The music from downstairs stops abruptly halfway through ‘The Greatest Gift Of All’. It’s replaced by screaming and shouting, glass smashing and the rumbling of a crowd stampeding. Gene and Morty don’t seem to notice. I walk to the window and from my first-floor vantage point I can see a huge brawl, western style, has begun on the forecourt across the pavement, with the landlord and some bouncers, black bow-ties, one black-leather glove, on one side, and twenty roughneck headbanging tea-caddies on the other. They have a mêlée for a few seconds, then a stand-off, then they charge again and attack each other with glasses, clubs, tools and bits of furniture. It must be empty downstairs now cos everyone’s outside.
A TRU patrol unit arrives in record time, sirens wailing, blue lights flashing. The old bill come hurtling out the back and side doors, truncheons out, ready to rumble. It then becomes a complete free-for-all with everybody hitting one another. The police are trying to arrest people but girlfriends jump on their backs and scratch their faces, hysterical, getting a smack in the mouth from other old bill for their trouble. Another wagon-load of old bill arrive. There’s a young Seamus who’s stumbled up the road, pissed and oblivious, swaying, having a piss against the side of the first law wagon. A cozzer, walking past, cracks him cross the head with a truncheon without missing a beat. The geezer falls so his head’s holding him up, wedged against the van. He carries on pissing down his trouser leg. The old bill appear, as ever, to be loving it. Ambulances start to arrive like they’ve been pre-booked in advance, like some sensible souls book a mini-cab for eleven-fifteen. This time next week I wanna be in Mexico or Sri Lanka.
I’m starting to feel like one of those Herberts who join the army to see the world. They get promised the healthy life, skiing, rock-climbing and sailing but they end up in a barracks in Moenchengladbach or Essen, wanking too much and eating mountains of fried food. I didn’t sign up to be an official observer to mini-riots in Kilburn on a Saturday night.
I need to be outta town. The official mourning period of James Lionel Price may now be officially over, exactly twenty-four hours after his death, but the police investigation will just be warming up. At Jimmy’s funeral, which hopefully will be a long way away cos they won’t release the body until they’ve got someone charged or convicted, Gene and Mort will send large ostentatious wreaths with simply their first initial on the condolence cards, cos Crim. Intel, and RCS have been known to go nosing round in graveyards, but in reality they’ll both go on the missing list cos Crim. Intel, and the murder squad will be smudging up the proceedings with a tele-photo lens. Eddy’ll no doubt send a large one too, ‘RIP, my misunderstood pal’.
‘You know what yer man here’s after becoming, don’t yer, Mister Mortimer?’ says Gene. I turn round and he’s smirking like a fuckin schoolboy.
‘What’s that, Mister McGuire?’ asks Morty.
‘A right feckin gangsterman. He has it in him to be a Don,’ replies Gene.
‘So what’s the next move, genius?’ Morty says to me.
‘Yeah, what’s the story, killer?’ asks Geno O’Hammerhead, trying to keep a straight face.
They’re both giggling, looking at me with their hands out and palms up, waiting for me to say something. They obviously find themselves hilarious, the old double-act. My wrist is killing me, it’s swelled up huge. The fish fingers have melted and are now dripping, fishy and salty, onto the carpet. I’ll have to keep a beady eye on these two jokers. I click my fingers on my good hand. I’ve just remembered something needs doing.
‘Right, Morty, before I forget, explain to Shanks that the cargo’s gone, tell him not to fuck about next time, but get one of his shooters down here. I wanna instigate the final solution on Klaus, the Germans’ top kiddie. I don’t want him fuckin things up at this stage in the game.’
‘We’ll have to find him first,’ says Morty.
‘He rang me up the other day.’
‘Fuckin rang ya?!’ says Mort. ‘You didn’t say.’
‘I ain’t seen ya. Van Tuck had the number. I’m prayin he rings again.’
‘I’ll get on it in the morning. We’ve got all sorts of codes and shit worked out.’
‘Tell Mister fuckin Shanks I don’t want him sendin down some scally muppet, either, who’s gonna waste our time or spunk our readies on trainers and smack, go rabbitin all over the gaff.’
