The Chicken Suit, Page 3

sky. Well he’d wiped his feet on her for the last time, now he was going to get his comeuppance.

  Nor did she tell Jack that one of the big shot clients was non other than Diamond Del Deangelo, the Southwark bling king who’s jewellers shop was a front for his far more lucrative activity fencing other people’s tom, or how, when he’d had a few too many, her big mouth husband bragged aboutlaundering Diamond Del’s millions and pocketing a wedge for himself.

  Diamond Del who regular as clockwork took a freshly laundered hundred grand to the bank each week in a black bin liner and stopped off for a bite at the Big Boy Burger Bar en route. Neither did Mavis feel the need to confide that she had, this very morning, lifted the floorboard under the Persian rug in the drawing room and helped herself to hubby’s stash or that a book she had just read on her Kindle, South Bank Blue, The Reckoning, had quickened her resolve to kick over the traces. No, Mavis Davis, at a certain age felt herself entitled to a few secrets!

  “How about a Fiesta,” Jack was saying, settling into his stride, “economical, easy to park, runs sweet as a nut, or maybe the Focus over there, lovely shade of blue, don’t you think? A ladies car if ever I saw one, I’ll even throw in a twelve month warranty, parts and labour, of how about a low mileage Polo, can’t beat bullet proof German engineering. That little Corsa? Very tidy motor, one careful owner, full service history, not so much as a scratch. Whatever you fancy,” he spread his hands; “take it for a test drive. ”

  Mavis batted her lashes, gave him a dazzling smile and pointed to the Mark Three. “I’ll take that one,” she said.

  Jack Bowen grimaced. “Ah. . no. . I don’t think so, not unless you’re into rally driving or drag racing. ”

  The smile didn’t waver, “My mind’s made up,” she said.

  “Be too hot to handle, “ Jack explained, trying not to sound patronising, “be no good for shopping. Now how about a Toyota or a Honda Jazz?”

  “Yes I know the spec,” Mavis cut him off, “two point eight with a limited slip diff and a blower, and who said anything about shopping?”

  Standing there in the sunshine, shuffling his feel on the oil streaked tarmac, Jack Bowen felt the deal tilt. Maybe Mavis Davis was just a tyre kicker after all. He glanced at his watch and butterflies fluttered in his stomach. He didn’t have much time left to call Wayne’s bluff.

  “But it’s just an old eighties hot rod,” Charlie waved a hand towards the Capri trying to keep the panic out of his voice, “a Beach Boys boulevard cruiser, a café racer. Believe me you’d be much better off with something sensible like that Punto,” he pointed out the Fiat, “got all the power you’d ever need. ” Desperation was creeping in, “Tell you what, you like that one, I’ll throw in a year’s MOT and free insurance, can’t say fairer than that. ”

  But Mavis Davis wasn’t impressed. She had the door of the Mark Three open and was peering inside, running an eye over the Recaro buckets, slipped easily behind the wheel and gave Jack the eyeball challenge. “You said I could take her for a test drive. ”

  Jack Bowen sighed, what the hell, might as well go for broke; clipped on the trade plates cursing his luck. Not just another tyre-kicker, but a nutter to boot.

  Mavis started the engine, listened to the growl as the Garret spooled into life, jiggled the pedals and blasted out of the compound like a stock car driver, laying rubber. Pinned back in his seat, Jack caught a glimpse of Jason’s startled face as they roared past. Mavis pulled out into the traffic and gave the old Ford the gun. Under the spurs, the blower howled like a banshee and the Mark Three took off, rocked assisted. Jack clutched his seat, white knuckled as they duelled with the traffic, the needles winding around. Holy Cow, the tyre-kicker was a natural!

  Twenty minutes later, back at the pride of Yama Motors, safe inside his prefab office, Jack Bowen tried to stop his legs from shaking and with sneaking admiration for her skill behind the wheel asked: “Where did you learn to drive like that?”

  Mavis took the chair across the desk. “Just an old time rally driver,” she replied, “crewed for a few of the big names once upon a time when you had to drive by the seat of your pants and the only traction control was your right foot. ” Raised her eyes to the half open cupboard behind him and asked; “what’s the fancy dress for?”

