R.I.P Robbie Silva (7 page)

'
Aye, and he
'
ll know I work alone. Folk at Silva
'
s level don
'
t go jumping counters!
'

'
So, where
'
s he coming from?
'
I rubbed my thighs through my jeans, it was a nervous movement and Jasper sussed it.
'
Jed, what
'
s the go here?
'

'
I wish I fucking knew, mate.
'

* * * *

I put myself up in dock for a few days. Lot of shitty daytime telly. Fucking Trisha, reruns of Quincy and The Rockford Files. The afternoon news was a showstopper though, nice little item about an Edinburgh shopkeeper with third-degree burns after a bungled raid. Jasper had been out taking care of business when that little item ran, so I was chuffed to bits about that, but Christ I was getting bored. Was sure I felt my brain softening inside my skull. There's a point, for me anyway, when sitting about makes me tip over. I mean, in the pound you get used to it, but when there's a big bad world awaiting you and no locked doors holding you back it can do your nut in. A hoor of a business.

I was cautious about going out so soon. Took a scarf off the rack and an old golf umbrella – big job – was one of Jasper's numbers from his days in the casuals, had the point sharpened for self-defence, or pure agg, purposes. I doubted the fucking thing had ever been opened. Might have opened a few heads in its day though.

The street was quiet enough, lot of old dears with shopping trolleys though – made me think of the one back at the fat Jambo bastard's place. The telly news bit had said he was in a 'stable condition' whatever the fuck that meant. I couldn't see Gail being too chuffed about that – she was out to off the cunt. The thought had simmered in me for a few days; Christ Almighty, if I'd known she was so completely Radio Rental, I'd have steered well clear. Thinking with the boaby, though. Never a good idea.

These last few days I'd got to replaying the raid over and over; and thinking some more about Gail. It's a funny thing – but that's how some bits get inside your head. No matter what they've done, how they've pissed you off – they get inside your mind and there's just no shaking them out.

Now, I'm hardly wet behind the ears – I know all bits of stuff lose their shine after a while – but it's a fact that until that point in time arrives, and who knows when that will be, they are lethal. They get their claws round your billiards and that's that.

I made my way onto the main drag, well, what passes for it in Jasper's neck of town. The thing about Edinburgh is, it's not a big place – but it does have its distinct manors. If you stay clear of the New Town and the yuppie centre you won't go far wrong. Add to that the Old Town and the screeds of tourists there, you're laughing. Just about everywhere else has its charms, well ... for me anyway. I'm not a fussy bastard, I like a manor to have a few nice pubs, a few places to grab some scran and that's that. There were days when I thought about counting the building societies, points of drop-off for security vans and maybe even the odd bureaux d'change – if I was after some easy money – but not any more.

I found myself a nice old-school greasy spoon and ordered up a bacon roll and some coffee.

'Make it strong, mind ...' I told the waitress. 'I want to be able to stand my spoon up in it!' I'd missed this kind of patter inside. Funny that, how the day-to-day things get away from you. That's what the pound's all about though, dehumanising you. Depriving you of the simple acts of civility that make us people. I never got unsettled by it though; some radges inside will go crazy. Can't stand the confinement. Then you get the ones who've done fifteen years and they're more at home in a cell than they were on the outside. It's a funny thing, but y'know, no two cons are the same. Me, I can take it or leave it. It's a hazard of the job. But I'll tell you this, there does come a time in every robber's life when he starts to wonder when the Big Payer
'
s going to come up.

It's a dream of course; stuff of legend. You get a group of cons together and they'll always be spraffing about the Big Payer. Not some five or ten grand counter jump, I'm talking about the hundreds of thousands, the millions. It was beyond my league. I was a raid man, working small firms. I'd never been asked to make the move upstairs. Well, until now that is.

Long Dong Silva's offer was, like the Londoner said, a tasty one. I knew it. Was understood.

My bacon roll and coffee arrived.

