by V E Rooney
The case goes to court and Jimmy gets a relatively light sentence because he never physically came into contact with the smack, but there’s enough evidence to convict him of being the organiser, and he gets a five-year stretch in Belmarsh Prison down south. Even at this point people are scratching their heads and wondering if he’s done some kind of deal with the busies, turned grass to get a lighter sentence, but no one can prove it one way or another. So off he goes and doesn’t reappear until June 1994, when he’s released early on good behaviour.
So Jimmy’s back in Liverpool again and he wants to get back in the game in a big way. And he doesn’t want to do it quietly either because he’s a flash bastard by nature – he wants everyone to know he’s back in town. He wants to make a grand entrance, he wants the applause, the fanfare, the adulation. Like he’s a fucking rock star making a long-awaited comeback.
On the eve of his release from Belmarsh, we get word that’s he’s organising a big ‘welcome home’ party at the Coconut Grove club in Tuebrook. Fuck knows why, that place is a shit-pit. Even John thinks that place is beneath him, and that’s saying something. His standards are lower than a worm’s belly, know what I mean? Anyway, I suppose because it was Jimmy’s patch, that’s where he grew up and he’s still got loads of relatives and mates living in the area so it’s convenient for everyone, right?
So on the night of the party, all of Jimmy’s associates and henchmen are piled into the Coconut Grove, and a steady stream of rival crims turn up to pay their respects. Forget any inter-gang rivalries or old grudges. When someone gets out of prison, old animosities are forgotten, if not wholly forgiven, and occasions like these are ideal for sounding out possible opportunities.
Jimmy is lapping up all the attention. As it happens, Sean isn’t here but a few of Sean’s crew, including myself, turn up and swap pleasantries with some of the neutrals there. I know a few people in Tuebrook myself so I’m busy chatting to them when I see Jimmy staring at me from the other side of the room. Straight away the hairs are standing up on the back of my neck, on my arms…every instinct in my body is going, urrgh, keep the fuck away from this prick. So I’m ignoring him, chatting to my mates, when I feel him sidle up to me. He’s fucking kale-eyed by this point, swaying and struggling to stand still.
“Alright, love?” he slurs, drool all over his chin.
“Fine, thanks,” I say as insincerely as I can, trying not to make my discomfort too obvious. Just then, one of the girls I’m chatting to says to him: “Welcome home, Jimmy love.”
That’s when it falls into place – who he is, why he repulses me and why Sean hates his guts.
“And it’s fucking good to be back, sweetheart,” he says to the girl before turning back to me. “How about you help me make up for lost time, eh?” he says, eyeing me up and down like I’m a piece of meat. I actually feel physically sick.
“No thanks, love. Think I’m a bit too old for you,” I say, turning away from him and moving to the bar. I think he must have misheard me because he gets this puzzled frown on his face, but before he can register it properly, he’s turning his sweaty, drunken attentions onto some teenage girl who’s getting busy on the dancefloor.
I definitely don’t think he knew who I was, that I was part of Sean’s crew. If he’d had any inkling, I wouldn’t have been surprised to get my jaw broken, put it that way. But now that I had met Jimmy Powell in his disgusting flesh, I could see at once why he was not someone you’d want to get involved with. But sometimes in this business, you don’t have any choice about who you get involved with. Money overrides everything – principles and personal misgivings included.
There are a few rival crews who will do business together from time to time, putting aside competitive differences for the sake of mutual benefit and profit. Each crew has their own patch in town, signposted with various businesses like pubs and clubs which they own and operate, and protect with their own bouncers.
When it comes to drug dealing territory, the unspoken code comes into force – don’t cock your leg up and piss on my patch and I won’t piss on yours. Of course, there will be petty squabbles breaking out, when some cocky cunt disregards the established norms of business and takes it upon himself to invade and conquer. They are dealt with swiftly and harshly. The scars on the faces, the broken noses and the healed-over puncture wounds are evidence of that.
