I ordered room service, since it would be a late night, and Big Mike had gone without food for about four hours. As we worked on the lamb chops and boiled potatoes, we tried to figure out what to ask Chapman for the peaches.
“I know a carton of smokes goes for about twenty bucks,” Big Mike said. “That’s a lot because you can trade American cigarettes for just about anything.”
“Yeah, but there’s a built-in appeal for smokers, they gotta have them. Peaches, well, they taste good, but you can go without and not really be bothered.”
“Maybe,” Big Mike said. “They’re a luxury. Some folks will pay top dollar for what everyone else can’t have.” There was a knock on the door and we both jumped, like a couple of heisters on the run. But it was only Walter.
“Our chef wishes to know how many of these cans you are looking to sell,” he asked.
“Sixty-four,” I said.
“He would pay five pounds each.”
“Wow” was all I could say.
“Billy, remember it’s sixty-three crates now, since we gave these guys one.”
“You have sixty-three crates?” Walter asked, amazement registering in his normally cultured and calm voice.
“Yeah,” I said. “Did you mean five pounds per crate?”
“Blimey, no,” Walter said, dropping the high-society accent. “Five quid per can!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We left another crate with Walter and his pals, just to let them know there were no hard feelings. I didn’t know if the chef and Walter were in cahoots, planning to sell off the peaches at an even greater profit, or if it was all for the glory of the hotel’s kitchen. I thought it might be the glory, the desire for the Dorchester to be seen as able to conjure up anything for their guests. The government limit of five shillings for any meal on the menu was still in effect, but that didn’t mean the hotel couldn’t charge separately for a dessert of peaches. The rumor of peaches alone would probably bring in droves of diners, all the Mayfair set ready to plunk down whatever it took for a delicacy out of reach for the common folk.
But we were headed to a different neighborhood, one where you didn’t dress for dinner. Big Mike took Oxford Street and left the West End behind, the roadway changing to names that better suited the surroundings. Cheapside turned to Threadneedle Street, and that took us close to the Liverpool Tube Station.
“Pull in next to those trucks,” I said. As I’d hoped, there were vehicles parked near the burned-out buildings a block away from the Underground. Work was still going on to clear the debris, and a couple of flatbed trucks and a van had been backed into the cleared space. Big Mike joined them and killed the engine. “You stay here, make sure no one noses around.”
“I can’t let you go in there alone, Billy,” Big Mike said, but without a lot of enthusiasm. He knew our precious cargo might not last unguarded.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in no time at all with a buyer.”
“Kinda interesting, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Being a bad guy. I’m sitting here with a truckload of stolen goods, while you’re looking to fence ’em. Who’da thought it?”
“Yeah. Makes you see the attraction. There’s good money to be made.”
“I’ll take my PD pension any day. This is getting on my nerves. Hurry up, OK? I don’t know what I’d say if a bobby comes along.”
“Show him your badge and tell him about Detroit. That’ll keep him from coming back.” I shut the door before Big Mike could curse me out and pulled a crate from the back, wrapping it in a tarp. I carried it into the Tube station, thinking about the ARP warden the night before, staying at his post to help a mother and her children. Heroes and bums were everywhere, plenty of each on the homefront as well as the firing line.
The atmosphere was calmer down below, with a steady stream of East Enders carrying blankets, pillows, and bags to their places on the platform. The chances of another raid with all the cloud cover tonight were slim, but the place was filling up. Last night’s terror was replaced by laughter and smiles of recognition as neighbors from above met each other below. A small group of girls was trying to sing the new song “A Lovely Way to Spend an Evening,” but ended up giggling each time they got to the chorus.
The bunks in the siding were near to full, the soft murmur of conversation marking the more regular residents. Some read newspapers, others magazines and paperbacks. One man, old enough to have served in the last war, was reading No Orchids for Miss Blandish, a recent book that had caused a sensation in 1939 over its depictions of beatings, killings, torture, and rape. Odd, with one war behind him and another driving him underground, that he passed his time by turning the page from one act of brutality to another. Or maybe it made perfect sense. At least he wasn’t deluding himself.
“Hi, Charlie,” I said, as the boxer looked up from his newspaper. “I’ve got a present for Mr. Chapman.”
“Let’s have a look then,” he said. I dropped the cover off the crate and watched him raise an eyebrow. “You can take that back, Topper’ll see you. But hand the gun over first.” I gave him my. 38, and he folded the newspaper over it. I wondered how much they paid off the local constables, or if they were just too afraid to come down this way.
“Well, Boyle, I see you don’t take advice,” Topper said as I entered the room. The blankets to Archie’s sanctum were drawn. “Can’t say I didn’t give fair warning.” He was playing cards with two guys in brand-new suits. It was noticeable since nobody had a new suit in London, due to rationing and the desire of most people to do their bit. But not Topper and his pals. Elegant tailoring, silk shirts, patent-leather black shoes.
“All dressed up and nowhere to go?” I said, setting the crate down on their card table.
“Shut up, Yank,” one of Topper’s boys said, pulling the deck of cards away from the crate of canned peaches.
“You know, my dad always told me to make a good first impression when you meet new people,” I said. “Because that sets the tone for everything that comes afterward.”
“Ain’t nothing coming afterward, Yank, so shut up before I get mad and do it for you.”
“That’s just what I’m talking about,” I said, gazing at Topper across the table from me. The guy with the mouth was on my left, looking up at me. Topper made a show of studying his cards. The well-dressed thug on my right watched Topper, waiting for a sign. “This guy is going to give me a hard time every time I see him now, because of the lousy first impression he has of me, letting him mouth off like that.”
“So why don’t-”
Before he could tell me what I should do about it, I grabbed him by the back of the head and snapped it down, smashing his face against the wooden crate. The pine wood and the cartilage in his nose cracked, and he started howling as blood christened his shirt. I didn’t look at the other two. I knew I had to show disdain for whatever they might do. Charlie didn’t stir, likely used to the sound of pain coming from behind the wall of blankets.
“Now,” I said, still grasping his hair and holding his face back so I loomed over him, “wouldn’t it have been better to start off politely, so we could’ve been pals?” He looked at Topper, waiting for him to have me dismembered. All Topper did was blow out a breath in mock boredom and toss his cards onto the table.
“Pals?” the tough guy said through the blood filling his nostrils, unable to follow what I was saying, stunned at the lack of support from his boss.
“Have some peaches,” I said. Topper laughed.
I’d hoped for a chance to get their attention, beyond the gift of six cans of Uncle Sam’s finest Georgia peaches. I needed to demonstrate that I was a tough guy, too, and the only way to do that with a bunch of crooks is to not let one of them give you any lip. That was one of the lessons Dad had taught me. Never take guff from a guy unless you’re willing to take it every time you run into him.