‘Why do you doubt the information?’ Fuller asked. He was pleased that the information was bollocks, but was still desperate to know what it was so he could add it to his list of Resnick’s cock-ups.
Resnick sighed. ‘He’s bloody rapping on about working for Harry Rawlins.’
Andrews rubbed his head. ‘What? Green Teeth is working for Rawlins?’
Resnick snorted and spat his cigarette butt out the window. ‘Not Green Teeth! Boxer Davis, you idiot! Apparently, Boxer’s flouncing round dressed in one of Harry’s expensive suits and a pair of his shoes. And he’s got a few bob to throw about from somewhere.’
Still rubbing his head, Andrews raised his eyebrows and turned to look at Resnick. ‘Maybe Boxer’s working for Dolly? He did visit her house a couple of times.’
Resnick was stunned. ‘What an idiotic suggestion,’ he snapped.
Fuller frowned at Andrews. ‘There’s no way an old woman who spends all her time between the hairdressers and a bunch of nuns would be employing old lags like Boxer Davis.’
‘Will you shut up, the pair of you! Fuller, drive down to Soho. I wanna have a look round for Boxer Davis and if he’s there we’ll nick him.’
‘But it’s almost midnight,’ Fuller exclaimed.
‘Then we’re more likely to find him, aren’t we? These old lags aren’t tucked up by nine like you prissy bunch.’
Fuller and Andrews exchanged a glance; then Fuller pulled away and headed toward Soho.
Boxer returned to his run-down bedsit with his fish and chips and, for the third time, counted out the money Dolly had given him. He was tickled pink as he stacked it up in neat piles on his bed. Dolly had told him that Harry was still lying low and that felt it best that Boxer did the same and got out of town for a couple of weeks. Dolly had given Boxer the address of a nice B & B in the countryside and said she’d drop round some more cash before he went. Harry would contact him at the B & B when the time was right. Boxer had fallen for all of this — hook, line and sinker.
Picking up a faded, unframed photograph of himself and his son from the bedside table, Boxer looked at it for a moment. The little boy was perched on his dad’s shoulders, waving at the camera. Boxer rubbed his flat nose. His little fella must be about eight by now. He shook his head, annoyed with himself that he couldn’t even remember his own son’s age, and wondered if he should track down his ex-wife, Ruby, so he could see his beautiful little boy. She’d be proud he was still on the wagon, he thought, and his boy might even look up to him in his new suit and shiny shoes.
Boxer carefully propped the photo up against the bedside lamp; apart from missing his son he felt good, damned good. He shook his head and chuckled at the thought of his old friend and boss, Harry Rawlins, pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. He stuffed a handful of cold, soggy chips into his mouth, but they tasted awful now, so he spat them back into the paper wrapping, scrunched it up and chucked it into the already overflowing waste basket. He surveyed the battered, dirty room. ‘What a shit hole...’ he muttered, but then he brightened. Things were about to change for the better. Harry Rawlins would see that he had a decent place to move into and he’d pay him well.
‘I’m on the up, my son,’ Boxer said to the photo of his boy. ‘I’d like to take you with me. I hope you let me try.’ Easing his huge frame into a tattered and worn armchair, he closed his eyes and thought about Harry. He could see him clear as day, as if he was in the room, standing tall in front of him.
The first time Boxer met Harry Rawlins, it had been ringside at a boxing night in York Hall, Bethnal Green. Boxer had been just about to step under the ropes and into the ring when he felt a tug on his robe. Looking round, he saw a young man with a cigar clamped in his mouth.
‘I’m Harry Rawlins,’ he’d said. ‘And there’s a grand riding on you tonight, me old son, so knock him out and I’ll see you right with two hundred.’
The fight was over in the third round and Harry was true to his word. He was an honorable thief, thought Boxer, and that’s what he always loved about him — you knew where you stood.
A loud knock on the door interrupted Boxer’s trip down memory lane and his eyes sprang open. He could hear puffing and panting outside his door.
‘Eh, Boxer! You in? Boxer open up, ya hear me?’
Boxer stayed silent. It was Fran, Fran the ten-ton landlady — the huge, over made-up, foul-breathed Frances Welland. When he was on the booze and really drunk, he vaguely recalled her coming onto him and, much to his regret, he had had sex with her. He was glad that he couldn’t actually remember the sex, but he could remember waking up and seeing her next to him in bed. He knew she wanted a repeat performance, but he was equally determined to ignore her.
The doorknob rattled. ‘Boxer! I know you’re in there. You’ve got a visitor — open the door!’
Boxer reluctantly hauled himself to his feet and unlocked the door. The visitor was hidden behind Fran’s huge body, so Boxer couldn’t see who it was until he stepped forward. Boxer’s face lit up with a big smile.
‘Eddie Rawlins — my old mate! Come in, come in.’
Boxer dragged Eddie inside his room and shut the door in Fran’s face with a grin. He always smiled at her; he didn’t want her to throw him out.
Going over to the tiny kitchen space in the corner of the bedsit, Boxer put the kettle on. ‘It’s great to see you, Eddie. I can’t offer you much I’m afraid, but I always got tea.’
‘No, no, no,’ Eddie insisted. ‘Let’s catch up properly.’ He produced a bottle of malt whisky from his coat pocket, banged it down on the table. ‘Got any glasses?’ he asked.
Boxer’s eyes widened. The longing for alcohol was back in a split second, but he gave a strong smile, ‘I’m off the hard stuff, Eddie, have been for months now. I don’t mind if you have a drink, though.’ Boxer passed Eddie a chipped, stained mug and they both sat at the small table beneath the window.
‘Come on, Boxer. Have a small one with me... let’s drink to Harry.’
Boxer smiled and held his hands up. Eddie must know everything, he must know Harry was alive and well and planning to take back his patch from the Fishers. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I guess a small one will be OK.’ He was even more excited: the old gang was getting back together.
Boxer put a second mug on the table and Eddie talked as he poured. He started by whining about his missus and the kids, then about the car-wrecking business, all the time topping up Boxer’s mug. Each time he poured Boxer a double measure, he poured himself a single and, after about half an hour, Boxer was on his way to being pissed.
Eddie waffled on so much that Boxer couldn’t get a word in. He was desperate to ask about Harry, but figured that Eddie would talk about him when he was good and ready. The next time Eddie went to pour Boxer a whisky, he put his hand over his mug.
‘I ain’t drunk in such a long time, Eddie. It’s gone straight to me head. I should stop.’
‘Don’t worry, Boxer, me old mate,’ Eddie said kindly. ‘I’ll look after you.’ Boxer removed his hand from his mug and Eddie emptied the bottle into it.
As Boxer took another sip, the pay phone on the landing started ringing. Boxer ignored it. ‘It’ll be for Fran,’ he said with a drunken shrug. But the phone still rang. ‘She’s a lazy old lard-arse.’
But Fran had shifted her huge bulk out of her armchair and waddled her way out to the landing. ‘Boxer! It’s for you!’ she shrieked up the stairs. Even Eddie winced.