There was an armed robbery outside my office window earlier in the week (honestly) which promoted me to look out this story I wrote about a kind of accidental robbery, if such a thing could exist.
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Espresso Romana
Angelo took one last look around the scene in Nino’s and moved towards the emergency exit ready for a quick getaway. He lit a cigarette with his zippo lighter, firing it up in that single flicking motion much favoured by teenagers out to impress their friends. He inhaled the smoke deeply, stole himself for the flash and flicked his lighted cigarette into the pool of petrol. He was half way out the door by the time he realised nothing had happened other than a barely audible hiss as the glowing tobacco was snuffed out.
“It’ll not work son, they’ve done tests and everything. I read it in the papers a while back. You can’t set petrol off with a lighted cigarette; it has to be a naked flame or a spark. All that stuff you see in the movies – bollocks apparently. Now I know you’re no’ a bad lad so shall we blow the place up good and proper and no-one will be any the wiser? You’ll have done your job, and I’ll get the insurance. What do you say?”
The old man, known as Sam the Skull on account of his cadaverous features, raised a single questioning eyebrow.
*
The van was parked in the appointed spot; one designated for loading and unloading only, which ensured a steady income for the city council in parking tickets and tow away charges.
“This is definitely the place is it?” asked David. He was always David, never Dave or, worse still, Davie. It seemed a petty point to most people but it was his given name and he didn’t like it sullied by truncating it in any way. Besides, Dave made him sound like a cockney market trader, which he most definitely wasn’t, or a small time career criminal, which he most definitely was.
“Aye,” said Cameron, a man of few, if any, words.
“Get in the back then, and when you get the sign pass the bag out the hatch.”
Cameron pulled a frown that asked why he always had to get in the back, and why he could never be at the wheel, but rose up nonetheless and moved through the little doorway at the rear of the cab into the confined space in the back of the van. David heard Cameron slide the security bolt over from inside the secure chamber and then fired up the radio.
He liked to listen to classic rock songs, something about it reminded him of trying to be a rebellious teenager by growing his hair long, only for his mum to insist he got it cut. He never argued with her. He was a good boy; until he discovered that crime paid more than stacking shelves in the local supermarket. And so Cameron began his journey from skimming the price of an occasional litre of oil from another job as a petrol pump attendant all the way to his current role as an enforcer and collection agent in Glasgow’s protection market. He liked the way “collection agent” made him sound like he worked in legitimate insurance.
*
The back of the van was stuffy, dark and cramped. Cameron got as comfortable as possible by sitting on one of the wheel arches, but it wasn’t flat and he had to brace himself with his legs stretched out to the other side of the compartment to keep from slipping off onto the ribbed floor. There was one small light on the roof which gave off a feeble yellow glow, and a thin outline of daylight that framed the hatch out of which he had to pass the week’s protection takings and the suntan money as soon as he heard the coded thumping on the side of the van when the courier passed by.
This combination of uncomfortable factors, compounded by the sound of AC/DC pounding from the cabin where he knew David would be unconsciously head-banging, began to bring on a headache. He hoped the pick-up would happen soon and he closed his eyes to wait for the call.
*
Ashley didn’t know if Tony had ever lived in Italy but he certainly looked the part. He sounded the part too, speaking with the subtlest hint of an accent that was a legacy of his upbringing in one of Glasgow’s best known Italian families and from long summers spent abroad. His dark, slicked back hair, and clean white starched apron gave him an air of authority in Lucca’s, the tiny café under the railway bridge at Central Station he had run for the last 25 years or so.
Ashley watched Tony busy himself at the coffee machine as she got comfortable on a high stool at the battered zinc counter. It was an old machine, not one of these fancy push button types you see in all the café chains; it was the kind of machine that made brewing a perfect espresso an artistic process rather than a mechanical one. In Italy, each espresso is as different as Scotland’s own malt whiskies and Tony liked to serve his like the Romans – with a tiny sliver of lemon peel balanced delicately on the doll-sized spoon.
Tony placed a tiny cup and saucer in front of Ashley.
“Espresso Romana,” he said.
“Tony, it’s the only thing I ever have here; you don’t need to tell me what it is every time, and you don’t have to shout either.”
Tony leaned over the counter, indicating to Ashley that she should meet him halfway.
“Ashley, you’re one of only three people who come here to drink my espresso,” he said, looking down over his glasses as he spoke. “My mother taught me how to work this machine when I was not even ten years old; my espresso comes from the heart. Most people ask for a latte or a cappuccino, and don’t even know the difference. But you appreciate good coffee as it should be drunk and I like you for that. Every time I say ‘espresso Romana’ to you, maybe a bit too loud, I hope that someone who usually wants a big cup of frothy hot milk will maybe try one of my espressos for a change and will like it and spread the word around. Then my espresso will be famous and people will come from miles around to try it, and you’ll do a nice feature in the weekend paper about me and my Italian heritage and my beautiful espresso Romana.”
Ashley laughed as she finished her mouthful of coffee. “Tony, maybe I should just do a feature about you anyway, because you’re such a charmer. Thanks for the coffee, see you tomorrow.”
Ashley slid off the stool and headed for the door.
“Hey wait,” shouted Tony.
Ashley stopped at the doorway and turned her head round, eyebrow raised.
