire piled six-high with junked cars, vans and lorries. But Jimmy was confident that his mate Fernie would have just what they were after. He shoved open the double doors to the main workshop and disappeared inside, his voice echoing from the cavernous interior: 'Oi, Frank, come an' look over this baby, it's a cracker… armour-plated. Frank!'
Dillon stood with Harry and Cliff peering into the open bonnet of a metallic-gold Ford Granada with crimson stick-on speed stripes, Y reg, 94,000 miles on the clock. He glowered at the open workshop doors as Jimmy kept yelling for him to come take a look-see.
'I dunno, Frank,' said Cliff doubtfully, bent right over, his nose nearly touching the spark plugs. 'A lot of oil in here…'
Harry said scathingly, 'There would be, you soft git – that's the engine.'
A sudden shattering, stuttering roar, accompanied by a series of farting backfires, made them all spin round. An old rust-streaked security wagon, dents and scratches in every panel, radio antenna dangling over the smeared windscreen like a broken reed, chugged into the open, surrounded by a miasma of blue fumes. Jimmy leaned out, waggling his thumb. 'Hey, Frank – look at this mother!' He jumped down and at the third attempt managed to slam the door shut.
'It's a bargain!'
The three of them looked at it in silence, and then at each other. Dillon scratched his head. Bargain? More like a death-trap on four bald wheels.
He fretted about the money situation all the way back to base. They needed ready cash to buy transport, and they needed transport in order to make some ready cash. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Jimmy had something cooking on the back-burner; but why was it, Dillon brooded, that Jimmy's cooking always had a bit of a niff to it? They bought two six-packs of Red Strips at the local off-licence and sat in the pink office with the stag, two silent telephones, and an empty filing cabinet for company.
'I see the toothpaste and sleeping bag's still here,' Jimmy said, returning from the lavatory, zipping up his flies. He gave Harry a meaningful look. 'You not found a place to kip yet?'
'It's tough with no dough!' Harry protested.
Jimmy put his jacket on. At the door he said to Dillon, 'If you want to think about it, call me later. But it's money in the hand, enough to put down on the Granada and the wagon.' His tone said, if you can't shit, get off the pot – let's do it!
Dillon finished off the can, crumpled it in his fist. 'You known why!' he said, spots of colour appearing in his cheeks. 'I want us to be legit – we start off doin' dodgy runs, and we screw up -'
'How?' Jimmy leaned over the desk, arms spread wide. 'Tell me how? It's carryin' gear from A to B, and it's five grand cash!'
'Nobody gives nobody nothin' for free, Jimmy. An' I told you, anything to do with this Newman sucks.'
Jimmy made a dismissive gesture, as if wafting away five grand. 'Fine, say no more…'
'So how dodgy is it?' asked Cliff. 'I mean, what is this A to B crap? What do we have to do?'
Jimmy sighed and chanted off, 'We pick up gear from Heathrow Airport warehouse and we take it to the East End. How can it be dodgy? It's all been through Customs.' He tapped his open flat palm. 'Five grand cash, in the hand…'
Harry perked up, sucking Red Stripe from his moustache. 'Sounds the business to me! What's your problem, Frank?'
Dillon closed his eyes, rested his forehead on the tips of his fingers. 'Okay,' he said wearily, 'let's go for it.'
CHAPTER 23
Dillon emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around him, still faintly steaming from the shower. He explored the cleft in his chin where he'd nicked it while shaving, and looked at his fingers for blood. From the tranny downstairs in the kitchen the Radio 5 weather-woman was cheerfully telling the nation to expect sunny spells and the chance of showers, and above her voice he heard Susie calling, 'Frank! Frank, are you coming down?'
She ran halfway up the stairs and caught him on his way through to the bedroom. 'Didn't you hear me? Mr Marway's here with Jimmy. Come and meet him.' Suddenly her face lit up in girlish exuberance. The job with Marway's MiniCabs seemed to have released fresh reserves of energy, renewed her zest for life. She'd been and had her shoulder-length russet hair layered and re-styled, and wore make-up every day, not just at weekends. But Dillon wasn't charmed by this new, younger, liberated Susie; the world was uncertain enough without finding you'd swapped an old reliable model for an updated, streamlined version with a fresh paint job.
'I did a perfect three-point turn!' Susie beamed at him, and beckoned with red fingernails. 'Come and say hello to Mr Marway…'
Dillon opened the towel. 'Like this.'
Susie rolled her eyes and went back down.
In the living-room Jimmy was sitting in an armchair, little Phil on his knee, listening raptly to Marway. Success always impressed Jimmy, and it was obvious that the Sikh businessman had achieved it, in the way he dressed, his refined voice, most of all his sense of composure, perfectly at ease with himself. And he seemed quite happy to pass on the secrets of his success.
'If you can prove you'll employ more than six men, then you'd be in line for a government small business loan,' he was explaining, and added frankly, 'That's how I started.'
Free money. Jimmy was interested. 'How much are these loans?' he asked.
'Depends on your collateral,' Marway smiled. 'But anything up to fifty thousand…'
Jimmy pursed his mouth in a silent whistle, more impressed than ever. Fifty Big Ones. Worth investigating.
'You ready?' Dillon said to Jimmy from the doorway, shrugging into his leather jacket. He jerked his head and turned to leave.
Susie stood up. 'Frank, this is Mr Marway -'
'How ya doin'?' Dillon gave a distant nod without looking at the elegant businessman in the pale cream silk turban. And with a curt 'Let's go,' he was on his way out. Jimmy ruffled Phil's cropped thatch, jet-black as his Dad's, and went after him.
Technically the security wagon was 'on trial', and rusty old crate that it was, at least it was transport. Jimmy drove them up to Hackney, while Dillon stared sullenly out, grousing, 'What does he know he's just givin' the wife drivin' lessons!'
'Way you carry on, you'd think he was givin' her a lot more than -'
Jimmy nearly swerved into a bus as Dillon cracked him one across the knuckles.
'What in Christ's name's the matter with you…! I was jokin' – an' he seemed an all right guy.' Jimmy glanced across at Dillon's stony profile. 'We should try this government loan gig. He said -'
'I'm not interested in what he said.'
Jimmy snapped at him. 'Well you should be. He's in the same business. We can use him – and Susie can palm us a few jobs.'