Mickey sighed. It was fucked up; he knew he shouldn’t think like he did. Dawn had tried to take him to counselling with her countless times in the first few months, but he’d never gone with her. He didn’t want to do anything that might take any of his memories away of the three of them together. He looked down at ‘Alfie’ and unlocked a metal cabinet next to the front door, which looked oddly out of place in the comfortably decorated hallway. He placed his bag inside, checking the door was firmly shut before locking it.
Once ‘Alfie’ had been safely locked away, Mickey felt himself relax; he never felt the day was done until his bag was stored.
“Is that you Hun?” Dawn shouted from the lounge.
“Yeah, that kitchen was bloody awful tonight; I hope there’s some cold ones in the fridge,” Mickey shouted.
Dawn took a moment to answer. “Charlie popped round to say hello. He’s in here with me.”
Mickey looked at his watch. It was gone one am—this was not a normal. His heart rate increased and he looked back at the cabinet. Charlie would only be here if something was wrong.
In reality, it was fairly rare to see Charlie O’Neil round Mickey’s house at all. If Dawn had said that it was Robert, even at this late hour, then it wouldn’t have been a total surprise. Mickey and Robert had more than their fair share of late-night drinks together; but the same could not be said of Charlie. He was the boss, and late night visits weren’t something he did.
It was never spoken that Charlie was the boss. It wasn’t like he gave Robert orders; though at the same time, Charlie had the power. Charlie could walk into any place and he’d receive respect. Robert, on the other hand, would have to be with Charlie, to get the same. It might have been that he was smaller, not really with any kind of frame on him. Robert didn’t look like he’d be able to mix it up.
Also, Charlie was slightly aloof to the rest of the boys. He had few words. You could tell when he was in a good mood and you could tell when he wasn’t—and when he wasn’t even Mickey gave him a wide berth. Robert though, had time for people. He was clever. He liked to understand those who surrounded him. He was the one that got Mickey into reading; recommended some books.
“You need to grow your mind Mick, not your biceps,” Robert had said. “That’s what will make you truly dangerous.”
Charlie wasn’t one for books, just like he wasn’t one for words. Indeed, he’d only say a handful of words to anyone in the firm directly. Most of the things Charlie said came via Robert; Charlie would like you to do this for him or Charlie needs this thing doing. It was rare even for Mickey to get his instructions direct from Charlie.
Mickey assumed he counted among Charlie’s friends, even if he never really held down many conversations at length with him. Charlie’s relative silence certainly didn’t affect Mickey’s feelings for the man; he was his boss and his mate, he would walk through fire for him. He was also the reason why Mickey was in this business, he was the leader, a bloody legend and the only man in the world that Mickey would never question a decision of.
After the incident with the Poles, Mickey had gone into hiding. Charlie had been insistent about it. Mickey had heard the news first from Robert and he’d tried to argue he was needed here, in London. How were things going to run without him? But then, Charlie came round; and Mickey and Dawn were packed off to Costa Brava for six months, simple as that, no argument. They were taken to Heathrow, with a suitcase full of money and firm instructions not to make contact with anyone connected to the firm until Robert contacted them.
It had been tough; they had been dark days for Mickey and Dawn, days that were best forgotten. It was only when they got back that Mickey found out what Charlie had done to finish the business with the Poles. Of course, the head of the London part of their business was already dead and so too was any family left in the city. But they still had a large contingent in Poland, and there were a load of vicious people over there, chomping at the bit to get over to London for some vengeance.
The same day that Mickey and Dawn had got on their plane to Spain, Charlie and two other trusted associates had got onto a boat for Poland, to finish this business for good.
Charlie and his little crew killed everyone attached to the Peskzi crime family, starting in Peszki’s home town of Lodz. Then, when Charlie found out they had links to a neo-Nazi skinhead group based in Warsaw, the three men travelled there too. He left the Polish gangsters with a simple message. You don’t fuck with Charlie O’Neil or his firm.
The newspaper reports recorded how a bomb went off in the early hours of one Sunday morning in the centre of Lodz, killing twelve men in a snooker club that had links to organised crime. The reporter did not mention that these twelve men had been dead before the bomb was planted.
The Neo-Nazi’s were not so lucky to be killed in the blast. O’Neil had discovered that it was they who had supplied the automatic weapons to the Peszki’s in London. And so they too were added to Charlie’s list. The ringleaders were one by one bundled into the back of an unmarked white van, which stalked the streets of Warsaw for days. Finally, all the seven gang leaders were dumped on the floor of a deserted warehouse. They were tied up and placed on chairs in a circle facing each other.
Despite being secured to the chairs, they had been left ungagged. At first, the gang leaders had seen this as a foolish mistake by the crazy English men. They took their opportunity to tell O’Neil about the type of retribution that he and his three men could expect for their stupid short-sighted actions.
The Polish Nazis looked bemused by the mad Englishmen, as O’Neil just sat calmly in the middle of the circle listening. It took them some time but they eventually talked themselves out of words. There’s only so long you can shout insults at somebody, with nothing coming back.
