I then drove down to a storage warehouse just off the A23 near Haywards Heath and rented a small unit, pulled out about ten grand in cash from the drug fuck, stashed the balance in the unit, then fucked off down to Brighton, where I packed a small suitcase full of clobber, pulled three different passports from my wall safe, donated all my furniture and spare clobber to another pal, then fucked off up to London, where I booked into a hotel just down by Picadilly Circus. When he answered the blower I told him to ask no questions but to go straight down to the American Express building on Regent Street and purchase a hundred grand's worth of US Dollar travellers cheques via their express pick up system. All rights reservedĢ of graft and was just waiting for the say-so on what to do next. Powelly had been gifted fifteen grand on top for the bit Copyright Horace Silver 2013. First thing I suspected was that I probably wouldn't make it past the cash-sniffing drug dogs at Heathrow or US Customs carrying a suitcase full of shit-stinky crooked dough, so I belled celebrity Soho tailor, Mark 'Powelly' Powell, who had in the previous month laundered a hundred grand for me and Longshanks through his WestEnd shop. Luckily I had been prudent enough to keep my Brighton bolt-hole quiet to all but a close few pals, so I gunned my motor towards the coast with my head buzzing like a hornets nest. There were also some other bits and pieces in Brighton that needed attention, before I got on a plane and fucked off to America, in order to get my shattered nut back to some semblance of normality. I had made up my mind that I could afford to swallow the East End stuff and leave it to Longshanks but considered Soho to be mine. There were also numerous freeholds we owned around the Canning Town area, which although didn't bring in much in the way of revenue, had long-term investment potential. Over the previous years I had consolidated mine and Longshanks' Soho properties into various offshore shell companies, run through a mind-boggling web of fake front-men, bent briefs and hookey accountants. 1 I pulled away in my motor, leaving Delroy standing with his prick in his hands, and me with a few hundred grand in the boot, knowing I had to act fast before the shit hit the fan, and that there were still some loose ends that needed to be tied up.
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