And There Was Ninja Moustache (Chapter 7)

A dockside office in Grimsby, England, 1992.

“So, you’re the fella Gavin’s been tellin’ me about. Done all that mischief up in Halifax, yeah? How old are you, kid?”

“Old enough.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m looking for work.”

“Well, I got plenty of work on. But I don’t give jobs to just anyone. I’m lookin’ for the right sorta person. You understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“You can cut that ‘Sir’ sh**—call me Terry. And have you got a name then?”

“Deenis.”

“What’s that now?”

“Deenis. My name is Deenis.”

“Are you takin’ the piss, son? ’Cause you’re gonna find I’m not the sorta bloke you wanna play games with.”

“No sir—I mean Terry. Deenis is my name. You can ask Gavin if you like.”

“Hmm. All right. Deenis—bloody hell, we’ll have to do somethin’ about that. Yeah, Gav’s been talkin’ a lot about you. Says you went to that school in Oldham, the one what was in all the papers a few years back. Nasty stuff what happened there… I don’t suppose you know how that fire started?”

“What if I do?”

“Ha! Right. So it’s none of my business then?”

“…No. It isn’t.”

“Well, then we’ve got somethin’ in common. See, I also believe that what a man does is his own affair, and should be of no f**kin’ interest to anyone else. As it happens, I have some business of my own—a fine little fleet of fishin’ vessels. Now, these boats go out—to where, it doesn’t matter—and then they come back. Sometimes they come back loaded with fish, and sometimes they come back loaded with somethin’ else. And that’s nobody’s business but mine. Understand?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Do you? Well that’s good. Here’s what I’m gonna do then—there’s a chap down on Beldon Street—weedy little sh**—who borrowed himself some money from me. Well, the silly bugger’s forgotten to pay me back, hasn’t he? So I’m gonna give you a little test—a trial run, you might say. I want you to pay this bloke a visit and ask him very nicely to give you the money he owes me. And whatever f**kin’ answer he gives, I expect you to get that money from him. Then you bring it to me. Understand?”

“I can do that.”

“Lovely. But here’s the thing—I don’t care how you get the money off him, so long as no Johnny Lawman comes askin’ me about it, got it?”

“Yeah.”

“And if anyone asks you what you’re doin’ workin’ for me, what are you gonna say?”

“I deliver fish for you.”

“Outstanding f**kin’ answer. Talk to Gav—he’ll give you the details. You get this done, kid, and I’ll have some real work for you—with a nice little commission. But we’ll have to do somethin’ about that name of yours. Now piss off.”

 

© 2020 MILES VENISON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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