Jaded

by Rob Ashman

  ‘Come in and close the door.’ He sat behind a big oak desk. The room was set out like a modern office with a couple of laptops and wooden filing cabinets around the walls.

  ‘I’ve never been in here,’ I said, standing in front of the desk.

  ‘No, you haven’t. We keep it locked because this is the nerve centre from which we control our operations.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘I’ve had my eye on you since you arrived and I’ve been impressed.’

  ‘Thank you. I like working here. Well… tonight didn’t go so well but…’ I raised the blood-soaked towel to emphasise my point.

  ‘Sometimes that happens. Comes with the territory.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ There was an ominous silence. ‘What’s this about, Rolo?’

  ‘You did the right thing telling that TJ wanker to piss off.’

  ‘Yeah, but I should have let you know.’

  ‘We don’t want his drugs in our club.’

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘That’s because we want people to buy our drugs.’

  I allowed the comment to sink in. ‘But I thought we had a zero tolerance?’

  ‘We have to, it’s the same shop window that everyone has. But in reality, we allow our own softer, recreational drugs to be available in the club because that’s what punters demand and that way we can control it.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. I’ve had you working the door since you arrived.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll say yes.’

  ‘Yes to what?’

  ‘Yes to becoming part of the family. We need guys like you who can not only handle themselves but also have a good head on their shoulders. Anyone can throw a punch. That’s not what we need. Guys like you… that’s what we need.’

  ‘Umm, thank you. I do my best. Who else…?’

  ‘All of them – you are the only member of the team who isn’t in the family.’

  ‘Bloody hell, so Eddie is–’

  ‘Eddie’s a good guy, a little on the gobby side but he knows the score. What d’you say?’

  ‘They’re all–’

  ‘Yup, every one of them.’

  ‘Shit, no one said a word.’

  ‘That’s because you weren’t in the family.’

  ‘You said something about extra cash?’

  ‘I did and that’s an important part of the deal. You’ll be well paid in return for carrying out simple, but critical tasks, and demonstrating loyalty.’

  ‘What kind of tasks?’

  ‘Things like… taking a taxi ride, carrying a bag, looking after someone. Things that are well within your skill set.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No, Billy, you don’t, but you will. But first of all, you need to pledge your loyalty to me because that is very important. Without loyalty there is nothing. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes, loyalty is important.’

  ‘No, Billy, it’s crucial. And any breach in loyalty will result in the harshest of penalties. Understand?’

  ‘Yeah, I understand.’

  ‘Go on then. If you want to accept my offer you’ll need to pledge your loyalty.’

  ‘Okay, Rolo. I pledge my loyalty.’

  ‘That’s good, Billy, but that’s not how it’s done. Come around my side of the desk.’ I did what I was told. ‘Now kneel down.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To pledge your loyalty you have to be on your knees.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Do it, Billy.’

  I sank to the carpet, looking up at Rolo. He leaned over and slid open the desk drawer. Reaching in, he pulled out a handgun.

  ‘When you say it, Billy, you need to mean it.’ He levelled the gun at my head. ‘Because any breach in loyalty will bring with it the harshest consequences.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Do you pledge loyalty to the Critchley family?’

  He stared at me down the barrel. I could feel my right eye twitching.

  ‘I pledge my loyalty to the Critchley family.’

  A silence washed between us that set the hairs on the back of my neck on edge. Rolo’s eyes were dead, not a flicker of emotion.

  ‘That’s good.’ He jumped up from his seat, waving the gun in the air. ‘I do like a good pledge.’

  I gasped. A zing of exhilaration sprinted down my spine.

  What a rush.

  ‘Welcome to the family, Billy.’ He extended his pudgy hand and pulled me up. ‘Clean your face up. I’ve got a job for you.’

  Chapter 13

  With the pledge completed I became part of the Critchley family, I was on the payroll and going places. But to fully understand the significance of this, you need to understand the context to the story.

  The nineties was a golden era for organised crime, mainly because they did just that – got themselves organised. In the previous two decades the normal portfolio for any gangland crew would include prostitution, protection, drugs, gambling, smuggling, high-end robberies, extortion… that kinda thing. It was an extensive menu of wrongdoing which meant resources were spread thinly and, in many cases, required specialist skills. Then it became apparent that there was only one game in town for any serious gangster – drugs.

  Whether it was cocaine from Columbia, heroin from Afghanistan or a bit of everything from Venezuela, the supply was plentiful – and demand was going through the roof. The markup was eye-watering and the law enforcement agencies didn’t have a clue. The creation of the Serious and Organised Crime Agency was still years away and it was playtime for everyone. It was left up to local drug squads, the National Crime Squad, HM Revenue and Customs and a few other disparate organisations to police what was happening. But when you could ship one hundred kilograms of heroin into Liverpool Docks and turn that into twenty-two million pounds on the street, the authorities didn’t stand a chance. It was

  drug-fuelled chaos on an industrial scale.

  The best example I have to indicate how big the problem had become is that a drug lord from Liverpool catapulted himself into the Sunday Times Rich List at the same time that he topped Interpol’s most wanted list. I rest my case.

