A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square Page #3

go wrong, this is where it'll happen.

Don't try to do anything, just call

me and I'll call response centre.

Good night. Thank you.

Good night. Bye. Bye.

Yes, it has all the signs

of the sweetest job ever.

But we've got to get those numbers.

Impossible.

Oh, you can get them. How?

Did you read that piece in the Sun -

about the fellow they put in cold storage?

Cold what? Cold storage.

In a slaughterhouse

off Smithfield Market.

They're a rough group.

He wouldn't cooperate, so they hung

him on a meat hook for a few days.

Big fellow, about your size.

Every now and then

they'd wet him down

and touch him up with an

electric cattle prod.

In the end he cooperated,

but it made ugly reading.

Very ugly.

Get the numbers, Pinky.

So, tell me? What? How's it going?

Great.

Some break, falling on your feet

like that. Yeah.

Ma kills me.

Position of trust, she calls it.

What's funny? She's right.

Tilt?!

DOOR RATTLES:

Hi, Pinky. I thought

I'd got the wrong address.

FAINT CLICKING:

Hello, Pinky. Overtime again?

You must be coining it, mate.

Didn't see you

at the football last week, Pinky.

Move your arse, Pinky.

Do you fancy Mohawk in the 3.30?

If you want to cash a cheque

you've got 14 hours. Cash a cheque?

I'm only here for the ride.

Ivan's downstairs with two experts.

In an ADVISORY capacity, he said.

Yeah, I've seen him.

Hey...what's with Ivan?

What's he trying to prove?

It's life, innit?

It's like horse racing. Study the form,

weigh up the odds, take your chance.

If you back a winner,

everyone says how clever you are.

If you back a wrong 'un,

they call you a mug.

Either way, once you start...

you get involved.

Yeah, you're in it. You take Ivan.

He's a thoroughbred.

I mean, he's got class.

Yeah. He's well-bred...

well-schooled - a cert winner.

How did he end up a crook?

He somehow ran off the track.

Can't take a straight course.

You've got these animals

crawling all over the place.

It's a goddamn zoo in that bank.

You have yourself to blame.

Me? When the sh*t hits the fan,

nobody's clean.

I mean, we're going to get caught.

Goons -

you can spot 'em a mile away.

If you'd got the numbers

we'd be in and out.

Definitely. Now it's another

class of caper. No doubt.

Stands to reason. Not having those

numbers alters the tone.

ALL:
Right.

Right.

How can I get the goddamn numbers?

I'm not a mind-reader.

It's out of the question. Then I

advise you to do yourself a favour.

A favour, yeah - like get lost.

Like what did you have in mind?

Like working more double time.

Like working late Friday and

Saturday. Why the hell...? Shut up!

Now, you find out exactly

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