THE HEIST

by Grant Bremner

Billy heard his mobile phone beep indicating that he had received a text. Opening his mobile he navigated to the incoming message page and read its content. 'Wow, Mr. Big wants to see us, says we're to meet him at his place in an hour,' he said enthusiastically.

'Hey that's great, any idea what he wants to see us for?' asked Fred excitedly.

'No you idiot, it just says to meet him, nothing else,' replied Billy tersely to his long time friend.

'Could be a big job then if he hasn't said what it's about, likes to keep things close to his chest, does Mr. Big,' stated Fred hopefully.

'The last job we did for him we only got a fiver each, remember?'

'Course I remember, he said he was quite pleased with the results,' said Fred proudly.

'Yes, well I seem to remember that you broke the radio antenna when we cleaned his Jaguar and that's why we only got a fiver, between us,' said Billy as he recalled the incident with the aerial.

'It was an accident, the shammy got caught. Anyway, he must have forgotten about that or he wouldn't be wanting us for a job. Am I right or wrong?' Fred retorted.

'Well he wants to see us, that's all the text said, nothing more, so don't get intoxicated with the idea that we're now in the big league. For all we know he might be wanting his rubbish bins washed out or something.' Billy was a realist through three years of experience since he'd left school at the age of sixteen. He'd had a few jobs during that time but he'd spent more waiting outside the dole office than working.

Mr Big was not his real name, he'd been christened Reginald Rollins at the age of eight, his parents just hadn't gotten around to it as they spent the majority of their lives drunk, they were both alcoholics. Reginald quickly had to learn how to fend for himself or starve. At the age of six he was a proficient scavenger, an expert in selecting the right kind of dustbins to search. By the time he was into his teens he was the local celebrity, everybody knew Reginald, pub landlords, restaurant owners and even the local police were aware of his illegal exploits. It was when he was approaching his twenty-fifth birthday having just been released from prison after serving a two year stretch for robbery that he assumed the title Mr. Big. He was not a big man, his growth had been stunted due to the irregular nature of his feeding habits as a growing boy. In his imported Italian leather shoes he stood a magnificent five feet four inches. However, such was his influence over the territory he ruled, nobody felt it necessary to query either his stature or his new chosen name.

'I really don't know why you want to see those two idiots, Mr. Big, they're nothing but trouble,' stated Barney truthfully as he placed a glass of whisky carefully on the table. 'Neither of them can hold down a job for more than a couple of weeks.'

Mr. Big looked at his right hand man and wondered why on earth he had ever chosen him, it certainly wasn't for his brains. Barney was an ex-boxer in the welter weight class and he weighed no more today than he did in his not so illustrious boxing career, he tipped the scales at just over eight stone. Most bodyguards are usually employed because of their size and their ability to punch the living daylights out of anyone who causes offence to the boss. Not so in Barney's case, he'd try and succeed in beating them to death with sarcasm.

'Yes I know they are a couple of wasters Barney but they are very cheap wasters and that's what I like about them,' stated Mr. Big decidedly.

'What job do the want the losers to undertake then?' enquired Barney guardedly.

'I want them to nick Jimmy Henderson's racing pigeon and keep it hidden for a few hours, that's all,' replied Mr. Big genially.

'So you've obviously got your money on another bird then.'

'Indeed I do, and I want to ensure that it's my bird that is first past the post as it were, I have a lot of money riding on this,' stated Mr. Big brightly as he looked Barney directly in his eyes. 'Twenty thousand to be precise.'

'Wow! That's a lot of dosh to put on a bird, a horse maybe, but a bird...... Mr. Big?' Barney left the question hanging.'

'I have pre race odds of nine to one on my bird, won its last three races but then it wasn’t up against Mr. Henderson's pigeon, it's won the last three races it's been entered in. Now if it fails to turn up my odds are still the same and I'm on a sure winner,' he concluded matter-of-factly.

'And you still want to trust them two bozos to do the job?' Barney was aghast.

Mr Big. swirled the contents of his glass around gently, raised it and finished his drink. 'It's a bird, in a pigeon loft, in somebody’s back garden, no problem Barney, stop worrying, they will be fine, you mark my words.

* * *

Joe Henderson had caught the early morning train from Newcastle Upon Lyme and had arrived in Leeds at eleven forty leaving him plenty of time to have a sandwich and a beer in his favourite Leeds pub, the Mended Drum, the start of the race was not due for a couple of hours. Normally he'd have sent his son, Brian, to Leeds to release the pigeon to fly back home but he'd other reasons for making the trip himself. He slung his well worn leather box containing his pigeon timer clock over his shoulder, picked up the cage with his pigeon inside and began walking towards the pub. He'd heard that there were going to be some members, including committee members of the North of England Homing Union, present today who'd been discussing the name of his pigeon at their last meeting and he was looking forward to meeting them. He had named his pigeon Homer Bart and apparently one or two members had thought it was in rather bad taste, having assumed that 'Bart' referred to that awful boy in the Simpsons. Whereas, in truth, Joe's father had been christened Bartholomew and he had named this particular pigeon after his father. Homer Bart had won its last three races so Jo didn't really care what other folk thought about the name. As he neared the pub Joe wondered just how much he would wager on his pigeon coming in first yet again.

* * *

'Fifty quid, he said he'd give us fifty quid each, just for pinching a bird for a few hours, this is our lucky day Billy,' Fred said enthusiastically.

'We should have asked for more but you nearly fell at his feet thanking him as soon as he mentioned the fifty, we could've got a hundred easy but for your stupid mouth,' said Billy harshly.

'Hey! Come on Billy, fifty is not to be sniffed at and I don't have a stupid mouth, I just get excited, okay?'

