Layer Cake

by J. J. Connolly

  ‘And who were these lot? From the local nick? They ever been in your yard before?’ Gene asks Minty, calmer now.

  ‘No,’ says JD. ‘I said before they were South East Regional Crime Squad. One of them says they’re on detachment.’

  Me and Gene look at one another, shaking our heads, looking resigned, sighing deeply.

  ‘You didn’t say it was Regional Crime Squad,’ says Gene.

  ‘I did earlier but you was . . . like, upset. What’s the matter?’ says JD.

  ‘They’ve got a little bitta previous. Did ya get his name, the cozzer who was talkin to you?’ I ask.

  ‘He offered me a card, to ring, to grass, like,’ says Minty.

  ‘Did ya take it?’ I say.

  ‘Have ya got it?’ says Gene at the same time.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t let him give it to me,’ he says like he’s done something wrong. ‘He was a sergeant, six foot, big cunt, fancied himself, you know, handy in a tear-up.’

  ‘Well, that could be any one of a million cozzers,’ I say. ‘Did he say his name was Cox?’

  ‘Coulda done.’

  ‘Think about it, Minty,’ says JD.

  ‘It rings a bell, could well be. Why?’

  ‘There’s a right flash detective sergeant on the South East Regional Crime Squad. Luckily I’ve never met him, a lot of people reckon he’s bang at it. They seize ten kilos but only three end up on the charge sheet. Nobody’s gonna say they had more, get another five, are they? That’s why it ain’t in the papers, Gene. They look up Duke, old file comes up, them computers are only as good as the people programming them. Cox goes in there with this Dutch cozzer, right, they’ve traced the Merc, thinkin they’ve got Duke, got a body, but it’s a fuckin wild-goose chase but he tumbles into . . . How did you have them? In boxes, sacks, bin-bags or what?’

  ‘Boxes, four boxes,’ says JD, egging me on now.

  ‘They stumble across these boxes, open ’em up and Bob’s your uncle, they’re lookin at a nice fat pension.’

  ‘They didn’t have a search warrant,’ says Minty, leaning forward, anxious to please Gene.

  ‘They musta had a search warrant. You can’t go busting into premises without one,’ says Gene, shaking his head.

  ‘The Dutch bloke, the old bill, was tellin the English ones that they’ve only got the power of arrest, could noorse any trial if they didn’t do it right. That’s Dutch law, is that. After they come across whatever was in the boxes, they kept trying to get rid of him for two hours, but when he went they give it ten minutes and then fucked off sharpish. They left one cozzer there to go with the break-down truck that come for the Merc sports.’

  ‘You leave anything inside, Jay?’ I ask, already knowing.

  ‘Some bedding stuff, my phone and a Mach-10.’

  ‘A Big Mac! Fuckin ‘ell,’ says me and Gene in unison.

  ‘A reactivated one,’ says JD, a bit sheepish.

  ‘Does that make any difference then?’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘Don’t fuckin start. I ain’t in the mood,’ he says. Minty looks like he don’t wanna play anymore.

  ‘So they got your phone and a Big Mac semi-automatic,’ I say. ‘Loaded?’

  He nods.

  ‘That’ll get ya about eight years,’ I say. ‘Was the weapon ever used on a bitta work?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Fuckin ‘ell. You don’t know where it’s been? Could have notches on it, a right history. You don’t know what ballistics could turn up. Is the phone registered to your address?’

  ‘Sister’s,’ he says, shaking his head, looking gutted.

  ‘Did this Cox geezer get a good look at ya?’

  ‘Good enough.’

  ‘Can I give you a piece of advice, Jay?

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Go on holiday for a little while and start praying like fuck that those Regional Crime Squad geezers have gone through with your pills, you know, nicked ’em, cos they won’t wanna proceed with the gun and phone thing if they have. They won’t wanna risk you being up at Snaresbrook Crown Court or the Bailey sayin you only had the hardware to protect you from a bogeyman robbin the missin Jack ‘n’ Jills. What would the chief constable say? Where’s the fuckin pills? Maybe they’ve got a hunch they’re crooked now. They’d reason you’ve got no need to tell porkies, you’re going for an eight already. Cox would keep the phone and Big Mac knockin around, just in case, could come in handy.’

  JD and Minty are shaking their heads, lookin sick.

