The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  ‘All right, love. I’ll talk to Joey, see what he thinks.’

  Cathy smiled, knowing she was halfway there if Desrae was going to discuss it with his man. ‘Where is Joey anyway?’

  Desrae shrugged. ‘He’s got a load of hag at the moment with his bookies. He nearly bit my head off this morning when I rang to see if he fancied a bit of lunch.’

  Cathy was surprised. ‘That’s not like him. Normally he’s full of the joys of spring.’

  Desrae smiled sadly. ‘I think there’s a lot more going on than he’s saying, to be honest. Even his boy Tommy is out of sorts.’

  ‘Tommy’s always out of sorts these days.’

  Desrae didn’t answer. He knew that Tommy was obsessed with Cathy and found it hard to deal with the fact that she didn’t want to know. He was more used to girls falling all over him.

  ‘He’s after a date, love. Why don’t you put him out of his misery, eh, and go out with him?’

  She shook her head. ‘No way, Desrae. I don’t want to go out with him, or anyone else for that matter. I’m happy as I am.’

  Desrae didn’t push the issue, but he wished he could make Cathy see that not all men were out for what they could get sexually. And anyway, sex could be a wonderful expression of love between two people. Even when they were of the same gender.

  He looked over Cathy’s carefully formulated plans once more and then the two of them were back on an even keel.

  Joey sat in his house and stared at the walls, trying to find a way through his problems. Somewhere in the background his wife Martha, already drunk, was berating their housekeeper. He tried to put the ranting voice out of his mind and concentrate on the best course of action to take.

  A small tight-knit crew of villains had recently come to the West End from Liverpool and they were trying to take the place over. Ordinarily Joey wouldn’t have been too worried about that fact, but these were not the usual scallies. Far from it. They were a disciplined community with Irish connections and a love of unnecessary violence.

  Joey was having trouble admitting that he was getting too old for it all. That was why he wanted the club with Desrae to work out. He wanted to retire and pass everything over to his young son Tommy who was a natural villain.

  But that was easier said than done.

  The head of the gang was a man called Derrick O’Hare - a huge Liverpool Irishman with a thick shock of sandy hair and deep-set blue eyes. He was built like a navvy and he spoke like one too. He had none of the finesse needed to be a boss in the West End. If he won power there would soon be anarchy. The West End had settled down happily over the last ten years and everyone involved was making money. Including the police.

  Now it was all falling out of bed, and fast. Even Richard Gates was sniffing around and that in itself told Joey just how far this had all gone.

  He should have nipped the Liverpool bunch in the bud but he hadn’t bothered, believing as he always had that his reputation and presence in the West End would deter them from an outright bid to oust him.

  It had deterred many before them, and he knew that he could still deter most people. But these Liverpool boys were a new breed. They dealt in everything and anything: weapons, drugs, sex. They sold women and boys, even children. Their sex shops were a big earner for them. They could supply the more hard-core magazines which they bragged openly came through the docks in Harwich from Germany, Holland and Sweden. They were already a force to be reckoned with up North and now they had come down South to take over the place.

  They knew their market and they knew their clientele. They also knew they had to get rid of Joey Pasquale.

  They had offered him money, tried to buy him out, and he had refused. Even found it amusing that they had the front to approach him. Now he realised just how dangerous they were. He knew his son would want to take them on and would even enjoy the challenge. But the more Joey heard about them, the more worried he became. Tommy would be taking on trouble the like of which he had never before encountered.

  But take it on he would.

  That was Tommy’s way. He was his father’s son. Twenty years earlier Joey would have stood his ground and fought. Now he just couldn’t face it. This was a new breed of villain and in his more honest moments he admitted that they scared him.

  It wasn’t the violence - he had lived with that all his life - but he in common with most old-style criminals had always believed that violence had to be commensurate with the crime committed. These Liverpool lads, on the other hand, used violence all the time, even for the smaller jobs such as getting protection money. They broke limbs for just a few pounds. They were already gaining a reputation as men to fear, and Joey knew he was losing people to them every day.

