The Make by Jessie Keane Page A

George too. To think of a kid like this wandering about on the streets. And what had been going on between Alfie and that bastard waving the knife around?
    George lifted a finger to Bert the café owner. ‘Can we get some more toast over here, when you’re ready. And two more teas?’ He had no trouble making himself heard over the hubbub of noise in here. George had a voice like a foghorn – and a laugh like a bronze gong.
    While Bert got busy with the toaster, George thought back and tried to recall what the man in the long black leather coat had been yelling at Alfie before George had decided he was crazy enough to intervene. Something about ‘the man’. That was what the man wanted . . .? It was driving George nuts. He’d drunk hardly a thing that night, but still he couldn’t remember fuck-all. Mostly because he’d been scared right out of his brains.
    ‘Alfie?’ he said.
    There were other patrons in the café; it was a good place, one George and Harry often frequented. It was busy, bustling with life. Outside it was cold, but in here it was hot, everyone talking and laughing and eating, the windows steamed up, the coffee machine hissing and frothing; it felt cosy.
    Alfie looked up at George’s face.
    ‘How old are you, Alfie?’
    This was a point that really bothered George. The boy looked very young. He must be a minor. He shouldn’t be out on his own like this. Shit, anyone could have picked him up, and what George really ought to do was take him to the nearest cop shop, see about getting him home. He had said as much to Alfie earlier this morning, and had been alarmed to find Alfie halfway down the stairs half an hour later. George had caught up with him. ‘No police!’ Alfie had shouted. ‘No police!’ Five minutes more, and the kid would have been out on the streets again, prey for any loitering monster. It made George’s blood run to ice, the thought of that.
    So – no police. Not yet , anyway. That was cool with George. He didn’t want involvement with the filth if he could avoid it, anyway; he’d done dodgy deals around town a few times, fly-pitching and ripping off a few tourists, minor stuff, but it was best to keep a low profile. Alfie was just staring back at George with those big baby-blues that seemed to hold so many secrets. He said nothing.
    ‘Come on, Alf. Straight up, how old are you?’ George persisted.
    ‘Fourteen,’ said Alfie with a quick grin.
    ‘Holy shit .’
    ‘ Kidding ,’ said Alfie with a roll of his eyes at George’s gullibility.
    George tipped his head to one side and looked Alfie in the eye. George played a mean hand of cards. The Doyle poker gene had not passed him by. He was ace at reading people’s reactions, but angel-faced young Alfie flummoxed him. He could read his accent, no problem. Well-bred. Nicely rounded vowels. From a good background, that much was obvious. So what had he been doing, wandering around the dangerous night streets with someone waving a knife in his face?
    ‘Which is it then?’ he asked. ‘Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? What?’
    ‘Seventeen. That’s the God’s honest, George.’
    George stared across at Alfie. ‘You going to tell me what happened with that guy, Alf? The one in the alley?’
    Alfie’s smile dropped away. The shutters went down. He said nothing.
    ‘Alf?’ prompted George gently.
    Alfie exhaled sharply and sat back in his chair. He looked into George’s eyes. ‘Please let me stay, George,’ he said. ‘Please.’
    George pushed back his chair and leaned back too, puffing out his cheeks with exasperation. Bert came and put more toast and tea in front of them. George nodded his thanks and looked at Alfie.
    ‘Seventeen?’ he asked. Alfie could easily pass for younger, with that puckish, elfin, Peter Pan quality, the big eyes, the golden mop of hair; he’d look twenty when he was thirty-five. He’d look fifty when he was ninety.
    Alfie nodded and dived into the toast.
    George felt a smile forming on his face