When O’Neil was happy that they’d all said their piece, he stood up. Whilst he’d been sat there listening to the threats he’d been working out who was the most senior boss. It hadn’t taken much to figure it out, with the little micro gestures made towards him, and the way he spoke the least but gave the biggest threats.
“You’re the boss aren’t you,” O’Neil said. “You’re in charge.”
The Polak Neo-Nazi didn’t say anything. And what came next some people think was just legend more than truth, but Mickey knew Charlie and knew it was real. O’Neil walked over to the Polak boss and gave him a powerful right hook to the jaw.
The skinhead responded with a bloody grin, which was not the smartest move, because now the punches really started. They went on for twenty minutes. Charlie kept punching until there was a horrible cracking sound of the man’s jaw breaking. Who knows at what point the Polish gangster died; but there sure wasn’t much left of face by the end.
Then the other boys started on five of the other leaders, not quite with them same finesse as Charlie, but using the butts of their guns for added effect. Within about fifteen minutes, there was only one Polish leader left; he had probably pissed himself by this point.
O’Neil approached the final man. He had deliberately chosen the one that spoke the best English, and who had by chance made the most explicit threats—the one who said he would hunt O’Neil down like the dog that he was.
The man must have thought he was going to get it worse than anyone. Tears were streaming down his face—he was begging for his life. O’Neil stood over him and told him to stop crying and be pleased; he was going to let him live.
“No one runs guns through London, no more, without my approval. Do you understand?”
The skinhead nodded.
“Do you know why you’re gonna agree to that?”
“Because…” The skinhead said, between tears. “I have seen what you’re capable of and I won’f f…”
“Nah, that ain’t it,” Charlie said, wagging his finger at the man. “You’re going to do it ’cause I’ve got your kids.”
The skinhead’s eyes widened.
“I’m going to put them into a boarding school in London—the
y’re going to have a great education. You should be thanking me really. But if something goes wrong, if I even smell some commie guns in London that I don’t know about—well someone will walk into that school and…”
“Whatever you want! Please!” the skinhead screamed.
Mickey wasn’t sure if this was how Charlie got his nickname, The Devil. But it definitely played its part in it. There was nothing he wouldn’t do. Mickey didn’t like to think of Charlie as evil, and Charlie certainly loved his Jackie deeply. But Mickey could see why some people thought he deserved his nickname.
When Mickey had first heard about what happened in Poland, he had still been in the midst of pain from the loss of their baby and took little pleasure from it. Though he did manage a smile the following year, when Scotland Yard celebrated the capital’s reduction in gun crime.
Charlie O’Neil was a legend—the number one in London—and Mickey would walk through fire for him.
Mickey walked into the lounge and saw Charlie O’Neil on the sofa, being offered an array of biscuits on a tray by Dawn. Forever the hostess, Mickey smiled.
“I’m sorry I dropped by so late Mickey,” O’Neil said, in an uncharacteristically apologetic manner.
Dawn smiled and left the room, she knew not to be around for business talk.
Mickey was so taken aback by the comment, that he was unsure how to respond. It was only then that he noticed how different the man in front of him looked. It had been weeks since he’d seen him. He knew Jackie had been taken into the hospital a few days before and that Charlie had spent most of his days and nights by her bedside. But that wasn’t an explanation that could account for the image sat in front of him. The man must have lost a stone in weight, his eyes looked heavy with dark rings hung underneath them, and a beard had grown over a face that Mickey had never seen so much as a five o'clock shadow on before.
“I must look like shit?” Charlie said, watching Mickey’s face.
“No,” Mickey said, realising he was staring and shrugged. “It's just been a while you know. You’re looking good; I like the beard. It looks very err Spartan.”
O’Neil smiled. “You’re a good man Mickey Dunne.”
Mickey felt slightly more comfortable and sat down.
“How’s it going with Seamus?” O’Neil asked.
“I dunno,” Mickey sighed. “He will scare people, for sure, but I’m just not sure what else.”
“You know Robert,” O’Neil nodded as if he was expecting the response. “He'll pick up any stray from that bloody boxing club. He told me that this guy could have gone on to be a British champion before he lost his license.”
“I wouldn’t doubt his talent in the ring,” Mickey replied honestly. “What I would say though is that you don’t want this kid in a role where he has to use his mind too much.”
O’Neil laughed and Mickey relaxed some more. He was still unsure what brought the boss around here, and that he wasn’t in a rush to get to the point could mean it was something serious.
“The band is on track though, I’ll have them on stage for Jackie,” Mickey said, wondering about whether to mention his irritation with Max Fame. “There have been no issues with it really,” he added, choosing to overlook his issue with the arrogant celebrity agent.
“What do you think of Max Fame?” O’Neil asked.
“I think the fella’s a real prick,” Mickey answered.
“I took over a large debt of his a few years ago; I thought it would become an interesting investment,” Charlie said.
“Big money?” Mickey asked, hoping it was.
He'd be happier knowing the man was in heavy debt. He might even look after his case personally going forward.
“Quarter of a mill, and that’s without my interest,” O’Neil replied.
“Really?” Mickey said, unable to hide his glee.
