Queen of Green

by V E Rooney

  Jimmy says nothing, just holds his hands up again. Mr Chips sits back and points at me. “You could do a lot worse than learn how to keep a low profile from this one,” he says. At this, Jimmy looks incredulous. He goes to open his mouth but he snaps it shut again.

  “Lads,” says Mr Chips after the nervous waiter enters the room, hurriedly pours our coffees and exits again, “and lady, of course,” he says, winking at me, “we’re in a unique position, you know. Tying up with the Venezuelans on this? It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. We all know that. We all know how long the dagos have been trying to get their product over here. We all know that we’re the people to bring it over here because of our unique skills and knowledge. We will never have a better chance to secure a supply route from South America straight to the UK. Straight into Liverpool. And I am determined to make this a reality. For all our sakes. And it’s in all our interests to put the past behind us and let bygones be bygones. Are you all in?”

  “I’m in,” says Jimmy with no hesitation. “As long as my conditions are met.”

  “And what conditions are those, Jimmy?” says Sean, folding his arms.

  “Well,” says Jimmy as he drums his fingertips on the tabletop, “it’s fair to say that you can’t bring the product into Liverpool without me.”

  “Oh, we’re well aware of that, Jimbo,” laughs Mr Chips.

  “I know you lot are doing the logistics on this, but all the planning in the world won’t help if your cargo gets caught by the cuzzies before it’s even got through the docks,” Jimmy says, making a show of inspecting his fingernails.

  “That had occurred to us, Jimmy,” I say, beginning to lose patience. Just name your price and let’s get this charade over with, shall we?

  “I know you lot are putting up the bulk of the money, and that’s only right,” he says magnanimously. “But I want a bigger share of the cut. If you want access to my docks? I want 40%.” He sits back with a smirk on his face. 40%? That’s a lot bigger than what Sean and I had originally pegged. No more than 15%. But it appears Jimmy has revised his opinion of how valuable he is.

  “40%? Are you taking the piss?” says Sean, echoing my thoughts. “That is way above and beyond, Jimmy,” he says, shaking his head furiously.

  “No, it’s not,” says Jimmy in a truculent manner. “I reckon that’s fair and proper for what I’m doing. I’m taking just as much of a risk on this as you lot are,” he says, pointing to each of us in turn. “Without me, you don’t have the docks. So if you don’t wanna meet my terms? Carry on hauling your arses all over the country, all over fucking Spain and Holland, yeah? You can sit there cursing me as much as you like, mate,” he says to Sean. “But I’ve got what you want. So you need to ask yourself just how much you’re prepared to give up to get it, eh?”

  Jimmy wants 40% of the cut, leaving Mr Chips, Sean, I and the rest of Sean’s crew to split 60% between us. Not forgetting the payments to the Venezuelans. Mr Chips wants his 30%, meaning that Sean and I have to split 30% between us. This is where greed gets in the way. I wonder who will rediscover their virtue and back down first? I know it’s not going to be me. That’s for fucking sure. And I know there is no way Sean will agree to that.

  “40%? Jimmy, come on,” Mr Chips says, shaking his head. “Come on.”

  “If I don’t get 40%, you don’t get access to the docks. Take or leave it, mate, it’s no skin off my nose,” says Jimmy, stretching back in his chair. He knows he’s in the stronger position. The question is whether we can tickle him a bit.

  “You know what, mate?” says Sean, leaning forward and eyeballing Jimmy. “Gotta hand it to you. Back in the day, I would never have had the bollocks to do what you’ve just done. To sit there with a straight face and demand 40% just because your spacky cousin can unlock a couple of gates at the docks. For fuck’s sake,” he says, the disgust obvious in his voice.

  “Everyone’s got their price, Sean. That’s mine. If you want your gear unloaded up here, you either pay that price or shut the fuck up and go back to peddling weed down Granby Street,” says Jimmy, sneering back at him. “That’s about your fucking level, isn’t it, eh?”

  Mr Chips is gearing up to do the headmaster thing again but I beat him to it.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I say breezily. All eyes turn to me. “How about you two stop waggling your willies at each other, because this pissing contest is getting us nowhere,” my voice hardening into a rebuke. Both Sean and Jimmy gawp at me.

