Page 36 of Crave

“I’ll check back in a couple of hours.” I gave him the envelope of cash back. “For your trouble.”

He blew out a soft laugh. “Kind of you.” He then slid it back under the counter. When I pulled open the door, he called over. “You seeing Lennon anytime soon?”

“No plans. Why?”

Tariq fished out something from under the counter. “Fixed his missus’ phone screen. Had to do a real job on it. Cost more than he gave as deposit. Thought you could warn him.”

“How much?”

“Seventy.”

I wandered over, gave him a ton.

Tariq counted through the notes. “I’ll let him know you covered it.”

“Don’t. He won’t take it, then. Just tell him it cost what it cost.”

“You two still on that pride trip?”

“Always.” I left.

Outside, the High Street kept doing its thing: taxis coughing, chip fat sizzling, kids on scooters weaving through it all. Sunday meant damage control. Making sure the night hadn’t eaten anyone’s head. That the runners who’d taken a mint last night hadn’t taken more than they should. That was my job. Keep the line moving. Safely. Without hassle.

I dialled the burner and called Kyan. We met under the railway arch. He was early. Good. Bloke never learnt how to be casual when he was waiting. New on the payroll. Had initiative. Knew what he was getting in for. And he dropped the carrier bag, no drama. I peered inside at the folded notes. Then counted fast while keeping my eyes on his face. He tried to look bored. He wasn’t.

“You got caught in the Hamlets,” I said. Statement, not question. Tyler’d already told me Kyan had gone across the border. “Why you hanging there?”

“Some old geezer offered double, yeah?” He swallowed. “Had to take it.”

See, that’s the thing most don’t get. They think this game’s freedom. Fast cash, no boss breathing down their neck. But it’s the same as any job. There’s a chain. A system. And I’m the one holding their leash so Cormac don’t yank mine. And we start dealing on someone else’s block — Ghost’s block — that’s not just greed, that’s war. One wrong move and it’ll bring heat, bullets, or both.

I stepped in close so he could see I meant it. “You had orders. You take double without asking, that’s you making choices that ain’t yours to make.”

He looked small for a second. “I know. Sorry.”

“Rules.”

“Yeah. Sorry, Razor. I’ll call you next time.”

“Good. Can I trust you?”

“Yeah. Course.”

I handed him the matchbook. The one with the sample Luca dropped last night tucked inside. Ghost’s gear. Whatever love-letter they were handing out at The Yard. “This goes to Tyler. By two. No stops. You get caught, you get fags.”

It’s boring, that bit of procedure, but it’s important. You don’t move new stuff in blind. You test the cut, check the weight, see if it’s poison or bait. You send it to someone you trust. A kid with a nose, a mate who’s been on kits long enough to tell the difference. If it’s dodgy, you bin it. If it’s clean, you move smart.

He nodded, and took the matchbook, shoving it deep in his pocket. “I’ll be careful.”

“Don’t be careful because you’re scared of me.” I gave him fifty quid from my take. “Be careful because you don’t want to bury kids ‘cos you were greedy. And get your mum some flowers or summink, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Razor.” He left quick with the look of a kid who’d just been handed responsibility heavier than his shoulders. That’s the job. Keep the line fed and the losses small. Keep loyalty worth what you pay for it.

After that came the supplier check. Short, neutral meet at the caff where Joe locked the doors for us to have handshake deals, quiet talk, a quick sniff for heat. I nodded up at Joe behind the counter reading The Sunday Sport, then went over to Kade and Rowan tucked in the back booth by the window facing the carwash. Kade was mid-thirties, thick-necked, wore danger like a smell. Rowan was younger, lean, all nerves and calculation. They moved weight through Tottenham. Not top dogs, but close enough to hear them bark.

“Morning, Razor,” Kade said as I slid into the seat. “Heard you had a busy one.”

“When ain’t it?” I nodded at the duffel by his feet. “That mine?”