Mr Gawber was picking through the leather slots of his wallet. He found what he wanted, two old business cards, and handed one to Hood and one to the man. ‘Bit tatty, I’m afraid. I don’t get much chance to use them. But there’s my name at the bottom, R. C. Gawber. Do ring me if you’ve got a financial problem you’d like sorted out. Or just to say hello!’
‘I don’t have cards anymore,’ said Hood. ‘But very nice to meet you. Valentine Hood.’
‘Not English, I think.’
‘American.’
‘Ron Weech,’ said the man. He finished his whisky. ‘I don’t have any financial problems, thanks all the same.’
‘Then you’re a very lucky man,’ said Mr Gawber.
‘Weech is loaded,’ said Hood.
‘I get mine. See this watch? Fifty quid anywhere you name. Probably a hundred in the West End. I got it for ten in Deptford. Fell off the back of a lorry. See this shirt, see this suit? Lord John — I could show you the labels. I got more at home, all colours. You wouldn’t believe what I paid for them. Fell off the back of a lorry. These shoes, this here belt, cuff-links, the lot. I’ve got cases of fags at me house.’ He smirked. ‘And that ain’t all. I know all the other fences. I’ll see them tonight at the track. Mates, we are. “Hi Ron” — that kind of thing. I get mine.’
‘You sound like a pretty clever operator,’ said Hood.
‘I get mine — dush, birds. I wouldn’t even tell you. What I want I get. Feller up in Millwall tries to sell me this Cortina. A hundred he wants for it, the geezer’s a mate of mine. Fell off the back of a lorry. I got the hundred — you seen it, right? I could show you the motor. Tape-deck, radio, the lot. All I have to do is paint it and get new plates. But I don’t buy it. Why? I just don’t want it.’
‘I wouldn’t own a car,’ said Mr Gawber.
‘You would if you seen this one. Beautiful she is. All the accessories.’
‘Well, I mean it’s silly to run one. My good lady doesn’t drive, and I work in Kingsway. Where would I park the bally thing?’
‘I know what you mean. What you’re saying, dad, it’s a fucking nuisance, right?’
The obscenity stopped Mr Gawber for a moment, like a spurt of flame in his face. He straightened his head and touched at his nose and mouth; the word had singed the hairs in his nostrils: he could smell it.
‘I get it,’ said Hood to Weech. ‘You do what you like, go your own way.’
‘Straight.’
‘Quite right,’ said Mr Gawber without conviction. ‘Good for you.’
‘I’m me own man,’ said Weech.
‘He’s got guts,’ said Hood.
‘I should say so. Admirable.’ Mr Gawber made a cautioning noise in his throat.
‘I look after meself.’
‘I’ll bet when you go up to the dog track they say, “Look out, here comes Ron Weech.” ’
‘They respect me, why not? They know me there. This ain’t my regular boozer — no one knows me here. I don’t care.’ Weech glanced at an elderly man on his left who had been listening to the conversation and smiling with shy gratitude when Weech grunted his remarks. Weech snarled. ‘What are you grinning at?’ The man swallowed and became sad.
‘Look at that — Weech is a tough cookie,’ said Hood, as the old man carried his pint of beer and his cigarettes to the opposite end of the bar.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ said Weech. ‘Most people are suckers. I go by these building sites and I see the silly bastards breaking their backs. I just look at them and say, “Suckers.” Sometimes they hear me — I don’t care. It’s incredible. Ever see them? These blokes, all about ninety years old, heartstruck and half caved in, and they’re trying to get some dirty great fridge off the pavement and not moving it an inch. Suckers. Lorry drivers, postmen, shop-girls, that hairy over there pulling pints — twenty quid a week, they think it’s a bloody fortune. They’re all suckers —’
As Weech ranted, Mr Gawber crept back. He was disappointed, and a little fearful — he had expected something else. He saw clumsy violence in the way Weech swung his big hands and spoke, and a disregard on Weech’s face, a sightless rudeness he did not want to call stupidity. He was angry with himself for having stayed and listened, and sorry his day had ended like this. He plucked his watch from the front of his waistcoat and said, ‘Has it really gone half-past? I must be off — my wife will think I’ve left the country.’
‘Don’t be so bloody silly,’ said Weech. ‘Have another one on me.’
‘That’s very generous of you, but perhaps some other time,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘It’s been awfully good talking to you. You want to be careful carrying all that money about.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Weech.
‘He can take care of himself,’ said Hood.
Mr Gawber gathered up his briefcase and umbrella and hurried out. He had always hated public houses; they were dirty and uncongenial, the haunts of resignation, attracting men whose loneliness was not improved by their meeting one another. They talked inaccurately about the world, swapping cheerless opinions. England itself was turning into an enormous Darby and Joan Club in which deaf, nearsighted wrecks played skittles, ignoring the thunder and the shadow of the approaching rain. The ranting man had alarmed him more than the voices on the crossed line. Sometimes he could believe such people did not exist; this evening, toiling in his heavy suit past insolent youths of dangerous size, he felt there were no others. A world of them. He was concerned for that well-spoken one, that American. Had breeding.
‘There he goes,’ said Weech, seeing at the window Mr Gawber making his way down Southend Lane, ‘the old brolly-man.’
‘He seems nice enough.’
‘A sucker,’ said Weech. ‘Thinks he’s got dush. I could buy and sell him.’
‘How about another drink?’
‘Put your pennies away.’ Weech pulled out his sandwich of notes again, worked one loose with his thumb and slapped it on the bar. ‘Two large whiskies.’
‘You’re going to miss the first race,’ said Hood.
‘Don’t rush me. I’ll get a taxi.’ He looked at Hood closely. ‘What’s a Yank doing here, anyway? Tourist?’
Hood said, ‘I’m hiding.’
Weech made a face, as if he didn’t know the word. He said, ‘Working?’
‘Nope. I got fired.’
‘You look like a sucker.’
‘Listen, Weech,’ said Hood, lowering his voice. ‘I’ll tell you. I was an American Consul in Vietnam — a little town, you’ve never heard of it. I was there for about eight months. Then one day the Minister of Defence showed up for a reception. But before that — in the morning — he gave me some shit. So I let him have it. I don’t know what got into me — I just poked him in the snoot. The first time in the history of the foreign service any officer of my grade did that.’ Hood looked for a reaction. Weech stared. It meant nothing to him. ‘They suspended me, but that was pretty feeble, because I knew a quick way out of the country. I made myself a new passport — that’s what consuls do, you know — and I split. They’re still looking for me, but they’re looking in the wrong place.’
‘You hit the bloke, eh? Coloured bloke?’
‘Vietnamese.’
Weech grinned. ‘Me, I’m colour prejudiced as well.’
‘I’m not,’ said Hood. ‘It was something he said. He talked like you.’
‘I could turn you in, probably get a reward. What did you say your name was?’
‘Valentine Hood.’
‘I could go up to Grosvenor Square — it’s there, ain’t it? — and cough it all. No problem. I go up there now and then and play the wheel at the Clermont. You’re really thick — you shouldn’t have told me that. I might do it.’
‘You won’t,’ said Hood.