‘No, no. Shanks and Big Trevor have got some serious but very sensible people on the firm.’
‘Someone who can deliver a headshot,’ I say.
‘Right,’ says Mort.
‘From a distance. First time. In the canister. JFK style.’
I clock Gene’s right eyebrow going ever-so-slightly upwards.
‘You know who’s the key to this, don’t ya, you bright sparks? Billy Bogus. Think about that. I’ll see ya tomorrow. I wonder if one of those ambulances’ll give me a lift down the casualty department.’
Sunday Accident and Emergency
If you ever decide to have an accident or an emergency, try not to have it on a Saturday night. I thought I’d box clever and get a cab as far away from Kilburn as possible cos I could see their local hospital being overwhelmed with casualties from this Saturday night medieval battle, but it transpires it’s the same wherever you go. I went in the University College Hospital by Euston Station at about eleven-thirty and emerged the next morning at eight. My broken wrist – it was broken, thanks a bunch Gene, lucky my nose wasn’t cos you’d be in trouble – rated very far down the list of A and E priorities. The whole place was smashed alive with walking wounded, mostly alcohol-related it has to be said, and ambulances were arriving all the time with more severe stretcher cases who were rushed straight in to see the doctors without waiting. Some people seemed to think this was unfair, queue-jumping cos you’re dying.
The people who feel themselves to be the most powerless in society make the most fuss in the casualty department cos they know nobody’s gonna give ’em a clump. There’s geezers in there with glass wounds in the face, guys with great big bandages round their heads from being hit with blunt and heavy objects or simply falling over lagging and landing on the bonce. There’s an orderly with a mop and a bucket on wheels cleaning up after them.
Homeless people appear to book in for the night and get their heads down cos they know they ain’t gonna be disturbed for about five or six hours, it’s nice and warm, pounce snout, a few cups of tea or coffee in the morning, take advantage of the camaraderie of bewilderment. I’m sitting in there tripping out, but it ain’t too psychedelic, from lack of sleep, seeing imaginary cats and rats dashing and darting about just outta my field of vision. I’m almost too tired to sleep, too alert mentally, too charged with adrenaline and vodka. I’ve drank more, taken more drugs in the last two days than I have in the last two years and I’m not used to it. You need to be in training to be doing that shit.
I get back indoors about nine, starving hungry, cos I don’t eat properly anymore, only shite. I’ve got another hangover after Jimmy’s Kilburn wake, with a plastercast from the top of my fingers up to my elbow, a plaster on the side of my nose and some ointment for cold-burns smeared up the right side of my face that’s glowing red. The nurse asked me how I got such a big cold-burn. I said it was a prank, a childish one at that, don’t ask. I couldn’t tell her this big mad Donegal lunatic was going to forcibly imprison me in a chest-freezer till I froze to death cos I shot dead, yeah two in the canister, works every time, love, some geezer he thought was his best mate for years but he found out. Now could I?
I could sleep for a week, go to a health farm for a month. I would be within my human rights, but if I’m to get outta town this week I’ve gotta march on regardless. I ring Cody and arrange to meet him later. I also try to ring Clark but he ain’t at home and his mobile’s switched off so I leave messages at both places for him to ring me after twelve, midday, important. I get in bed and go to sleep. I think I’m asleep about thirty seconds when the phone by the bed rings. After four rings I can hear Kl
aus on the answerphone in his perfect English.
‘After conferring with our leadership in Holland I have to inform you that unless we receive an undertaking from you that either our goods are returned to us intact or suitable compensation is paid to us, we will be in a state of war. We will have no alternative but to enter into hostilities between our two organisations.’
That’s just childish, irritating, playing at war, using big words. You’ve got all the power of a box of dead matches, Klaus. It might be okay thinking you’re a soldier cos you and your pals tortured a jolly-jack-tar boat-trader to death in some kinda fruity sado-masochistic turn-out gone horribly wrong, but it’s also my prayers answered.
‘Klaus, you just caught me. I was on my way out to church,’ I say in my very best English.
‘Did you hear my message to you, Sir?’