  The gangs in London were being squeezed out by a firm called the Adams Family, which meant they spilled over into other regions. Liverpool and Dublin had more than enough homegrown talent so they headed to Nottingham where the Critchley brothers ruled the roost.

  The drug business is all about cash, which brings with it a couple of major problems. Firstly, that much money is difficult to move around and store. Whether you vacuum pack the notes into bricks or roll them into bundles, it is heavy to cart about. Secondly, you can’t spend it. If you start buying fancy houses and flash cars when you supposedly work as an office clerk someone is going to raise an eyebrow. The money needs to be laundered through legitimate businesses. And the businesses of choice for the Critchley brothers were nightclubs.

  The Critchleys owned four clubs for that very purpose. Nightclubs are perfect for turning dirty money into clean money. They are cash intensive, provide a wide variety of services and are highly subjective. From entrance fees to VIP tables, from vintage champagne to inflated till receipts and promotional nights – who knows how many people are in the club? Who knows how much cash is changing hands? The dirty money is mixed with the clean money. You pay taxes on the profits and hey presto! You got cash to burn. But the best thing about nightclubs is they can take years to become successful, so it is fine for you to make small losses. That avoids paying tax altogether! It’s kinda genius.

  Anyway, back to the story; my nose had stopped bleeding and Rolo had instructed me to go to a flat above a travel agent called Lazy-Day Travel, located on Carrington Street.

  ‘At this time of night?’ I said, looking at my watch.

  ‘He’s expecting you. It’s got a bright red front door, tell him Rolo says hi.’ He tossed me a set of keys.

&nb
sp; I used the back entrance to the club to avoid bumping into Ton-Up and his mates who were still being dealt with out front. I hit the bar on the emergency exit leading out onto the car park and checked the licence plate number on the key chain. It was a battered, white Transit van.

  Great, now I really look like a criminal.

  It started first time and I headed south across town. The streets were filled with drunk people falling over, having a good time. Saturday was always a busy night for us at the club and I was beginning to understand why.

  I turned off the main drag, parked up and took in my surroundings. All was quiet. I smiled to myself when I remembered that a short distance away, on the other side of Castle Boulevard, they had just started building the new HM Revenue and Customs offices – the irony was a foot thick.

  I walked the short distance to Lazy-Day. The place was in darkness apart from a light in the flat above. To the side there was a metal staircase bolted to the exterior wall leading to the first floor. The wrought iron creaked under my weight as I reached the top. I rapped on the red door. Nothing. I rapped again and a man in his mid-forties with cropped hair opened the door to peer out.

  ‘Rolo says hi,’ I said.

  ‘Come in.’ He walked away, leaving the door ajar. I followed him into a narrow hallway with doors leading off it. ‘Wait here.’

  I closed the door behind me and stood in the corridor. After a couple of minutes the man reappeared with a large sports holdall. I could see from the way the veins stood out from his arms it was heavy. He dumped it at my feet. Then walked back into the room at the end, banging the door shut behind him.

  I guess you don’t want a receipt?

  I swung the bag over my shoulder and returned to the van. The bag travelled in the passenger footwell where I could keep an eye on it.

  Back at the club I found Rolo and he took me to the command centre. The memories of me kneeling down with a gun to my head spiked my adrenaline.

  ‘Good lad,’ he said, taking the bag from my grasp and placing it on the table. ‘Do you want a look?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I stepped forward as Rolo ran the zip down. It was stuffed with rolls of bank notes; fives, tens, twenties.

  ‘That, my son, is what it’s all about. And come payday a slice of this will be coming your way.’

  It was the largest bag of cash I’d ever seen. There must have been close to fifty thousand pounds. I had been used to seeing ten thousand here, twenty thousand there, but this was in a different league.

  ‘Wow!’ I said, much to Rolo’s satisfaction.

  ‘Go home and come back around ten o’clock in the morning. I’ve got another little job for you.’

  Chapter 14

  It was ten minutes to two in the afternoon and the Paragon club was closed. The neon sign above the entrance was dull and lifeless. A bookworm of a man wearing a leather jacket checked his watch and scurried across the road. He knocked on the door. It was opened by a short square guy sporting a double-breasted suit, one size too small for him.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m here to buy a car.’

  ‘Certainly, sir, would you like to step inside?’ The man did as he was told and entered the reception area of the club. ‘Remove your jacket and raise your arms.’

  The bookworm shuffled out of his coat and stood in his shirtsleeves with his arms raised, Christ the Redeemer style. The stocky man ran a black wand over his guest, the device remained silent. He ran the wand over the jacket and said, ‘Thank you, sir, would you like to follow me?’

  The bookworm wrestled a bulging envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘That’s not for me,’ the stocky bloke said, before turning away and strolling down a short corridor into the main hall.

  The bookworm followed him through a door and into the gloom of the nightclub. The enormous bar running down the left-hand side was in darkness as were the half-moon booths set against the walls. The chrome and glitz seemed to be subsumed into an all-pervasive grey. One booth seat was lit up by a single desk lamp.

  Three round tables sat on the dance floor; an older gentleman with a thin comb-over was sitting at one and a man in a suit occupied the other. On the table, in front of the suited guy, was a laptop and camera.

