Walthamstow Dogs
“The working man’s Ascot”,
Life, it’s been said, is full of surprises and just as a long-term diet of porridge was being contemplated, the knee between Jimmy’s shoulder blades, along with the hand on his head, were no more. Further, the American was no longer sitting astride him but lying, quite still, at his side. Looking up, Balantyne spotted Johnny skipping off in the general direction of Hanover Square. His next visual stimulus was of the manager slamming the shop’s door and locking it behind him. Spying the scaffold pole lying nearby, the bandit grabbed it, jumped to his feet and leapt onto the idling Garelli.
The bike was ditched on Soho Square, and the bag, once the necklace had been extracted, was passed to Nolte. In the alley behind the Sundown, the costumes were stuffed deep inside the industrial bins by the Astoria’s stage door. The pair’s emergence onto Charing Cross Road saw Jimmy strolling to one bus stop and Nolte to another. Heart pounding with fear and euphoria, the former sat on the top deck of the 134, lit an Embassy and prayed. The latter sat downstairs on the 38 and hardly had time to read the back page of a discarded Sun before reaching his point of debarkation.
From Rosebery Avenue, he crossed Clerkenwell Road into Leather Lane, down Cross Street and into the Garden itself. Where, behind a fortified door and four floors up, Lionel, a friend of the family, awaited his arrival. Within moments of which, and despite his tender years, Nolte was paid. Promptly and in full. The youth’s departure saw those precious stones expertly divorced from their magnificent metals. Though it broke Lionel’s heart to disband those pieces, as each was antique and worth more as it stood. That, mused the jeweller, was life. Nolte kept three watches, all from the mid-60’s. It was with a happy heart that the Angel boy skipped down the narrow staircase, while stuffing nine thousand, two hundred and forty quid, into his patchwork flares. The timepieces were carefully studded into the pocket of his checked, Wrangler shirt.
Jimmy’s experience on delivering the necklace was less harmonious. Summoned to a place called Walthamstow and what was known as “The working man’s Ascot”, he’d arrived to find the three bastions of Law and Order betting on separate hounds and bickering over whose round it was. The room, or Box, was inundated with the remains of chicken in a basket and a mass of empty pint glasses. The teenager shuddered at the thought of what Dear Mother would make of it. Then, despite having delivered their item seventy-two hours ahead of the deadline, Jimmy’d been neither paid promptly nor in full, far from it. For The Sweeny, after accepting the necklace, had not only refused to weigh on for it, but was insistent on a cut of the afternoon’s proceeds.
This being, as in their words, he’d “Had it right off” and they’d not sanctioned an “armed blag” but a bit of hoisting. Fully aware the blag hadn’t been armed, at least not “fire-armed”, Jimmy hadn’t argued the point, as truth be told, they’d seemed quite impressed by it. While privately concluding they had a point over his having taken “a liberty”, Jimmy’s outward demeanour was considered so bolshie that the Flying Squad decided to chain him to the box’s radiator. Which was on and heated his cuffs to the extent that Jimmy feared permanent scarring. Though they continued betting on separate dogs, their canine choices all shared a common denominator — they lost.
Miffed and mystified by this turn of events, the team of crack thief-takers eyed Jimmy with ever deeper suspicion, and the dark mumblings of his bocking them grew ever louder with each passing race. Initially, it’d been a few chicken bones tossed at the end of each contest, but by the evening’s mid-point, Jimmy was on the receiving end of plastic pint glasses and glass ashtrays. What was more, they dispensed with the formality of waiting for races to conclude and just began aiming them at will. What with the blisters on his wrist, it was all getting a bit much. Things, though, were soon to take a distinct turn for the worse. Because by eleven, Jimmy’s vision of being at Sheepskin’s mercy, in some secluded holding cell, had become a stark reality. By that time, however, he was grateful not to be burnt as a witch. As bleak as this situation may sound, it was not one the teenager had failed to anticipate. On hearing Newman’s overly cheerful tone on the phone earlier, he’d suspected something was afoot. Superficial preparation for what he fancied might become a protracted trip consisted of a quick bath, followed by a change of clothes, and stocking up on fags.
The groundwork, though, had been laid a fortnight earlier. Yet, to fully explain how all this came about, we need to go back a month further, back to a Tuesday afternoon on Oxford Street. Bonkers had been nicked by a Plain ’Un, and Jimmy, feeling less than enthralled about two hours of inactivity, decided he’d keep the cash flowing by jumping in the saddle himself. Young George went on the Out, and the Ricks kept them peeled as well. Well, long story short, they took a few quid and, although he denied it, Jimmy’d thoroughly enjoyed being the main man. His being handed a Peter filled with Tom and dispatched to some or other outlying district soon became a daily occurrence. His Outside Man/Rick was generally George, but occasionally Debbie. All had been well until, via a tip-off from her, it came to light that he wasn’t “half in it” but working off a third. Debbie’s revelation brought a swift response from Jimmy, who marched down to Helen’s and stocked up with six gross of his own gear. To Jimmy’s surprise, George went right along with him. This was followed by a stand-off over the wooden “Peter” that belonged to Bonkers, who demanded the case back. The teenager promised its swift return, the instant they coughed up the readies owed — case closed.