  Now his bookies were under threat.

  He had just been approached in his own home, and warned for the final time that if he didn’t accept their cash offer, they’d take what they wanted and ruin him. He closed his eyes and filled the empty room with his sigh. Tommy would fight them. But Tommy was young, full of bravado - and full of shit.

  There was no saying who would win.

  Tommy sat in the bar of the Mortimer Hotel in Piccadilly and sipped at his beer. As he waited for his contact he listened to a group of French tourists chatting together about the Queen and Buckingham Palace. One of the crowd was a tiny girl with huge blue eyes and blonde hair; her resemblance to Cathy Duke was so striking he could not take his eyes from her. He knew he was making her feel uneasy and tried to concentrate on his Daily Mirror.

  He was pleased when Dean Whiteside came into the bar and ordered himself a drink. As Dean sat down beside Tommy, he shook his head sadly. ‘Still looking at all the blondes, I see. I’m a tit man meself. Don’t give a toss what the boatrace is like as long as they have nice big knockers.’

  Tommy laughed easily, knowing that Dean was joking. He had married his childhood sweetheart at eighteen, and ten years and four children later was still enamoured of her. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he didn’t feel the need to prove himself a macho man by sleeping with anything that moved. His wife Stella was more than enough for him.

  ‘You’re a complete nut, Whiteside.’

  Dean grinned. ‘You’re blonde mad, everyone knows that. By the way, you owe me a grand. That’s what it cost to get you the info you was after.’

  Tommy nodded. ‘So what’s the big news?’

  Dean shook his head and sighed. ‘All bad, mate. I tell you, Tommy, you’d better watch your back because these Scallies are here for the duration. They want it all. I spoke to an old lag this morning who had his face sliced up by them because he owed his bookie thirty-five quid. Can you believe it? Thirty-five fucking sobs. I mean, it’s a joke. How the hell are they going to do business like that?’

  ‘They’re nutters, they don’t reason like we do. All they’re interested in is the bottom line. Who was striped up?’

  Dean raised his blond eyebrows and said quietly: ‘Old Dicky Drake, the bare-knuckle boxer. Most people swallowed him because he was once a face like. He’s fucking punch drink and barely making a living these days. No respect, Tommy. These people have no respect.’

  Tommy was shocked. Dicky Drake was a legend in his own lifetime, the bare-knuckle boxer of his day, the most famous and the best loved. Dicky had thrown money to many people when he had been on top. Now in his sixties, and punchy, people tended to look after him. Which was only fair. Seeing him striped would cause many people in the East End and the South East to look to Joey to settle the score with the Liverpudlians.

  ‘In a way that can only work for us. Everyone loves old Dicky and no one’s going to swallow him getting hurt,’ Tommy said tentatively.

  Dean looked dubious. ‘I dunno so much. I heard this morning that the same men have bought up night clubs in Essex and Surrey. They’ve also been after a few of the old East End haunts. The thing is, Tommy, our generation don’t give a fuck about the Dicky Drakes. What with the ICF, the Inner City Firm, and the National Front, t
he world’s changing, mate. Nowadays people don’t look at the old lags and say: “Give him respect, he was a face once.” Now they say: “Kick the cunt’s head in and get a bit of his rep.” You know that in your heart. Even your dad’s not frightening any more to a lot of the youngsters.’

  It said something about the relationship between Dean and Tommy that he dared talk as he had about Joey Pasquale. Before Tommy could answer they were joined at their table by a large bald-headed man carrying a pint of Guinness.

  ‘Hello, Tommy lad. Dean. Now what’s two nice Catholic boys like yourselves doing in here, eh?’

  Tommy looked into Richard Gates’s face and laughed. ‘Fuck off, Mr Gates. Get back to your nice little police station and leave the men and the boys to sort themselves out.’

  Gates sipped his Guinness and said in a low voice that now held a menacing tone: ‘How’s your dad’s new club then? Pulling in the right customers, is it? I saw a few famous faces go in there the other night. Be a right shame if I was to raid it now, wouldn’t it? Especially with all this trouble coming from up Liverpool like.’

