“Alright lads, you know what to do, make the rounds from Newham Way and Rainham, to the

arches by Woodford Bridge—and don't forget old Carl by the arches; on riverside. Thompson, you see
to old Carl, he likes you, a good christian boy— you bring your bible? Good, nice touch. And, Danny,
three-pound for each puke; I know you a got a thing for that young Slovak girl, no special treatment for
chissake; more for one is less for another, and I don't need another death on my hands—you all know
the routes; drive them in, towards the tramways if you can. Danny you're switched with Taylor this
week. What?—Yes—A bereavement. His sister, or something.”
Orders barked by Superintendent Smith, above the jingling, exchanging, emptying and
assessing of loose bags of change of all denominations. Some, finding their pockets too burdensome,
exchanged their coins of lesser value, for 50 pence, one-pound, and two-pound coins. Whilst those
attired in heavy equipage—trench coats; baggy tight-fitting trousers, Burberry wool duffle coats, e&c
— submitted themselves, like pack mules to a heavier load, compelled by an unspoken social contract.
Gruff faces. Unblinking eyes, avoiding contact. Magpie fingers, deftly swooping upon a stack of coins;
or else, by grunting, and crude signaling; trading, exchanging, and then departing from the dank,
subterranean storehouse.

London, January, 2018. It was Larry Parson's first day on the job. Before his arrival, he was
given only two instructions: ask no questions; memorize your route. It was one of London's poorer,
East-end, districts: Barking-and-Dagenham. Brown, faceless, brutalist buildings carved out the skyline.
It was impossible to discern a prison, from a warehouse; a shopping complex from a low-rise block of
flats. The weather was equally grim.
He walked toward Canning Town, his first port-of-call, the heaps of coins in his pockets rang
out like sleigh-bells, he stopped for a moment to more equally distribute his load. He remembered
Superintendent Smith's orders: approach any beggar you see; befriend them; tell them, if you see them
again, you would gladly help. But this is not your usual route. It's usually in a place, somewhere
between, to and from work, you see? Someplace towards the city-center—Set a place. Hand over 3-
pound. Smile. Befriend. Repeat tomorrow. Simple enough.
It wasn't long before Larry arrived that saw his first target, a middle-aged woman, wrapped in a
dirty purple bubble coat, seated cross-legged, by a ATM machine; her blonde, uncombed hair falling
moppishly over a McDonald's cup; as her her eyes fixed imploringly to the line of patrons. In the words
of Smith, she was a genuine puke.
Larry took a moment to steel his nerves, to survey the situation. Finally, he took an orderly
queue a the back of the line; 3 minutes later, he withdrew 10-pound from his Barclaycard Black
account; credit limit, £100,000.
“What a lovely dog, is that a Burmese mix?” inquired Larry, fixing a smile, both affectionate
and charmed.
“Aye, she's an half-breed, like me, I'm 'alf-Greek. She's called, Mindy, 'ad her since, well, ages;
love her, don't I? You old bitch!” She scuffed the neck of her dog affectionately, loving rapture shone
out through broken teeth.
“I had a Burmese once, lovely dogs! He walked off a cliff. Yes. I know, god! I loved old
Bassoon. Thing is, a lot of people believe they're good on all terrains, on the fact of them being rescue
dogs; but they have a lot of blind-spots, they can lose lose their orientation quiet easily.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. Won't fear that for Mindy, 'round here,” she laughed.
“Look, here's 3-pound,” Larry dropped his payload, “I would give you more, gladly. Only I'm
in a bit of a bind today, you see? I work at Linton's, the fabric place in town. If you're ever down
Longbridge Road, you know, near the city-center; I'm sure, I could see you everyday, and help out a
little, you know?”
“God bless you, sir” said the beggar woman, beaming “Where's that, Longbridge Road? Oh,
aye, a' know the place.”
 “Yes, just catch me at 8.30 in the morning, or 5 after work. My name's, Carl”
“Alright, Carl. I'm Roxanne. Appreciate that. Aye, made m' day that has. Thank you, sir!”
“No problem—you take care now,” Larry waved, good-naturally, and walked off towards East
Ham, whistling.
Suddenly, a nauseous feeling, stopped him dead in his tracks. Had he, Larry Parson, been duped
into charitable work? Something so execrable and alien to his class and nature?
He recalled how, Sam Bridges, his associate, assured him everything would be explained in due
time; that the secrecy was all that part of the game—for him to figure out.

Larry, had worked as a sleuth, and private investigator for rich clients; suspicious wives; pinch-
fisted husbands with cheating wives; divorce settlements; relatives, gaming for any advantage in
inheritance disputes. Well paid, and good clean, honest, dirty work.
Sam Bridges, couldn't refrain from chuckling down the phone, when he called, and said: “Look,
Larry. I got this quirky job for you, it doesn't pay too good. But I know you're not easing into retirement
too good—you're bored. You got a mind for figuring stuff out. Try to get to the bottom of it. I'll give
you two, days—hell, I'll give you a week!”

He