Guns of Brixton (2010)

by Timlin, Mark

  Beretta stood as the three men entered the room. ‘Lulu,’ he said to the girl. ‘Get lost baby. We got business.’

  ‘Oh honey,’ she said, looking round at Tubbs with lowered eyelashes. ‘Do I have to? The Simpsons is on in a minute.’

  ‘The Simpsons is always on in a minute,’ said Beretta. ‘Go watch it in the bedroom. Take a rock. Have fun.’

  She made a disgusted sound with her tongue, but seeing Beretta’s expression change, she got up, took a yellowish piece of crack from the bag, a cheap plastic lighter and one of the pipes and flounced out, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Stupid bitch,’ said Beretta. ‘But she gives good head. Maybe you’d like to try her out, Tubbs.’

  ‘Another time maybe,’ said Tubbs. ‘We’re here for business, ain’t we?’

  ‘Business and pleasure can always be mixed,’ said Beretta with a wolfish grin. ‘My Lulu is a good earner when she’s in the mood.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Tubbs. ‘But what about the powder?’

  ‘No problem. You searched this boy?’ he said to Moses who shook his head.

  ‘Do it.’

  Fuck it, thought Tubbs as Moses gave him another shakedown, this time coming up with his mobile and the niner.

  ‘You don’t trust us, man,’ said Beretta when Moses passed the gun to him and tossed the telephone on to the floor. Beretta pressed the button on the butt of the pistol to release the magazine, put it on the coffee table then slid back the action and caught the shell which popped out and dropped it into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Souvenir,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing personal,’ said Tubbs. ‘But I was carrying a lot of cash.’

  ‘You’re safe with us,’ said Beretta. ‘No one messes with our bidness.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Tubbs.

  ‘Sit down, man,’ said Beretta, all at once the perfect host. ‘Take the weight off your feet. And you sure got some weight there.’

  Karl laughed as Tubbs sat in the seat that Lulu had vacated, Karl next to him, Moses standing by the sideboard counting out the money from the plastic bag.

  ‘Drink, smoke, coke?’ said Beretta also sitting again.

  Tubbs shook his head. ‘Where’s the stuff?’ he asked.

  ‘Patience, man,’ said Beretta. ‘Moses?’

  ‘All there, boss,’ said Moses. ‘Nice dirty notes.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Beretta, swooping down on the mirror and snarfing up one of the lines. ‘I like a man who’s exact.’

  Although he was being friendly, Tubbs felt the tension in the atmosphere like water running down the walls and wondered if he’d walk out of the flat alive, or be carried out dead and dumped in some obscure and deserted part of the city.

  Moses brought the money to Beretta who sat up and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He tossed it on the table and some slipped on to the carpet which he ignored. ‘Two thousand quid this morning, ten tonight,’ said Beretta lighting a cigarette. ‘You’ve got access to lots of bread, Mr Tubbs.’

  ‘I told you, I got backers.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’

  ‘I doubt it. City folks. More money than sense and a big liking for cocaine.’

  ‘How’d you meet these city folks, you just out of the slammer and all?’

  ‘I made contacts inside.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But you was in there for weed, am I right? It’s a big jump from weed to powder. You talking serious Class A here.’

  ‘Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,’ replied Tubbs. ‘If I ever get nicked again I go away for a long time. I mean to make some money and go back home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘JA.’

  ‘You ever been there?’

  Tubbs shook his head. ‘But I think about it all the time.’

  ‘We all do, man,’ said Beretta, looking at the wall as if he could see though it and picture white sands and blue sea. ‘But not many make it.’

  The atmosphere had lightened as the men talked, but suddenly Beretta was all business again. ‘Karl,’ he said. ‘Fetch the gear.’

  Karl stood and left the room. A minute later he returned with another supermarket bag, this one weighed heavily down. He gave it to Beretta who reached inside and brought out two plastic bags full of white powder that Mark might have recognised as being part of the consignment he’d delivered to the warehouse at Loughborough Junction. ‘I’m giving you a good deal here, Tubbs,’ said Beretta. ‘Two K for ten K.’

  Tubbs pulled an approving face.