In town, crews know that it’s not good for business to be causing rucks with rival crews because they know that the busies are looking for an excuse, any excuse, to come steaming in and crack a few gangster skulls, claim a few criminal scalps and shut down some operations to the detriment of everyone. You don’t turn up on the doorstep of a rival outfit and start kicking off, unless you’ve got a deathwish or you’re coked off your tits. Or you’re Jimmy Powell.
Jimmy may be doing very well for himself with smack, but he can’t help comparing what he’s got with what he hasn’t. He sees all these kids paying top whack for Ecstasy, blowing their Giros and their student grants in all these superclubs popping up all over the place, and he wants in on it. It’s not enough for him that’s he’s a millionaire thanks to his Turkish heroin connections, it’s not enough that he has nailed down smack supply in the region, it’s not enough that his name puts the fear of God into whichever unfortunate sod hasn’t paid him. He wants more.
Whispers on the underground grapevine indicate that Jimmy is receiving part-payment on his deals with the Turks with Ecstasy in place of cash, thanks to the Turkish connections with some of the London gangs. Which wasn’t unusual at that time. Short on actual cash to seal the deal? Throw in a few kilos of coke, heroin, amphetamines or hash alongside whatever it is you want smuggling into your destination of choice.
So Jimmy all of a sudden has some Es hanging around and he wants to start shifting them. What does the arrogant bastard do? He starts sending his minions to all of the big clubs across Liverpool to sell them. Big no-no, that one. Not just because of the financial implications for the established dealers, but also because of the sheer fucking audacity of Powell to think that he can just undercut the main players like that, right under their noses.
A few of the crew are lounging around Sean’s Albert Dock pad one evening. Sean is on the phone to one of his mates, talking about Jimmy Powell. In between chatting shit with the lads, I’ve got one ear on his conversation. I get snatches of:
He did what? Are you taking the piss?
That fucking fat cunt. He’s got it coming to him.
You know what? Sooner or later he’s gonna piss off the wrong person.
Sean finishes his phone call and comes over to us, puts his hands on the back of the sofa and looks at us. His eyes have darkened. Oh dear. He’s so angry he’s almost incoherent, which is unusual for him.
“That fucking cunt Powell…that fucking…he’s a fucking…”
“What’s the fat cunt done now, boss?” asks Paul, looking concerned.
Sean takes a few moments to compose himself. “That was Vinny. Jimmy fucking Powell sent his lads into The Cosmopolitan last night to flog some Es. Can you fucking believe that?”
The Cosmopolitan, a long-running if untrendy nightclub, is run by a rival crew, although Sean has established cordial relations with them over the years, which means that they’ve given him a heads-up on Jimmy’s activities.
“These two little smackhead scallies stroll into the Cosmo and try to sell, don’t they? Right on the fucking dancefloor with everyone watching, while the bouncers are fucking watching them. Bold as brass, they were. So they get collared by Vinny’s lads, they get dragged out the back, Vinny’s lads start searching them and they find two bags of Es wedged up their arses. At least 100 pills they had between them.”
Paul whistles slowly. “Fucking nerve of them.”
“Oh aye. So then Vinny’s lads start asking a few questions, turns out they’re working for one of Jimmy’s lads, aren’t they?” spits Sean.
“Maybe Jimmy didn’t know they were selling?
” asks Gary, with what sounds like cautious optimism.
“My arse he didn’t,” Sean snarls. “Seems our Jimmy’s stuck with a load of pills from one of his deals and he wants to shift them. And he thinks he can just stroll into rival gaffs and flog them, doesn’t he?”
“What happened to the lads he sent?” Paul asks.
“Oh, they got the shit kicked out of them, Vinny made sure of that, because he hates that cunt just as much as I do. They got sent on their way with a warning for that cunt: fucking try that again and you’re fucking dead.”
Sean begins pacing up and down the pad, running his hand over his head. Then he stops and looks at us again.
