Free Morning Frost by Henry James

sipping from the glass, unable to turn round and meet his eye. She realized there was no point in beating around the bush so she took a deep breath and confessed: ‘I’m not sure Baskin is dead.’
    ‘Oh?’ He was standing close behind her – there was a whiff of a familiar aftershave, Denim, maybe – looking down at the games drawing to a close as the evening ended. One by one the lights above the tables were turned off. The only sound was the fizz from their drinks.
    ‘I shot him, make no mistake, he went down, and the boy who got in the way,’ she said assertively, ‘but the gun jammed, so I couldn’t make sure. Later I saw ambulances. He might be in the hospital.’
    ‘Well, if he is in the hospital, it’s unlikely he’s dead, is it?’
    ‘I guess so.’
    ‘Did he get a look at you?’ he asked calmly.
    She turned to face him. God, that black shirt and grey waistcoat was so old-hat – he looked more like a retired snooker player than a gangster.
    ‘I was in disguise. It all happened too quickly for him to recognize me.’
    He seemed satisfied with this. ‘Well, I, as you know, am a disinterested party – and that’s the way I’d like it to remain.’
    ‘Fair enough.’ What he meant by that, she had no idea. ‘But the other job. Does that still stand? Something tomorrow? C’mon, Marty – there was cash all over that office and I didn’t lift so much as tuppence … as I was told …’ she pleaded, as the big man moved from the window and picked up the magnum. Actually lifting cash had never been mentioned; and she would definitely have lifted a few quid if the bloody gun hadn’t jammed.
    ‘But the job’s not done. Someone else has to finish what you started. It’ll cost more after your bodge. Who’s to say you won’t balls this up too?’ He sat down heavily.
    ‘I’ll finish him off. Easy.’
    ‘But how – aren’t you off to the Costa del Sol?’ He looked at her with faux concern.
    She gripped her flute in annoyance. ‘Not until Tuesday,’ she said flatly.
    ‘But if he’s in hospital, then how?’
    ‘Don’t worry how. Now, about tomorrow – you promised …’
    ‘OK.’ He smiled, leaning back in the swivel chair. ‘I promised your dad I’d look out for you, so look out for you I will.’ He rubbed his red jowls with carefully manicured fingers. ‘Not quite sure this is what he had in mind, still … Gregory Leather – an import-export outfit out on the Denton Industrial Estate.’
    ‘Never heard of them,’ she snapped irritably.
    ‘Patience, Louise.’ He flipped open the cigarette box and pulled out a thin, exotic Russian number. ‘You know, if it wasn’t for the cute way your nose wrinkles when you get agitated, there’s no doubt you’d be in a ditch somewhere by now.’ The deadpan delivery pulled her into check, and reminded her of who she was dealing with. ‘Gregory Leather Ltd opened in January. At which time you, Pussy Galore, were holed up in Cardiff.’
    Newport . She didn’t correct him.
    He continued: ‘The business is straightforward – they import handbags from the Far East, slap a posh label on them and whack them out around the country; everywhere from Selfridges to the Littlewoods catalogue. Such an operation requires casual labour, ergo weekly wages in cash. You get the picture? Every Friday between eleven and midday a clerk picks up three grand in cash from Bennington’s.’
    Louise was about to ask a question, but he pre-empted her. ‘You don’t need to know more – suffice it to say, a disgruntled employee no longer picks up his sixty quid a week in a manila envelope. That’s all I’ll tell you.’
    ‘The clerk goes alone?’
    ‘Good girl. No, he takes a bruiser from the warehouse with him. You can’t miss the pair – right odd couple …’
    ‘Piece of cake.’
    ‘All I want is a clean grand. The rest is yours.’ That was a 30 per cent cut for him for doing bugger all. He wanted her for the job because she was a woman, and an