Sowerbutt's Wool

Nero nodded. “You asked me about the wool, Mr Sorbay. I found a warehouse where some was being stored. We’re buying up the whole Australian clip as they call it, these days. Any road, it went up a couple of nights ago. Most of the wool was a bonfire in a flash, what a stink. Couple of rooms at the back were alright. One or two bales singed but the rest were fine. It would do the trick for what we want.

“There were a few union blokes when I went there and they’d been told to charge sixpence a pound for the bales. No way, I said, that’s half what the wool sells for officially. I told the union bloke we weren’t going to pay that. The wool wasn’t theirs and they couldn’t stop us taking it.”
It was very quiet in the office behind the brothel’s downstairs bar. Nero could not keep still, his legs rising up and down and his hands were squeezing his tweed cap.
“The big union lad picked me up and put me against a wall. He said the wool was sixpence a pound, take it or leave it. He didn’t care who I worked for, the TGWU ran the Docks.”
Sowerbutt’s voice was sub-zero. “Did he hit you, Nero?”
“No, Mr Sorbay. He just told me to clear off and he’d sort me out if I showed my face again.”
Sowerbutt’s palm hit the desk with a resounding smack. “I will not have the Family threatened,” he shouted.
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