  He leant towards the younger man and said slowly, ‘Don’t take me for a cunt, all right? I know what’s going down and I want to try and avoid a complete gang war if I can. You villains can kill each other day and night for all I care. It’s innocent bystanders getting hurt that bothers me, see. If the Liverpudlians decide to torch the club or one of the betting shops, then I have to try and sort it all out. I assume you’re insured like, so you have to call me in to get your few quid. Now I know about this Liverpool firm and we could work together there. It’s completely up to you. Either way, I’m up for it.’

  Tommy ignored the policeman. Dean stood up and went to the toilet, leaving them alone.

  ‘Up yours, Gates,’ Tommy told him. ‘I don’t need the filth, never have and never will. Now why don’t you fuck off and go and put out some parking tickets, or whatever it is you do to earn your keep.’

  Richard Gates was furious and they both knew it. In his own way he liked Tommy, and had always liked the boy’s father. Gates believed that you were better off with the people you knew running things. He accepted that the Soho sex industry would always be run by someone, and that someone would never be the government.

  He, like the old-time villains, believed that it was better off being run properly by one person than carved up and run piecemeal by too many people, all wanting a bite of the lucrative cherry. He didn’t want O’Hare’s lot getting a foothold in Soho. They were already in Blackpool, Nottingham, Leicester and their home town. They wanted it all, and that was not going to happen.

  Anyway, like most Southerners he hated Scallies. They used intimidation and force, guns, fire, even dynamite to attain their ends.

  He knew that this could turn into the biggest gang war Soho had ever seen, and he also knew that the blacks and the Chinese were keeping out of it.

  The Scallies knew that Gerrard Street and the rest of Chinatown was out of bounds to them, and were sensible enough to accept that. The Chinks wouldn’t roll over; they never had and certainly would not start doing it now. In fact, the Chinese were the best inhabitants of Soho in many ways. They sorted out their own differences and kept out of everyone else’s.

  The blacks were still in their own areas and only really came Up West to wine, dine or deal. That suited him as well. The blacks knew their limitations and accepted them. They were sometimes employed as heavies which fitted them down to the ground. The black community still hadn’t bothered to unite. They fought each other as well as everyone else. Bob Marley’s concept of all being brothers was great on a record but a non-starter if you lived in Brixton.

  Gates’s chief worry at this time was the Liverpool men, and he knew much more about what was going on there than he was going to tell Tommy Pasquale.

  As he left the bar ten minutes later he felt more worried than he had in years.

  Cathy looked lovely and she knew it. Dressed in a handkerchief skirt and gypsy top, she appeared much younger than her twenty-two years - the epitome of the fashionable young woman.

  It was still early, only seven-thirty, and already there were people in the club’s bar. This pleased her. The bar was Cathy’s pride and joy, and as she smiled and waved at the customers she kept a sharp eye on the glasses and optics, seeing if anything needed replacing.

  One of the customers, an MP who lived in London during the week and near his constituency at the weekends, grinned at her, showing expensive capped teeth. ‘Hello, darling girl, and how are you?’

  Cathy laughed. Fluttering her eyelashes, she said suggestively, ‘You’re looking very handsome tonight.’

  He preened himself and Cathy inwardly laughed at the man who would one day be in Number 11 Downing Street. He was a complete arsehole and she was constantly amazed at the way he lived a double life. She had seen him in full drag and school uniform. She had also seen him on Panorama, shouting his mouth off about the Labour Party’s waste of resources and monetary instability. Still, she reasoned, whatever turned him on.

  As she walked through to the front room, she saw Tommy come in at the shop and went over to him, smiling a greeting. ‘Hello, Tommy, how are you?’

  He stared at her, ranging his eyes over her from head to foot before answering. ‘Kicking. And you?’

  Blushing from his intense scrutiny, Cathy said stonily, ‘I’m not too bad. Can I get you a drink? Your dad’s up in the office with Desrae.’