  ‘I tell you what, Jay,’ I say, bucking up, ‘Sergeant Cox’ll wanna punt them. You could always go and buy them back.’

  ‘Are you fuckin mad?’ he says, his nut spun. ‘Tell him they’re our pills and we want first refusal?’

  ‘It was only a thought,’ I shrug. ‘But if ya think about it you’ve had a right result.’

  ‘I’m not with ya, pal,’ says JD curiously.

  ‘You got bent old bill floppin on ya this mornin. If they were straight-goers, which the majority of old bill are, you’d be fucked, lookin at eight stretch.’

  ‘Put like that, you’ve gotta point,’ he says.

  ‘You know,’ says Gene suddenly, ‘you’ve convinced me, JD. You know why?’

  ‘Why, Gene?’

  ‘Cos between the lot of you, your whole fuckin crowd,’ he nods towards the foursome at the bar, ‘you ain’t got the imagination, the wit and gumption to make up a ludicrous story like that.’

  JD smiles and looks relieved like it’s a compliment.

  ‘Thanks, Gene. I’m sorry about the gear. What can I say?’

  ‘That’s okay, son, worry about yerself. Like yer man here says, start praying those pills end up back in circulation. Look after Mister Minty here for us, a few bob,’ he says with a wink.

  ‘Shame,’ I say as we get up, ‘I was looking forward to a nice earner outta those pills, six figures at least.’

  Gene turns to me. ‘That’s the most selfish thing I think I’ve ever heard in my whole life. Yer man, JD here, is looking at eight years and you can only think of yourself. Jesus wept.’

  ‘All I’m sayin is I’m disappointed, that’s all. I’ve been up and down to Manchester three times this week.’

  ‘How many times have I got to tell yer, son, Sometimes Life’s Not Fair.’

  Wednesday At Your Own Risk

  Today’s the day I get paid. Two and a half million in used banknotes, various currencies, fits snugly into one of those massive red and white gingham laundry bags you can buy on street markets or in anything-one-pound-crash-out shops, but it’ll take two people to carry. To count two mill, to check, it should only take about two hours if everyone pulls their finger out. The carve-up has been decided. After a hundred grand’s taken off the top, expenses, to pay the outstanding due to Tiptoes and the other guys and to sort out the crew who did the Klaus business, Gene will receive six hundred thousand, twenty-five per cent, because he, in some respects, already owned a share in the pills and without his say-so we couldn’t have skanked the Banditos. Me and Mort will get four hundred and thirty-two grand each, eighteen per cent, and Cody, Clarkie and Terry will each receive the three remaining thirteen-per-cent shares, three hundred and twelve grand. Not bad work if you can get it.

  I need time to catch myself up. Things are happening too fuckin fast right now. I’ve booked a ticket out to Paris on the late Eurostar so I can plot-up for tonight and riddle out where to put my whack. I think overland to Zurich on a first-class sleeper might be a better idea than jumping around on aeroplanes, booking in my suitcase with my readies in it, leaving it at the mercy of all those robbing bastard baggage handlers.

  I wake up this morning and the rain, the first in weeks, is battering my window. Rain like you only see in movies is moving in sheets over the rooftops of the houses overlooking my bedroom. The drops are hitting the glass like someone’s fired them from a gun, and the wind, changing direction every split second, gets behind it and drives it so it appears to be coming in ho
rizontally. The morning papers are still full of the shooting of the geezer on Primrose Hill, first three pages, editorial, ‘Is This London or Beirut?’, where they’ve linked it with the shooting of a known organised-crime figure in sedate, sleepy Totteridge, North London, and the more sinister discovery of two mutilated bodies in a navigation canal in Edmonton. ‘Gun-law, blah, blah, blah, Home Secretary resign, blah, blah, blah, more police powers’ and so on and on. Not a dickey-bird about a seizure of ecstasy with a street value of twenty million pounds. The old bill always exaggerate figures, indulge in wishful thinking. They think of a number between one and ten, then double it a few times. I know some guys who will be anxiously, but with growing relief, scanning the linen drapers this morning for any mention of ‘Scotland Yard are very happy to announce the seizure of . . .’

