Dead Money (3 page)

"It's not like that."

"Looks like that."

"You're laying on the drink, aren't you?"

"Aye."

"So," said Beale, a pious look on his face, "I'm hardly going to drink and drive, am I?"

"Fuck off."

"No way I'm leaving my car in Miles Platting, Stevie. Not happening."

"You'll have no bother, I already told you."

"Yeah, you said—"

"They only go for
good
motors."

"Get a cab."

"C'mon, Alan, you're supposed to be helping."

"Alright, look." Stevie reached for his can. "You want to bring your boyfriend along, that's fine, but he's not in the game."

"Okay," said Beale.

"I mean, nowhere near the fuckin' game. He can watch movies with The Waste."

"Alright." Beale looked at me. "You like movies, don't you?"

"What's The Waste?"

"Okay then." Stevie whirled the last of his Carling and then downed it. He crumpled the can and left it on the table. "I've got to get back. People'll wonder why I'm stuck talking to you two."

"Tell ‘em you're on the game."

Stevie stood, pretended to belly laugh, then turned on his heel. I watched him fall back in with his mates and reached for my whisky. I let it burn for a short while on my tongue before I swallowed it back.

"You're never buying in to dealer tables, are you, Les?"

Beale didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Fact was, he'd been trying to insinuate himself into a croup game for ages, but it'd been tricky. Dealers were skittish. Most of them were just as compulsive as their punters, but they rarely took a chance on fraternisation, because getting caught there meant an immediate boot, and if there was one thing these lads weren't suited to, it was the nine-to-five. On top of that, Beale had a rep as bloke who broke faces when he lost, and nobody liked a bad loser.

He tried to stay cool, but it didn't quite take. "It's a start."

Which was why he needed me there, to make sure he stayed on his best behaviour. Wasn't just that I was a cabbie and a cheerleader, now I had to be a fucking wet nurse into the bargain. But then, after the other night, wasn't that just a perfect measure of our friendship? He got shit everywhere, and I was the one with the lemon-scented wipe.

"Well, I can't help you. I've got something else on."

"Lying bastard."

"True. I promised to take the missus out Wednesday."

"By missus, you mean that student, right? And by take out—"

"I'm not coming."

Beale smiled. "It'll be alright. I won't say anything to your missus. And it'll be late on. You can go and fuck your teenager and then take us over the Riverside for the comp."

"No."

"No?" He leaned forward. "You serious? I get a seat at a croup game and you're going to blow it out because you want to get your end away?"

"I already told you—"

"I know what you fuckin' told us. And I know what the truth is. So why don't you just be the fuckin' white man and do us this favour, eh? I never ask you nowt, man. This is an opportunity."

"For you to get skinned by a bunch of dealers."

"Fuck off, you know us better than that. I get a decent run, I'm fuckin' unstoppable. And think about it, how good is it going to be when I take those bastards for everything they've got, eh?"

I thought about it. And I thought that even if Beale had the choice, taking them for everything they had was a bloody good way not to be invited back. But I didn't say anything, because it wouldn't matter if I did. Beale had made his decision, and that decision had been made on my behalf, too. So I'd call Lucy and I'd rain check Wednesday and we'd have to make up for it some other time.

Which we would. Because as of now, Beale owed me.

3

I had a morning at the office, enduring the usual attaboy bullshit from a sales manager who could jam a knife into your back so quick and gentle it'd feel like a congratulatory pat. His latest push was a series of compulsory customer service seminars. It was a neat way to thin the herds – who could hold their volume in the face of a condescending time-suck? – but it was insidious enough to put vinegar in my mouth and make my hungover head worse. The only thing that made the afternoon bearable was the potential for a sugar sit, but even that was marred by Cath's call.

I tried to keep the sigh out of my voice. "What's up?"

"How you feeling?"

"Been better. What did you want?"

"If you're stopping off at the shops on the way home—"

"I'm working late."

"Since when?"

"Since just now."

"Who's going to walk Buttons?"

"He can walk himself. It'll be fine."

"Alan—"

"Pomeranians don't need walked, alright? I'll see you when I see you."

And that was that. Truth was, I didn't have work on, nor did I have anything in particular planned apart from maybe a swift pint or a few spins down Chinatown. I just didn't want to deal with the dog. Because as much as I didn't give a shit about him, he gave a great deal of a shit about me, and he normally deposited that shit behind the front door in time for me to smear it across the floor on my arrival home.

So no, let her deal with it. I had more important things to do.

Like the Deeleys. I could've had this one Friday afternoon, but I'd put it over until today, because if they didn't cancel over the weekend, then they'd already talked themselves into spending some money. Saturday and Sunday were frequently the difference between good and golden.