‘I did, but before I say another thing I really need to apologise to you, you and your organisation, about my behaviour last Thursday morning. I have been under a great deal of stress lately and I think it was unfortunate that you just happened to ring at the wrong moment. Again, I’m very sorry.’
‘I accept your apology, Sir. It’s very gracious of you to accept your responsibility.’
‘Klaus, I really am just on my way out. Could you leave me a mobile number? I promise you I will ring you later. I don’t wanna know where you’re staying or anything. Give me a mobile not a land-line.’
Will he go for it? He starts to give me the number but I have to go and get a pen and paper. I get one.
‘Today we change hotels anyway, for ideological reasons. It was pointed out to us, by our leadership, Otto, that the hotel was named after the Jew-loving, notorious war criminal –’
‘Whatever, Klaus. I’ve got a pen. Give me the number again.’
He does and I write it down. And Gene reckons I’m up my own arse. Changing hotels cos you don’t like the name?
‘Thanks, Klaus. Now, I’ll ring you later. I need this thing cleared up as soon as possible. I’m thinking along the lines of pointing you in the direction of the people who stole, and are still holding, your merchandise.’
‘That would be very excellent,’ says Klaus.
‘Then you can take it from there. Till later, then. Again, my apologies.’
‘No need, my friend. We all experience stress from time to time.’
How very understanding.
‘Later, Klaus.’
I put the phone down and ring Mort’s number. He answers it with a groan, real tired.
‘That thing we discussed last night, the very last thing? Yeah? You fuckin awake, Mort?’
‘Yeah, I’m with ya,’ he mumbles.
‘Soon as. On the hurry-up. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
I put the phone down and go back to sleep. There is a God in heaven after all.
Calling the Shots
‘What happened to your face and arm?’ says Clarkie.
‘Don’t fuckin ask,’ I reply.
‘Okay,’ he shrugs. ‘Listen to this, brov, this’ll crack ya right up, yeah. One of the O’Mara brothers, Johnny, the quiet one, has gone to see that Freddie Hurst geezer’s old Doris and told her that Freddie was bang outta order talkin to this geezer who did him like he did. She’s sayin like, “Tell me about it, Mister O’Mara. I know what Fred’s like.” He’s told her that the mister who did the business wants to settle outta court and he’s talkin about fifteen grand. How’s that sound, Mrs H.?’
‘About right.’
‘No. That’s what Johnny says to Mrs Hurst, “How’s that sound?’”
‘Seriously, is Freddie still in a coma?’ I say.
‘Best place for him really, brov, cos Mrs H. wants the fifteen large to take the kids to Disneyland and Freddie’s not included in the deal. See, Johnny O’Mara thought he’d really have to convince her so he really pulled out all the stops and did the big hard sell. “You could go to Disneyland, Florida, when Freddie gets better.” But she’s got right on it, it’s gone right in the canister, she’s ready to pack, get a double-script of Valium and leave straight away, fuck Freddie in the intensive care.’
‘I bet he’s a right fuckin tyrant to her.’
‘Johnny’s said, “Listen, I don’t know anything about who did this to Freddie,” to cover himself, yeah? “But I might be able to get you a few thousand to be gettin on with.’”
‘But if he dies, all bets are off,’ I say.
‘But if he lives, he goes in the witness box and says he’s never seen Morty in his life, who’s that bloke over there? In fact it wouldn’t even get anywhere near crown cos if the victim don’t wanna know,’ he shrugs, ‘what can old bill do? Fuck all. If he dies, that’s different, they don’t need him. Funny, ain’t it?’
‘Hilarious.’
‘So I’ve gone round there with Johnny O.M. My old man’s got the sweet all round. I’ve met John outside and he’s warned me that the gaff’s a shithole, stinks, brov, and we’ve gone upstairs and this Freddie’s misses has asked us if we want a cup of tea, brought us through to the front room, the whole family’s sat round watching the lottery draw, eating chocolate and crisps, they’re all quite lumpy, and you know what?’
‘What?’ I’m actually genuinely inquisitive for once about one of Clarkie’s stories. I usually wanna tell him to switch off when I’m tired.