  I rang Eddy yesterday evening and he told me to ring again at midday today to arrange the exchange, said he might have something else I might be interested in but I told him I’m going off-duty for a little while, thanks but no thanks. The money we get from Eddy will no doubt be naughty readies, diverted from another dubious source, but if yer start getting too greedy with geezers like him you can end up not being able to get out the other end. I’ve learnt my lesson well with Jimmy. My thirtieth birthday is rumbling into sight and I fancy being on the beach in Barbados or hanging hard in the South of France, moodying that I’m a film producer at a film festival, not running around London in the pissing rain, accumulating even more readies that I ain’t got the time to spunk.

  By the time I leave my house, the weather’s changed again. Now it’s bright sunshine, blinding white light hitting the pavements and puddles. All the debris of twigs, leaves, paper and small pebbles has been driven into the gutters by the downpour but now the air is fuckin alive with ions, positive or negative or both, the birds are back singing in the trees and I know that today’s the last day in this fuckin life before I sever the ties and ride into the sunset. Shades on, brolly in broken wrist, large empty Samsonite in good hand, nod to the neighbour as I pass on the stair, post the spare set of keys over to the letting agency in case I’m outta town for a while, and get a cab over to Loveland to see the boys and ring Eddy the Swell.

  When I get outta the cab, Gene’s got the white box van parked up in the alley, with the roller back up and the two back doors of Loveland wide open. Metal Mickey is standing, huffing and puffing, with a huge box so I can’t see his face and Gene is teasing and poking him with a broom handle.

  ‘Leave it out, Gene, I’m gonna drop ’em,’ says Mickey.

  ‘Don’t stand there gorping, watching a man struggle, either shut your eyes or help him,’ says Geno.

  ‘I can’t be schlepping boxes, I’ve got a fuckin broken wrist, Gene.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ he says.

  ‘That joke’s a bit worn out now, Gene. It was only half funny the first time and now you’ve got every cunt sayin it.’

  ‘Well, you never did a day’s work when you had two good hands, yer good-for-fekkin-nothin bastard,’ he says in a culshie accent, brandishing his broom.

  I can hear Mickey laughing from behind the box so I snatch Gene’s stick and give him a smart whack on the knee-cap.

  ‘Ouch! Leave it out, Gene, what was that for? That fuckin hurt, that did,’ says Mickey, doing a little dance.

  I give the broom back to Gene, who takes it before thinking. Mickey grapples the box into the back of the van. He looks to take a breather but Gene points with his thumb inside and Mickey troops off to get the next one.

  ‘Where’s Morty and Mister Clark?’

  ‘They’re inside counting counting machines. And Billy, or Cody, or whatever his fuckin name is, will be along in half an hour with the motor you gave him yesterday.’

  ‘They the goods?’ I point at the two battered, taped-up, corrugated cardboard boxes on the wagon already.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Gene.

  ‘Don’t look two and a half mill’s worth.’

  ‘There’s another two inside as well. Morty and young Clark bought them inside overnight, got their heads down here, stop them getting pinched. There’s a lot of it about, you know, robbery, streets ain’t safe these days.’

  ‘Not like when you was a boy.’

  ‘Don’t be fuckin cheeky, son,’ he says, waving the broom.

  Inside, Morty, Terry and Clarkie are drinking coffee and eating toasted sandwiches, but they don’t look all that well groomed. Indoor camping obviously doesn’t agree with them. In one corner are electric scales, the very accurate kind, that weigh things down to the last gram. These are usually used for weighing books or parcels. If you wanna know if you’ve got two million pills, you don’t count them all, it’d take too long. What you do instead is put ten thousand through a pill-counter, weigh the ten thou, weigh the rest, deducting the weight of the boxes they’re in, weigh one empty box, get your calculator out, paper and pencil, do your sums, and hopefully things’ll tally up and you’ll have the correct amount of pills.

  There’s also six money-counting machines, a pill-counter from a medical supplier’s on Wigmore Street and calculators, so me, Mort, Gene, Clarkie, Terry and Cody can crack on and get the money counted and get back here, carve up the two point five mill and go our separate ways for a while. I ring Eddy’s number before they start giving me grief about spending the night at home, in a nice warm bed, while they were the martyrs, suffering for the cause in a grubby sex shop.

  ‘Afternoon, Mister Ryder. Ready to rock the casbah, I hope.’

