The Camden Tales

72 - Always Find A Song

-=₪ July 1908 ₪=-

Warehouse / Poplar / 4.11pm

"Malka!" Alf called out, his voice echoing through the warehouse as she entered.

Before leaping to his feet to welcome her, Alf had been hunched over the central table, utterly befuddled by the ledger before him. He was merely days into managing his accounts, and the numbers were already a jumbled mess.

"The lads are moaning about their pay being all tosh. Can ya take a gander?"

Making her way over, Malka nodded. Setting her bag down by her feet, she sat across the table as Alf spun the ledger around and slid it towards her before resuming his seat. He observed, relieved, as Malka took up the pencil and immediately set about rectifying his miscalculations.

"I'm pleased yer here 'cause we should talk, right?" he ventured, pausing to invite her to chime in. Yet, she continued to pour over and amend the figures. "It all fell apart so fast, Mal, and I know I didn't do what I said I would, especially with Ishmael. I'm sorry, ya know? About not doin' much about it the past six months, but the continual blocks on the applications were a real blow. I'm outta ideas, and it... well, frankly, it's embarrassing to admit. I wanted ta... well, ya know?"

"It is fine," she murmured, still focused on the ledger. "It will all be resolved soon."

"Right, but about that... I've heard that security at the museum has been beefed up, and I don't really understand what yer plan with... him really entails. You ain't about to climb in his bed and open yer legs, are ya? I know you, Malka, or do you forget?"

As she finished her adjustments, she neatly positioned the pencil in the ledger's central fold and met his gaze across the table.

"I have not forgotten, not even a little bit. Every detail is up here, in the grey," she affirmed, tapping the side of her head.

"What is the plan, really? 'Cause I ain't swallowing what yer selling, and if I'm not, I doubt he is."

"But you know something George does not."

"Right, but... that can't be the plan? Malka, you won't survive that. Let me deal with it."

"That is a very gracious offer; in exchange for what, I wonder?"

Alf gave a noncommittal shrug, an apparent prelude to yet another half-baked proposal. She was utterly weary of revisiting the subject of marriage.

"I will be fine," she asserted, reaching down for her bag.

"They don't all like ya, though, do they? What's that!?" he questioned as she placed the hefty bag on the table.

"I would like it if you processed this for me."

Casting her a wary glance, he hauled the bag across the table and peered inside. It was crammed with an eclectic mix of jewellery.

"What the fuck is this!? You running with another crew!?"

"I have a lot to do, and it will take dough. I need this, Alf. I do not want to borrow from George."

He glanced back into the bag and then at Malka, incredulous. "Ya saying you lifted this alone? Don't get me wrong, you're sharp, but," he scoffed, "Malka... who ya running with?"

"Will you process it, or will you not process it?"

"I can lend ya the cash."

She made a move for the bag, clearly ready to bolt.

"Fine! Alright, I'll sort it, but just this once 'cause I ain't gonna be doin' bloody favours for rival pickpockets."

"Additionally," she began, delving into her pocket.