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It was a wet Monday afternoon, same as ever thought Joey as he stood, getting more and more bored by the minute, waiting for that damn Luigi and his thugs.
He checked his watch - 4.20, that's 30 minutes late, and it wasn't good to be late in Joey's line of work. He leant back across the now sodding bonnet of his vintage chevvy, imported from the US, it cost a mint, but for what they paid him ... pocket money. Joey lit a fag and took adrag waiting for the inevitable sloosh as the other mobsters rolled up, suitably late, as always.
Couldn't they get someone better? thought Joey. He's Italian, I'll give him that, and they're getting harder and harder to find these days, for this work, but ... he was so damn switched off - never on time.
Again he checked his watch - 4.30, "That's it, I'm off!" he said aloud, but, just as he turned, he heard the familiar slooshing of a car drawing up. He turned round.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Sorry man, really. Trouble with the mrs. Comprende?"
"Comprende, but that's the third time this month, I gotta start tellin' the don soon"
"I'm sorry man"
"Now's not the time, you got the stuff?"
"It's all here"
And with that, the younger and podgier of the two, Luigi, produced a large, non-descript looking, briefcase from the boot of his car. But this briefcase was no ordinary briefcase. Luigi lifted the lid to show the other man 2 kg of pure, unadulterated, cocaine.
"You got the money?"
"Check"
Joey opened his passenger door to reveal yet another briefcase, this one less inconspicuous than the other, in a shade of mottled cream. He unclipped the catch to show stack upon stack of £50 notes
"Fruit of the yardies"
"It's good stuff"
"Your best yet"
And, after saying these words, the exchange was complete and both men slipped back into their cars, looking like tow businessmen, which, in a sort of way, they were.
The two vintage cars slipped into the dreary afternoon. For anyone now looking, the street was just an ordinary, run-down, backstreet in North Essex.
He checked his watch - 4.20, that's 30 minutes late, and it wasn't good to be late in Joey's line of work. He leant back across the now sodding bonnet of his vintage chevvy, imported from the US, it cost a mint, but for what they paid him ... pocket money. Joey lit a fag and took adrag waiting for the inevitable sloosh as the other mobsters rolled up, suitably late, as always.
Couldn't they get someone better? thought Joey. He's Italian, I'll give him that, and they're getting harder and harder to find these days, for this work, but ... he was so damn switched off - never on time.
Again he checked his watch - 4.30, "That's it, I'm off!" he said aloud, but, just as he turned, he heard the familiar slooshing of a car drawing up. He turned round.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Sorry man, really. Trouble with the mrs. Comprende?"
"Comprende, but that's the third time this month, I gotta start tellin' the don soon"
"I'm sorry man"
"Now's not the time, you got the stuff?"
"It's all here"
And with that, the younger and podgier of the two, Luigi, produced a large, non-descript looking, briefcase from the boot of his car. But this briefcase was no ordinary briefcase. Luigi lifted the lid to show the other man 2 kg of pure, unadulterated, cocaine.
"You got the money?"
"Check"
Joey opened his passenger door to reveal yet another briefcase, this one less inconspicuous than the other, in a shade of mottled cream. He unclipped the catch to show stack upon stack of £50 notes
"Fruit of the yardies"
"It's good stuff"
"Your best yet"
And, after saying these words, the exchange was complete and both men slipped back into their cars, looking like tow businessmen, which, in a sort of way, they were.
The two vintage cars slipped into the dreary afternoon. For anyone now looking, the street was just an ordinary, run-down, backstreet in North Essex.
Maybe unoriginal, but you built a nice scene.
Tasty little scene - enjoyable, if lounging in safe cliché.
It was a wet Monday afternoon, same as ever thought Joey as he stood, getting more and more bored by the minute, waiting for that damn Luigi and his thugs.
He checked his watch - 4.20, that's 30 minutes late, and it wasn't good to be late in Joey's line of work. He leant back across the now sodding bonnet of his vintage chevvy, imported from the US, it cost a mint, but for what they paid him ... pocket money. Joey lit a fag and took adrag waiting for the inevitable sloosh as the other mobsters rolled up, suitably late, as always.
Couldn't they get someone better? thought Joey. He's Italian, I'll give him that, and they're getting harder and harder to find these days, for this work, but ... he was so damn switched off - never on time.
Again he checked his watch - 4.30, "That's it, I'm off!" he said aloud, but, just as he turned, he heard the familiar slooshing of a car drawing up. He turned round.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Sorry man, really. Trouble with the mrs. Comprende?"
"Comprende, but that's the third time this month, I gotta start tellin' the don soon"
"I'm sorry man"
"Now's not the time, you got the stuff?"
"It's all here"
And with that, the younger and podgier of the two, Luigi, produced a large, non-descript looking, briefcase from the boot of his car. But this briefcase was no ordinary briefcase. Luigi lifted the lid to show the other man 2 kg of pure, unadulterated, cocaine.
"You got the money?"
"Check"
Joey opened his passenger door to reveal yet another briefcase, this one less inconspicuous than the other, in a shade of mottled cream. He unclipped the catch to show stack upon stack of £50 notes
"Fruit of the yardies"
"It's good stuff"
"Your best yet"
And, after saying these words, the exchange was complete and both men slipped back into their cars, looking like tow businessmen, which, in a sort of way, they were.
The two vintage cars slipped into the dreary afternoon. For anyone now looking, the street was just an ordinary, run-down, backstreet in North Essex.
He checked his watch - 4.20, that's 30 minutes late, and it wasn't good to be late in Joey's line of work. He leant back across the now sodding bonnet of his vintage chevvy, imported from the US, it cost a mint, but for what they paid him ... pocket money. Joey lit a fag and took adrag waiting for the inevitable sloosh as the other mobsters rolled up, suitably late, as always.
Couldn't they get someone better? thought Joey. He's Italian, I'll give him that, and they're getting harder and harder to find these days, for this work, but ... he was so damn switched off - never on time.
Again he checked his watch - 4.30, "That's it, I'm off!" he said aloud, but, just as he turned, he heard the familiar slooshing of a car drawing up. He turned round.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Sorry man, really. Trouble with the mrs. Comprende?"
"Comprende, but that's the third time this month, I gotta start tellin' the don soon"
"I'm sorry man"
"Now's not the time, you got the stuff?"
"It's all here"
And with that, the younger and podgier of the two, Luigi, produced a large, non-descript looking, briefcase from the boot of his car. But this briefcase was no ordinary briefcase. Luigi lifted the lid to show the other man 2 kg of pure, unadulterated, cocaine.
"You got the money?"
"Check"
Joey opened his passenger door to reveal yet another briefcase, this one less inconspicuous than the other, in a shade of mottled cream. He unclipped the catch to show stack upon stack of £50 notes
"Fruit of the yardies"
"It's good stuff"
"Your best yet"
And, after saying these words, the exchange was complete and both men slipped back into their cars, looking like tow businessmen, which, in a sort of way, they were.
The two vintage cars slipped into the dreary afternoon. For anyone now looking, the street was just an ordinary, run-down, backstreet in North Essex.