sweet french. peaky blinders

69

Tommy

"You on your own?"

"Seems so."

Tommy straightened his jacket as the two men let go of him. Alfie Solomons stopped in front of him, his work-worn hands stretching to run through his beard. He looked him up and down once, probably noticing his considerably short stature, and then nodded, eyebrows raising as if surprised.

"Well, you're a brave lad, aren't you?" He said as he turned, walking forward, expecting him to follow. "You want to take a look at my bakery? We bake all sorts here mate, yeah. Did you know we bake over 10,000 loaves a week? Can you believe it? We bake the white bread, we bake the brown bread. We bake all sorts. Would you like to try some?"

They walked through his factory, obscured by dim, murky lights, the colour of bog water. Everything was fitting, down to the prison-like stone that paved their way. It was lowkey, inexpensive, the breeding ground for a gangster's wealth. Their footsteps echoed around them, not a worker in sight as Solomons showed him to the next large room, a small table of run laid out waiting.

Alfie nudged his head to the drink. "Bread?"

"Alright."

"Brown or white?"

"I'll try the brown," He said, and Solomons handed him a pre-poured drink. Tommy tipped it back, letting the grimy liquid coat his tongue, and considered it for a moment. "Not bad."

"Not bad, eh?" Alfie barked out a laugh. "It's fucking awful that stuff. The fucking brown stuff is awful. It's for the workers."

"Well, I've heard very bad, bad things about you Birmingham people," Alfie said as he sat down at his desk, leaning flatly against the back of the chair. His face was pulled thin, an amused expression decorating his dark eyes and lips. "You're Gypsies, right? So what, do you live in a fucking tent or caravan?"

Tommy was quiet for a moment, unimpressed. "I came here to discuss business with you, Mr Solomons."

"Well, rum is for fun and fucking, isn't it. So, whiskey, now that is for business," he said loudly, reaching a hand for his desk again.

"Let's talk first, eh?"

"Suit yourself." Solomon took a moment to look him up and down, his gaze lingering particularly on the blood burst eye and blue-tinted skin. "They say you had your life saved by a policeman."

"I have policemen on my payroll."

"I don't like policemen, they can't be trusted."

"Mr Sabini uses policemen all the time. That's why he's winning the war in London and you are losing it."

"A war ain't over till it's over, mate," Alfie shouted, slamming a hand down on the table, restraint in his movements. "You were in the war?" Again, Tommy remained quiet, keeping his watchful stare. "I once carried out my own personal form of stigmata on an Italian. I shoved his face up against the trench and shoved a six-inch nail up his fucking nose. and I hammered it home with a duckboard. It was fucking biblical, mate."

Alfie's breath was ragged. "So don't come here and sit there and tell me that I am losing my war to a fucking wop."

"That war was a long time ago," Tommy said, though to him the events felt like only a yesterday. The dreams and the nightmares kept them fresh on the surface of his memory. "You need to be more realistic."

"Realistic yeah?"

"Well if you weren't losing the war, then you wouldn't have sent me the telegram."