He was wearing a T-shirt with the logo:
Pog Mo Thoin
It had been given to him by a crazy Irish girl he’d been seeing. He had to let her go when she set fire to their gaff for the second time. It meant giving her a few slaps but his heart hadn’t been in it. Ray felt that as Jimmy Woods had been through the mill with Sean Young, he too had to earn his spurs with crazies. In south-east London, they were easy to find. It was months later that he discovered the logo meant ‘kiss my ass’. And he’d worn it ever since. Angie had tried to smarten him up, bought a stack of Ralph Lauren shirts, which he put in the Oxfam bin. The one time he’d worn them, Jimmy had said:
‘You look like a pooftah.’
Gave Jimmy a hard slap to the side of the head. He’d been looking out for his brother all his life. Jimmy was a bit slow; he didn’t seem to be on the same wavelength as the rest of the world and responded with a simplicity to most things. Then, in prison, he became obsessed with weights and bodybuilding and with the increased muscles he developed a sly confidence. It came from knowing that people were afraid of him. Ray was the first to exploit this new development and used him as an enforcer. Jimmy was impervious to pain and, short of shooting the fucker, he wouldn’t go down. After Ray’s release they’d gotten the Mews place and begun a spree of petty larceny and mild intimidation. They hadn’t any huge ambition and, so long as they had beer money and some dope, they were reasonably content with their lot.
All that had changed the night they went to the strip club. Ray was hoping to exert some pressure on the manager when Angie came on the stage. The brothers watched open-mouthed. She was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. It would probably have never moved from their distant admiration if a punter hadn’t begun hassling Angie. A bald, middle-aged git with an attitude, he was pinching her bottom and she wasn’t liking it. Jimmy had moved, grabbed the guy by the collar and smashed his head on the bar, twice. Angie was impressed and when Ray asked her if she’d like to have a drink after, she agreed. They’d ended up at their place and she gave Jimmy a hand job. Then Ray got to bed her and she’d never moved on.
Slowly, she’d begun to organise their activities and the money began to roll in. Then Jimmy had found the dynamite and the whole operation moved up a notch. Ray thought it was crazy but Angie had a way of persuading them.
He said:
‘It’s fucked is what it is… you wanna know why?’
She gave him the sensual smile that usually signalled she was about to throw a tantrum but he carried on, said:
‘See, it’s the ransom money, or the extortion or whatever; you can ask what you like but the fuck is trying to collect it. The nick is full of guys who got paid then got nicked. You hear what I’m saying?’
Her tantrum had passed and she smiled, said:
‘I’ve been working on it, that’s why Jimmy has to go to work.’
He shook his head, said:
‘Jimmy doesn’t work, okay.’
She outlined the plan and Ray said:
‘Jimmy works.’
Jimmy didn’t seem to mind and once they’d got him in place he actually liked the job, began to bring home stories about the guys at work. Ray suffered this nonsense for a few days then walloped Jimmy on the back of the head, said:
‘Enough with this citizen shit. You’re not some kind of moron who does nine to five, you’re a career criminal and once the deal goes down, you’re out of there.’
Jimmy seemed hurt and asked if he could keep the uniform. Ray sighed, said, ‘Yeah, yeah, keep the fucking thing,’ like he gave a rats about that. Wanted to say if we pull this off, you can get a goddamn uniform made.
Angie was into it and began to stroke Jimmy, asking,
‘So, the other guys, they like you, yeah?’
Ray stormed out. Angie might be sex on wheels and smart as a whip but she could be a royal pain in the butt sometimes. He walked along the Balham High Road and stopped in a pub he hadn’t ever been in. Ordered a pint and took a seat. He was smoking Dunhill Luxury Length, the fancy red box you didn’t see much of any more. He and Jimmy had hit a van a few weeks back and had been smoking it large ever since. It had been a long time since he’d had to resort to roll-ups; those days seemed to be long gone. He kind of missed the stuff that went with rolling your own but felt he couldn’t really go back. Plus, Angie hated them and said they smacked of prison. Much as he liked Angie — she was the best woman he’d ever had — she was crazy; there was a wildness that got to be tiring. She burned brighter than anyone he’d ever known but he figured she was going to burn out fast and bring down all around her. Ray didn’t intend being part of that. Once they got the dosh, he’d have to seriously consider deep-sixing her, making sure she’d never return. It was a shame but the mad bitch would have to go.
As he sank half his pint, his eyes focused on a painting on the wall. Ray knew nothing about art but this transfixed him. It was a vixen, caught as if about to take flight. She had a look of:
Danger
Sleekness
Intelligence
Sensuality.
Ray went up to the bar, asked the guy about it.
The guy was a thick fuck, said:
‘I don’t know shit, it’s been hanging there for years.’
Ray considered, then said:
‘I’ll give you twenty for it.’
The guy was instantly suspicious, but pound signs were flashing in his eyes. He asked:
‘How do I know the price? It might be pretty valuable, lots of people want to buy it.’
Ray finished his drink, ordered another, said:
‘Have something yourself.’
The fuck took a whiskey and kept the change. As he raised his glass, he said:
‘I might be tempted to let it go for?100.’
As the Americans say, Ray did the math. He’d be out the ton but he could return, in the early hours of the morning, knock the kip over, get compensated. True, he’d have to go alone as Jimmy was now a working stiff. The barman was staring intently, said:
‘I know you, I mean you look like that actor, shit, what’s his name?’
Ray decided to help him out, hinted
‘Salvador ring any bells?’
‘Yeah, I got it — James Belushi.’
Ray hated Belushi, took out his wallet, laid the hundred down. The guy finished his drink, said:
‘Don’t know about you but I could go another.’
Ray ignored him, went over, took the painting down and left without a backward glance.
Next morning, he gathered Angie and Jimmy, said:
‘I want to show you something.’
Led them to the bedroom, went:
‘Whatcha fink?’
Angie hated it when he spoke common. Jimmy asked:
‘Is it a ferret? Why did you hang a ferret up?’
Angie gave a small smile, said:
‘It’s a vixen.’
Ray could tell by her face that she was pleased. She gave him the full look, asked:
‘What’s the story, Ray?’
He was hoping she’d ask, had been working on his answer all night and now, oh so casual, as if he’d just thought of it, went:
“Cos you’re a fox.’
Angie kept a separate bedroom, said she couldn’t bear to actually sleep with a person. She’d service Ray and, no matter how he coaxed, she’d leave right after. That night she gave him a sensational blow job and, as he dozed off, she went to her own room. Climbing between the sheets — it was her favourite part of the day — she could be truly alone and dream of Florida and endless days of sun and clothes.