Layer Cake

by J. J. Connolly

  Next to James sits Gene McGuire, his Chief of Staff, who I know quite well already. Gene’s wearing a nondescript blue pinstripe suit that makes him stand out among all the weekender casual. He never looks properly relaxed in a suit does Gene but he wears them like some guys wear overalls. The top button of his shirt’s undone and the tie pulled to one side. He’s black Irish with mad bushy eyebrows. He’s got two packs of Rothman’s in front of him and he’s pulling relentlessly on the one in his other hand, rolling a battered gold Dunhill lighter over and over in his hand with a slow, steady rhythm. In front of him on the table he’s got a large chunky tumbler of whiskey, half full. It’s like giving cherries to an elephant giving whiskey to Gene. He’s got that crazy little twinkle in the eyes and, like Mort, he can be great company but also a total psychopath when he’s on active service. He ain’t tall but he’s fuckin solid and he’s got the biggest hands I’ve ever seen on a human being in my life, like he could literally tear ya apart.

  ‘They put us out here cos of the smoke, you know, what with the kids and that.’ Jimmy gets up to greet us. We shake hands, his chubby and slightly clammy. Gene shoots me a sly little wink and carries on rolling the Dunhill without missing a beat. We sit and make small-talk – nice drive? good directions? nice gaff, ain’t it.

  ‘You wanna see it on a Saturday night,’ says Jimmy. ‘None of this dressing like farmers, it’s top ‘king notch. People pull out all the stops, no dinner suits or anything but not short of it. In summer they have an outfit, a band, like, violins and that playin classical music on the grass. It’s fuckin beautiful I can tell ya.’

  ‘It sounds very nice,’ I say.

  ‘You know who I saw in here last week? Go on, guess,’ he says to me and Morty.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Morty.

  ‘Well, have a fuckin guess.’

  We shrug our shoulders.

  ‘That’s no fuckin good. I’ll tell ya, shall I. Rod Stewart. Rod fuckin Stewart, that’s who. I could have reached over and touched him.’

  Jimmy grabbed me tight by the arm.

  ‘That fuckin close I was.’

  ‘Who was he with?’ asks Morty, half impressed.

  ‘Loada tossa footballers.’

  ‘Did you get his autograph?’

  ‘Don’t take the ‘kin piss Mortimer, you’d be showin yourself right up. It’s not the done thing in this gaff.’

  ‘No, no. It’s a serious question,’ says Morty. ‘If I saw Stevie Wonder or Barry White in a place I’d wanna get their autograph, go over and say hello.’

  ‘Not in fuckin here you wouldn’t, not with me you wouldn’t. My misses was well chuffed, seeing him like that. I went out and bought her all his records the very next day, the fuckin lot.’

  Gene gets the waiter over. He’s grinning quietly to himself. The waiter empties the ashtray every time Gene kills a Rothman’s.

  ‘Same again.’

  ‘Large Chivas Regal, Sir?’

  Gene nods.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Jimmy, ‘and let’s have some menus. The food here, it’s cooked with love, ain’t it, son?’

  The waiter says nothing but he looks embarrassed.

  ‘No, seriously chaps, the grub here’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted in your life. They get all the top chefs. Ain’t that right, son?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ says the waiter and goes to fetch menus.

  ‘I ain’t all that hungry,’ says Gene. ‘I think I’ll just have a steak and a couple of rolls.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Gene, that’s all you ever eat, fuckin steak, try something different for a change. Look,’ he says as the waiter comes back with the menu, ‘they got duck, rabbit, veal, but like beautiful veal, chicken done in herbs and spices, like secret recipes that’ll make your fuckin bollocks tingle, look, fish, good for the old ticker, fish. Here we go, salmon, Dover sole, trout.’

  ‘I’m gonna just have a steak.’

  ‘Look, liver done in devil’s sauce.’

  ‘Just a steak –’

  ‘Lamb.’

  ‘– if that’s all right with you, James.’

  ‘Fuckin hell. What’s the fuckin point of coming to one of the best fuckin eating places in the country, if not the world, if all you’re gonna fuckin have is a ‘kin steak.’

