[b]Carshalton 8:43 AM, 30th July, 1966[/b] “You sure about this one, Coach?” “Sure as sure can be, lad.” Coach rode in the passenger seat of his taxi while Yorkie Mathis drove. Yorkie usually worked dispatch for the cab company Coach drove hack for. He was on the young side, still on the underside of twenty. He was next in line for a hack when one came open, but he would probably have to wait at least another five years for that. Drivers didn’t give up their hacks unless they died or got too ill to work them. “I just never done this before.” Coach glanced over at the kid. It was cute how straight he sat in the seat, both hands on the wheel and always mindful of traffic. He’d learn the posture eventually. “Pull over here.” Mathis did as he was told. They looked at the hospital before Coach looked at the boy. “You’ll do fine. The shift is gonna be busy, people going to the stadium. When the game starts, it’ll be dead for a few hours. After the game’s over it’ll be even busier. Bring the hack back ‘round mine by nine tonight and call it a day. You’ll make quite a lot in fares today. And it’s all yours.” “Thank you, Coach,” said Mitchell. “Give my best to the missus, yeah?” Coach nodded as he climbed out the car. He stood on the sidewalk and watched Yorkie drive off with his taxi. It was true that the kid would make a lot of money today, but it would be chump change compared to what he could earn with Red and the others. St. Helier loomed large above him. Coach stuck both hands into his pocket and slouched slightly as he walked towards the emergency entrance of the hospital. --- [b]Fulham 9:05 AM[/b] Charlie sat upright on the cot and reached for his cigarettes. Still early -- early for him, anyway -- but he wanted to be up and ready before the others got here. The meet for final preparations was at ten, but he knew Coach might be late thanks to his quest for an ambulance. He lit his first cigarette of the day after his feet hit the floor. He was the only one who slept at the safehouse in Fulham. It was the closest thing he had to a home. Red was shacked up with whatever pretty boy had caught his eye, Coach had his family, and Bobby stayed… wherever the hell it was Bobby stayed. Red might stay here after the heist in an attempt to lay low, but he would be the only one. Coach and Bobby were so far off everyone’s radar that they were in no real danger unless they started throwing money around, and neither of them ever did that. Voices and laughter came through the wall closest to him. Someone in the shop, he supposed. He ignored it and got to his feet, shuffling across the hardwood floor towards the sink. No bathroom to speak of in the little back room, but the sink was capable of providing a proper wash up. Charlie washed his face, combed his hair, and brushed his teeth. Finally, he took out a safety razor and got to work on his face. He and Red both had been growing stubble over the last week. It was easier for Red since his facial hair came in thicker. Ten minutes later, Charlie’s face was smooth and the only hair that remained on his face was a trim black mustache, like the kind the coppers wore. With that done, Charlie walked back to his cot and made it up. Of all the things the US Army had tried to drill into Charlie, neatness had been the one that stuck. He could never leave a bed unmade. With all that done, he finally started to dress in the copper gear. The rest of them would be along shortly, and he didn’t want to give them any excuses to hold things up. He wore the white shirt tucked into the black trousers and stopped there, glancing at himself in the mirror. Charlie wondered who his nose belonged to. The same for his blue eyes. None of his features matched his mother's. She'd told him plenty of stories about his father, the daring man in the flying machine. The terror of the Luftwaffe. The Yank who knew that Hitler deserved an arse whopping, American isolationism be damned. The boys in his neighborhood used to beat him and call him whorseson, dismissively call him a Yank. The word used to send him into a rage so powerful he'd be on the verge of tears. The stories were bullshit. Even back then Charlie knew it, but he didn't want to accept it then. Now he knew who he was and was okay with it. He wore the nickname of Yank like a badge of honor. He wanted the nickname to be one everyone knew, a name that was whispered with reverence. Charlie started to slip on a tie and do it in a Windsor knot. Big dreams, maybe. But not unattainable. Thanks to Red, he was off to a bloody good start. --- [b]St. Heiler 9:07 AM[/b] Coach worked the wire down through the gap in the door between glass and door metal. He could feel that he was almost there. Coach was fourteen the first time he’d stolen a car. Back then, they were so boxy and metallic a harsh word seemed to be all it took to get them to open and start. It was an odd thing, he reckoned, to be so in love with stealing just one thing in particular. He wasn’t one of them kleptos who stole everything in sight. He could walk past the crown jewels unguarded on the street and not think twice. But put him next to a sedan work five thousand quid and he just had to steal it. There had to be something psychological there, he figured. Something had to explain it. A little pop came from the ambulance. He opened the door and slid inside. Hot-wiring was only just a little more difficult than popping a lock. With a pair of pliers he ripped open a side panel on the steering column and got to work, tearing wires and reconnecting. He futzed with two wires and got a spark. Suddenly, the car came to life and he smiled. Carefully, Coach pulled out of the emergency section of the hospital where the other ambulances were parked. Acting like he belonged, he called it. As casual as could be, he turned on to the main road and joined the flow of traffic heading towards Fulham.