“It’s espresso Romana,” he said, “not coffee. Ciao! “
Ashley turned back to leave but didn’t get any further as two men, one young and lithe, a second old, lined and somewhat cadaverous, barreled past her as they entered, throwing her back into the café as they pushed through.
“Hey, watch it,” shouted Ashley, balancing herself against the counter, ready to remonstrate further.
The two men ignored her as they darted up the narrow staircase that led to what must rank as Glasgow’s smallest mezzanine. Tony called it his mezzo-nine.
Tony’s face took on a look Ashley didn’t much like as he left his station behind the bar. His complexion darkened and she thought he was coming out from behind the counter to tackle the two intruders. Instead, to Ashley’s surprise, he hurried to the door, locked it and turned the little cardboard sign to read closed before pulling down the roller blinds across all the windows. The atmosphere in the little café changed. It was peak time for passing trade and Ashley was beginning to get nervous.
Tony appeared back at her side and took hold of her gently at the elbow.
“Upstairs with me!” he said.
It wasn’t a request and Ashley didn’t feel she could argue. Her heart and brain raced while every violent demise she’d ever covered for the paper flashed like a gory Halloween slide show in her mind’s eye in strangely vivid detail. Tony guided her up the stairs with him to join the other two at a small table on which sat a large hold-all.
*
“Who’s she?” said the younger of the two men to Tony.
“She’s fine, she’s a good customer, and good customers are my friends. They tell all their other friends about my Espresso Romana and I’ll become famous.”
The two strangers looked uncomfortable, their eyes shifting rapidly from Tony to Ashley.
“But who is she Tony?” said the older man. “How can we know we can trust her?”
“You can trust her,” he said. “Believe me.”
The old man raised an eyebrow.
“You can trust her,” said Tony again. “She’s a journalist.”
The young man stood sharply. “Fuck’s sake Tony! Could you not have just let her get out and kept her out of this.”
“You pushed her back in,” snapped Tony, “Now sit down and tell me what this is and what you’re doing here with Sam the Skull.”
The young man sat down and held a hand out to Ashley. “Angelo. I’m Tony’s cousin. Pleased to meet you I suppose. Has he given you the bullshit about his famous Espresso Romana yet? “
“Ashley Martin, Glasgow Standard,” said Ashley, taking Angelo’s hand and shaking it. “Tell me it’s not bullshit about his famous Espresso Romana? It’s the only reason I keep coming to Lucca’s.”
*
The signal was two short thumps on the side of the van, repeated with a short gap between. So four in total. Thum, thump…pause…thump, thump. Simple and easy and unmistakable when it came.
Cameron had begun to doze off as the atmosphere became increasingly stuffy in his little cell but the rapping on the van cut through his fatigue, brining him round in an instant. He grabbed the hold-all sitting on the floor, slid the hatch open and held the bag out.
It was usual for the bag to be taken from his hands immediately but there was a distinct pause. Cameron gave the bag a shake, as if a little extra movement might somehow attract the attention of the courier.
He could hear an argument going on through the thin steel sides of the van, but because David was now listening to the live version of Deep Purple’s Highway Star from Made in Japan, he couldn’t make out what was being discussed. Taking the initiative, Cameron returned the code from the inside and was rewarded by the courier finally lifting the bag from his hand.
He slid the hatch closed, undid the security bolt and uncoiled himself back into the passenger seat of the cab, next to David.
“Turn that crap off,” he said, “and let’s get out of here.”
David looked over at Cameron and turned the volume down, but not off. He loved the guitar solo, and the way in which Ritchie Blackmore wove his lead lines in with the Jon Lord’s Hammond sound.
“Done then?”
“Yup! No problem, but he took a while to take it today and there was some argument going on. Did you not hear it?”
David looked quizzically at Cameron and momentarily turned the volume up then down again. “What do you think?” he said.
“Right enough. Come on, let’s go.”
David fired up the engine and took some time to fasten his seat belt. He was about to pull out into the traffic when there was an unmistakable sound from the back of the van. Thump, thump…pause…thump, thump.
*
“What you hear in this place stays in this place, do you understand?” said Angelo. Ashley nodded helplessly. She’d always been a sucker for an Italian accent and Angelo’s was up there with the best.
“You shouldn’t be here, but since you are you have to respect the fact that this is a private discussion. This is a family discussion and…”
“Shut up Angelo,” interrupted Tony, “You make it sound like the Godfather. Angelo and Sam the Skull here have, I imagine, been dealing with a bit of business for the family firm. My guess is that something’s gone wrong and that they’re here to help me sort things out. Am I right?”
“Yes and no,” said Sam, speaking for the first time. “My restaurant is currently on fire and I expect a phone call from the authorities any moment now advising me of this. If only I could get a mobile signal under these railway arches. But we encountered an unexpected complication on the way here – a bonus, but undoubtedly a complication.”
“What do you mean a complication?” said Tony.
Angelo pushed the hold-all that sat on the table between them towards Tony. “Look inside.”
Tony pulled on the zipper, reached inside and drew out a large bundle of tightly bound cash. He pulled the zipper further and peered in. Tony let out a high whistle from between a small gap between is front teeth.
“That’s a lot of money gentlemen,” he said, “Whose is it?”
