The Falling Man

Chapter 28

Tommy POV

As I head to Alfies warehouse, I am going over the conversation with Ethel in my head. I had said the wrong thing and she had gotten quite upset. But I didn't fully understand why she got so angry so as to kick me out of her pub. Her words of well I don't want you to pierced like a knife to the heart. I'm not good for her, I remind myself. I couldn't help the desire within in to be near her as much as possible though.

I arrive to the doors of the warehouse with Alfies assistant waiting for me. "Put him down Ollie, put him down. He's only little." I hear a man say, I turn to see a hobbling Alfie walking towards me. I had been in the same room as Alfie only once, the night of Gertrude's birthday party; but I had not spoken to him as I was quite occupied with another person. "You on your own?" Alfie asks. I puff on my cigarette and look behind me, "Seems so." "Well, you must be a trusted lad, if my wife's brothers are sending you to talk to me about the business." Alfie replies as he starts to turn to walk away.

"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?" Alfie turns around asking me. I look down to the table of drink we have stopped at and stiffle a laugh. "Bread? Yeah?" Alfie says. "All right." I respond with a slight shake of my head and amused grin. "What would you like, brown or white?" The man asks me. "Try the brown." I respond. "Brown, right." Alfie says. As the man behind the table starts to pour some in the glasses set in front of the many bottles.

I take a sip as Alfie observes me. "Not bad." I respond. "Not bad, eh? Not bad? It's fucking awful, that stuff. Fucking brown stuff, it's horrible. It's for the workers. Yeah. The white stuff, now that is for the bosses. Come, look." He says walking away once again. We walk around the distillery a bit as he shows me around before we make way to his office.

"Well, I've heard very bad, bad, bad things about people from Birmingham. Tsk, tsk. Eh? You're gypsies, right? So what do you live in, a fucking tent or a caravan?" Alfie asks me as I light a cigarette. "I came here to discuss business with you, Mr. Solomon's." I tell the man while clearing my throat. "Well, rum is for fun and fucking, isn't it? So, whisky, now that, that is for business." He says clapping his hands and reaching in his drawer to bring out a bottle. "Let's talk first, eh?" I say to him. He sits the bottle down and scratches his face observing me.

"Suit yourself. They say you had your life saved by our Ray." Alfie states. "And some of my men as well." I respond. "Well, I don't like your men because gypsies, they can't be trusted." He responds. "Mr. Sabini used to use Coppers all the time. That's why he's winning the war in London and you are losing it." I say changing the subject to the man as he slightly clenches his fist. "A war ain't over till it's over, mate...You were in the war." He says before opening the drawer once again and looking around the room.

"I once carried out my own personal form of stigmata on an Italian. I pushed 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. So don't come in here and sit there in my chair and tell me that I'm losing my war to a fucking wop." He states. "That war was a long time ago. You need to be more realistic." I respond calmly. Alfie slams the drawer shut and leans forward on his desk. "Realistic, yeah? Realistic?" He asks staring me down. "Well, if you weren't losing the war, then you wouldn't have agreed on the alliance." I say sticking my cigarette in my mouth, taking a long puff, holding eye contact with the man.

"Really? You forget your fucking need for the alliance. You know, at my wife's party, which you attended, you didn't even come say hello. It's very simple to come over and shake a man's hand...You need me for something...What?" Alfie asks me. "We joined forces..." I start before he interupts with, "Fuck off. No! I don't want to be joined with your forces anymore. Categorical. Fucking ridiculous." Alfie says leaning back. I take a breath now leaning forward on his desk, slightly wincing from the pain in my ribs. "Mr. Solomon's. Your distillery provides one-tenth of your income. Protection is another 10% and the rest you make from the race tracks, including the one we own together." As I say this Alfie opens his drawer once again while sending me a side eye, I sit back sighing.