  ‘See, we kinda got this through the back door,’ Beretta went on. ‘A bargain.’

  Not for the three poor bastards you gunned down in cold blood, thought Tubbs, but only said: ‘Cheers.’

  ‘But I expect more business from you, big man,’ said Beretta. ‘This won’t last an hour in the city. They got Hoovers for noses, those bastard suits.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Tubbs. ‘May I?’ And he reached out his hand.

  ‘What a polite boy,’ said Beretta. ‘Sure, Mr Tubbs. Have a sample.’

  Tubbs picked up a single-sided razor blade from the table and made a small slit in the plastic. He dipped in one sausage-like finger and licked the powder off it. He made a sour face as his mouth numbed out, and Beretta laughed. ‘Good or what?’ he said.

  ‘Better than good,’ replied Tubbs as he made saliva to try and get some feeling back into his dead lips and tongue. ‘Man, that’s prime.’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ said Beretta, hardly able to keep the pride out of his voice. ‘When I say my product’s good I mean it. Now, you want a beer, man?’

  All that Tubbs wanted was to leave in one piece and find Mark, but he could feel that to make too swift an exit might set Beretta off. Besides, he reckoned that the Yardie wanted to talk, and any information would be useful. He only hoped that Mark would be patient.

  ‘Sure,’ said Tubbs. ‘A beer would taste good.’

  ‘Karl,’ said Beretta, and Karl went out of the room again. He was obviously low man on the totem. The gopher. Messenger boy.

  He returned with four bottles of Red Stripe, moisture condensing on the glass. He passed them round. ‘To business,’ said Beretta, and he tapped Tubbs’s bottle with his own.

  ‘And pleasure,’ replied Tubbs, remembering the start of their conversation.

  ‘Sure, pleasure,’ said Beretta. ‘You want to go see Lulu, make her forget about the fucking Simpsons.’

  Tubbs was just about to make another excuse when his mobile rang. The room went silent except for the electronic trilling.

  He reached for it but Beretta was too quick for him. He snatched it off the floor, pressed the answer button and said: ‘Mr Tubbs’s phone. How can I be of assistance?’

  He listened for a moment. ‘I’m afraid he’s in conference at the moment. Can I ask who’s calling?’ He was as polite as a secretary, and Tubbs could see that Beretta was not one to be underestimated.

  ‘I’ll see if he can come to the phone,’ he said. Then to Tubbs. ‘A Mr Marks for you.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Tubbs, taking the instrument and feeling the sweat on his palm. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Mark. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Never better,’ said Tubbs.

  ‘Thank Christ for that. I thought you were dead. I’m outside.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Tubbs, smiling at Beretta as he said it. ‘Everything’s just dandy here.’

  ‘Good. You going to get out all right?’

  ‘A perfect meeting,’ said Tubbs. ‘I’m just having a beer.’

  ‘I wish I was,’ said Mark. ‘I’m freezing. This place stinks and I’m starting to get some funny looks from the residents.’

  ‘Then just chill, my friend,’ said Tubbs. ‘I should be free and clear within the hour.’

  ‘I’m already chilled to the fucking bone, thanks very much,’ said Mark. ‘Get back to mine, and make sure you’re not followe
d.’

  ‘Sweet,’ said Tubbs, and clicked off the connection.

  ‘You got friends waiting?’ said Beretta. ‘Checking you out?’

  ‘They worry,’ said Tubbs taking another swig from his bottle. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘City boys,’ said Beretta. ‘Don’t trust anyone an inch.’

  ‘That’s life these days,’ said Tubbs. ‘And I’d better be moving. Things to do, people to see. Money to make.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Beretta and Tubbs knew that this was going to be the toughest part. ‘Karl. See Mr Tubbs to his car. Make sure he walks unmolested through our brethren. He’s carrying a serious and valuable cargo.’

  ‘Sure, boss,’ said Karl, sliding the machete up the sleeve of his jacket.

  Tubbs shook hands with Beretta and Moses, picked up the carrier bag and made to leave.

  ‘Ain’t you forgotten something, Mr Tubbs?’ said Beretta and Tubbs felt sweat break out all over him. Was this the sting? The bit where they took him down and ended up with money and drugs?

