Paper Money (17 page)

purchase of that rooster than any official deal I have ever done, this

one included." He smiled, knowing they were uneasy to hear this story,

and not caring. "A million pounds is nothing, but a rooster can save a

whole family from starvation."

Hamilton mumbled: "very true."

Laski reverted to his normal image. "Let me call the bank to warn them

that this check is on its way."

"Surely." Fett took him to the door and pointed.

"That room is empty. Valerie will give you a line."

"Thank you. When I return, we can sign the letters." Laski went into the

little room and picked up the. phone When he heard the dial tone, he

looked out of the room to make sure Valerie was not listening. She was

at the filing cabinet. Laski dialed.

"Cotton Bank of Jamaica."

"Laski here. Give me Jones."

There was a pause.

"Good morning, Mr. Laski."

"Jones, I've just signed a check for a million pounds."

At first there was no reply. Then Jones said:

"Jesus. You haven't got it."

"All the same, you will clear the check."

"But what about Threadneedle Street?" The banker's voice was rising in

pitch. "We don't have enough cash on deposit at the bank!"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Mr. Laski. This bank cannot authorize one million pounds to be

transferred from its account at the Bank of England to another account

at the Bank of England, because this bank does not have one million

pounds on deposit at the Bank of England. I don't think I can make the

situation plainer."

"Jones, who owns the Cotton Bank of Jamaica?"

Jones drew in his breath loudly. "You do, sir."

"Quite." Laski put the phone down.

TWELVE NOON JESSE JAMES was perspiring. The midday sun was unseasonably

strong, and the wide glass windshield of the van magnified its heat, so

that the rays burned his naked, meaty forearms and scorched the legs of

his trousers. He was awful hot.

As well as that, he was terrified Jacko had told him to drive slowly.

The advice was superfluous. A mile from the scrap yard he had run into

heavy traffic; and it had been bumper-to-bumper since then,. across half

of South London. He could not have hurried if he had wanted to.

He had both of the van's sliding side doors open, but this did not help.

There was no wind when the vehicle was stationary, and all he got when

he moved was a light breeze of warm exhaust smoke.

Jesse believed driving ought to be an adventure. He had been in love

with cars since he stole his first motor Zephyr-Zodiac with customized

fins at the age of twelve. He liked to race away from traffic lights,

double-de clutch on bends, and scare the hell out of Sunday drivers.

When another motorist dared to sound his horn, Jesse would yell curses

and shake his fist, and fantasize about shooting the bastard through the

head. In his own car He kept a pistol in the glove compartment. It had

never been used.

But driving was no fun when you had a fortune in stolen money in the

back. You had to accelerate gradually and brake evenly, give the old

slowing-down Signal when you pulled up, refrain from overturning, and

give way to pedestrians at road junctions. It occurred to him that there

was such a thing as suspiciously good behavior: an intelligent copper,

seeing a youngish bloke in a van pood ling along like an old dear on a

driving test, might well smell a rat.

He came to yet another junction on the interminable South Circular Road.

The light turned from green to amber. Jesse's instinct was to push his

foot to the floor and race the signal. He gave a weary sigh, flapped his

arm out of the window like a fool, and came to a careful stop.

He should try not to worry--nervous people made mistakes. He ought to

forget the money, think about something else. He had driven thousands of

miles through the exasperating traffic of London without ever being

stopped by the law: why should today be different? Even the Old Bill

couldn't smell hot money. The lights changed and he pulled forward.

The road narrowed into a shopping center where delivery trucks lined the

curb and a series of pedestrian crossings slowed the flow of cars.

The narrow pavements were thronged with shoppers and obstructed by

several hawkers flogging substandard costume jewelry and ironing-board

covers.

The women were wearing summery clothes. there was something to be said

for the hot weather.

Jesse started to watch the tight T-shirts, the delightfully

loose-fitting frocks and the bare knees as he crawled forward a few

yards at a time. He liked girls with big bottoms, and he scanned the

crowds for a suitable specimen to undress with his eyes.

He spotted her a good fifty yards away. She was wearing a blue nylon

sweater and tight white trousers. She probably thought she was

overweight, but Jesse would have told her otherwise. She had a nice,

old-fashioned bra which made her tits look like torpedoes; and her

highwaisted slacks flared out over big hips. Jesse peered at her, hoping

to see her tits wobble. They did.

What he would like to do, was to stand behind her, and pull her trousers

down slowly, the

The car in front moved forward twenty yards, and Jesse followed it. It

was a brand-new Marina with a vinyl roof. Maybe he would get one with

his share of the takings. The line of cars stopped again. Jesse pulled

the hand brake and looked for the plump girl.

He did not pick her up until the traffic was moving off again. As he let

the clutch in he saw her, looking in the window of a shoe shop, her back

to him. The trousers were so tight that he could see the hem of her

panties, two diagonal lines pointing to the fork of her thighs. He loved

it when you could see their panties under the trousers: it turned him on

almost as much as a bare bum. Then I'd slide her panties down, he

thought, and There was a crash of steel on steel. The van stopped with a

bump, throwing Jesse forward against the steering wheel. The doors slid

shut with a double bang. He knew, before he looked, what he had done;

and the taste of fear made him feel sick.