  ‘Good day, young sir. Most certainly. Had a little trouble getting your wages how you wanted them but it’s okay now. Three o’clock out at Heathrow. Follow the signs for Terminal Four but go past it. Turn into the Southern Perimeter Road, follow it round to Redbridge Road and turn into it. Look for the Cargo Terminal, but before you get there you’ll see “International Shipping and Freight Corporation”. I should be there from about three onwards but forgive me if I’m a little late,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll see you there, Mister Ryder,’ I say, just as Cody and Nobby come through the office door at the same time.

  We saddle up, Gene, Terry and Metal Mickey in the truck, and me, Morty, Cody, with Clarkie driving, in the rented motor. Mort’s rubbing his hands in anticipation. The sun’s got warm now for April, and it’s evaporating the rain off the ground so steam rises eerily. There’s shoots of pink cherry blossom on the pathetic-looking trees in the square but life is coming alive again, life tastes good again. We pull outta the alley and turn into the street just as Nobby comes running out of the front door of Loveland.

  ‘See that old cunt? Run him over, Mister Clark,’ says Morty as Nobby waves, trying to get his attention. ‘He’s drivin me fuckin mad.’

  How Does It Feel?

  When we arrive at the International Shipping and Freight Corporation at five to three, everything is quiet, deserted, nobody to be seen. In the sky above there’s the deafening noise of planes taking off and landing continually, like they’re coming in just over the top of your head. The freight sheds are open but Mickey pulls the truck up outside and we wait. Clarkie and me go inside and have a recce but there’s nobody around at all. It appears to be a vacant warehouse the size of a penalty area. Traps have been placed for the rats and mice, there’s even a few dead and mummified ones. Along one wall there’s three bright-red dumpster bins, like from you-know-where, with bits of old chocolate-coloured carpet on the top. The glass-fronted offices in the corner are empty as well, except for some locked wardrobe-sized metal cabinets like the ones that Duke and Slasher got buried at sea in. The carpet is newly laid. Clarkie goes and has a piss in the khazi that’s been built from breeze-block in the opposite corner from the offices. He’s asking me if I’m sure I’ve got the right address but I tell him that there can’t be two firms called the same in the airport, maybe they’re just moving in. He did say he may be a bit late.

  After about half an hour, when we’re starting to think that maybe we should s
ack it, return to base and rearrange for another day and after five or six calls to Eddy’s unobtainable mobile, Eddy’s car, a black brand-new top-of-the-range Range Rover, comes sweeping round the corner, up Redbridge Road and drives straight through the roller-shutters and into the warehouse. We’re on.

  ‘We thought you weren’t comin, Mister Ryder,’ I say through the window of his car as Mickey and Clarkie drive the motors in. Mister Troop pushes a button that automatically closes the shutters. In his car with him are two other quite heavy-looking guys.

  ‘You must forgive me. I underestimated the journey-time across town. Are all the pills in the van, young man?’

  ‘Sure. Please help yourself, open up a box, anyone ya like. I accept you’ll wanna examine them, do some tests.’

  ‘Oh, it would mean nothing to me, just another commodity to me, my friend.’

  ‘Shall we get going on the paperwork then? I’ve got places to go, people to see.’

  ‘It’s a bit gloomy in here, isn’t it, Mister Troop.’

  Mister Troop walks slowly over and hits the lights. The neon flickers. I look up for a split second and squint. I hear sudden movement, people shuffling about. Outta the big red bins come geezers in black combats, boots and heavy-duty machine pistols, from the offices come the same, from the pre-fab office roof two guys jump, roll and come up with rifles aimed at Mickey and Gene’s heads. No fuckin shouting, they move like Chinese gymnasts. I turn and see Morty with his hands outta our car window already cos there’s a geezer in a ski-mask, completely motionless, pointing a lethal-looking heavy-calibre machine pistol at his head. A guy sneaks up and puts Cody on the ground with one quick, silent kick in the back of the legs then stands above him with a rifle pointed at his face. Terry’s sitting in the back of the motor, I know he’s got a tool in there, is flustered, trying to get the door open. A guy in a ski-mask walks calmly up from behind, stops, leans forward, tap, tap, tap on the glass with his weapon, and gets his attention, or rather the tool does. Terry slowly raises his hands. Morty, I can see, is telling Terry to take it easy, don’t do anything stupid, don’t do anything at all.