  Marshall beckoned to the new arrival and met him halfway across the floor. Four more men in suits were dotted around the room. There was no sign of the troubles of the previous day.

  ‘Welcome. I hope you have a successful afternoon.’ Marshall held out his hand. The bookworm handed over the envelope and Marshall walked off to sit at the illuminated booth.

  ‘Please let me show you to your seat.’ The stocky man waved his arm and guided the visitor to the vacant table.

  At the far end of the club was a stage with a shimmering curtain draped as a backdrop. Two silver poles at either end stretched from the floor to the ceiling.

  Marshall reappeared with the man’s envelope in one hand and a bottle of Moët and a champagne flute in the other.

  ‘This is in order. I’ve taken our door fee as agreed.’ He placed the envelope on the table. ‘And please accept this on the house… have a good afternoon.’ He poured the bubbling liquid into the glass and left. Hanging around the neck of the bottle was a round token. Written on the token was Mr Black.

  Marshall checked his watch and as the digits turned over to two o’clock he nodded to the guy sitting behind the laptop.

  The stage lit up, and a man wearing a shiny suit walked over and jumped up onto it. He was lean and lanky with slicked back hair and an orange tan. He looked a bit like an eighties gameshow host, a black microphone taped to his cheek.

  A large screen mounted on the wall burst into life, highlighting the man on stage with three blacked out head and shoulder icons on the right-hand side. The man sitting at the controls adjusted the camera.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. I will be your host and auctioneer for this afternoon’s entertainment. As promised, we bring you something different today, something a little out of the ordinary that we hope will be to your liking.’ He waved his hands in the air like he was asking a contestant to choose a door.

  ‘Now I need to go through a few points before we get started. We have five players today, two in the room and three online. We have ten lots, each one in pristine condition. This is a cash-only event. There are no lines of credit and all transactions must be settled in full on close of business. Failure to do so will result in you being blacklisted from future auctions and you will be subject to a penalty payment. Before we start I need to do a sound and visual check. Can everyone see and hear me okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ A disembodied voice came through the huge speakers mounted either side of the stage.

  ‘Yup, it’s fine,’ said another.

  And another. ‘It’s good for me.’

  The two men sat at the tables raised their hands in a polite, ‘Yes’.

  ‘That’s wonderful. You know the drill; when you want to bid you say the name on your tag. The current bid price will be shown in the top right-hand corner of your screen. I will be the sole arbitrator of what the current bid is and who has made it. Is that clear?’ There was another mumbling of agreement over the speakers.

  ‘So, if you would like to sit back, enjoy your champagne and we will get the show underway. I would like to introduce lot number one.’ The curtains behind him opened. ‘This is a 2001 model with one careful owner. Never been in a race before and comes with a full service history. Doesn’t require nitrous oxide to burn bright on the track. I think you will agree she has good lines with a cracking paint job. Who will start me off?’ The room was silent. ‘Come on, gents, we said we would be offering something special, and here it is. Look at the bodywork. This one is built for speed. Who will give me two?’ The number two flashed up on the top of the screen.

  ‘Mr Red,’ a deep voice boomed through the speakers.

  ‘That’s good. Now do I hear three?’

  ‘Mr Blue.’

 
‘Four, do I hear four from anyone?’

  ‘Mr Red.’

  ‘Okay, now we’re rolling. How about five?’

  ‘Mr Green.’ The man with the comb-over held up his tag.

  ‘Like it. We have five in the room. Do I hear six?’

  ‘Mr Red – six.’

  ‘Woah, that’s more like it. I have a big six from Mr Red. Now who will give me seven?’

  ‘Mr Blue, six and a half.’

  ‘The bid is six and a half. Do I hear another seven? Any advance on six and a half?’ The room and speakers were silent. ‘I’m going to call it, gentlemen.’ The auctioneer danced about the stage like he was chasing chickens. ‘Going… going… gone. Sold to Mr Blue for six and a half.’

  There was a murmuring on the speakers and people reached for their drinks.

  ‘Now we have lot number two. This one is the oldest model we have on the card today. Made in 1998. As you would expect she has a few more miles on the clock and has been to the races many times. She runs best on nitrous oxide but I am assured she will race okay without. This is a reliable runner with low maintenance costs. Who will start me off?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’ll agree she’s not in such good working order as the previous lot but will do the job. Who will give me two?’

  Silence.

  ‘No one? This has to be a welcome addition to any collection. Who will start me off with two?’

  Not a murmur.

  ‘Okay, how about one? Who will give me that?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Oh, come on, guys, this opportunity does not come around very often. Got to be worth one, who will give me a half?’

  You could hear a pin drop.

  The auctioneer turned to Marshall and shrugged his shoulders. Marshall nodded.

  ‘Okay, moving on to lot three. This has to be the fastest one of the day. Made in 2003 with all the bells and whistles you’d expect to find. She has not been raced and is nitrous oxide free. Great bodywork. Guaranteed to turn heads. The bidding needs to reflect the quality of this model. I’m going to start at three. Who will give me three?’