Denny?’
‘Denny?’ Artie looked at him. ‘What about Denny?’
‘Hasn’t that wily oriental got black money tucked away ready to go to the cleaners … Maybe a loan, or an investment?’
‘Well, how about that?’ Artie said to Steve.
Steve had a drink. ‘He wouldn’t lend it,’ he said.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘How would you guarantee he got it back?’
‘An investment, then.’
‘Denny invests in stuff he knows about. Jeans.’
‘That’s all?’ Artie said, and let a small silence develop.
On his quarterly trips to Hong Kong and other parts, Denny handled stuff other than jeans. The money resulting from this stuff was the kind that needed cleaning up. It wasn’t money that actually went into a bank anywhere.
They thought about this. Blue Stuff was Denny’s one retail outlet – a prestigious Chelsea one, to keep him in touch with the fashion end of the trade – but his basic business was that of importer and wholesaler. His warehouse was at Wembley, where Denny also lived. A Chinese partner ran the warehouse.
Steve was so sure it was a non-starter, he couldn’t even bother arguing.
But he thought it funny that Frank should have pushed the idea so hard; and that Artie should have gone along with it.
They both knew Denny.
15
‘I TELL you, never be manufactuler. All the time headache,’ Denny said. He was tapping his own neat head. He applied himself to the tape measure again. ‘Twenty-seven, twenty-seven-half, twenty-eight. Ah? See yourself.’
Steve had a try, and then Stanley and Wendy. The flare of the jeans worked out variously between twenty-seven and twenty-eight inches.
‘Dow!’ Denny said. He kicked out with his right foot, the only suggestion so far that he was delighted and not in a towering rage. Never easy to tell with Denny.
‘That van is hooting a lot out there,’ Wendy said.
Not only the van; several cars, unwisely stuck behind it, were also hooting. The King’s Road was busy at eleven in the morning .
‘Won’t hoot long. All back!’ Denny said.
‘What – aren’t we trying the rest?’ Stanley said.
‘All back. What they think – Oxford Stleet?’ Denny said. ‘King’s Load here. Extleme fashion. All back. Shit!’
The three assistants repacked the few samples measured and put them back in the cartons. Steve and Stanley had carried in six of the cartons, weighing damn near a hundred pounds apiece. They carried them back out again, and after an altercation with the van-man returned to find Denny impassively kicking out with his foot again.
It had certainly put him in a good mood, Steve saw, and he cheered up. Denny did this from time to time, trying out the cheaper English manufacturers against his own imports. If the stuff came up to specification he took it in good part, even though it cost him more.
There was a reckless gambler’s quality to him that was quite engaging. He moved with a little lurching walk like some buccaneer of the China Seas. His egg-smooth face with its tiny nose puckered occasionally, but whether with uncontrollable anger or sudden hilarity it was impossible to say. The foot was the thing to watch for, or the sudden fist bunched in the air.
He was going about now saying ‘Dow!’
‘Denny,’ Steve said, ‘I wonder if I could have a chat with you today.’ It was Friday, when Steve worked all day.
‘Not more lise? Had lise.’
‘Not a rise, Denny. Business matter, actually.’
‘Business, fine. You want to come in full time, Steve?’
‘Well, actually what I wanted –’
‘Good boy, Steve. I watch you. Make small joke. Good salesman always make small joke. You want that, Steve?’
‘Certainly like to think about it, Denny,’ Steve said, removing a denim cap from his head. Denny had a funny way of trying out his stock on the staff as he spoke. ‘But what I wanted to discuss at the moment –’
‘Crever boy. Come here one moment.’ Denny was nodding him into a corner. ‘How you rike I make manager? I
‘Denny?’ Artie looked at him. ‘What about Denny?’
‘Hasn’t that wily oriental got black money tucked away ready to go to the cleaners … Maybe a loan, or an investment?’
‘Well, how about that?’ Artie said to Steve.
Steve had a drink. ‘He wouldn’t lend it,’ he said.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘How would you guarantee he got it back?’
‘An investment, then.’
‘Denny invests in stuff he knows about. Jeans.’
‘That’s all?’ Artie said, and let a small silence develop.
On his quarterly trips to Hong Kong and other parts, Denny handled stuff other than jeans. The money resulting from this stuff was the kind that needed cleaning up. It wasn’t money that actually went into a bank anywhere.
They thought about this. Blue Stuff was Denny’s one retail outlet – a prestigious Chelsea one, to keep him in touch with the fashion end of the trade – but his basic business was that of importer and wholesaler. His warehouse was at Wembley, where Denny also lived. A Chinese partner ran the warehouse.
Steve was so sure it was a non-starter, he couldn’t even bother arguing.
But he thought it funny that Frank should have pushed the idea so hard; and that Artie should have gone along with it.
They both knew Denny.
15
‘I TELL you, never be manufactuler. All the time headache,’ Denny said. He was tapping his own neat head. He applied himself to the tape measure again. ‘Twenty-seven, twenty-seven-half, twenty-eight. Ah? See yourself.’
Steve had a try, and then Stanley and Wendy. The flare of the jeans worked out variously between twenty-seven and twenty-eight inches.
‘Dow!’ Denny said. He kicked out with his right foot, the only suggestion so far that he was delighted and not in a towering rage. Never easy to tell with Denny.
‘That van is hooting a lot out there,’ Wendy said.
Not only the van; several cars, unwisely stuck behind it, were also hooting. The King’s Road was busy at eleven in the morning .
‘Won’t hoot long. All back!’ Denny said.
‘What – aren’t we trying the rest?’ Stanley said.
‘All back. What they think – Oxford Stleet?’ Denny said. ‘King’s Load here. Extleme fashion. All back. Shit!’
The three assistants repacked the few samples measured and put them back in the cartons. Steve and Stanley had carried in six of the cartons, weighing damn near a hundred pounds apiece. They carried them back out again, and after an altercation with the van-man returned to find Denny impassively kicking out with his foot again.
It had certainly put him in a good mood, Steve saw, and he cheered up. Denny did this from time to time, trying out the cheaper English manufacturers against his own imports. If the stuff came up to specification he took it in good part, even though it cost him more.
There was a reckless gambler’s quality to him that was quite engaging. He moved with a little lurching walk like some buccaneer of the China Seas. His egg-smooth face with its tiny nose puckered occasionally, but whether with uncontrollable anger or sudden hilarity it was impossible to say. The foot was the thing to watch for, or the sudden fist bunched in the air.
He was going about now saying ‘Dow!’
‘Denny,’ Steve said, ‘I wonder if I could have a chat with you today.’ It was Friday, when Steve worked all day.
‘Not more lise? Had lise.’
‘Not a rise, Denny. Business matter, actually.’
‘Business, fine. You want to come in full time, Steve?’
‘Well, actually what I wanted –’
‘Good boy, Steve. I watch you. Make small joke. Good salesman always make small joke. You want that, Steve?’
‘Certainly like to think about it, Denny,’ Steve said, removing a denim cap from his head. Denny had a funny way of trying out his stock on the staff as he spoke. ‘But what I wanted to discuss at the moment –’
‘Crever boy. Come here one moment.’ Denny was nodding him into a corner. ‘How you rike I make manager? I