  ‘That’s what I want, Jim.’

  ‘You may as well go down a fuckin kebab house.’

  ‘Jim, listen, I didn’t want to come here. I’d sooner meet the boys down the boozer, any one you like. It was your idea to come here.’

  Gene spelt out his objections in his smooth Donegal accent.

  ‘Okay, okay, don’t fuckin go on, fuck sake, Gene.’

  Jimmy says it like Gene is a ranting, foaming-at-the-mouth lunatic, like ‘what’s his fuckin problem’.

  The waiter takes the order. Me and Mort order the same thing, the duck pâté and the poached salmon with new potatoes, watercress and baby lettuce salad, while Jimmy makes a great show of ordering, showing off his snob’s limited knowledge of food and wine, like a bittova wanker really. Gene tells the waiter he wants a steak.

  ‘No problem, Sir.’

  ‘How big is the steak?’

  ‘Eight ounces, Sir.’

  ‘Bring two.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. How do you want them cooked?’

  ‘Fried fast on the outside so it’s raw on the inside and stick two fried eggs on each.’

  ‘How would you like the eggs done, Sir?’

  ‘Over easy please, son.’

  The waiter just writes it all down. Jimmy is shaking his head.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he says, sighing and looking over at me and Morty. ‘No style, no style at all.’

  On the contrary, I’m thinking, Gene’s showed great style. He’s told them what he wants and how he wants it cooked. In a five-star place like this one that’s how it works.

  More small-talk as the starters come and go. Jimmy’s telling stories, all the old stories, the good-old-bad-old days. ‘The CID was blokes you could have a drink with, could have a ‘kin laugh with. They was fellas you’d been to school with only they’d made a different career move. It coulda been them in your place and vice-versa. It was all a bit of a fuckin game back then compared with now, it was a fuck-about, cops and robbers.’

  Gene tears through his steak and eggs and a small basket of rolls. He seems to be getting more hungry as he goes through them. The food, Jimmy ain’t fuckin lying, is ecstatic. We finish up and compliment Jim on his good, no excellent taste in choosing this restaurant, which I suppose was the idea. Life tastes good.

  Jimmy calls the waiter over and orders coffee, brandies and bring Mister McGuire another two of them, he says, pointing at Gene’s Chivas. A small team descend on the table and clear everything away and even brush the tablecloth so everything is neat and tidy again. We’re sitting in stuffed satisfaction,. The guy brings a tray back heaving with drinks, unloads them, and goes to stand against the far wall to await any further instructions, but Jimmy calls him back over.

  ‘Can we have a little privacy, son. We’ll give you a shout if we need you.’

  The kid disappears. On cue, Gene sits up straight and looks attentive for the first time. Morty’s looking to Jimmy to start talking. He’s become the boss. The expression on his face changes from I-can-clown-with-the-best-of-them to a slight frown, his eyes develop a micro-focus and his eyebrows become heavy in an instant. He transforms from chubby, puppy dog into poisonous cobra. I feel I’ve been caught thinking out loud that he’s a cunt, like he can look into my nut and read my mind like it is the runners and riders page. I suddenly feel very stupid for thinking that a geezer like that could get to where he was in the scheme of thing by being a fuckin tosser, having top-ranking dudes, the Spitfire pilots of the criminal world, on their toes and putting up with all his bollocks-talk.

  I suddenly feel very small fry, there’s a voice in my head saying, ‘You’re the cunt, pal.’ I’ve realised that Mister James plays his mind games to the sixth and
seventh degree, like some ruthless chess Grand Master thinking ten moves ahead or an ancient Chinese general leading the enemy, laughing in their stupidity and arrogance, into the fatal ambush. Jimmy flexes his arms, clicks his fingers. I wonder how many you and the Old Fella put away in your time, how many disappeared off the face of the earth never to be seen again? He’s toying with the pinkie ring. Is he toying with me? I can hear him thinking, You think I’m a cunt, do you? a clown? a fuckwit?? Well, do you son? I’m speculating, How many got fed to the pigs? How many got dropped into lime pits? How many skeletons got put through the concrete crusher, put in cement in oil drums and dropped into the sea? Mister Price’s eyes have become locked onto mine now, they’re looking at a point exactly two inches behind the bridge of my nose, he’s clicked in and locked on like one of those state-of-the-art missile systems that once they’ve got ya they ain’t fuckin letting you go until you’re dead. Jimmy’s placed a cigar in his mouth, let Gene light it with the Dunhill, tilted his head back and blown the smoke upwards into the air. A small puddle’s formed in the small of my back.