The Marina in front had stopped sooner than it needed to, and Jesse,

wrapped up in the plump girl with the tight trousers, had gone straight

into its back.

He got out of the van. The driver of the saloon car was already

inspecting the damage. He looked up at Jesse, his face red with anger.

"You mad bastard," he spat "What are you're blind, or stupid?" He had a

Lancashire accent.

Jesse ignored him and looked at the bumpers of the two vehicles, folded

together in a steel kiss.

He made an effort to keep calm. "Sorry, pal. My fault."

"Sorry! You people should be banned from the ruddy road."

Jesse stared at the man. He was short and portly, and wore a suit. His

round face was a picture of righteous indignation. He had the quick

aggressiveness of small people, and their characteristic backward tilt

of the head. Jesse hated him instantly. He looked like a sergeant-major.

Jesse would have liked to punch his face; or better, shoot him through

the forehead.

"We all make mistakes," he said with forced amiability. "Let's just give

each other our names and everything, and get on. It's only a little

bump.

Don't make a federal case of it."

It was the wrong thing to say. The short man became even redder.

"You're not getting off that lightly," he said.

The traffic in front had moved on, and drivers behind were getting

impatient. Several of them sounded their horns. One man got out of his

car.

The Marina driver was writing the number of the van in a little

notebook. That type of man always does have a little notebook and pencil

in his jacket pocket, Jesse thought.

He closed the book. "This is bloody careless driving. I'm going to ring

the police."

The driver from behind said: "How about moving this little lot out the

way, so the rest of us can get on?"

Jesse sensed an ally. "Nothing I'd rather do, mate, but this fellow

wants to call in Kojak on' the case.

The portly man wagged a finger. "I know your type-drive like a hooligan

and let the insurance pay. I'm having you up, Sonny Jim."

Jesse took a step forward, clenching his fists; then stopped himself.

He was getting panicky.

"The police have got enough to do," he pleaded.

The other man's eyes narrowed. He had seen Jesse's fear. "We'll let them

decide whether they've got better things to do." He looked around, and

spotted a phone booth. "You stop here." He turned away.

Jesse grabbed his shoulder. He was scared now He said: "This is nothing

to do with the police'

The man turned and knocked Jesse's hand away "Get off, you young punk--"

Jesse seized him by the lapels and pulled him onto his toes. "I'll give

you punk ..." Suddenly he became conscious of the crowd that had

gathered, looking on with interest. There were about a dozen people.

He stared at them. They were mostly housewives with shopping bags. The

girl with the tight trousers was at the front. He realized he was doing

all the wrong things.

He decided to get out of it.

He let the aggrieved man go and got into the van. The man stared at him

disbelievingly.

Jesse restarted the stalled engine and backed up. There was a wrenching

sound as the vehicles parted. He could see that the Marina's bumper hung

loose, and its rear-light cluster was smashed.

Fifty quid to put right, and a tenner if you do the work yourself, he

thought wildly.

The portly man moved in front of the van and stood there like Neptune,

waving an officious finger. "You stay right here!" he shouted. The crowd

was growing as the row became more spectacular.

There was a lull in the oncoming traffic, and the cars behind began to

pull out past the accident.

Jesse found first gear and revved the engine.

The man stood his ground. Jesse engaged the clutch with a jerk, and the

van shot forward.

Too late, the portly man dived toward the curb.

Jesse heard a dull thud from the near side wing as he swung out. A car

behind braked with a squeal of tires. Jesse changed up and tore away

without looking back.

The street seemed narrow and Oppressive trap like as he hurtled along,

ignoring pedestrian crossings, swerving and braking. He tried

desperately to think. He had screwed it all up. The whole tickle had

gone beautifully, and Jesse James had pranged the getaway motor. A van

load of paper money blown on a fifty-nicker crunch:

Arseholes..

Stay cool, he told himself. It wasn't a blowout until he was locked up.

There was still time, if only he could think.

He slowed the van and turned off the main road. There was no point in

attracting attention again. He threaded his way through a series of back

streets while he figured it out.

What would happen now? A bystander would phone the police, especially as

he had knocked down the portly man. The van's number was in the little

notebook; besides, somebody in the crowd would have noted it too. It

would be reported as a hit-and-run, and the number would go out over the

air to patrol cars. Anything from three minutes to fifteen to get that

far. Another five minutes, and they would broadcast a description of

Jesse. What was he wearing? Blue trousers and an orange shirt.

Arseholes.

What would Tony Cox say, if he were here to be asked? Jesse recalled the

guvnor's fleshy face and heard his voice. Tell yourself what the.

problem is, right?

Jesse said aloud: "The police have got my number and description."

Think what you'd have to do to solve the problem.

"What the hell can I do, Tone? Change my license plate and my

appearance?"

Then do it, right?

Jesse frowned. Tony's analytical thinking only went so far. Where the

hell could he get license plates, and how could he fit them?

Of course, it was easy.

He found his way to a main road and drove along until he came to a

garage. He pulled on to the forecourt. Quad stamps, he thought: jolly