Paper Money

The kitchen knife was sharp enough. He tested it and cut his thumb. Holding it to his lips, he went into the kitchen.

His mother was there. Lillian Cox was short and a little overweight-her son had inherited the tendency to plumpness without the shortness-and she had much more energy than the average sixty-three-year-old. She said: "I'm doing you a bit of fried bread."

"Lovely." He put the knife down and found a bandage. "Take care with that knife-I done it a bit too sharp."

She fussed over his cut, then, making him hold it under the cold tap and count to one hundred, then putting on antiseptic cream, and gauze, and finally a roll of bandage held with a safety pin. He stood still and let her do what she wished.

She said: "Ah, but you're a good boy to sharpen the knives for me. Where you been so early, anyhow?"

"Took the dog up the park. And I had to ring someone up."

She made a disgusted noise. "I don't know what's wrong with the phone in the parlor, I'm sure."

He leaned over the cooker to sniff the frying bacon. "You know how it is, Mum. The Old Bill listen to that one."

She put a teapot in his hand. "Go in there and pour the tea out, then."

He took the pot into the living room and put it down on a mat. The square table was laid with an embroidered cloth, cutlery for two, salt and pepper and sauce bottles.

Tony sat nearest the fireplace, where the old man used to sit. From there he reached into the sideboard and took out two cups and two saucers. He pictured the old man again, overseeing mealtimes with the back of his hand and a good deal of rhyming slang. "Get your chalks off the Cain," he would bark if they put their arms on the table. The only thing Tony held against him was the way he treated Mum. Being so handsome and that, he had a few women on the side, and at times he would spend his money buying them gin instead of bringing it home. Those times, Tony and his brother would go up the Smithfield market, stealing scraps from under the tables to sell to the soap factory for a few coppers. And he never went in the Army-but then, a lot of wise boys went on the trot in wartime.

"What are you going to do-go back to sleep, or pour that tea out?" Lillian put a plate in front of Tony and sat down opposite him. "Never mind, I'll do it now."

Tony picked up his cutlery, holding his knife like a pencil, and began to eat. There were sausages, two fried eggs, a mess of ca

His mother passed him his tea. She said: "I don't know. We was never afraid to use the phone when your father was alive, God rest his soul. He was careful to stay out of the way of the Old Bill."

Tony thought they had had no phone in his father's day, but he let that pass. He said: "Yeah. He was so careful, he died a pauper."

"But an honest one."

"Was he?"

"You know bloody well he was, and never let me hear you say no different."

"I don't like you to swear, Mum."

"You shouldn't provoke me."

Tony ate silently and finished quickly. He emptied his teacup and began to unwrap a cigar.

His mother picked up his cup. "More tea?"

He looked at his watch. "No, thanks. I've got a couple of things to do." He set fire to the cigar and stood up. "That's set me up lovely, that breakfast."

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you having a tickle?"

This a

"It's your life. Go on, then. I'll see you later. Mind you look after yourself."

He looked at her a moment longer. Although she gave in to him, she was a strong woman. She had led the family since the old man went: mending marriages, borrowing from one son to lend to another, giving advice, using her disapproval as a powerful sanction. She had resisted all efforts to move her from Quill Street to a nice little bungalow in Bournemouth, suspecting-rightly-that the old house and its memories were a potent symbol of her authority. Once, there had been queenly arrogance in her high-bridged nose and pointed chin; now, she was regal but resigned, like an abdicated monarch, knowing she was wise to release the reins of power, but regretting it all the same. Tony realized that this was why she needed him: he was king now, and having him to live with her kept her close to the throne. He loved her for needing him. No one else needed him.

She stood up. "Well, are you going?"

"Yes." He realized he had been lost in thought. He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed briefly. He never kissed her. "Ta-ta, Mum." He picked up his coat, patted the dog, and went out.

The interior of the Rolls was hot. He pressed the button that lowered the window before settling himself in the leather seat and pulling away.

He took pleasure in the car as he threaded it through the narrow East End streets. Its shameless luxury, in contrast with the mean streets and undignified old houses, told the story of Tony Cox's life. People looked at the car-housewives, paperboys, workingmen, villains-and said to each other: "There's Tony Cox. He did well."

He flicked cigar ash through the open window. He had done well. He had bought his first car for six pounds when he was sixteen years old. The blank Ministry of Transport certificate had cost him thirty shillings on the black market. He filled in the blanks and resold the car for eighty pounds.

Before long he had a used car lot, which he gradually turned into a legitimate business. Then he sold it, with the stock, for five thousand pounds, and went into the long-firm racket.

He used the five thousand to open a bank account, giving as a reference the name of the man who had bought the car lot. He told the bank manager his real name, but gave a false address-the same false address he had given the purchaser of the car business.

He took a lease on a warehouse, paying three months' rent in advance. He bought small quantities of radio, television, and hi-fi equipment from manufacturers and resold it to shops in London. He paid suppliers on the dot, and his bank account was busy. Within a couple of months he was making a small loss, and had a reputation for credit-worthiness.

At that point he made a series of very large orders. Small manufacturers to whom he had promptly paid a couple of bills of five hundred pounds each were glad to supply him with three or four thousand pounds' worth of goods on the same credit terms: he looked like he was becoming a good customer.

With a warehouse full of expensive electronic gadgetry for which he had paid nothing, he held a sale. Record players, color television sets, digital clocks, tape decks, amplifiers, and radios went for knockdown prices, sometimes as little as half their retail value. In two days the warehouse was empty and Tony Cox had three thousand pounds in cash in two suitcases. He locked the warehouse and went home.

He shivered in the front seat of the warm car as he remembered. He would never take risks like those again. Suppose one of the suppliers had got wind of the sale? Suppose the bank manager had seen Tony in a pub a few days later?

He still did the occasional long firm, but these days he used front men, who took long holidays in Spain as soon as the ax fell. And nobody saw Tony's face.

However, his business interests had diversified. He owned property in Central London, which he let to young ladies at extremely high rents; he ran nightclubs; he even managed a couple of pop groups. Some of his projects were legitimate, some criminal; some were a mixture, and others were on the nebulous borderline between the two, where the law is unsure of itself but respectable businessmen with reputations to worry about fear to tread.

The Old Bill knew about him, of course. There were so many grasses about nowadays that nobody could become a respected villain without his name going into a file at Scotland Yard. But getting evidence was the problem, especially with a few detectives around who were prepared to warn Tony in advance of a raid. The money he spent in that direction was never skimped. Every August there were three or four police families in Benidorm on Tony's money.