  ‘What do you want, son?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘In life, what are you after? A shot at the title? A seat by the band?’

  He opens his hands like one of those pictures of Jesus Christ. I say nothing.

  ‘What do you want from life? Fuck’s sake, talk to me, son.’ His voice has changed. It’s on target, dry and flat.

  ‘I don’t know, Mister Price. It’s a very expansive question,’ I says with an assurance that surprises me.

  ‘And that’s a very good answer. You know, years ago some people would have thought you were a homosexual if you used a word like “expansive” but times change. You’re not a homosexual, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Definitely not.’

  ‘Not behind with the rent?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were. No harm in it I suppose. Let me put it another way. How far do you want to go? What sacrifices are you prepared to make?’

  Price, Gene and Morty sit in a semi-circle looking at me, waiting for my answer, but I don’t really know what the fuck he is on about. Morty is on their side now.

  ‘Give me an example,’ I say.

  ‘That’s good, that’s very good.’ He laughs but the laugh is different, it’s loaded with all the old cunt’s cunning and sinister intent. ‘Never, ever commit yourself, say as little as possible. That’s a little tip for ya, son,’ he continues. ‘I’ll tell you why I ask. I ask questions and I get answers, people tell me things. I like to know about people.’

  He pauses to gulp his brandy.

  ‘I collect information up here,’ pointing at both his temples with his index fingers. ‘Information is power, it was said two thousand years ago, and it’s still as true today. In fact it’s what I trade in, and other things of course, but substance or wealth or property or whatever, they’re only there to keep the score. You understand?’

  I’m nodding but I ain’t got a clue.

  ‘I talk to Gene and I talk to Morty and I talk to other people and they tell me about you. They tell me that you’re a good, clean, tidy worker, that you ain’t even got a CRO file, you make money for everyone in your chosen enterprise, you keep your own counsel which is important because there’s far too many loud-mouths out there who just love to let anyone and everyone know their business. I’m told you just go about your business with what I like to call stealth. Fuckin lovely word that. Stealth. You ain’t out spunkin your dough down the clubs trying to impress some old sploshers, pissed and on the powder, having the big nose-up.’

  He pauses for breath, a gulp of Cognac and a pull on his cigar before continuing.

  ‘There’s too many fuckin jokers out there who could get us put away for stretches if you told ’em anything worth knowin cos they can’t keep their fuckin big mouths shut. Do you think of the future? Have you got a plan, son?’

  Shit. Now he’s put me on the spot. I really wasn’t expecting this. He’s asked me a straight question and he’s gonna want a straight answer.

  ‘How old are you, son?’ he asks.

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘You make a lotta money, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you’ve got it invested? You’ve been sensible with it?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I have.’

  ‘I admire that. It shows that you’re thinkin of the future and we all have to think of the future. You put me in mind of guys I’ve known over the years who’ve made a tidy little stack and walked away. They were gonna do the business until they were, say, for the sake of argument, thirty and then vamoose, gone. I knew blokes who were blaggers, in and out of banks with sawn-offs, they worked until they could set themselves up as straight legit businessmen then they walked away. Some of them could drop it out and others just couldn’t resist the buzz. They kept coming back for another portion. I knew some guys just weren’t allowed to simply fuck off and leave.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Too good at makin money for other people.’

  He leaves it hanging in the air, brushes some ash off the linen tablecloth and shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘Myself,’ he struggles to re-light his cigar, ‘I wouldn’t do that to anyone, hold them against their will, not to my worst enemy.’