  ‘I’ll have a large Scotch and then I’m going to take you outside and lick you all over until you scream.’ He said this in a low voice and watched as her blush deepened painfully. He laughed cruelly and then was ashamed of himself for always trying to embarrass her. It was a self-defence mechanism.

  Years before he had tried to kiss her, and when she had pushed him away he had continued, as men and boys do, to pull her against him and seek her lips. At the time she had kicked him so hard he had come away with tears in his eyes and since then had been obsessed with her. He knew some of her story from his father, but even though he understood why she felt as she did about sex, relationships and men, he still couldn’t resist teasing her.

  She was in his blood. He would do anything for her, even die for her, his feelings were so strong. Yet he knew she felt nothing for him, not even sisterly affection, and that hurt him more than he would ever admit.

  Making his way up to the office, he caught his father embracing Desrae - something that always made him feel uneasy even though he had accepted their relationship years ago.

  ‘All right, love’s young dreams. Daddy’s little soldier is here now, so can we have less of the tonguing in public?’ he said cheekily.

  Desrae laughed. ‘If this is public, love, I’d love to see somewhere private.’ Then he discreetly left the office, knowing the two of them had things to talk about.

  Tommy looked into his father’s face and said simply, ‘I’m going after them, Dad. I have to. This is personal now. They even striped up old Dicky Drake. I mean, these people have got to be stopped.’

  Joey knew nothing he could say would change Tommy’s feelings. ‘I’ll back you all I can, son, but I warn you: they won’t be easy to get rid of.’

  Tommy shrugged, that nonchalant gesture he had developed as a small boy with a villain for a father and a lush for a mother. It was another self-defence mechanism. ‘You’ll leave it all to me then?’

  Joey laughed suddenly. ‘Well, that’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  Tommy nodded gravely. His father was handing everything over to him. This was a big day in his life and yet it felt wrong, as if his father was copping out somehow.

  ‘Whether I want it or not, Dad, it looks like I’m getting it anyway, doesn’t it?’

  Joey didn’t answer.

  There was nothing more to say.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Richard Gates sat in his unmarked police car and watched people going in and out of the small club in Wardour Street. The gay clu
bs didn’t bother him. If it was all consenting adults, he didn’t really give a toss. Unlike many of the men who worked for him, he wasn’t a queer basher, racist or misogynist. He was after villains who committed real crimes, not just broke the law of the land. Everyone knew he turned a blind eye to many things. Since joining Vice, for instance, he had stopped a lot of the older women from getting busted for soliciting. He couldn’t see the sense in fining them in Bow Street only to have them straight on the street again, earning money for the fine.

  He wanted the youngsters off the streets, the ones who were not caught up properly in the life yet. He wanted them out of it once and for all. He knew how quickly people adapted to the life and the money. Especially younger women. The trouble was, though, they took drugs to make going on the game easier, then ended up permanently hooking to get their drugs. It was a vicious circle. At least if they worked for people like Susan P they had a bit of prestige and could save a few quid. Susan wouldn’t touch addicts, and made sure that her girls were fully aware of that.

  Gates watched the club for a couple of hours, taking down the names of anyone he recognised. He was impressed by the clientele and knew that Susan P would like half of them on her books. It showed Desrae had done his market research well. He had kept out the rougher elements; even rowdy nobs were not allowed inside. Laurence Olivier himself would have had trouble getting in with too many drinks inside him.

  Gates got out of the car and went into the club; he followed on the heels of a High Court judge and his long-time male lover, a daytime television reporter. Walking through the sex shop, the two men in front averted their eyes from the magazines. Brabusters and Big Jugs weren’t really their cup of tea. Big Boys in Big Beds was much more their line, and such titles were sold as art books for a high price in the very same establishment. Gates knew because he had had the shop raided a few months before. Now it had changed ownership, he was happy to let it be as long as he could gain access any time he wanted. Hard-core porn didn’t bother him, unless it contained minors or animals.