Layer Cake

by J. J. Connolly

  He laughs. ‘You said you may have something for me.’

  ‘Are you up for a bitta work?’

  ‘I could be, it depends what it is. At the moment I’ve got funds going round in circles down in the Far East, nice fronts, a very tidy piece of work. It’ll be very good when I get to collect.’

  ‘Then this could be a bitta you, Cody.’

  I explain the problem with Charlie and Kinky while we eat. He seems to think that it’ll be easy.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Desperadoes. If you make yourself busy with a bitta wedge, someone to watch your back, these fuckin drugsters will tell you anything. Soon as you get a sniff you follow it relentlessly.’

  ‘Jimmy Price will pay a bonus when she’s back in the bosom of her family and I’ll give you that bonus and I’ll give you two grand cashish over the top.’

  ‘How much is the bonus?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘That’s no fuckin good.’

  ‘I didn’t wanna push it. To be honest I just want her found. I’d pay to get it done.’

  ‘So he’s asked you to do this for him, and you just wanna slip through and get someone else on board to do it.’

  ‘I would do it myself but I’ve got shitloads goin on already.’

  ‘But if this is payment by results I’ve got no idea what I’m workin for. Jimmy Price, the slippery bastard, could buy ya a shandy and a cheese roll and call it a bonus, thinkin he’s a Don. You gotta be serious about readies, sort out all the shit before you start work, otherwise people start fallin out.’

  ‘Cody, I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’ll put up seven grand of my own for you to find the bird and, if you find her, I’ll bin the bonus from Jimmy Price.’

  ‘So if he drops you ten kay, let’s just say, then you’re three grand ahead mate.’

  ‘That’s right. So it’s make-your-mind-up time, Cody, but you can’t have it both ways. Let me tell you something as well. If Jimmy gives me a bunce, he’ll just let me have a key tax-free. Then I’ve gotta get my loot away from Morty cos he’ll think he’s entitled to a good lunch outta it, so this little outing could end up costin me money. This could be the easiest few grand you ever earned. It could even be a laugh.’

  ‘Behave. Don’t graft a grafter.’

  ‘Have you got readies, Mister Garret?’

  ‘I’ve always got readies. I’ll tell you what, I’ll take the seven-grand option. Three and a half a body.’

  ‘How the fuck do you work that out?’

  ‘Three and a half for Kinky, three and a half for the tricky princess.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about him. I only want–’

  ‘You gotta give me a squeeze, mate. Look, I’m not even sure I wanna go huntin around lookin for anyone. I’m back here on holiday, catch the end of the football season, bitta shoppin and birdin it up, you can get tired of all those Oriental–’

  ‘Okay, Cody, three and a half a body, the bottle gets ya seven. It’ll be a bitta pocket money for ya.’

  ‘The most cunning clown to walk the face of the earth,’ says Cody.

  ‘Who is?’ I’m puzzled.

  ‘Jimmy fuckin Price.’

  Our noses are about six inches apart and we’re talkin in whispers. Cody looks serious all of sudden.

  ‘I’ll do this bitta business, I’ll try my hardest, for you, but I don’t wanna have to be talking to Price. I’ll do it as a favour to you.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Well, you’ve helped me out with tank money in the past.’

  ‘I’ve got some photos, info and that.’

  As I pass the envelope across the table I feel a sense of relief.

  ‘Be careful of Price, mate. I wouldn’t wanna see you get in any trouble,’ says Cody.

  ‘I kinda worked that out on my own.’

  ‘Be very careful. Is Geno still with Price?’

  ‘He’s like his right-hand man. He really likes the geezer. He’s very loyal.’

  ‘And loyalty’s a very admirable quality in people but it can be a stupid thing as well as a good thing. It can blind you to facts.’

  ‘Very true,’ I says.

  ‘I’ve known Gene since I was a kid. I used to run to the bookies for him from the Old White Bear. If he won he’d collect the winnings himself but he’d always bung ya a fiver. You could buy a pair of shoes for a ching back then.’

  ‘And still have change for a slap-up meal and the pictures up West.’

  ‘Don’t take the piss. Gene’s loyalty goes way back, to the regime of Ol’ Dewey. He picked up Geno when he was on his arse, always laggin drunk. His missus had taken the kids back to Ireland, back to Donegal, left Geno in a right state.’