  I’m fuckin glad to hear it. Jimmy knows my plan. I can’t see how but he does. Maybe he’s seen or heard something in my behaviour that’s convinced him but sometimes with guys like him it’s pure animal instinct.

  ‘Oh yes, we must think of the future otherwise it tumbles over us and before we know it we’re extinct, like dinosaurs. I was talkin to you about the good old days, it’s bollocks, it’s a music-hall turn. I could see you thought so too.’

  I move to speak but he raises his hand to stop me.

  ‘No no, son, it’s not a problem. The world, London, it’s changing by the week, by the fuckin day, and people like me, people like you, Gene and Mister Mortimer here, if we don’t change with it we gonna get left behind, we’ll be fuckin relics like the old bruisers havin tear-ups on the cobbles that we used to laugh at when I was your age. You understand?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘We need the young, flexible guys like yourself to stand any kinda chance of staying ahead. What I’m saying is we need geezers like you. Listen to this, an acquaintance brings a Russian to my house to discuss a little something, yeah?’

  We nod.

  ‘The Russian geezer don’t speak no English so it’s all that thumbs-up-and-smile business but the guy who’s doing the interpretations, who’s Russian as well, is calling the guy “The Cannibal”. This Russian guy’s a spooky cunt, you only got to take one look, there’s a naughty vibe offa him. If you upset him, gonna die, no two ways.’

  Jimmy wipes the palms of his hands together dismissively. Gene and Morty nod.

  ‘I’m beginning to think they call him the Cannibal cos he’s a merciless cunt, a real animal, but it transpires that they call him the Cannibal cos he eats human flesh. I said, “WHAT!!” The guy explains that in those Soviet prisons it happens all the time, no grub, they’re literally starvin, so if someone dies they fuckin eat them.’

  ‘I bet they don’t wait around for people to die either,’ says Gene.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ says Jimmy. ‘Anyways, this cunt has developed a taste for it and even after he’s released he occasionally tucks into a feed of human being. Think about that mentality and he’s sitting in my fuckin house grinning.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Did you ask him how this guy cooked them?’ asks Morty, as ever the food and drink connoisseur.

  ‘Cooked?’ says James.

  ‘Yeah, did he fry ’em or roast ’em or what?’

  ‘For fuck sake, that’s sick, Morty. What you fuckin after? A recipe book? Can you fuckin believe that, Gene? Course I didn’t ask this barbarian how they were cooked. I fucked them outta the fuckin door. Listen, this is t
he point I’m making here, we’ve got to start realising that if we don’t get our shit together we’re gonna be in trouble.’

  We all nod solemnly.

  ‘To a lot of people the streets of London are still paved with gold. They don’t give a monkey’s who they gotta fuck over to get to the prize. Life is very cheap to these geezers. Some of these people have come from fuckin war zones. These Slavs they’ll cut your fuckin throat for a few quid, no problem, yeah? These are hungry boys, they ain’t content with Bee Gees records and tins of Coca-Cola anymore. Everything is up for grabs or so these fuckers think. Do you know the meaning of the word solidarity?’ he asks me.

  ‘It means sticking together, don’t it?’

  ‘Ex-act-lee. Think about it, the meanings in the word, think about “solid”, the word, to remain solid, that’s solidarity. For guys like us that’s what that word means, to stick together against our common enemy.’

  I nod my head. I’m being led by the dick somewhere by Uncle James. I’m about to be asked to pay for being on the team. He goes on.

  ‘There’s a price to be paid for that and the price is loyalty. From here on in people are either for or against us. Loyalty, that’s our greatest strength, you understand, son?’

  ‘I sure do, Mister Price.’

  ‘Please son, Jimmy, call me Jimmy.’

  ‘Okay, Jimmy.’

  ‘That’s better, ain’t it. Now there’s something I want you to do for me. I’ve got a hunch that you’re the best man for the mission. Now you look like the kinda bloke who knows the lay of the land, yeah? Morty says you’ve been all over the world, the States, Oz, down the Far East, but you also know your way round London better than most. Am I right?’