When I arrived outside, I went from optimistic to downright cocky. The Deeleys lived in a semi in a place they probably called Victoria Park but everyone else, including the Halal butchers a spit away, called Longsight. The street was ex-local authority, and most of the houses were privately owned. Part of the gentrification of South Manchester. Give it another couple of years, the place would be swarming with either kids or long-term tenants as the Deeleys and others like them tarted up their starters and then rented them out to help pay the mortgage on something a bit closer to their class in the conservation part of Prestwich. Bottom line, they were looking at home improvements, and outside of a dozen cowboy firms, we were the only game in town.

I knocked on the door and the wife answered. I showed my card and a smile, and she returned the latter with a nice and naive tooth show, all middle-class and white, just like the rest of her. Behind her was the husband – designer stubble, checky shirt and turn-ups on his jeans. It was a geek's idea of manhood, which was a bit sad. His presence was another good sign, though. Always better to sell them as a pair than have one give me the yes only for the other to blow it out at a later date.

A cup of tea – which I couldn't stand, but drank anyway – and I was sat in the living room. Old carpet on the floor and an archway framed the dining room, which was currently being stripped of its Anaglypta. Mr Deeley – "call me Simon" – told me at length how they were doing the place up, and when I asked how much they were looking to rent it for, he told me they weren't. "We'll be staying here for a bit, won't we, Jan?"

Mrs Deeley nodded. She moved a little closer to him on the settee. Together they looked like a bad drawing of an angel and a lumberjack.

"Sorry, I thought you'd done this before. Looks like a professional job so far."

That got them giggling, which was a nauseating sight. They told me about their ideas for stencilling over the fireplace. I nodded and smiled. They told me they wanted to turn the place into a home. I wondered how homey it would feel when you were the only white face in a square mile.

"Well, you've certainly got an eye for design. Which is probably why you called us, right?"

I dug out a couple of booklets. Just enough to give them the overview. Any more than that, and I risked showing them how tacky it all looked.

I opened one of the booklets to a page showing the top-end glazing. "So how are the windows at the moment?"

"Oh well, it's draughty upstairs." Jan looked at her husband.

Simon nodded. "Terribly draughty."

"I didn't think you'd notice so much with all the warm weather."

"Neither did we, but Jan's very sensitive to the cold."

She smiled. "I'm a quarter Spanish."

Jesus Christ almighty. "Well then, you would feel it, wouldn't you?"

"And we'd like it to be just right for the little one."

I looked at Jan. "You expecting?"

"We're trying."

"I see. So it was the windows you were looking at primarily?"

"Well, not really." Simon edged forward to the end of his seat, playing the man in the relationship, about to talk about men stuff. "Not just the windows, anyway. Tell you the truth, we've already had some quotes."

"Great, then you'll have an idea of your price."

"I'll be honest, I thought – well, we
both
thought – that they were a bit high."

Jan's eyes were wide. "Extortionate."

"Can I ask where you got the quotes from?"

Simon leaned in a little, as if somehow they were listening. "Centenary and Quickglaze."

"Ah, right. Well, yes, that does explain it."

"They were really quite aggressive. I mean, you hear stories."

"You do." I smiled. "I've heard a few, myself."

I'd told a few, myself.

"But I couldn't help but feel I was being bullied into something."

"Simon's much more sensible than that."

"Well, you didn't hear this from me, but I know a little about both of those organisations, and I know they train their reps to go in hard and high. Not to disparage either one – I'm sure they were fine products – but we'd rather not push you into something, even if you want to do it. Call us old-fashioned, but we'd rather have a satisfied customer than one who thinks he's been had."

The Deeleys smiled at each other, then at me. Hooked, but it would still take a gentle hand to reel them in all the way. So I kept the brochures and samples in my case for the time being, and just kept talking in that low, friendly, ever-smiling way.

"Now, if you want to see the top of the range windows, then I'll be happy to show them to you, but I'll be absolutely honest, I wouldn't recommend buying anything at the top end. Not only is the mark-up on them out of this world, but a place like this just doesn't need them. Most places don't. Only houses that need our top end are lighthouses – they're the only places that get the kind of weather. On top of that, you might be looking to stay here for a bit, but I don't think you're going to grow old in this house, am I right?"

Jan nodded. Which meant that Simon agreed, even if he didn't know it yet.

"So throw out the top end, and probably the top middle, too. If you're only going to be here five-ten years max, you've got to weigh up the long-term benefits. Despite what those other gentlemen may have told you, the UPVC doesn't significantly add to the value of the property."