  ‘How many kids has he got?’

  ‘Three. Daughters.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Gene as a family man.’

  ‘Well, neither could his missus so she jogged on back home.’

  ‘He never talks about havin kids.’

  ‘Gene don’t talk about anythin much, does he, he’s the fuckin closed book. Anyway, it’s not the way with those tea caddies. They send a few bob home if they’ve got it, spend their lives pissin it up and greetin in their beer.’

  ‘They’re either fightin or cryin and they do love a melancholy air on the jukebox.’

  ‘That’s how Old Dewey and Pricey got Geno on the book. He’s battered the shit outta these six mad Galway geezers, the whole western tear-up scenario, chairs going over people’s heads, geezers going through windows, and he’s done the fuckin lot of them. He’s wound up cos the missus has gone home, he’s totally on his arse, ain’t workin, ain’t havin a wash, a shave, nothin, he’s right confused cos he’s always been a good provider, out real early in the mornin, ganger-man on the railway, but that ain’t enough for her, can’t talk about it to nobody around him cos, well, you don’t, do you, a fight’s started and he’s created havoc, absolute chaos, wouldn’t stop even after they’d surrendered, waved the white flag, fought the cozzers to a stand-still and everything. They had to get the SPG, as it was back then, and even they had the full-scale battle with him to get him in the van, a couple of them went to the blood factory. As an audition it was quite spectacular.’

  ‘I can imagine it. I bet he’s a total bread and butter in the John-Wayne-style straightener.’

  ‘So they’ve spotted his potential as a fearless, completely loyal, no questions asked, no talkin back bodyguard-cum-how’s-your-father.’ He gives me a little wink. ‘He was Dewey’s Foreign Legion and now he’s Jimmy Price’s Foreign Legion.’

  ‘I don’t follow, Cody.’

  ‘Well, some French king, back in the day, couldn’t or wouldn’t trust his own armies, thought they would turn him over if they could, so he got his sidekicks to recruit a whole army of foreign mercenaries who don’t give a fuck about the internal bish, bash, bosh of France just as long as they get their readies.’

  ‘You’re sayin that Gene’s a mercenary?’

  ‘Not exactly. What I’m sayin is that he don’t get into the politics. Where there’s people there’s politics. Gene is loyal to Jimmy P. cos Jimmy P. showed him a shitload of compassion.’

  ‘No doubt in a very calculated and cunnin way.’

  ‘You’ve been payin attention. And he needed a guy like him what with Crazy Larry on the fuckin rampage. But what Geno, who’s a lovely man, don’t get me wrong, I’ve got great time for him, don’t understand is that any debt he owes Jim has been paid over and over again.’

  ‘But he still hangs in there with him.’

  ‘Sure, cos Jimmy still feeds him something. He make him feel wanted, like he’s good at his job. It’s funny what motivates people. Even big old lumps like Gene are like kids themselves, if you look behind the façades. Maybe he’s lookin for, deep down, approval from grown-ups, something he didn’t have as a kid.’

  ‘Hold fire, Cody. You’ve gone a bit too fuckin Californian for me all of a sudden. Have you been at those airp
ort psychology books again?’

  He laughs. ‘I have more than a layman’s interest in knowin what makes people tick.’

  ‘I think Geno’s a lot smarter than we give him credit for. He plays up to Jimmy as much as Jimmy plays up to him. They keep each other sweet.’

  ‘It’s a deal, like any relationship.’

  ‘Fuckin hell, thank you Professor Cody fuckin Garret for your expert insight.’

  ‘I’d make a very good head-shrinker, a fuckin natural.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘I fuckin know I am.’

  ‘Listen, one thing, Cody, if I’m not around and you catch up with Charlie and Kinky you get in touch with Gene or Morty, okay?’

  ‘If I catch up with Charlie and Kinky and you’re not around I’ll wait until you are, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I ain’t gonna get into any heroics. I’ll tell ya where you can collect the Richard, and that’ll be my end of the deal. I’ll do me best for ya, scout’s honour.’

  ‘Scout’s honour and seven large.’

