Big Merv was indeed thinking, and his thoughts went like this.
Staff had a short shelf life in the world of organised crime, and by rights The Pan of Hamgee’s should have been shorter than most. So, what Big Merv couldn’t understand was how somebody so perennially cack-handed continued to evade capture. It had to be a rare talent; the burning question was, could he use it? Deep in the dark recesses of his brain a tiny light came on and the germ of an idea began to form.
The Pan was a smart cookie.
Too smart.
It was a waste to chuck a mind like that in the river – he was only a lad and all – but you had to make sacrifices these days. It was hard enough keeping one step ahead of the government without employing the kind of person you constantly needed to outwit. Best drop the little toerag in the Dang and get home. He tried to put the memories from his mind of the glory days, before the Resistance had got a real hold, when he, Frank, Harry and their driver, Hal, had been proper, respectable criminals and had earned an honest living from bank robberies.