‘Yeah, man,’ Biscuit replied. ‘So if you want your plants don’t go to no one else.’
‘If me get a discount …’
‘Could work out somet’ing. Listen, yeah, we ’ave to step so we’ll sight you later.’
‘Seen.’
Coffin Head and Biscuit, now strutting like bad men, passed the section of Brixton market that was behind the main-line train station. Shoppers were studying a variety of wares that ranged from cheap digital watches to multicoloured rugs. The street was carpeted with bits of soiled fruit, broken palettes and food wrappings. But even this could not wipe out the smell of fresh fish wafting through the air from the doorway that led to the arcade area of the market.
Soferno Bs record shack, on the corner of Atlantic Road and Coldharbour Lane, was populated by sound men and idlers who were all nodding their heads like stepping chickens. The shop boomed out Johnny Osbourne’s ‘To Kiss Somebody’, a hot-steppers favourite with a relentless drum and bass rhythm. Sound boys leant over the counter giving affirmative nods to the busy assistant whenever they liked a tune. On the counter were stacks of seven-inch import records that were marked down to play at numerous blues and raves all over London over the weekend. Jamaican patois filled the air as sound men tried to make themselves heard over the murderous bass-line. Reggae album sleeves covered the walls, along with flyers promoting the gigs of untold sound systems.
Nunchaks stood in the corner of the shop, wearing his cashmere coat and his black felt Stetson hat. The sound boys kept a respectable distance from him as he bopped his head and drummed his gold-clad fingers on the counter.
Coffin Head, taller than Biscuit, peered over the crowd and saw Nunchaks first. ‘See ’im der. In his corner.’
Biscuit was surprised to see Nunchaks without his minders. He suddenly felt more confident and threaded his way through the horde, Coffin Head in tow.
‘Chaks, Chaks,’ Biscuit greeted. ‘Wha’appen?’
Nunchaks turned around and grinned a dangerous grin. ‘So yout’, you find me. Me ’ope you can deliver.’
‘Yeah, I can,’ answered Biscuit confidently, his eyes darting east and west, conscious of all eyes on him.
‘Let’s step outside, yout’.’
The trio walked out of the shop and made their way inside the arcade. Standing outside a West Indian bread shop, Nunchaks had trouble torching his cigarette with his lighter. ‘If de t’ings are damage in any way, yout’, den you haf fe get damage.’
Biscuit smiled nervously. ‘No, man. Everyt’ing in working order an’ t’ing. Don’t worry yourself ’bout dat.’
‘Yeah, man,’ Coffin Head concurred. ‘Not even a stain.’
‘Well, I ’ope so. Cos if you’re wrong, you know wha’ it like to try an’ walk wid no kneecap?’
Biscuit didn’t answer. He stood silently as the smell of recently baked ardough bread laced the air. Coffin Head shifted his feet uneasily.
‘De t’ings are in my lock-up,’ revealed Biscuit. ‘Pick dem up when you’re ready. Try an’ mek it early morning cos de beast send cars up and down my estate during de night. An’ in afternoon time der der-ya ’pon foot, sometimes t’ree ah dem together.’
‘Why should I boder ’bout radication? Me nuh t’ief nutten – ah my family’s property me ah come for.’
‘Yeah, but we don’t want no beast to sight us off-loading t’ings from the lock-up,’ said Coffin Head. ‘If dey do, der gonna mark us down, man. Char.’
‘Alright,’ Nunchaks agreed. ‘I’ll send ah van first t’ing tomorrow. An’ you’d better be der-ya. Cos I don’t like wasting my people dem time. Y’hear me, yout’?’
‘Understood, man,’ Biscuit said.
‘Alright, dat is settled,’ Nunchaks concluded. ‘But de warning is der: me find anyt’ing wrong wid de goods, you know wha’ will ’appen.’
Biscuit, his gaze dropping to the concrete, remembered what Bruce Lee had done with his Nunchakoos in Enter the Dragon, while Coffin Head took a deep breath.
‘I might wan’ you two fe a liccle job down by Dorset Road sides,’ Nunchaks suddenly announced. ‘Y’hear me, yout’?’
‘I don’t know, Chaks, man,’ Coffin Head fretted. Dorset Road, within throwing distance of the Oval cricket ground, was home to Nunchaks’ rival, Cutlass Blake. Cutlass called his gang the ‘Trodding Blades’ and any visitors to their turf were not greeted warmly.
‘Wha’ you mean you don’t know? Remember it’s me who put money inna your pocket! An’ me de reason no one trouble you. When people know you working fe me, dey lef’ you alone. You don’t fockin’ know, you ah say. When I tell you fe do somet’ing, you don’t rarse tell me you don’t fockin’ know!’
Coffin Head shook his head in submission. Biscuit looked at his friend in surprise.
‘I ’ope we understand each uder,’ Nunchaks said ominously.
Biscuit nodded.
‘Alright, dat is out of de way,’ Nunchaks said. ‘Come, follow me to me car.’
Biscuit and Coffin Head were led up Railton Road, listening to the Lone Ranger’s ‘M-16’ resounding from Desmond’s Hip City record shack. The Front Line was relatively quiet at this time of day, apart from one doom-monger dressed only in cut-down jeans and a smart waistcoat. Marching down the middle of the road, he shouted, ‘Brimstone an’ fire will soon come. Believe it!’
Ignoring the doom merchant, Nunchaks turned to the teenagers. ‘Come, yout’s. Me car is jus’ parked up by T’umper’s takeaway.’
The trio walked on, Biscuit wondering where all the whores and bad men went to during the day-time. Nunchaks opened the door to his car and ushered his two employees into the back seat. He pulled away and drove along the Front Line before turning left into a quiet road. Although the Line was quiet, Nunchaks knew there was always a chance that an informant or rival dealer could be watching, so he stopped the car a half mile away. He got out and opened the boot then returned to the driver’s seat with a small plastic bag. ‘You sell de last bag alright?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ replied Biscuit. ‘No problem. Sold de last draw T’ursday night.’
‘You ’ave de corn?’
Coffin Head stooped to remove the elastic band that gripped the wad of two hundred pounds inside his sock. He passed the cash to Nunchaks who didn’t bother counting it; there was no way his juniors would cut him short.
‘Right, remove ya,’ Nunchaks ordered.
Biscuit and Coffin Head vacated the car and watched as Nunchaks performed a three-point turn and headed off to central Brixton.
‘Char,’ Coffin Head grouched. ‘He’s always doing dat, telling us to get out of his car an’ trod.’
‘Would you expect anyt’ing different?’ said Biscuit.
‘Can’t we get our herb off someone else?’
‘Oh yeah, like who? To rarted.’
‘Slim Lamb Harry, innit. He lives up Palace Road, in de estate up der. Brenton knows him.’
‘Nah, he’s too hot, man. An’ he deals wid dem white man down Rotherhithe sides. He’s into cocaine, speed an’ all kinds of shit. An’ he charges ’bout two t’irty for an ounce of herb. An’ he carries a fockin’ Remington. I ain’t dealing wid no man who’s got a rarse gun under