R.I.P Robbie Silva by Tony Black Read Free Book Online Page B

receipts or cheques – not out of some misguided sense of duty to the bank but because they get something out of fucking with people.
    Silva was a past master of fucking with people. It shone out of him.
    There was no doubt I had to go back to work, and soon. I couldn't rely on Jasper to keep me for ever. Sure, I could grab some work on my own but there was an offer from a decent firm on the table and I was seriously conflicted. I might not get another chance at the Big One.
    I slurped the last of my coffee, took out my mobi and dialled Silva's number.
    He answered on the third ring.
    'Hello.' His London accent rattled me but I put it out my mind.
    'It's Jed Collins.'
    A pause on the line. I sensed his grin stretching out over those goldie teeth. 'Hello, my old son. Had a little think about my offer have we?'
    He was lapping me up. I played him. 'Depends?'
    He barked, 'Oh yeah ... and on what?'
    I let him hang for a moment or two, replied, 'It depends on any number of things ... whether I like the look of the job, whether I like the team and whether I like my share.'
    Silva laughed down the line. 'Let me tell you, mate, you'll be fucking cock-a-hoop ... Now, when can we meet?'

    * * * *

    I took a donner down Lothian Road and queued outside the ATM of the Royal Bank's big set-up. They seemed to be doing a roaring trade. Made me think. This lot, the bankers, had made a nice raid on the country's finances – took us all to the fucking cleaners. The sums were eye watering. Fuck me drunk, these bastards made the Brink's-Mat bullion job's £26-million take look like chicken feed. If I had the marbles I'd be on the other side of the counter. That's where the real robbery gets done.
    My account was down to low double figures; depressing really, for a man my age. But that was the facts. I pulled a couple of Jimmy Denners out and headed up the road to a drinker I knew well.
    The Drum was full of the usual Edinburgh crew you get in the middle of the day: barflies. A few bluenoses supping on that Hun piss McEwan's and a stack of dole-moles on the scrounge for whatever they could get. I took a stool at the bar; the barman had his back to me polishing a glass. I coughed into my hand and he turned around.
    'All right, Jed ... when did you get sprung?' he said.
    Broonie was a good bloke, carried a paunch like a darts player now but hadn't changed much at all otherwise. 'Not long ago. How's tricks?'
    Broonie slapped my shoulder, smiled his widest. 'Well, welcome back mate, welcome back!' His pub was referred to in the press recently as a ''hive of villainy''. I read that on the inside and it made me feel homesick. Still, looking around here, save a few schemie hoisters trying to flog some hot Hearts tops, there was little hard-core in evidence.
    I tapped the bar. 'How about a pint of the black then?'
    'No worries.' Broonie turned to the pumps, got to work on a creamy-headed Guinness for me. 'So, eh, what's the score then, Jed? ... You turning square-peg on us now or what?'
    I scratched the side of my head, had a craving for a tab – this new smoking ban was a kick in the balls, made the pubs look pretty ordinary without the pall of Regal and Embassy. 'Well, you just never know.'
    'Fuck off, mate. You can't kid a kidder!' Broonie laid down the pint in front of me. The creamy head glistened under the lights, thought it winked at me.
    'Cheers, pal.' I downed a good belt. Leaned over the bar a bit, put my conspiratorial coupon on. Broonie took the hint, wised I was about to talk. 'Look, I need the run-down on a new player in town ... well, I say new, he's new to me.'
    'Oh, aye.' Broonie turned his bar-towel over his shoulder, folded his arms.
    'London geezer ,' I put a bit of tone on the last word, paused then continued. 'Called Robbie Silva.'
    Broonie leaned back, smoothed the edges of his mozzer, then whet his lips with a quick flash of grey tongue. 'Long Dong Silva ... Christ, what do you want to know?'
    There was a rustle of shell suit at