  “That’s about the only sensible thing anyone’s said so far,” says Mr Chips as he rests his coffee cup down on the table. “Jimmy? Nice try. But there’s no fucking way you’re getting 40% on this deal.”

  With that, Jimmy makes to leave the table. “Well then, I’m getting off,” he huffs as he throws his napkin down on the table.

  “You dare fucking turn your back on me and it’ll be the last time you do it, soft lad. Sit your arse down,” says Mr Chips. Jimmy hesitates for a second but sits down.

  “Let’s put our bollocks away for a minute, boys,” says Mr Chips, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Let’s think about what’s best for business. Jimmy, it’s no surprise that having your docks would make life easier. We’re not soft, round this table, are we? But you need to be realistic, lad. I’m funding 30% of buying the coke. Sean and Alison are putting up another 40%. Sean and Alison here are doing all the legwork on this. It was these two which got the contacts, which opened up this supply line in the first place, who are sorting distribution and because of that, they get 40%.”

  “Leaving fuck all for me? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?” cackles Jimmy. “No fucking way.”

  “Oh really? How about you tell the Venezuelans that you want some of their share, eh?” I say to Jimmy. But Mr Chips is in no mood to be interrupted. He talks over us.

  “Jimmy? On this deal, Jimmy, you get 20%. If this deal goes off without a hitch, we’ll then be able to secure more deals. We can utilise some of your own distribution expertise. And because of that, your share will go up to 30% because I’m going to be generous and give you 10% of mine. Aren’t I nice, eh? And then we can renegotiate on a deal by deal basis. You’ll still be a very rich man with 20%, Jimmy. Don’t let your greed get the better of you.” Mr Chips has finished making his salient point and is eyeballing Jimmy. Jimmy just looks down at the tablecloth for a few moments. Sean and I look at each other and then to Mr Chips.

  After a long pause, during which Jimmy rocks backwards and forwards in his chair while he mulls over his limited options, he finally speaks to Mr Chips. “Nah. Not for 20%, mate, not worth my while. Don’t take me for a cunt, right? I know how much money you lot would save if you were bringing the gear into my docks. And you want me to be happy with the fucking scraps while you lot gorge yourselves stupid? Fuck that. It’s not happening, mate, it’s not happening.”

  Sean pipes up. And he’s angry.

  “I get it, Jimmy. I get it. Nice one. You cause fucking mayhem all over town, knowing that we’ll need to have a parlay about it, and you can’t help yourself, can you? This is the biggest deal any of us will ever do, and you just have to throw your fucking spanner into the works, don’t you! Fucking hell! I suppose you want me to bend over and spread my fucking arse cheeks for you as well, eh?”

  Mr Chips leans forward now. “Sean? Keep your head, sunshine.”

  Sean sits back, shaking his head. “For fuck’s sake…”

  Mr Chips raises his hands up to everyone at the table. “For the sake of harmony… Now that we have the Venezuelans in our corner, all of us stand to make millions, billions even. Think about it. Think about what the Colombians did in America, the way they locked down the market for themselves. We can replicate what happened in America over here. We can be at the forefront of it, here in Europe. First mover advantage, that’s what we’ve got. But we can only capitalise on that if we all work together on this, right? We all need to work together, come what may, for all our sakes, right? There is no need for eit
her of you two,” Mr Chips says, pointing in turn at Sean and Jimmy, “to be at each other’s throats like this, when we’re on the verge of becoming the single biggest cocaine importers in Europe.

  Think of what’s to come. You know it makes sense,” says Mr Chips with a wide grin on his face.

  32. SILENT PARTNERS

  When Sean isn’t marshalling his troops on the streets to engage in skulduggery on his behalf, he likes to go off on secrets jaunts of his own. Once a month, Sean goes along to his own secret boys’ club where they eat, drink, be merry and engage in their own special brand of subterfuge.

