Money For Nothing
So this afternoon, I go down the shop to see Mick and as I swish in through the bead curtain I greet him in my customary manner by smiling and saying “How’s tricks?” To which Mick’s usual answer is something along the lines of a cough followed, if he’s in a good mood, by a suck on his fag and a grotch on the floor.
But not today. Today Mick looks at me and he says, “What the fuck you doing here?”
And I say, “What you mean, what the fuck am I doing here. I work here don’t I? Least, last I heard I did.”
“I thought you was due in tomorrow,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Two till eight. That’s what we arranged. Two till eight today. Ten till four tomorrow.”
“Yeah well...”
“Well, what?”
The shop was empty but just then the bead curtains gave a rattle and in walked this middle-aged fat bloke. I don’t know why it is but Mick’s shop attracts middle-aged fat blokes like a turd attracts flies. If a middle-aged fat bloke is what you are looking for, Mick’s shop is a good place to start. If your tastes veer more towards the young and hunky end of the market, on the other hand, it’s a non starter. Except in the magazines. The magazines are stuffed full of hunks of all sizes, colours and degrees of hairiness. Middle aged fat blokes, on the other hand, are distinctly under-represented in their pages.
Mick gave me a sideways nod, meaning that he wanted me to come around the other side of the counter where he could whisper at me with some semblance of privacy.
“You better take the afternoon off,” he says.
“Sorry, can’t do that,” says I, “You booked me in. Here I am. If I wasn’t working here I’d be working somewhere else. Loss of earnings, if you see what I mean.”
“Here,” he says, and he opens up the till and starts getting some dosh out.
“What’s that for?” I say.
“I’ll pay you,” he says, “For the afternoon.”
“If you pay me for the afternoon, I’ll work the afternoon,” I say.
“I don’t need you,” he says, “Look around. How many customers do you see?”
“It’s early,” I say, “A couple of hours from now the place’ll be heaving.”
By now, I’m starting to wonder what’s Mick’s game. Why does he want to get rid of me all of a sudden? He knows he’s going to need a hand later on. And anyway, I’ve never heard of him paying anyone for not working before.
“C’mon, Mick,” I say, “Don’t talk to me like an idiot. What’s up? The plod been around?”
“Shhhhh...” he says, and I notice him glancing at the customer. But by now, the customer, who is starting to look a bit red in the face and who is also starting to sound dangerously breathless for someone of his age and weight, has only one thing on his mind and that thing is in the magazine he’s flicking through - so I say to Mick, “Just tell me, ok.”
Fact of the matter is, Mick’s been having a lot of trouble with the plod lately. Not sure why. Maybe they got some bright new thing in the Dirty Squad, someone who wants to make a name for himself and doesn’t understand the rules of the game. That happens every once in a while. It don’t last long. Just until the new guy gets to know the ropes and then everything gets back to business as usual. Still, whenever they start having crackdowns and stuff, it’s a real pain in the arse for people who are in the business Mick is in.
“No, not the plod,” he says, “Worse.”
“What’s worse than the plod, I say?”
“You should know,” says Mick, “It was you they was asking about.”
Anyway, I did the afternoon job as per usual and, just as I thought it would, the place filled up later on. By 6 o’clock it was jam packed - with fat middle-aged men. I asked Mick who’d been looking for me but he wouldn’t say. He just said, “You want to watch yourself, boy. They are not people you want to get on the wrong side of.”
He can be very cryptic at times, can Mick.
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