Hearts of Stone Read Free

asked.
    He nodded.
    â€˜Now you,’ I said to the black guy. All he had was a small bundle of banknotes and the keys to the Chevrolet.
    â€˜Count the money,’ I said to JJ. He did as he was told. His hands were shaking, but not badly.
    â€˜Thirty-eight pounds sixty,’ he said. That wouldn’t even buy one sleeve of a new Aquascutum.
    I picked up the white guy’s driving licence. ‘Yours?’ I asked.
    He nodded, too.
    â€˜I’m keeping this,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to report it lost. Now I’ve got your address, so if anything happens here I’ll be round with a few mates. Understood?’
    He nodded again.
    â€˜Stay where you are,’ I said to them. To JJ: ‘Hold this.’ I passed him over the pistol. ‘It’s a shell, not shot. Aim for the chest. It’ll make a hole big enough to drive your car through. And watch it: the fucker kicks like a mule. I’ll be right back.’ He looked even greener at that.
    I bent down and picked up one of the axe handles. I opened the door and went outside to the Blazer. I smashed the windscreen, all the side windows, the back window, both rear-light clusters, the head and spot lights, and the wing mirrors, and snapped off the radio aerial.
    A small crowd gathered at the bus stop to watch, but didn’t interfere. The woman from the card shop next to JJ’s popped her head out of the door. ‘Insurance job,’ I said. ‘I’m the claims adjuster.’ I slung the handle through the broken windscreen and went back into the bar and took the gun from JJ.
    â€˜Now fuck off and don’t come back,’ I said to the two of them. ‘You’ve picked on the wrong people this time. Learn by your mistakes. If I see you round here again, you’ll end up in casualty. You, or Mr Lasky. All right?’
    Neither of them said anything.
    â€˜ All right ?’ I asked again.
    They both nodded and left, and got into the wreck and drove off with the windscreen wipers wiping air.
    And that’s how I got the job of assistant manager at the Twist & Shout.

4
    S o that was that. I had a job. In a bar. Luxury.
    It wasn’t hard work. The days were split into early and late shifts. I alternated with JJ, who was restoring a pre-war Harley-Davidson in the lock-up at the back of the bar in his spare time. And, from the bits of oily engine and rusty frame spread around the concrete floor in there, he needed all the spare time he could get.
    Early was ten-thirty in the morning to six-thirty in the evening. The bar opened at eleven-thirty, so the first hour was cleaning up after the night before, bottling up, preparing orders and taking in deliveries. Late was six-thirty in the evening until about one the following morning. The bar closed at eleven, except Sundays, just like a regular pub, but it was always murder getting the last of the Billy Bunters out, and then we washed up the glasses and had a final coffee and brandy before shooting off.
    It suited me down to the ground. We never heard from the protection boys again, and there was rarely any trouble. The fighters in the area had a couple of pubs to go to where they hosed the blood off the walls every night at closing time, so they didn’t bother us much. Besides, I think JJ had told a couple of people about the nasty little toy I’d brought in strapped to my leg that rainy September afternoon, and that helped keep the peace.
    JJ’s was OK. Friendly, you know. Plenty of people to talk to and newspapers and magazines to read. Good music on the Wurlitzer, good food, good booze, and lots of it. The rest of the bar staff were young good-looking women, which didn’t hurt one bit, and some of the female clientele would knock your eye out. But apart from being polite, and occasionally getting into a bit of verbal, I mostly ignored them. The feeling was mutual.
    The year ended with a three-week-long piss-up over Christmas and the New Year.