“So we need to convince this guy we’re going to kill him, right.” said Vinnie, pushing the cheap trilby low over his eyes.
“But we’re not,” said Lawson, “Remember that Si…..Sorry, Vinnie. We’re. Just. After. The effin’. Money.”
“For fucks sake…” snapped Vinnie, spinning round.
Lawson raised an eyebrow.
“Wait,” he said.
Now what, thought Lawson, sighing again. Effin’ perishin’ out here.
Vinnie crouched, placing his ‘baccy tin on the floor, sheltering behind his long coat as he made a rollie.
“Got to do things right,” muttered Vinnie as half a pack of papers blew away.
Too much Tony Soprano, thought Lawson shaking his head. Not the right way to do things, all this dress-up and menaces.
The credit-card companies had it right these days. Warm offices. Tea on tap. All recorded messages, automatically telephoning people, twenty-thirty times a day. 24 hours a day, everyday. Now that was the type of collecting he could get used to. Respectable like.
Vinnie stood, adjusted his hat again, put the rollie in the corner of his mouth, scowled, and only then banged on the door.
Eventually, it opened a crack.
“Aaawwww!” said Vinnie, sulkily.
Lawson grinned, and crouched down.
“Hello young man, your daddy not home today?”