[b]Sticks & Stones Pub
Peckham
11:00 PM[/b]


Charlie Enfield finished off his pint of lager and wiped the foam off his upper lip. The pub was packed and everyone talked up tomorrow's game. English flags draped every square inch of the pub's walls, miniature versions of the flag on sticks protruded from odds and ends on the bar. A group of pissed lads sang the West Ham song to jeers and catcalls. Charlie laughed to himself and pushed his pint glass away. The barman raised his eyebrows at him, but Charlie shook him off and instead placed two quid under his empty glass for the pints.

"There's my favorite American!"

A weathered hand touched the back of Charlie's hand. He turned and saw Sid the Yid's thick glasses staring up at him. Sidney Greenstein, Sid the Yid to the street, operated the fourth largest shylock operation and sports book in South London. Charlie couldn't begin to calculate how much money he'd lost to Sid over the years. The older man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and blinked as Charlie offered him a half-hearted greeting, doing his best to smile.

"I'm not putting no money on the game," Charlie said with the shake of his head. "The line ain't strong enough to put money down on England, and I sure as hell ain't putting as much as a single shilling on the Krauts."

"Bah," Sid spat. "You and half of fucking South London. Them's thats putting money on it are all betting England. All these wankers and bums suddenly become John Bull overnight. I need bets on West Germany to even the odds."

Charlie let him complain while he lit up a cigarette. He placed the pack back in his jacket pocket and pulled out a twenty pound note. Sid eyed it.

"I'll put this on an over-under."

"Over under is four goals," Sid said, never looking away from the note. "Twenty quid will pay out to eighty pounds."

"I'll take the under," said Charlie.

Sid snatched the cash from Charlie. The note disappeared from Sid's hands with the practiced speed that only a shylock had. They talked a few more minutes, mostly about underworld gossip that both of them had heard over the past few days. Who was fucking whose old lady, and who was planned to be fucked over for fucking someone's old lady. All crooks gossiped, but Sid was like an old woman getting her hair fixed. He seemed to trade in rumors almost as much as he traded in cash and coin. That came in handy most of the time. But not right now. Not when Charlie had to keep it quiet.

Ten minutes was all he could take before excusing himself and stepping outside. He finished a cigarette and stomped the butt out before checking his watch. Almost right on time was the taxi that pulled up to the curb. It's on-duty light was out. Charlie got in and looked at the heavyset man with thick eyebrows, a wool peaked cap hiding his balding head.

"Coach."


---


James "Coach" Crowder pulled away from the curb and back onto the road. Charlie lit up a fresh cigarette and offered him one, like he always did. Red sometimes joked that the cigarette company must give Charlie commission for every fag he pushed onto someone. Coach used to smoke, but he managed to kick the habit a long time ago. He still liked the smell. There wasn't in harm in that.

"You talk to Red?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah," said Coach. "This run here is the next to last piece. I've got to nick one more thing in the morning, but it'll be easy enough."

Charlie grunted and Coach glanced over in his direction.

"You okay to drive?"

"Just had two pints," Charlie said with a shrug. "I've been more pissed during jobs."

"Do us a favor and crack the window."

Charlie complied and let the wind take his excess smoke away. They remained silent on the drive south. The Yank had a certain charm to him, a charm that Coach was mostly immune to. They worked together fine and had no problems, but they never made small talk and would never be anything like being friends. That was okay with Coach. He wasn't here to make friends. His eyes glanced up at the photo of his three children tapped to the sun visor. They were the reason he was here, driving a hack and whatever he needed to do to make ends meet.

When they hit East Dulwich Charlie sat upright in his seat and gave directions. A few minutes later they came to a petrol station and garage nestled off the main road. All the lights were out, save for one dim bulb that burned inside. Coach parked and they headed towards the door. He could tell from the way Charlie walked that he was armed. He bit his tongue in order to keep silent about it. Stupid thing to do, carrying a gun. Coach knew they were a necessity for the line of work they were in, but right now there was no need for it. Just a needless risk.

"Open up," Charlie said loudly, rapping on the metal roll-up door of the garage. "Red sent us."

A few moments later the door started up. An old man in grease stained overalls greeted them before beckoning them inside.

"So who do you think's gonna win tomorrow?" The old man asked.

"England," was all Charlie said as they walked through the garage, past Vauxhall Victor on blocks, all its tires removed. "Watch the Wingless Wonders fly."

"Hoping they do," said the man. "My generation beat the Hun, generation after that took it to Jerry, so I have little doubt about the lads ability to contain Franz Beckenbauer."

They were led to the back of the garage and through a door. Parked amidst junkers was a black '56 Wolseley done up with official Metropolitan Police Force accoutrements. As close to the real thing as you could get. Coach smiled and looked it over. In the back he saw two piles of clothing folded neatly, bobby caps on top of each pile.

"Damn strange request," said the old man. "Damn strange. Never seen nothing like it before."

"It's why we pay you so much," said Coach. "You can handle strange, pops."

He looked from Coach to Charlie."Just... promise me it ain't gonna end roughly."

Charlie looked at the old man and shook his head.

"You know what we do, pops. Our mob ain't in the murder business."

"I know, but it's the copper outfits. I don't want you to go all St. Valentine's Day on some wankers, bringing trouble back to my door."

Charlie laughed. "This go sideways, The Sweeney are gonna have bigger fish to fry than some South London geezer."

Coach looked at Charlie, his eyebrows raised. "Good?"

"Yeah, I'll drive it over and sleep there for the night."

"Get some rest. Big day tomorrow."

Charlie nodded before climbing into the mock cop car. Coach passed the old man and shot him a mock salute, smiling to himself as he headed back to his taxi. He watched the Wolsely roar down the road past him, Charlie honking the horn playfully as he passed. Coach climbed into the car and shook his head.

"The fucking self-proclaimed criminal mastermind of the London Underworld, ladies and gents. Flying like a bat out of hell with an illegal weapon on his person."

Coach checked the clock on the dash and sighed. He'd find the nearest payphone and ring Red that they'd gotten the car and uniforms. He still had another hour before he needed to be home for the kids. Flicking the off-duty light to on-duty, he headed out into the night in search of a fare.