“Tell everyone to keep an eye out, because if that cunt is showing his arse at the Cosmo, then’ll he’ll be showing it to us sooner or later. Ali? Get on to the lads at Taylor’s, tell them to be on alert in case Powell’s lads turn up. Gary? Get onto your fella in Tuebrook, see if he knows of any other lads working for Powell. The second he or anyone working for him tries to get into any of our places, then I know the cunt’s looking for a war.”
For the next few days, enquiries are discreetly made around town. It’s not just Sean wanting to keep abreast of Powell’s activities – other bosses are also mightily pissed off at Powell’s brazenness. Powell himself is nowhere to be seen. Nobody knows whether he’s in England or Turkey at any given time. Unusually for him, he seems to be keeping a low profile while his lads cause mayhem.
We start to hear reports that some of Powell’s heavies have also tried to gain entry into Cream on a few occasions, only to be turned away at the door amid much verbal abuse and threats of recriminations. They’ve also popped up at smaller clubs like Quadrant Park up in Aintree and Ferrari’s in Huyton. While his heavies stop short of physical intimidation, they appear to be testing the security and doorman capabilities at several clubs, seeing how many bouncers are on duty, how quick they are to respond to flashpoints of trouble. It appears as if Powell is scoping out rival operations in preparation for something bigger.
That Saturday at Taylor’s, the manager Karl calls all the staff together for a meeting before the club opens. He tells everyone to keep an eye out for Powell’s lads. He tells Ste and the other bouncers which of Powell’s more notorious heavies have been spotted around town, and what to do in case any of them try to get into Taylor’s. Standard protocol is to practice some of that tension-defusing diplomacy at first, and if that doesn’t work, kick seven shades of shit out of the tossers, but be all discreet about it because nobody wants the busies turning up. Knowing what Powell himself is like, knowing how his heavies operate, our bouncers know that should Powell’s lads strike, they strike back five times as hard. Not just to put his heavies out of action, but to send a clear and unmistakeable message to Powell himself – back the fuck off if you know what’s good for you.
After the meeting, as the rest of the club staff go through the pre-opening preambles of checking stock and loading fridges, Ste and I sit at the bar, having a couple of orange juices before opening time. A twinge of fear pinches at my heart as I look at him. I know that Ste is more than capable of looking after himself, but chances are that it could be an unfair fight. What if Powell’s boys turn up, tooled up?
“Behave, will you, girl,” he says, trying to reassure me. “This lot?” he says, pointing to the other bouncers on duty. “Hardest fucking fellas in town. And everyone knows it. Powell’d be a dickhead to try anything here.”
“Yeah, that’s it, Ste. He is a dickhead,” I say. “Apart from Cream, this is the biggest place in town. Dickhead knows he’s got no chance in Cream so what are the odds we’re next on the list? Didn’t stop him doing the Cosmo, did it?”
“Yeah, and look what happened to those two little twats he sent. Their arseholes were hanging out by the time Vinny’s lads had done them in.”
“Somehow I don’t think two smackheads getting the shit kicked out of them will put him off. He’ll just keep sending more and more people until he does get in.”
“And he knows if he does that, it’ll kick off, he’s not that fucking stupid.”
“Yeah. Maybe that’s what he wants. To kick off. To start a war.”
“Relax, girl. You’ve been watching too many films. Whose gonna take me on?” Ste says as he opens his arms out and flexes his biceps, like a preening bodybuilder. That’s what I’m worrying about. Who would take us on? Who has the most to gain from causing trouble for us? Jimmy Powell.
As opening time gets nearer, the queues are starting to build up outside. I can hear the noise from the office window on the first floor gradually becoming louder and louder, more boisterous and intrusive. Karl and some of the bouncers are also in the office.
“Remember, lads. Any of Powell’s lot turn up? Deal with them out of sight and out of the way. I don’t want the busies turning up and shutting us down,” Karl says as he locks up his desk and jangles the keys to the office to indicate that it’s time to open Taylor’s to its adoring public.