  It’s a special secret boys’ club, you see. They’re called the Freemasons. You may have heard of them. The funny handshake club? The bare nipple society? You roll up my trouser leg and I’ll roll up yours? Yeah, that lot. I pissed myself laughing when I first realised that was what Sean was up to. All I knew about the Freemasons was what I got off the telly – that they were a bunch of portly white-haired old men in penguin suits who got together and did charity stuff every now and then. Turns out their activities are a bit more…varied than that, shall we say.

  I’ve gone round to Sean’s Woolton house to drop off some cash. It’s only a flying visit. But when he answers the front door, he’s half-changed into his penguin suit and looks to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

  “Who died?” I ask as I scan him up and down.

  “Hurry up, will you?” he replies tersely as he ushers me in and closes the door. He strides down the hallway as he wrestles with the black tie dangling over his shoulder. I follow him into the kitchen and dump the cash on the dining table. Normally, what with Sean being a creature of habit in some ways, I’d expect him to do a cursory count of the contents, but tonight he seems distracted. He doesn’t even look at the fat envelope as he turns to face me.

  “Fuck’s sake. Do you know how to do ties?” he asks, looking slightly panicky.

  I shrug.

  “Fucking hell. I’m gonna be late,” he whines. It really isn’t like him to be so eager to jump to someone else’s beck and call. And that gets me curious.

  “Where you off to? Charity do?” I enquire nonchalantly. Sometimes Sean and the other lads attend charity events, you know, footie matches, boxing matches and the like to raise money for local sickly kids and pensioners with gammy legs.

  “Something like that,” he murmurs.

  “Where is it?”

  “What’s with all the questions, girl?”

  “Because you’re being shifty about something.”

  He looks at me with a scowl but doesn’t say anything. Oooh. Interesting.

  “You are, you shady fucker. You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

  “Give it a rest, girl, I don’t have time for this.”

  I study him intently for a few seconds and then do a mock chin-stroke gesture like I’m pondering something.

  “Let’s see. Smart black suit. Newly polished shoes. You having a wobbly because you can’t do your tie all of a sudden. Must be something important.”

  “Pack it in.”

  “It’s a Wednesday night. Every third Wednesday night over the past few months, you’ve not been around. Hmmm. I see a pattern emerging here.”

  “I said, pack it in.”

  And then in a flash, I get it.

  “Oh my Christ. No. Come on. You? The fucking Freemasons? You? The funny handshake club?” I can’t even finish the sentence before dissolving into helpless laughter. Sean scowls at me again but he knows I’ve rumbled him. And that just makes me laugh even more.

  “The fucking Freemasons. Christ, they’ll let anyone in these days, eh?” I say, giggling.

  “I can’t talk about it so don’t fucking ask, alright?” he says, ignoring the incredulous look on my face. This is fucking priceless. Sean, a member of the Freemasons. And his reticence to talk about it only stokes my curiosity even further.

  “I thought it was all old fellas eating cold cuts and stuffing fivers in charity collection tins. What the fuck are you doing in the Freemasons?”

  “I’m serious, girl. I can’t talk about it. Especially not to you. Don’t even think of following me because they don’t take kindly to women trying to gatecrash.”

  “What was that Groucho Marx quote?” I say as he finally manages to get his tie in place. “I wouldn’t want to join any club that would have me as a member? I wouldn’t have pegged you as being into all that, mate.”

  “It’s just business, girl. Networking. That kind of thing. And with that, I’m leaving now which means you can fuck off and all. Go on, do a dusty, will you?” he says as he ushers me back down the hallway, ignoring my half-hearted questions about whether he has to show his nipple to a room full of old men and what the blindfold is for. “Sounds a bit kinky, that does. Is it some kind of weird pensioner gay sex club?”

  “Get out, you pain in the arse. Crew meeting tomorrow at the dock, 2pm, right?”

  “Right. Don’t forget your lube,” I say, as he drives off.

  On the way back into the city centre, I keep having giggling fits at the thought of Sean hobnobbing with a bunch of old crusties.

  Of course, a man like Sean wouldn’t join an organisation like that just to be altruistic. He wouldn’t waste his time like that if there weren’t some benefit for him. It was only during my trial for the Venezuela stuff that some of it came out. Not all of it, obviously. The Freemasons aren’t known as a secret society for nothing.