  He laughs. ‘Now I’ve got to get a haircut round the corner. You could use a trim. This gaff’ll interest ya.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a crack-up. It’s a right old-fashioned barber’s. It’s got royal warrants all over the windows, it’s the real McCoy. Have a haircut, go on, I’ll treat you. You get the meal and I’ll pay in the barber’s.’

  ‘I’ve got things I should be doin.’

  ‘Oh, fuck all that. You could learn somethin in a gaff like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  We arrive at a shop with an old wooden front. The windows, plastered with crowns and crests in goldleaf, are crammed full of shaving and grooming paraphernalia, leather and pewter flasks, silver-framed pictures of pheasants and pike, all things wholesome and countrified. Cody’s talking the same as me but as the door opens, a bell rings, we’re in the shop, he’s straight back into his swell’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Sir,’ says the woman behind the jump.

  ‘Hugo, please, Hugo,’ says Cody.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I need a haircut but I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment, been away, down China way, Honkers.’

  ‘Are you known, Sir?’

  ‘But of course, Jenkins usually does the old thatch.’

  ‘I’ll see if Mister Jenkins is available, Sir.’

  ‘Okay, very good.’

  Off she goes to find Jenkins. The inside of the shop is like the outside, all old dark wood and display cases from ceiling to floor with cut-throat razors, shaving brushes, leather strops for sharpening the cut-throats, mirrors, hairbrushes and all the pukka kit for a gentleman’s grooming. The whole wall behind the ramp’s piled high with bottles and boxes, tubes and jars of colognes, aftershaves, creams, hair tonics. The whole place smelt of the aristocracy, of richness, luxury and indulgence.

  The woman returns. ‘Mister Jenkins will be with you shortly, Sir. He’s just finishing with a client now.’

  Then a guy who I guess is Jenkins comes out from the back. He’s seeing the punter off the premises, wishing him a safe journey back down to the Shires, bowing and tugging at his forelock, asking the old geezer if there’s anything else he requires. It would serve him right if the old boy wanted his arse rimming. At the door the guy pushes a pound coin into his damp palm and Jenkins pulls the forelock harder and bows lower.

  ‘Thank you, Sir, thank you.’

  Get a fuckin grip, pal. It’s only a quid.

  ‘Ahh, young Lord Hugo,’ says Jenkins, spinning round to greet Cody. ‘How are you, Sir? You look well.’

  ‘And so do you, Jenkins. Need the old thatch tidying up. Any chance?’

  ‘Of course, Sir. We can always fit you in, Lord Hugo,’ says Jenkins.

  ‘Oh, and this is my very good chum from the pampas, Pepe Gon-za-lez, doesn’t speak a bloody word of English. Tell a lie. He does understand one word. Don’t say –’

  Cody mouths the word ‘dago’ behind his hand so Jenkins and all the people behind the counter can see. They laugh, slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Pepe’s a bloody polo mercenary, from Chile, doing the tour. Bloody good player, though. Needs a bit of a trim, any chance? I said you need a bit of a trim, Pepe,’ he says, raising his voice to me. I’m giving it a large dose of gracious, oui, key, yes, good, thank yous in my best Chilean accent and nodding my head.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it can be arranged, Sir, Lord Hugo. We’re not very busy at the moment. Please come through.’

  He leads us into the rear of the shop and it opens up into the barber’s with about eight leather chairs in two rows on either side. Four of the chairs are occupied. A couple of the old guys are tilted back having a wet shave with lethal-looking cut-throat razors while girls give them manicures and generally pamper them. On the walls are testimonials, photos and letters of thanks from guys who are historical figures, Churchill and JFK. The place is like a museum of famous statesmen and here’s me and Cody being shown to our seats. Fuck only knows who’s sat here before us. For a wonderful split second I’ve got a gushing feeling of what a great place London Town is. You can cash your giro cheque in Tottenham or Brixton, Kilburn or Aldgate in the morning, jump on the Oxo cube, come here and spend the afternoon ironing it out, getting pampered and rubbing shoulders with peers of the realm and old money and still have time to be back at the dole shop before closing time to report Monte Cairo missing. I get a rush of civic pride as the barber sets about my hair, knowing that we can, and do, rise above our station in life.

  ‘A littlesome, no, trim, yes,’ I’m saying in a pidgin-English. ‘Lord Hugo say trim isa dix millimetres, no littlesome.’ I’m placing my thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart to show him how much I want off. He asks me if I talk English.