“Yeah, he’s got a real problem with the horses and—you know something—he wasn’t even afraid when he found out I owned the debt. He actually wanted to take me for dinner and take photos,” O’Neil said.
“Yeah, I’ve seen those in his office, in pride of place on the wall. We should be charging him protection money the way that he makes use of those photos,” Mickey replied.
“He’s a complete fag you know?” O’Neil said.
“It figures. These people normally are,” Mickey nodded.
O’Neil smiled in agreement, then sat up and looked Mickey square in the eyes. Here it comes, Mickey thought, the reason Charlie’s here.
“Have you seen Robert today?” O’Neil asked, his face full of worry.
Mickey saw that O’Neil was concerned; why else would he have come over in the middle of the night to talk with him in person instead of phoning to ask about Robert?
“Not since yesterday morning,” Mickey said, not wanting to commit to more of an answer until he heard why Charlie was concerned.
“I haven’t heard from him since Sunday. I think something might be up,” O’Neil said, his face full of concern.
Mickey was unsure what to say. This was news to him. He wasn’t sure if Charlie was testing him out? Was there something going on? If there was, Mickey had no idea what it was. He knew from his own experience as the interrogator that, if you had nothing to hide, it was best to always say everything, to ensure there was no misunderstanding.
“He did say he was going to Vegas at the weekend, to watch a fight. Maybe he decided to take an earlier flight?” Mickey said, offering all he knew, and hoping it was the missing link that Charlie needed.
“What, before Jackie’s party?” O’Neil asked.
“He can be quite spontaneous sometimes; perhaps he hasn’t been able to call you yet or is with one of his girls?” Mickey said.
O’Neil stood up and looked at his watch. “You could be right Mickey but tell me if you hear from him.”
“Sure, I will. Do you need me to make some calls?” Mickey said.
“No, I better go, it’s getting late,” O’Neil said, looking at an expensive Rolex watch. “Why the blue hair?”
Mickey self-consciously ran his hand through his hair. “I used some of Dawn’s hair dye shampoo stuff by mistake in the shower,” he lied.
“That’s strong fucking stuff.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve had to go and buy a new hat, thanks to that stupid bitch’s shampoo,” Mickey said, annoyed.
O’Neil walked towards the door but stopped suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, putting his hand in the pocket and taking out a large wad of twenty-pound notes. “This is for you and Dawn.”
Mickey took the money. Although he had never become comfortable taking large amounts of cash as a bonus for unspoken deeds, it was by now a significant part of how he got paid. His job wasn’t the type which involved a steady bank giro and he regularly went a few weeks before seeing any cash. Then out of the blue, like today, he gets handed a wad of money. He wasn't comfortable with it though. He was never completely sure if he should say thank you to Charlie or just deliver a satisfied nod.
Mickey looked at the money. He was by no means an expert at estimating wads of money, but if this was all in twenties—he guessed there was about ten grand there. A lot of cash, and for no obvious reason.
“Thanks,” Mickey said, thinking it too large an amount of money not to be grateful for.
“Don’t be stupid Mick, you’ve earned it,” O’Neil said, starting to walk out of Mickey’s lounge. “And you badly need to replace that hair dye of Dawn’s you used.”
Mickey waited until he heard the front door close before counting the money. He counted fifteen thousand pounds of twenty-pound notes; this was the most money he had seen in his hands for a long time.
Mickey should have been happy; he could now surprise Dawn with an expensive holiday or a nice bit of jewellery. She deserved something good. But he couldn’t get O’Neil’s concerned face out of his mind. Had Charlie and Robert had some kind of dispute? Was Charlie trying to suss out which way Mickey was going t
o jump? Or was Robert on the run, because of some unknown threat? But surely if someone had made a threat against Robert’s life, then Charlie would know about it and not be wondering where he was.
It had been years since there had been any turf war or disputes with rival outfits; Charlie O’Neil’s name was now more than enough to hold the seat of power in London. But Mickey now wondered whether he might be seeing the start of one?
No, Mickey thought. Robert has gone on a bender with one of his girls. And Charlie’s just not himself because of what is going on with Jackie.
This all made sense; there was nothing out of the ordinary about it when you looked at things like that. Mickey’s mind cooled a little; there was no chance that Charlie and Robert had fallen out; and as for the thought of someone actually taking out Robert, that was just ridiculous.
He looked down at the money and started to think of ways he could surprise Dawn.
Chapter Twenty Six - Charlie O’Neil
Was Mickey part of this? Did he know something? He’d watched his enforcer’s face, every part of it, when he had handed him the cash. He was looking for any reaction—any out of place question.
What the hell was going on? No Robert. Mickey doesn’t know shit… Or does he?
Charlie sat in his roofless Jaguar with a cold wind blowing into his face. It was not the car to be sat in late at night, with the temperature dropping fast. It was times like these that his car did seem like an expensive toy. It reminded him of Robert trying to talk him out of this particular purchase.
Robert had kept banging on about how on earth you could spend half a million quid on a remade old Jag? On top of it all, it make it a hell of a lot easier for someone to take a shot at you—cause it’s got no bloody roof!
Serious People Page 19
