Badger they called me - Tony Badger - and it kind of stuck, on account of the white streak on my cheek I got from a Jack Martin and a bleach-filled squirter in '58. Mr Badger to you. Used to move in the big leagues, jobs for Rachman and the Krays, lopping the ears off Maltese pimps, bit of hassle here and there. All properly done, like. Not like these kids nowadays - got a hooded sweatshirt and a three inch blade and think they're Dick bleeding Turpin. One of 'em tried to get me on the Common last month - showed him I could still handle myself - bottle of Cotes du Rhone across the crown of his skull, a quick poke in the cheek with the broken neck. Something to remember me by. Not bad for a Granddad.
Semi-retired now of course. The Common and the duck pond are my manor now, whatever these young upstarts think about it. Swish pad on a tree-lined street near the river. Live jazz at the local. Expensive wine in heavy bottles. Far cry from Poland Street, the blind beggar and a pint of porter.
Writing my memoirs, but I keep getting the names wrong, forgetting who did what. To whom. Must be the booze. And the practice of forgetting. Seen too many things I never wanted to remember. That lass is Chiswick, in the garage down by the river - what, late 60s, early 70s? Coppers found the resprayer's flecks of paint on her lacerated thighs, but they never fingered where they came from. We sorted that one out. Noone likes a punter who cuts up the girls - bad for business, all round.
I say semi-retired, 'cos there's always something going on, some nosy fucker poking it where it ain't warranted, some whippersnapper needs telling. Mostly it's security work these days. Old Folks' Homes, Social Clubs, Bridge parties. Collecting debts, same as I did for Rachman. Still, the legs break a bit easier these days. Good thing too, the way my joints go - teenage muggers notwithstanding. Never like the look on the old man's mush when his biddy gets it in the neck, but she shouldn't have flashed the cash if she didn't have the cards to back it up.
On retainer for the Vicar too. Keep the parish up to scratch. Low attendance? I can scare up some faithful for you, Rev'd. Collection plate a little light this month? No fucking problem. Man gets this old, starts thinking about his place in Heaven. Breaking the Organist's fingers with a thirty-pound silver crucifix probably won't help that, but the scab had been at the communion wine.
Always tried to avoid drugs, but the temptations pretty high. Ship in a thousand Viagra from the continent under a tartan rug in the back of the Reliant, punt them up the sheltered accommodation on Castelnau - nice little earner, puts a smile on the biddys' faces. Getting her old man back in the saddle after 47 years is always worth a knee-trembler behind the post office on benefits day. My own little contribution to the Winter Fuel Allowance.
Besides all that, I really am growing respectable in my old age. I knew enough when I was a younger fool to squirrel a bit away for later years - like ten bars of Brinks-Mat gelt under an access hatch on the island in the middle of the duck pond. Had to spend three nights out there the last time the damn thing froze over. I chip off a bit now and again, take it to a bent jeweller I know in Streatham. Keeps me in Claret and Werther's Originals.
Claret, the other kind, is something I'm starting to think I've seen enough of though. Vicar says he'll put me on the Council if I get off security detail. And Iris up the cottages on Glebe Road's been giving me the eye these six months her Harold's been underground. Maybe it's time for full retirement. Can't say I haven't earned it.
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