'Yea, alright, so what are we going to do with the pigeon when we snatch it?' We can't just walk about the street carrying a huge birdcage, can we?' asked Billy still feeling let down by his best mate.

'I don't know. We can't go to my house, my mum's home, she got the sack last week and she hates birds,' said Fred wondering if his mum might have another uncle staying when he eventually got home.

'Right then it will have to be my place, my dad will be home and in a bad mood as usual, so we'll say we're looking after the pigeon for a friend is he asks, okay?' Billy's dad had been on the dole for the past five years.

'We don't have any friends Billy, so you'd better make up a name' said Fred dejectedly.

'Fine, I'll do that if he asks. Look there's the Mended Drum over there. Mr. Big said the pigeons will be round the back, isn't this exciting Fred?' Our first real job,' enthused Billy as he let his eyes survey the scene.

* * *

'When will you get the result of the race?' Barney enquired.

'Later this evening, the pigeons are flying back to Newcastle Upon Lyme, that's nearly a hundred miles you know,' replied Mr. Big informatively and wondered, as he often did, if Barney had any brains at all.

'I know how far it is, you don't have to treat me like an idiot all the time you know,' said Barney gruffly before adding, 'You're not so damned clever yourself.'

'Now now Barney, just remember who pays your wages, that situation can easily change you know. Now get me another drink,' ordered Mr. Big who if the truth be known was getting slightly edgy about the teenagers ability to steal the pigeon.

Suddenly the first four notes of Beethoven's fifth symphony could be heard coming from Mr. Big's mobile phone. 'Mr. Big here,' he said answering it on the second ring tone and listening to the caller. 'They put the pigeons round the back of the pub, go and have a look, I'll wait.' After about thirty seconds had elapsed he spoke again. 'Good, now if you look they have the names of the birds on the travelling cages, the one you want is Homer Bart, remember I gave you the name earlier.' Several more seconds passed by. 'Look just pick it up and get the hell out of there, if there's nobody about they'll be tucking into their beer and sandwiches, just make sure that you're not seen, holy smoke, what a pair,' he said as he switched off the mobile phone.

'That them two bright lads eh!' smirked Barney with a broad smile.

'Where's my damned drink,' retorted Mr. Big angrily.

* * *

'He said the one we want is Homer Bart, hell's teeth there must be at least fifteen cages on them trestle tables,' remarked Billy as he looked into the rear car-park of the Mended Drum.

'Well you take one row and I'll do the other and whoever sees it, nicks it, right,' said Fred helpfully.

'Right, let's go,' said Billy as he ran into the car-park and began looking at the names of the pigeons in their travelling cases. He didn't have to go very far as the one he was looking for he found situated at position number three on the first row. 'I've got it,' he shouted rather loudly to Fred as he picked up the case containing the pigeon and legged it out of the car-park as fast as his legs would carry him.

'I'm right behind you,' shouted Fred, grateful that he hadn't found the case and pleased that nobody appeared to be following them.

'Well that was easier than we thought,' said Billy once he had managed to get his breath back from running. 'Here you carry this for a while, it's bloody heavy.'

Fred gave a sigh and took hold of the travelling pigeon case. 'It is I bit,' he agreed as he hoisted it up and down a couple of times. 'Here, why don't we have a drink and something to eat before we go to your place, we're well away from the Mended Drum and the Lucky Duck is just around the corner.'

After running for nearly half a mile Billy was quite exhausted and agreed readily. 'Good idea Fred, we could even afford pie and mash,' he said slowly as he regained his breath.

They spent about forty minutes in the Lucky Duck eating their pies and mash with extra onion gravy, pleased with their morning's work. They thought that Mr. Big would be very pleased that they had managed to kidnap the pigeon and that it could lead to possible further work. Feeling replete they set off for Billy's home, they'd been told to keep the bird for at least three hours.

They were not more than twenty yards from the Lucky Duck when Billy spotted PC Armstrong sauntering down the street it their direction. 'Damn it Fred, look there's that rozer that did us the last time,' said Billy anxiously.

'Let's leg it,' suggested Fred.

'No, he'll see us, wait a minute, look, there's a load of pigeons up there flying past. Let the pigeon out of the case, come on Fred be quick about it. What can he say to us if we've only got a case eh?'

Fred glanced at PC Armstrong getting ever closer, bent down quickly and pulled open the door of the case, Homer Bart flew out and headed directly towards the other pigeons, albeit some distance behind. 'Wow! Look at the bird go.'

By the time PC Armstrong reached the boys they were both perched on top of the travelling pigeon case. 'Afternoon lads, I trust that you've been behaving yourselves,' he said amiably as he walked and continued on his route.

'Jeez that was close,' said Billy as he wiped his brow. 'I had better ring Mr. Big and tell him the news.

'Suppose so,' concluded Fred.

* * *

'You phone is ringing,' stated Barney after hearing the first four notes of Beethoven's fifth for the fifth time.

'I know, I was in the toilet,' said Mr. Big as he sat down at his desk and answered his phone. Mr. Big here.'

'Mr. Big, this is Billy again, we got the pigeon no trouble but then after a bit of lunch we spotted PC Armstrong so we had to get rid of the bird,' said Billy cautiously as he wondered how Mr. Big would react.

'Good lad, as long as you got rid of the bird then there's no evidence,' said Mr. Big to a relieved Billy.

'What exactly did you do with it?' Mr. Big enquired easily as thoughts of his winnings flooded his mind.

'Oh well, that's the clever bit Mr. Big, there was a bunch of other pigeons flying by so we let Homer Bart out of his case and boy you should have seen that pigeon fly.................. Hello Mr. Big,.....Are you there Mr. Big, Mr Big.......................'

The End