  During my trial, the one which sent me to prison, when the prosecution were doing their big evidence reveals, it became apparent that Sean had made many connections with fellow crims, local businessmen and council executives, and of course a few Policemen. Lots of Policemen and judiciary boys belong to the Freemasons. The actual Freemason links weren’t mentioned in court but anyone with a bit of nous could join the dots.

  Sean, being one of the criminal underworld’s more intelligent and astute members, realised that he could make valuable contacts in the Freemason world. Contacts which could prove to be useful to him in the future. Which was why he was able to get so many security firm contracts from pub and club owners, establishing him as one of the main men in that industry early on. Which was why he managed to get planning applications and alcohol licence applications rushed through the city council, thanks to the council’s own brethren. Which was why he was able to glean gossip and advance warnings from some senior Liverpool Policemen, enabling him to cover his tracks and avoid arrest on a number of occasions.

  It was Sean’s links to the Freemasons that got me back into his good books after a period where he left me out in the cold. Yeah, that was a horrible time.

  We were doing another coke run, coming in at Felixstowe, because Jimmy fucking Powell is still being a cunt about letting us use Liverpool docks. 230 kilos of the stuff coming over to the UK via Holland in a lorry full of electrical appliances. It would be our biggest shipment to date and also our biggest payday. If I’m being honest, the initial excitement of organising these runs had worn off and I had begun to view them as just another job, alongside collecting takings off dealers or taking delivery of guns from the Irish lads in Manchester. All part of the business.

  So the coke has left Holland and is on the ferry to the UK. Richie and I have gone down to Felixstowe once more to keep an eye on the shipment as it makes its way up north. The usual routine – pick up the lorry at Felixstowe and tail it up to Liverpool, the same way we’ve done loads of times before.

  The ferry docks at Felixstowe on time so Richie and I wait in the motor in the lorry park for it to come out of the gates. As various cars, motorbikes, caravans and lorries snake out of the gates, our lorry is nowhere to be seen. That isn’t an immediate cause for concern because sometimes the drivers are held up by queues, breakdowns or flat tyres. And the driver knows to phone one of the crew if there are any problems. It crosses my mind in a fleeting moment that maybe our driver’s been collared by the Police or Customs and that we’re about to be blown
up, but then we see our lorry head out of the gates, and there are no Police or Customs people around. Not as far as I can tell, anyway. As the lorry passes through the gates, I fix my sights on the driver but there’s no indication that he’s been in any bother, nor is there any indication that he’s being followed. Phew. So we set off after him as per usual.

  On the way up north, Richie and I do the occasional acceleration past the lorry on the motorway so we can clock the driver unobserved, before dropping back behind him. It’s on the first drive past the lorry that my senses start twitching. It’s the weirdest thing. I’m not sure what it is that makes me prick my ears up and go into hypersensitive mode. But during that first drive past the lorry cab, something’s telling me to watch out. Call it instinct or intuition, but something’s trying to get my attention.

  Richie edges the car out into the middle lane of the motorway and gradually speeds the car forwards until we’re level with the driver’s cab. At this point during the run, it’s just to check that the driver’s alright, which he will signal with a discreet wink or thumbs-up to us, and us to him to let him know we’re up his arse. But this time, the driver seems not to notice that we’re there. He keeps his eyes on the road ahead. He won’t even look at us.

  “Dozy twat,” Richie says as he speeds up so that we’re in front of the lorry. Richie swerves the car back into the inside lane so that we’ve got the driver in our rear view mirror. If he has spotted us, he isn’t showing it. Give the lad his due, he’s concentrating on the road and driving with due care and attention. Maybe he’s just being extra-diligent and there’s nothing wrong with that. Richie and I take turns to scan him in the rear view mirror. After a few moments, the driver looks down at us, gave us the briefest of thumbs-up and returns his eyes to the road ahead. “Nice one, dickhead,” Richie says quietly as he edges back into the middle lane and falls behind the lorry again.