Big Vince

Big Vince, as local vernacular had christened the corpulent cabbie,
wedged into his regular table at the antiquated Hackney caf? where he
always met his 2:00 Wednesday pick-up, and flipped indifferently
through his Daily Mirror.

"Usual fry-up, Vince?" rasped Maureen, the morose, elderly
waitress.

"Yeah - why not?" he responded in guttural Cockney tones, "and a pot of
Rosie. Oh, and make sure me eggs are nice and runny this time, Mo! They
was all congealed yesterday."

His doctor would have despaired, could he see him. He told Vince to
drastically curb his cholesterol intake after the last heart attack.
The same doc had advised him to cut out the fags as well - but you're
entitled to a few pleasures in life, he reflected, snapping open his
dear old granddad's silver cigarette case and lighting a Malboro.

As Maureen stomped off, tutting, Vince lolled somewhat wheezily into
the padded khaki seat and, bored with his newspaper, scrutinised his
fellow diners through mean, keen little eyes that never missed a trick.
The shoals of lunchtime punters either avoided his gaze altogether or
smiled with nervous respect before returning to their chips. Everyone
knew Big Vince - or knew of him.

He cut a distinctive figure, attired in casual, ill-fitting but
menacing black, with his receding grey hair and sausagey lips. Despite
his great weight and waning health, he possessed a muscular bulk that,
along with bloated eyelids and contorted nose, were legacies of the
boxing career he entered after an adolescence spent in and out of
borstal.

When his dreams of world heavyweight titles failed to materialise,
Vince hung up his gloves and became a taxi driver. At fifty-four, he
liked to think his active involvement in villainy was behind him, but
on occasions - like 2pm on Wednesdays - his job brought him into
unnerving contact with former associates....