The Faithless - Martina Cole [125]
Although Vincent knew he was getting sound advice, he still couldn’t let his wants go. He liked the life of a criminal; he liked the kudos and, most of all, he liked the money. He was determined to get some serious poke if it was the last thing he ever did in this life.
When he left, Bertie Warner sighed in annoyance. He had seen them all come and go – real hitters who, if they had a bit of patience, could have gone right to the top of their game. Impatience, Bertie had learned, was the scourge of the villain; it was the downside of easy money. So many of these young lads blew their wages in a week and were soon looking for another earn; if they saved a bit for the rainy days they would be quids in. He watched them in the pubs and clubs – big diamond Rolexes and eighty-grand motors and they were still signing on, for fuck’s sake! The naïvety of these young men was laughable. He blamed the education system – they taught them how to add up, but not how to invest their money and save the bastard, or at least some of it, anyway.
Bertie lived well, but not as well as he could, and that was because he knew the Old Bill loved nothing more than someone who lived it large with no real means of employment. A local Face driving a prestige car, with all the rent paid, while still on fucking Jobseeker’s Allowance did tend to raise the red flag. But these young lads wouldn’t listen, none of them.
Well, he had said his piece – it was up to Vincent O’Casey now. But he hoped the lad used his noodle. He really had a knack for the driving and, if he could just wait a while, he would be set like the proverbial jelly.
Bertie decided to have a talk with young Derek and see what he thought about the situation. If the boy got a tug, he didn’t want it coming down on them. The trouble was, the mood Vincent was in, he was liable to go outside for his work if they didn’t give it to him. Vincent was like all this generation, they wanted everything in five minutes, but they needed to learn that it took a long time and a lot of effort to bring off any decent job. Planning was the key, planning for every and any eventuality. That, unfortunately, was the bottom line. Haste meant mistakes, and a mistake on this lad’s part could get him a big lump inside, and another kid meeting their father only once a month.
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Two
James was squatting in Hoxton with three others – two girls in their late teens, and a man in his forties called Dougie McManus. As he looked at the three of them sprawled out on the floor, he wondered at how he had got himself in this mess.
Dougie was a hustler, a panhandler, and not a very good one. With his long straggly hair and beard, he resembled Christ in a good light. But he also looked like a junkie, and people either threw a few pence at him or told him to fuck off. But he could score anything from anyone.
The girls were relatively new, and would not last more than a week at most. They were runaways, drifters, and Dougie was already freaking them out; they were not interested in his sexual advances, and were already sick of his high stories. James had noticed that all junkies talked about was the last high, or a spectacular high from the past. Dougie’s tales always involved a stash he had bought once, or stolen from someone, or found the Holy Grail of skag, always the best high ever.
Normally, James just tuned him out, but now he was getting angry, because the money he had hidden in the squat had miraculously disappeared, and Dougie and the girls were stoned out of their tiny – emphasis on the tiny – minds. So, putting two and two together,