‘What’s the date? D-A-T-E,’ asks Clarkie but he already knows.
‘April the tenth,’ I say, looking at my watch.
‘Well, they still had their decorations up, from Christmas, maybe they’ve been up for years. Mrs H. was treating me like I was the geezer from the lottery company come to give her a prize. I felt like a right fuckin celebrity, Jim Davidson or someone. I thought I was gonna get smudged-up for the local paper. Johnny’s flirtin with her, for the crack, gettin her goin, “Oi, Mrs H., you’re still a handsome young woman, you could play the field,” and she’s gettin all worked up cos she probably ain’t had a potion in stretches. She’s all over the gaff, wobbly on pills for her nerves. It’s tragic, really, what with him on the life-support machine up the hospital, shouldn’t laugh really.’
‘You give ’em how much?’
‘Five grand. I reckon she’s only ever seen five kay cash in the movies.’
‘Morty can afford it, won’t break Mort, five large.’
‘I meant to ask you. What happened to the Rover we went up north in?’ he says.
‘The one you got so out of it you couldn’t drive back? That Rover, you mean?’
Clarkie’s embarrassed.
‘I took it back,’ I say.
‘Cos I’ll end up payin for that.’
‘See Mister Mortimer for an expenses claim-form.’
‘I ain’t gonna get paid, am I?’
‘Take it outta the money we get on this lot. Okay, now listen, this is important. Don’t be tellin your old fella what we’re up to here, cos certain things we’re gonna do are just plain sly, a bit naughty, bit slippery, bit crafty, very tricky. Are you receiving me loud and clear?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like wait and see, Mister Clark, but your whack’s gonna top up to about two hundred and fifty grand. How’s that sound?’
‘We’re gonna shank ’em, ain’t we? We are, I can tell by that little grin on your face.’
This geezer’s going right to the fuckin top. Rings exactly on the dot of twelve, sun’s straight up in the sky, says on the phone he’ll be round at five o’clock meaning one o’clock case anyone’s listening, there on the doorstep at exactly one o’clock, ready to go to work, ready to go and pick up Cody Garret, AKA Billy Bogus, at one-thirty in Camden to go and have a bitta Sunday lunch up in Highgate. You can look at Clarkie and see breeding counts. They’ve been villains in his family for generations, second nature to check whether we’re being tailed, learnt in the cradle, first words outta their mouths, ‘No Comment’. Old Man Clark Senior apprenticed the youngest son Clarkie with the firm of Jimmy Price and Company to get
a solid foundation in his trade. If only he knew.
‘Johnny was havin a little sniff, askin what the fuck’s going on with us lot, you know, first Morty uppin Freddie then Jimmy gettin served. It ain’t our usual style. He reckons they used to call us “The Quiet Team” but not any more.’
It could go further the other way yet. When we arrive at the gaff where Cody’s staying, I ask Clarkie to stay in the motor while I go upstairs cos I’ve got six grand for him to be getting on with, maybe he’ll wanna plug it up inside rather than dragging it around with him. Six grand can be bulky. Cody lets me in and brings me upstairs.
‘I was gonna kill you dead on Thursday night, serious, I was gonna have one put in your nut.’
‘I’m sorry about that, what can I say, mate?’
‘I’ve calmed down, luckily. What happened to you?’
‘Don’t ask. Here, it’s some of what I owe ya.’
I give him the six. He throws it nonchalantly onto the sofa.
‘The geezers who nicked us were playin the old impersonating-a-police-officer swindle, but they had accreditation from someone real in Scotland Yard, the Brighton old bill checked them out.’
‘How do you know they weren’t real gathers?’
‘I could tell, takes one to know one, and they half admitted it at the end. If they were for real they would’ve nicked us. You ever heard old bill refusing a collar after they’ve got a body in the cells, not botherin to check if there’s any outstandin warrants?’
‘No.’
‘They were very good, looked the part, looked like they got all their clobber outta mail-order catalogues. You never told me it was Eddy the Swell’s kid we was lookin for.’
‘I didn’t know meself.’
Layer Cake Page 31