  Jack glanced around, saw the chicken suit hanging there; embarrassment glued his tongue. “Ah, it’s just an old chicken suit,” he said and for no reason he could explain began to tell her about his heyday, when he and John Tully had hit on the idea of training the Lomax Ford salesmen by dressing them up as chickens. “When you look as stupid as a chicken, all you’ve got left is your wits. That’s how we taught vain young men in sleek mohair suits the kind of self confidence you need to sell motor cars. ” Felt his tank drain down until he was running on empty.

  Mavis Davis clapped her hands, her eyes twinkling. “I was a hippy chick back in those days, would you believe it, on the road with Jack Kerouac; kaftan and beads, love and peace. They call ‘emselves New Agers now, but they’re still Ken Kesey’s ‘merry pranksters’ with their protest camp outside St Paul’s and all that bash a banker rage against the system. I bet a man with a chicken suit could do well in the protest movement. ”She laughed out loud and then announced, “don’t look so miserable, the Capri will do me nicely,” delved into her Jimmy Choo and came up with a fat bundle of twenties, peeled off a couple of grand in front of his eyes; “so do we have a deal?”

  Jack stole a glance at his watch. It was a quarter to twelve and the sands were running out. This crazy lady was his last chance to hang onto his safe and boring job. He pulled the Yama Motors Used Vehicle sales pad with the no-comebacks clause in the fine print out of his drawer, scribbled in the details, ripped off the top copy and handed it over. Somewhere overhead he could hear John Tully chuckle.

  Mavis Davis was admiring the juke box, watching the aurora flicker in the tubes. Before he walked her out to the car she pressed one of the buttons. Behind them The Trogs belted out Wild Thing.

  With minutes to go Jack Bowen strode back through the glitz of the showroom and threw the sales slip and the Judas money onto Wayne’s desk. A deal was a deal and even the slippery fruit of John Tully’s loins couldn’t renege. The witch glowered: “There’ll be another day, Bowen, you’re still history. ”

  That afternoon Jack slumped in his office playing old tunes. The Big Bopper sang Chantilly Lace, Buddy Holly serenaded Peggy Sue. Even Jason gave him a wide berth. The bangers sat gathering dust on the lot, the space where the Mark Three had lounged now empty, like the gap in a leer of rotting teeth. Reprieved, Jack Bowen felt no joy; back safely inside his shell he despised himself.

  The chicken man moved no more metal that day. At half past five he abandoned the clutter of paperwork, locked the miserable office to which he had shackled his life, went out through the back gate in the chain link fence, got into his ten year old Golf and fired up the diesel. The CD he’d left in the slot came on with the ignition. Springsteen wailed Nebraska.

  As he drove home Jack remembered that the house in one of the better parts of Bermondsey would be empty. Ever the social climber, Betty would be flower arranging with the WI or hobnobbing with her bowls buddies. Jack picked up fish and chips on the way, let himself in and went through to the kitchen, opened the cabinet and poured himself a stiff gin and tonic, eating his supper out of the paper. He turned on the TV perched on the worktop and caught the London Tonight news. Street scene, blue and white police tape, cops milling about, a breathless reporter describing how a seemingly eminently respectable middle aged woman nursing a latté in a booth at the Big Boy Burger Bar had suddenly jumped to her feet brandishing not one but two sawn off shotguns, had blasted holes the size of footballs in the ceiling, calmly reloaded and as the customers dived for cover under the tables had strolled across to where a regular, identified by eye witnesses as local jeweller Diamond Del Deangelo was grabbing a late lunch; had scooped up a black plastic bin liner and calmly walked
out to her car parked just down the street. Then, instead of taking off, she had waited with the engine idling for the first police units to arrive in a cacophony of sirens before laying rubber. In the ensuing chase, three police cars had been wrecked and the gun toting shooter now dubbed “Granny Oakley” by a gleeful media had vanished without trace. The reporter paused to draw breath as the camera followed a pair of paper suited SOCOs into the Burger Bar, and then revealed that police were studying street CCTV but were at a loss to attribute a motive to the shooting. Diamond Del had declined to be interviewed, but police were appealing for anyone spotting the getaway car, described as an old Ford Capri to call Crimestoppers. There followed a series of interviews with local worthies deploring street crime and the decline of the neighbourhood but they couldn’t disguise a sneaking regard for the mystery woman who had injected a little vicarious excitement into their day.

  Cod and chips growing greasy cold, Jack Bowen followed all this at first with amazement and then with an expanding heart as he experienced his own epiphany. Mavis Davis and the old Mark Three, had to be. Fished in his pocket for the business card she had returned to him with her mobile number