100 fags and a bottle of Scotch - the price of The Licensee's first bent cop.
Just across from the allotments sat an old, disabled man, stuck in his house but keeping a close eye on his neighbourhood.
One night, McGraw went into the hut and filled a bag with cigarettes and whisky.
As he turned to leave, a man was standing, watching - a uniformed cop.
"You'll have a receipt for those goods?"
"Aye. Eh, no."
The cop lifted the tarpaulin.
Sleeves of Senior Service, Woodbine, Embassy and No6 piled high.
Next to the fags, crates of whisky.
"You must have these for your shop?"
"Look, constable ..."
"McLean, PC McLean, to you. And you'll be young Mr McGraw?"
"How the f***?"
"You don't remember ... the warehouse off Alexandra Parade. Helped get ye yer borstal."
The pair lit up cigarettes, sat on an old bench and blethered.
"Fancy a drink to go with the fag?" McGraw asked. "Would ye want some to take home?"
PC McLean - long since dead of alcohol abuse - left with 100 cigs, a bottle of whisky for himself and another for the watchman.
McGraw reckoned it was a small price to pay to not be arrested.
He moved the fags and booze that night. You couldn't trust the cops, especially bent cops.
But the episode caused him food for thought. A few quid in the right hands and he stayed out of jail.
He was going to take that habit further.
'Fancy a drink to go with the fag? Would ye want some to take home?'