Free Brighton Rock by Graham Greene Page B

gloved hand deep in his damp pocket. Brewer opened the door, a stout elderly man in soiled white pyjamas. The bottom button was missing and the coat swung from the bulging belly and the deep navel. ‘Come in, Pinkie,’ he said, ‘and walk quiet. The old woman’s bad. I’ve been worrying my head off.’
    ‘That why you haven’t paid your subscription, Brewer?’ the Boy said. He looked with contempt down the narrow hall—the shell case converted into an umbrella-stand, the moth-eaten stag’s head bearing on one horn a bowler hat, a steel helmet used for ferns. Kite ought to have got them into better money than this. Brewer had only just graduated from the street corner, saloon-bar betting. A welsher. It was no good trying to draw more than ten per cent of his bets.
    Brewer said, ‘Come in here and be snug. It’s warm in here. What a cold night.’ He had a hollow cheery manner even in pyjamas. He was like a legend on a racing card—The Old Firm. You can Trust Bill Brewer. He lit the gas-fire, turned on a stand lamp in a red silk shade with a bobble fringe. The light glowed on a silver-plated biscuit-box, a framed wedding group. ‘Have a spot of Scotch?’ Brewer invited them.
    ‘You know I don’t drink,’ the Boy said.
    ‘Ted will,’ Brewer said.
    ‘I don’t mind a spot,’ Dallow said. He grinned and said, ‘Here’s how.’
    ‘We’ve called for that subscription, Brewer,’ the Boy said.
    The man in white pyjamas hissed soda into his glass. His back turned he watched Pinkie in the glass above the sideboard until he caught the other’s eye. He said, ‘I been worried, Pinkie. Ever since Kite was croaked.’
    ‘Well?’ the Boy said.
    ‘It’s like this. I said to myself if Kite’s mob can’t even protect—’ he stopped suddenly and listened. ‘Was that the old woman?’ Very faintly from the room above came the sound of coughing. Brewer said, ‘She’s woke up. I got to go and see her.’
    ‘You stay here,’ the Boy said, ‘and talk.’
    ‘She’ll want turning.’
    ‘When we’ve finished you can go.’
    Cough, cough, cough: it was like a machine trying to start and failing. Brewer said desperately, ‘Be human. She won’t know where I’ve got to. I’ll only be a minute.’
    ‘You don’t need to be longer than a minute here,’ the Boy said. ‘All we want’s what’s due to us. Twenty pounds.’
    ‘I haven’t got it in the house. Honest I haven’t.’
    ‘That’s too bad for you.’ The Boy draw off his right glove.
    ‘It’s like this, Pinkie. I paid it all out yesterday. To Colleoni.’
    ‘What in Jesus’ name,’ the Boy said, ‘has Colleoni to do with it?’
    Brewer went rapidly and desperately on, listening to the cough, cough, cough upstairs. ‘Be reasonable, Pinkie. I can’t pay both of you. I’d have been carved if I hadn’t paid Colleoni.’
    ‘Is he in Brighton?’
    ‘He’s stopping at the Cosmopolitan.’
    ‘And Tate—Tate’s paid Colleoni too?’
    ‘That’s right, Pinkie. He’s running the business in a big way.’ A big way—it was like an accusation, a reminder of the brass bedstead at Frank’s, the crumbs on the mattress.
    ‘You think I’m finished?’ the Boy said.
    ‘Take my advice, Pinkie, and go in with Colleoni.’
    The Boy suddenly drew his hand back and slashed with his razored nail at Brewer’s cheek. He struck blood out along the cheek bone. ‘Don’t,’ Brewer said, ‘don’t,’ backing against the sideboard, upsetting the biscuit-box. He said, ‘I’ve got protection. You be careful. I’ve got protection.’
    The Boy laughed. Dallow refilled his glass with Brewer’s whisky. The Boy said, ‘Look at him. He’s got protection.’ Dallow took a splash of soda.
    ‘You want any more?’ the Boy said. ‘That was just to show you who’s protecting you.’
    ‘I can’t pay you both, Pinkie. God’s sake, keep back.’
    ‘Twenty pounds is what we’ve come for, Brewer.’
    ‘Colleoni’ll have my blood, Pinkie.’
    ‘You