  Beretta pointed to the table where the Browning lay. ‘You may need that,’ he said. ‘Those City boys take no prisoners, I hear.’

  Tubbs breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the gun and the clip and stowed them in separate pockets. ‘Nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘Glad my head’s screwed on or I’d forget that.’

  ‘Keep it screwed tight, my man,’ said Beretta. ‘And keep in touch. I’m only a phone call away.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Tubbs. ‘Thanks.’ And with that, he and Karl left the room. Karl opened the fortified door to the flat and they went down to the car. Many eyes followed their progress, but no one made a move. Tubbs drove the Beemer off the estate and down the first side street he came to. He stopped at a gap by the kerb and sat shaking for fully five minutes before he headed back to John Jenner’s house.

  Eventually he was calm enough to drive and made the short journey in minutes, calling Mark on the way to open the gates. When he’d parked the car he went to the front door where Mark hugged him hard. ‘You did well, son,’ he said.

  ‘Nearly needed new underwear,’ replied Tubbs as he followed Mark into the living room. ‘Thought for sure I’d go caca when they found my gun.’

  ‘You’re the man,’ said Mark.

  ‘Too right,’ agreed John Jenner from his seat in front of the fire.

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here,’ said Mark taking the plastic bag of dope from Tubbs. ‘You got a good deal, son.’

  ‘Fucking good,’ grumbled John Jenner. ‘It cost them nixes.’

  ‘I think they need readies,’ said Tubbs.

  ‘That suits us,’ said Mark. ‘And we know where they live, who’s about and the layout of the place.’

  ‘We sure do. It’s imprinted on my mind for ever.’

  ‘You did so good, Tubbs,’ said Jenner. ‘Reminds me of another bloke I once knew, name of Sharman. He went into a flat for me too, but it didn’t work out so well.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Tubbs, glass in hand, reclining in the armchair.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘We’ve got time.’ There was nothing Tubbs liked better than old war stories. John Jenner knew that and he sat back and filled the boys in on the story so far.

  ‘So he came good with the grass,’ said Tubbs. ‘Earned his bread.’

  ‘Ah, but it gets better.’

  * * *

  Sharman got another call from Lawson the next day. This time the meeting was at a bar in St Catherine’s Dock, all chrome and leather, and foliage-filled coloured drinks. ‘A bit poncified,’ said Sharman, when he joined the lawyer.

  ‘Suits me,’ said Lawson.

  Sharman made no comment.

  ‘You heard what happened?’ asked Lawson.

  Sharman nodded.

  ‘John’s very pleased.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And no policemen involved.’

  ‘I heard one’s got a big bill at Sketchley’s.’

  ‘He’ll get over it.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘So what now?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘There’s something else you can do for us.’

  ‘What?’ asked Sharman, lighting a cigarette. ‘Simple. We need someone to mind one of our boys going into a very nasty place.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘You know the Lion Estate?’

  ‘Jesus, do I.’

  ‘We’re making a drop there on Thursday next. The person we’re delivering to owes John a great deal of money. Now he wants more supplies and has promised to make good the whole debt when we deliver the next consignment.’

  ‘And you think maybe there’s going to be a rip off.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘How much are we talking?’

  ‘Altogether, fifty grand’s worth.’

  ‘That is a lot of money. Specially round there. People kill their grannies on the Lion for a quid.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And who’s the face you’re delivering to?’

  ‘Lionel Godey.’

  ‘Lionel? Bloody hell, I thought he was inside.’

  ‘He’s out on bail.’

  ‘And what bent brief arranged that?’

  Lawson smiled.

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Sharman. ‘You do mix with the cream.’

  ‘I have to earn a living.’

  ‘Sounds to me as if you’re running with the hare and hunting with the hounds.’

  ‘Is that the sound of the pot calling the kettle black? My loyalties always have and always will lie with John. But I’m the best there is, and besides, he couldn’t collect if Godey was on remand.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Sharman.

  ‘So you’ll do it?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How much for me when I collect the dough?’