  ‘No, Señor, Spanish, I’ma speak–’

  ‘You’re right there, chum.’

  ‘I’ma specking Spanish? Yes? Chile?’

  ‘It is round the Khyber Pass. Now listen, you, shut the fuck up, okay you oily bastard, you comprehendi? Shut the fuck up or I’ll shave you like a chicken.’

  ‘Trim, yes, dix millimetres, good.’

  ‘For fuck sake shut up, you don’t have to understand anything, you wop cunt.’

  Further up I can hear Hugo ranting about giving Hong Kong back to the slopeheads, how on give-it-back day we should tell the Communist bastards ‘to go fuck themselves’ and if they don’t like it we should tell the buggers to ‘fuck off, stick to cooking beanshoots’. I can hear a couple of the old pops agreeing. One goes as far as to say that if there were more young people like Hugo around ‘we wouldn’t be in the damned mess we’re in now’. Jenkins is agreeing all the way but he would have agreed to let young Lord Hugo come round his house and chop the wife and teenage daughters at one sitting.

  ‘Trim, I trim, we trim, you trim,’ I’m saying.

  ‘Stop fuckin talking, you bastard,’ he’s hissing.

  I’m picking up bits of cut hair and holding them up to the light, measuring it, estimating its length.

  ‘Trim isa dix millimetres, no?’

  ‘Fuck millimetres, you can’t even see ’em.’

  I can see what Cody gets outta infiltrating the upper echelons of the status quo. Cody’s in the chair with his feet up, boots off, having the works, shampoo, haircut, wet shave, hot towels, manicure and buff up. He’s pontificating on an array of subjects, including law and order, where he thinks a hard line approach to the problem is the only way, especially fraudsters and drug dealers, let’s try a return to boot camps, transportation and penal servitude. The old boys mumble in agreement. The geezer finishes cutting my hair and he hasn’t done bad at all. He finishes up, mumbling to himself.

  With the job done, me and Cody are back in the shop having a load-up. I’m taking advantage of the fact that Cody’s paying to get about a hundred quid’s worth of tackle, aftershaves and shampoos, on Cody’s
bill. If he’s bothered he ain’t showing it. He pulls out a fat snakeskin wallet and pays the bill, about two-fifty, in crispy cash-point-fresh twenty-pound notes. We leave with great fuss. Cody puts a tenner into Jenkins’ sweaty palm and I give my man about twenty-seven pence in shrapnel and my biggest dago smile.

  ‘Anyway, Lord Hugo, nice to see you and stay in touch.’

  What’s the Big Deal!

  I’ve put Tammy’s number into my phone three times under different names, kept the original bitta card in a safe place, just in case I lose my phone or it decides to erase all the numbers. I’ve even taken the precaution of writing it in pencil on the wall behind the sofa cos in the past I’ve lost birds’ numbers and it’s driven me mad and I desperately don’t wanna lose this one. I’m about to press the little green button to connect me to her number, to arrange a little baked-bean, my old gent’s getting twitchy at the very thought, when as if by magic the phone starts to ring. Gene’s mobile number appears on the screen.

  ‘Hello, Gene. You all right?’

  ‘Fine. Where are you?’

  ‘Location is corner of Dover Street and Piccadilly, over.’

  ‘Don’t fuck about. Where’s that?’

  ‘You don’t know where Piccadilly is, Gene?’

  ‘Only in Monopoly. If I knew I wouldn’t ask.’

  ‘It’s in the West End.’

  ‘If I ever ask you that question again, son, just say “West End”, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Gene.’

  ‘We gotta collect ya. Your mates wanna chat tonight. I ain’t comin there to collect ya, it’ll take for ever. Get a cab up to Highbury and Islington tube station.’

  ‘It’s quicker to get a tube from here.’

  ‘Then get a fuckin tube. Fuckin hell.’

  He can be very fuckin moody, Gene, Pink Panther one minute, Snappy Crocodile the next. It comes with hanging out with Jimmy Price too much. I can hear him lighting up.

  ‘Where will I meet you, Gene?’

  ‘There’s a bar outside the station.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Don’t matter what’s it’s called. You get off the fuckin train, up the stairs, out the station and there it is. You could fuckin fall into it.’