At Risk

8

N u-Celeb Publications of Chelmsford, Essex, occupied a low modular building on the Writtle Industrial Estate to the southwest of the town. The premises were spare and utilitarian, but they were warm, even at nine in the morning. Melvin Eastman hated to be cold, and in his glass-walled office overlooking the shop floor the thermostat was set to 20° Centigrade. At his desk, still wearing the camel-hair overcoat in which he had arrived ten minutes earlier, Eastman was examining the front page of the Sun newspaper. A smallish man with neatly dressed hair of a slightly unnatural blackness, his features remained expressionless as he read. Finally, leaning forward, he reached for one of the telephones on the desk. His voice was quiet, but his enunciation precise.

“Ken, how many of those Mink Parfait calendars have we had printed up?”

On the floor below, his foreman looked up at him. “ ‘Bout forty thou, boss. Should be the big Christmas seller. Why?”

“Because, Ken, Mink Parfait are splitting up.” Taking the newspaper, he held it up so that it was visible to the foreman.

“You sure it’s kosher, boss? Not some publicity…”

Eastman laid the paper down on his desk. “ ‘Citing personal and musical differences,’ ” he read, “ ‘Foxy Deacon confirmed that the four-strong girl group would be going their separate ways. “We know that this’ll come as a shock to the fans,” says FHM cover girl Foxy, 22, “but we wanted to end things on a high.” Insiders claim that tensions within the group date from…’ etcetera. We’re not going to be able to give those calendars away.”

“I’m sorry, boss. I dunno what to say.”

Eastman replaced the phone and admitted a frown to the pallid moonscape of his face. It was an unpromising start to the day. Nu-Celeb was not the only iron that he had in the fire-the celebrity calendar business had been created as cover for a raft of other, less legal activities that had made him a millionaire many times over. But it still irked him that he could take a bath to the tune of twenty large on the whim of a bunch of scrubbers like Mink Parfait. Half-caste scrubbers at that. Melvin Eastman did not subscribe to the dream of a multicultural Britain.

A key player in one of Eastman’s other business activities, a narrow-featured man in a black bomber jacket and baseball cap named Frankie Ferris, was sitting against the wall. He had a mug of tea in one hand and was smoking, tapping the ash into the bin with nervous and unnecessary frequency.

Folding the newspaper and placing it carefully in the same bin, Eastman turned to Ferris. Noted the pallor of his lips and the faint shake of the cigarette between his fingers.

“So, Frankie,” he said quietly. “How’s it going?”

“I’m awright, Mr. Eastman.”

“Returns coming in? Everyone paying their way?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Any special requests?”

“Harlow and Basildon both want ketamines. Asked if we can do ’em a trial batch.”

“No way. That stuff’s like crack-strictly for coons and mentals. Go on.”

“Acid.”

“The same. Anything else?”

“Yeah, the Ecstasy. Everyone suddenly wants the butterflies.”

“Not the doves?”

“Doves’ll do but butterflies are best. The word is they’re stronger.”

“That’s bollocks, Frankie. They’re identical. As you know.”

Frankie shrugged. “Just telling you.”

Melvin Eastman nodded and turned away. From his desk drawer he took a plastic bank envelope, and handed it to Frankie.

Frankie frowned. Turned the envelope over incomprehendingly.

“I’m only giving you three fifty this week,” said Eastman quietly, “because it’s clear that I’ve been overpaying you. You did six fifty at the blackjack table in the Brentwood Sporting Club last Friday.”

“I’m s-sorry, Mr. Eastman. I…”

“That kind of behaviour attracts attention, Frankie, and attention is very bad news indeed. I don’t put a grand a week in your pocket for you to piss it away in public, understand?”

Eastman’s tone and expression were unchanged, but the edge of threat was very close to the surface. The last man to seriously displease his employer, Frankie knew, had washed up on the mudflats off Foulness Island. The dogfish had had a go at his face and he’d had to be identified by his teeth.

“I understand, Mr. Eastman.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Mr. Eastman. I’m sure.”

“Good. Then let’s get to work.”

Handing Frankie a Stanley knife from his desk, Eastman indicated four sealed cardboard boxes which were stacked against one wall. The boxes’ stencilled sides indicated that they contained Korean-built document scanners.

Cutting across the seal, Frankie opened the first box, revealing the advertised hardware. With care he removed the scanner and its Styrofoam mould. Beneath were three tightly filled, sealed polythene bags.

“Do we need to check them?”

Eastman nodded.

Frankie cut a small incision in the first bag, drew out a wrap of paper, and passed it to Eastman. Unwrapping the paper, Eastman touched the tip of his tongue to the off-white crystal, nodded, and returned it to Frankie.

“I think we can take the jellies and the Es on trust. Just see if Amsterdam’s sent us doves or butterflies.”

“Looks like doves in this one,” said Frankie nervously, peering at a bag of Ecstasy tablets. “Must be using up old stock.”

The same operation was applied to the other three boxes. Carefully, Frankie packed a rucksack with the bags of Ecstasy, temazepam, and methamphetamine crystal, topping the load off with a T-shirt and a pair of dingy Y-fronts.

“The butterflies go to Basildon, Chelmsford, Brentwood, Romford and Southend,” said Eastman. “The doves to Harlow, Braintree, Colchester-”

His phone rang, and he held up a hand, indicating that Frankie should wait. As the conversation progressed he glanced at him once or twice, but Frankie was staring out over the shop floor, apparently engrossed in the progress of a fork-lift truck.

Was he using? Eastman wondered. Or was it just the gambling? Should he offset the morning’s stick with a bit of carrot-push a couple of fifties into his back pocket on the way out?

In the end he decided not to. The lesson had to be learned.