  ‘You don’t have to collect. They don’t know you. Tony Wiltse is the courier. He works for John.’

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘Excellent. He’s a good lad with a clean record.’

  ‘So how much?’

  ‘Five hundred pounds.’

  ‘A monkey to go up against Lionel and Christ knows how many others on the Lion? Do behave.’

  ‘Scared, Nick?’

  ‘Bloody terrified.’

  ‘Good. That’s how you keep sharp in this line of business.’

  ‘A grand,’ said Sharman.

  ‘Funny. That’s exactly what John said you’d ask.’

  ‘Then he’s smarter than you.’

  ‘In some ways.’

  ‘And you owe me for Skinner. The other half. And I’ll need to be tooled up.’

  Lawson put his briefcase on the table and said, ‘It’s all been taken care of. Open it.’

  Sharman smiled, put the case on his lap, flipped the latches and opened the top so that only he could see inside. He smiled as he saw a Beretta nine millimetre semi-automatic pistol, a stack of banded ten pound notes and another brown envelope.

  ‘There’s five hundred in each bundle,’ said Lawson. ‘Plus the other five K. Old notes. Non-consecutive. There’s also instructions on where to meet Tony and what time on Thursday. I take it you’re free that afternoon.’

  ‘You take it right, David,’ said Sharman and he shut the case. ‘Another drink?’

  ‘Lovely. But be warned, Nick. You’re getting in deep. Make sure your waterwings are on tight.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Sharman as he rose to go to the bar. ‘I can walk on water, me.’

  Lawson grinned. ‘That’s over eleven grand you’ve had since we started working together. Now maybe you can get rid of that piece of junk on your wrist. Another drink?’

  Sharman reddened as he looked at the fake Swiss watch he was wearing. On his way home that night he dropped it down a drain.

  The Lion Estate was in Deptford, between Evelyn Street and the river. There was a fine view of The Isle Of Dogs from the upper floo
rs of the four tower blocks, which stood guard over the lowrise flats and the playground in the centre. ‘Playground’ was a euphemism for a muddy area in the middle of the place where the disaffected youth played football among dog shit and used syringes.

  Sharman met Tony Wiltse at the Traveller’s Rest boozer in Deptford High Street at ten-to-three as instructed. Not that any sensible traveller would wish to rest in its dilapidated bars at that time in its history.

  Sharman went to the bar, ordered a pint and looked at Wiltse in the mirror behind the jump. Wiltse rose and walked over to him, carrying a Head sports bag. ‘Nick,’ he said.

  ‘Tony,’ said Sharman. ‘How’s it going? Drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a goldie.’ Sharman ordered a large scotch from the slattern behind the bar and they took their drinks to a table as far away from the counter as possible. ‘You carrying?’ asked Wiltse.

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  Wiltse shook his head. ‘Not me. Not my style. I work in the office mostly, doing the accounts. That’s why you’re here.’

  Sharman nodded. ‘And there’s just you and me?’

  ‘No. We’ve got a driver. Ricky. He’s in the car outside. You parked up?’

  ‘On a meter. Two hours.’

  ‘That’ll do. I hate this kind of fucking job,’ said Wiltse.

  ‘I would’ve thought they’d have sent in a team,’ said Sharman. ‘There’s a lot of cash involved.’

  ‘John didn’t want Lionel to think he didn’t trust him.’

  ‘But he doesn’t.’

  ‘That don’t matter. It’s all down to respect.’

  Shit, thought Sharman. I’m being set up here. A number cruncher and a bent copper. If we never come out, who’s going to miss us?

  Sharman swallowed the rest of his drink and looked at his watch. The Timex. He still hadn’t got over Lawson recognising the snide Rolex for what it was. ‘Three o’clock,’ he said. ‘There’s only fifteen minutes. We’d better go.’

  Wiltse nodded, sunk his whisky, grabbed the bag and they left the pub together.

  Ricky was sitting behind the wheel of a navy blue Jaguar XJ illegally parked opposite the pub. Wiltse got into the front passenger seat and Sharman climbed in the back, the Beretta digging painfully into his groin as he did so. ‘Ricky, this is Mr…’