Image by "Just remember... Snitches get stitches, right?"
"Yeah Callum, you don't need to worry about me."
I stare that old bastard right in the eye. His shoe-leather face impassive, wrinkled from too many weekends on that yacht in Costa del Nostra.
These old school gangsters are all the same. Strong stare, firm handshake, a bit of the old 'dog and whistle' rhyming from back in the day. They eat that shit up. Trust is a mugs game, easy to manipulate if you take the time to read the tells.
London's anemic sky infuses her skin. She wraps one hand over the other in a constant dance as I nod.
"Has Denton told you what the score is Gal?"
"Whistle when the Pandas arrive, right?"
"You got it? Whistle loud, like you've spotted a John."
Three
Her eyes shine as she scratches her arms.
Two
"What about...."
One
"the money?"
Clockwork, the mindset of a junkie.
"Don't worry Gal. You'll get your money, after the job."
I lean in toward her stroking her cheek. She hugs herself, a parody of vulnerability. I fucking hate junkies. Never again.
"You twitching then Gal?"
She nods.
Screeching and the smell of burning rubber. Flashing lights. Bitter rain splashes technicolor explosions off the tarmac.
Where was that whistle.
PC plod slams me on the car bonnet. A shoe-leather face eclipses the lights and a hand slams down next to me.
"Everyone has to do some time Dan. Just remember, snitches get stitches."
The end.
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