As it happens, I’m not staying at Taylor’s all night, I’m here to catch up with Ste and the others before going over to the Kirkby farm. John and Brian are bringing on a fresh batch of produce and I’m doing a bit of quality control tonight. Or rather, they’re doing quality control and getting monged while I check on the plants’ progress. As I step outside Taylor’s, ahead of a roped-off queue of several hundred clubbers, I touch Ste on the shoulder.
“Be careful, big lad,” I say.
“Stay safe, short arse,” he says, winking at me.
30. DIVERSIFICATION
It’s 1993, and coke is king.
Everyone wants in on the coke trade. That is the product with the highest return – and the highest risk. Oh, it’s been around since the 1970s and made a big leap in popularity during the 1980s when all the yuppie twats needed a pick-me-up in between losing millions on the stock market and drowning their sorrows and dancing the night away in some gold-plated nightclub down south.
It’s been around the northern circuit as well, but never to the degree that it was bought down south. Not as much money up north for one thing. But it was never available in the quantities demanded – it was always short in supply. That’s because the South Americans control the supply, and you definitely don’t mess with that lot if you don’t know what you’re doing.
The South American cartels had the North American market nailed down long ago and they reached saturation point by the mid-1980s over there. Then the cartels set their sights on Europe to tap into the vast underpenetrated market. They had some success by forging links with a few of the main men down south, who had the funds to buy it. They’ve made a few inroads in mainland Europe, and their product is gradually making its way around the European capitals but in nowhere near the quantities seen in North America.
The cartels have big expansion plans. But getting the product into the region, particularly into the UK, is fraught with difficulties for them. The cartels have had trouble making links with the right people in the UK, people who can guarantee payment and collection and distribution at their end. Then there’s the problem of shipping the stuff over from South America. For every shipment that makes it to its destination undisturbed, another one is being collared at sea by various naval forces, or seized at the docks by the authorities. A lot of people are losing a lot of money, and their lives in the process.
Given the nature of the business, the cartels have to be very discerning about who they do business with. For all the gangsters and crims who talk big bollocks about getting into the coke trade, only a few of them have the readies, the brains and the discretion needed to actually get involved.
Step forward Seanie boy.
Sean is no stranger to coke, of course. In the past, he’s managed to get his hands on a few kilos here and there, enough to fund the purchase of a house or a business or two, enough to make money from it, enough to keep his boys going and to keep the punters coming. He’s told me about deals he’s made with som
e of the London lads in the past, but it’s pin money compared to the money he’s making off Ecstasy and other contraband. And he wants in on it big time. He wants to do business with the South Americans directly.
Logically, why wouldn’t he? It’s just another product to him. But product with big profit – much bigger than any of the deals he’s put together in the past. With an established distribution network in place, with a tried and trusted smuggling operation already reaping rewards for all of us, coke is the next step. The issue is how to forge the links with the main men in South America. He can’t just rock up in Colombia or Venezuela and ask around for the boss men over there, can he? Nor can he ask his London connections for a phone number or to make introductions. But Sean has a finely-tuned sense for sniffing out opportunities and knowing when to make his move.
With our success with the Es, he’s quietly making his name known to some of the major players via his links with people in Holland. Discreet enquiries have been made by Sean, and about Sean, between the relevant people.
I first get wind of this one day at the Albert Dock pad. Sean is having a lazy day and has invited me for a chinwag over some pizza while we watch the footie on telly.
“Going to Amsterdam tomorrow,” he says between mouthfuls of pepperoni. “Need you to come with me.”
“Oh aye?” I say, glancing at him. “Another E run?”
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Coke.”
“Oh aye?”
“Oh aye,” he says, nodding slowly.
“It was only a matter of time, I guess,” I say, before sighing and leaning back on the couch. “It’s the logical next step, I suppose.”