The waitress stood over the table, waiting for me to part with some poppy. I dug my hand in my pocket, there was a five-spot and some coin. I didn't need to look in the other pocket; I knew what was there. Silva's number.

I handed over the last of my cash and smiled.

Thing about Silva was, I didn't trust him.

I didn't like the look of him, flat out. There was something about him that said there was more going on behind the eyes than he would ever let on.

When you do a job, front the counter, you can tell straight off who the ones that will give you grief are. There's the lot that will empty till and take it in their stride. And then there's the ones that will try and give you a bag full of receipts or cheques – not out of some misguided sense of duty to the bank but because they get something out of fucking with people.

Silva was a past master of fucking with people. It shone out of him.

There was no doubt I had to go back to work, and soon. I couldn't rely on Jasper to keep me for ever. Sure, I could grab some work on my own but there was an offer from a decent firm on the table and I was seriously conflicted. I might not get another chance at the Big One.

I slurped the last of my coffee, took out my mobi and dialled Silva's number.

He answered on the third ring.

'Hello.' His London accent rattled me but I put it out my mind.

'It's Jed Collins.'

A pause on the line. I sensed his grin stretching out over those goldie teeth. 'Hello, my old son. Had a little think about my offer have we?'

He was lapping me up. I played him. 'Depends?'

He barked, 'Oh yeah ... and on what?'

I let him hang for a moment or two, replied, 'It depends on any number of things ... whether I like the look of the job, whether I like the team and whether I like my share.'

Silva laughed down the line. 'Let me tell you, mate, you'll be fucking cock-a-hoop ... Now, when can we meet?'

* * * *

I took a donner down Lothian Road and queued outside the ATM of the Royal Bank's big set-up. They seemed to be doing a roaring trade. Made me think. This lot, the bankers, had made a nice raid on the country's finances – took us all to the fucking cleaners. The sums were eye watering. Fuck me drunk, these bastards made the Brink's-Mat bullion job's £26-million take look like chicken feed. If I had the marbles I'd be on the other side of the counter. That's where the real robbery gets done.

My account was down to low double figures; depressing really, for a man my age. But that was the facts. I pulled a couple of Jimmy Denners out and headed up the road to a drinker I knew well.

The Drum was full of the usual Edinburgh crew you get in the middle of the day: barflies. A few bluenoses supping on that Hun piss McEwan's and a stack of dole-moles on the scrounge for whatever they could get. I took a stool at the bar; the barman had his back to me polishing a glass. I coughed into my hand and he turned around.

'All right, Jed ... when did you get sprung?' he said.

Broonie was a good bloke, carried a paunch like a darts player now but hadn't changed much at all otherwise. 'Not long ago. How's tricks?'

Broonie slapped my shoulder, smiled his widest. 'Well, welcome back mate, welcome back!' His pub was referred to in the press recently as a ''hive of villainy''. I read that on the inside and it made me feel homesick. Still, looking around here, save a few schemie hoisters trying to flog some hot Hearts tops, there was little hard-core in evidence.

I tapped the bar. 'How about a pint of the black then?'

'No worries.' Broonie turned to the pumps, got to work on a creamy-headed Guinness for me. 'So, eh, what's the score then, Jed? ... You turning square-peg on us now or what?'

I scratched the side of my head, had a craving for a tab – this new smoking ban was a kick in the balls, made the pubs look pretty ordinary without the pall of Regal and Embassy. 'Well, you just never know.'

'Fuck off, mate. You can't kid a kidder!' Broonie laid down the pint in front of me. The creamy head glistened under the lights, thought it winked at me.

'Cheers, pal.' I downed a good belt. Leaned over the bar a bit, put my conspiratorial coupon on. Broonie took the hint, wised I was about to talk. 'Look, I need the run-down on a new player in town ... well, I say new, he's new to me.'

'Oh, aye.' Broonie turned his bar-towel over his shoulder, folded his arms.

