One Fight at a Time Read Online Free

then yelled onto the mouthpiece. “No no no, you fucking leave me to deal with this.” He slammed the receiver down and stared across the room. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.”
    He got up out of his chair, grabbed his jacket from the bentwood coat stand near the door and left the office.
    Since the war, a series of one way traffic systems had grown like Topsy; devised to make journeys across the city smoother. But Bristol traffic had never been speedy before the blitz, and now the Highways Department was baffled and desperate. A smaller lobby than the citizens who had no roofs over their heads, Nicholson mused, but a bunch of irritating fuckers nonetheless. It took him half an hour to get to Albert Vale. And less than a minute to feel his gorge rising. He parked, got out of the Rover and fell to considering, yet again, what the hell Rodney Pride was doing to repay the city council’s generosity.
    Pride had persuaded the council to sell him three acres of Albert Vale for ‘light industrial’ use. He told Nicholson he intended to build a mini industrial park of warehouses, car workshops and small manufacturing sheds. He must have crooned better than Bing Crosby during his hour in the council chamber, because he got the three acres for a song. As yet, there was no development, save for the new headquarters of Prides Rides .
    Nicholson walked into the office above the garage, stood in front of Pride’s desk and bellowed at him.
    “It’s not what we fucking agreed. And you’re now trying to extort money out of my fucking nephew.”
    The greengrocery in question, was a shop on a disputed corner in Windmill Hill. It had been designated Nicholson territory until such time as Sam no longer had any interest in it. Sam’s brother had handed the shop over to his son in law, who had put the business in his wife’s name and changed the sign above the door.
    Pride leaned back in his leather swivel chair and spread his arms wide.
    “Calm down Sam. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
    “You’re fucking right it won’t.”
    “For God’s sake man, sit down.”
    Nicholson burbled into silence. He sat in the armchair facing the desk.
    “That’s better.” Pride waited until Nicholson was settled. “The place changed hands and one of my associates saw an opportunity. He didn’t know, hell I didn’t know, he was a relative of yours. It’s all been ironed out now, so let’s forgive and forget eh?”
    Nicholson grunted in agreement. Pride beamed at him.
    “Good.”
    He stood up and stepped across the office to a sideboard with a drinks tray on it. He picked up a bottle of malt whiskey.”
    “This is your tipple isn’t it?”
    Nicholson nodded. “Thanks.”
    Pride poured a generous double, handed the glass to Nicholson and moved back to his chair.
    “Now, as you’re here, there’s something I’d like you to take a look at.”
    He pulled out a drawer in his desk, reached into it, produced a sliver snuff box and placed it front of Nicholson.
    “Georgian. Made around 1786, apparently. The hallmark’s underneath.”
    Nicholson put his glass down, picked the box up and turned it over.
    “Where’d you get it from?”
    “Nowhere local. Don’t worry”.
    Nicholson looked across the desk.
    “I got it from a bloke who owed me some money,” Pride said.
    Nicholson turned the box the right way up and opened the lid.
    “Where did he get it?”
    “I’ve no idea.”
    Nicholson gave him his best ‘this is me you’re talking to’ look. Pride reciprocated.
    “Come on Sam... How much?”
    Nicholson closed the lid and put the box back on the desk.
    “On a good day, given the right circumstances... Thirty quid.”
    “Bollocks. It’s worth three times that.”
    “So, take it to Clifton Auctions and let them sell it.”
    Pride grinned across the desk. “Don’t be too clever Sam.”
    Nicholson sucked at his teeth. “I’ll give you thirty-five.”
    “Sixty,” Pride suggested.
    “Forty-five,” Nicholson