'London
geezer
,' I put a bit of tone on the last word, paused then continued. 'Called Robbie Silva.'

Broonie leaned back, smoothed the edges of his mozzer, then whet his lips with a quick flash of grey tongue. 'Long Dong Silva ... Christ, what do you want to know?'

There was a rustle of shell suit at my back. I turned round to see a schemie with a filthy Burberry cap on holding up a Hearts top. 'Fancy a shirt, big man?'

I looked him up and down. There was a Mars Bar running from his mouth to his ear, a jagged and ruthless one that looked like a glassing. I raised my pint, pointed to the scar, said, 'You want a matching number on the other side?'

He didn't know how to take me, looked at Broonie – who dipped his head – then the schemie burst into a toothless grin. 'Aw, a fucking Hibee, eh? ... Sorry, pal, no offence, like.'

I turned away and heard him rustling off to try his luck elsewhere.

Broonie was back on his elbows, nodding towards the bar. 'Why you asking about Silva?'

I played it cool. 'Got my reasons.'

'Jed, you're a fucking blagger ... and Silva's about as far from that racket as it gets.'

I sighed. 'You know how it works, mate.'

Broonie shook his head, brushed the edges of his 'tache down again. He looked at me nervously. I noticed his eyes were ringed in red. 'If someone's put a bit of work up to Silva, you have to ask yourself, then why would he come to you? ... You're fuck all to him!'

I knew this. But I also knew Silva had an inside track on my abilities. I'd been going over things in my head, never a good idea, but I thought I had it figured out. 'Thing is Broonie, I did some business with a relative of his and—'

He cut in. 'Not that fucking cock-rag son of his ... Jesus Christ.' He pointed to the schemie in the Burberry cap. 'Fucking Barnie wouldn't work with him!'

I flagged him down, 'No. Someone else.'

'Well that only leaves the daughter ... unless you're busy with his old lady.'

I edged Broonie away from this line of chat, said, 'Does it fucking matter, who?'

A shrug, more head-shakes. Broonie took a deep breath and turned away. He moved towards the optics and raised a glass to a bottle of Johnnie Walker, poured himself a large one. When he returned his cheeks were beginning to colour. 'What do you want to know?'

I put down my pint, pressed my palms together. 'Can he be trusted?'

'Of course he can't be fucking trusted. He's a top-drawer player, Jed. He's no blagger and you'll get no help from him on that kind of score.'

I kept my eyes on Broonie. 'That's not what I'm asking ... what I need to know is, if he has a job of work, can he be trusted?'

Broonie raised his wee goldie, drained the last of it. He grimaced, turned down the corners of his mouth. There was a glistening line of moisture on his lower lip when he spoke. 'All I can tell you is that Silva has shot up the ranks. If you're asking, is he of a level that would get a good bit of work put up – not some fag-coupon raid – then, aye. He's that level.'

I leaned back, said, 'You sure about that?'

Broonie nodded. 'Aye, I'm sure. If you'd asked me a year ago, before Big Andy and The Brothers went down, I'd have thought twice. But things change fast in this town and Silva's got the numbers and contacts.'

I got out my seat. Headed for the door.

'Jed,' called Broonie. 'Watch yourself, pal.'

I didn't need telling twice.

* * * *

As I headed back down Lothian Road I had the words of an old lag, a real Daddy of the Wing, ringing in my ears. He'd told me one time, after a discussion about the jobs he'd taken on in his day, that ''if you have your doubts, leave it out''. I thought at the time it sounded like good advice. But I'd never been very good at taking advice, or listening to my conscience; I knew if I had, then Jody would still be around.

I was crossing at the lights, just across from the Filmhouse Cinema, when my mobi started to ring.

I answered.

'Hello, Jed.'

I recognised the voice at once, but played up. 'Who's this?'

'I think you know who it is.' The old confidence was back; it was quite a difference to just a few days ago.