Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  'No, man,' said Tubbs. 'You're going to change my life.'

  'One way or another,' said Mark, too quietly for his friend to hear.

  They collected Tubbs's ancient smoker of a car and drove to the garage. Dev looked at Tubbs in his new clothes and pulled a face at Mark, who shook his head in reply. This wasn't the time for Tubbs to feel self- conscious. Not that it looked like he would be. He strode over to the BMW as if it had been made for him, which well it might have been, so perfectly did his new clothes fit the ostentatious motor. He shrugged his mighty shoulders in the huge coat and slid behind the wheel, turned on the ignition and altered the electric driver's seat to accommodate his bulk. 'Nice, man,' he said to Dev. 'Mark, my friend, pass me some CDs will you? They're in the glove compartment of mine.'

  Mark went back to the Vauxhall and collected a handful of discs and took them to Tubbs who fitted them into the player in the boot before returning to his seat and fiddling with the controls on the dash. After a second, the sound of Snoop Doggy Dogg burst from the speakers and Tubbs danced on the seat. 'Cool,' he yelled above the din.

  Mark leant in and turned down the volume. 'Bit ancient, isn't it?' he said.

  'Good old school rap,' said Tubbs defensively. 'Kill the bitch, kill the bitch,' he sang.

  'Christ,' said Dev. 'What's he all about?'

  'Don't worry,' said Mark. 'Just store that banger of his well out of sight and we'll be off.'

  'Now you take care of that car,' said Dev. 'It's not paid for.'

  'You amaze me,' said Mark as he got into the passenger seat next to Tubbs. 'I never would've believed it.'

  Tubbs switched on the engine, listened to the grumble from the twin exhausts, stuck it into first gear and shot off the forecourt into the traffic with a screech of tyre rubber. The last Mark saw of Dev was through the side mirror: he had a look on his face that said he thought he'd never see them or the car again.

  Mark directed Tubbs to Brixton Hill, then down a couple of back streets past the pub where Beretta and his mates did their business during the day. 'They're supposed to be there from lunchtime onwards,' he said. 'You can drop me off and then pay the place a visit. Just suss it out. They'll come on to you as soon as they see this motor and what you're wearing, I reckon. They'll want to know the full SP. Just play it cool. There's plenty of time. But you're going to have to fly solo, Tubbs. They're bound to know me, and I want you to get matey before they meet Eddie. So be careful.'

  'Man, I'll be as cool as ice.'

  'That's good. Now drop me off here and I'll walk the rest of the way home.'

  'No problem,' said Tubbs, bringing the car to as tyre-smoking halt.

  'And listen: drive carefully. This car with you inside it dressed like that might as well have a big arrow over it saying, "Mr Plod, please give me a pull". So try and leave a little tread on the Dunlops, will you?'

  'I'll even stop at zebra crossings,' said Tubbs with a big grin.

  'Yeah, sure. Good luck and call me soon.'

  'Roger and out.'

  'Whatever.'

  'Man, I'll be safe as houses.'

  Mark got out and slammed the door behind him, then watched as Tubbs spun the car on its axles and headed back to Brixton. 'Sure,' he said to its retreating back. 'But there's such things as earthquakes.'

  Chapter 22

  Tubbs sped away from Mark, accelerating fast through the gears, the fat tyres of the BMW gripping the damp road like a dog with a juicy bone. It felt good to drive a motor like the Beemer after the rust bucket he owned and he wanted to get a feel for the car. Sure, Mark was right. It was an open invitation for a pull from the filth, but right then Tubbs felt on top of the world.

  Funnily enough, he'd always had a secret desire to be a copper, ever since he was a kid. But there hadn't been many black police when he'd been of the right age and he'd heard about the way they were treated by both the public and by their own colleagues. Not well. Not well at all. But maybe if he'd joined up he'd've made commissioner, he thought. Or maybe sodding not.

  Undercover would've suited him, just like his namesake in Miami Vice. And now he was undercover, and if everything went OK, he'd have enough money to get out of this bitch of a cold city that had never treated him any more than rough, and get to the islands and make something of himself.

  Sweet dreams, he thought as he pulled up outside the boozer Mark had pointed out to him. But first he had to convince these fools that he was who he was pretending to be.

  He got out of the car, operated the central locking and alarm and worked his shoulders before pushing through the pub door.

  His first impression was that the stink of weed seemed to permeate every surface. Smoke hung low over the few drinkers inside, even at that early hour. The jukebox was on and Dandy Livingstone was warning Suzanne to beware of the Devil. Very apt, thought Tubbs.

  All heads turned as he entered. 'Mornin',' he greeted the clientele. Without getting an answer, he headed to the bar, which seemed to be under the control of a small black individual in an Hawaiian shirt and jeans, perched on a high, chrome stool. 'Gimme a beer, man,' said Tubbs. 'It's been a long, aggravatin' drive.'

  The black man pulled a Red Stripe from the cooler, uncapped it and stood it on the bar. 'Glass?' he asked. He didn't usually offer, but Tubbs was a big man and he didn't want to antagonise him.

  'No,' said Tubbs and sank three quarters of the liquid with one swallow.

  'Two sixty -five,' said the barman and Tubbs pulled a wad of Mark's cash from his coat pocket and dropped a twenty on the bar. 'Another, my man, if you please,' he said, as he finished the first bottle and belched loudly.

  The little man did as he was bidden and delivered a second bottle which Tubbs sucked on briefly before hauling out a packet of cigarettes. 'Got a light, my friend?' he said to the nearest punter who produced a box of matches which he handed Tubbs. 'Cheers,' said the big man as he got the cigarette lit to his satisfaction and handed the box back. 'I heard that this place was a friendly environment.'

  'Who you hear that from?' asked the man.

  'Just friends, business acquaintances. You know.'

  The man sucked on his cheek. 'Like?'

  Mark had known that this would happen and had supplied Tubbs with the name of a drug dealer presently doing time up north on category A. Another one of John Jenner's old enemies. There seemed to be a lot of them about. 'This is fucking risky, Tubbs,' he'd said. 'But it's all we've got. I hate to send you in cold like this, but if you want to earn…'

  'So who am I?' asked Tubbs.

  'That's the problem. You are who you are. I can't give you a false identity and an alias. You'll just have to wing it.'

  'And if they check?'

  'Listen, man,' said Mark. 'These are bad fuckers. They're not going to be able to get a look at the police national computer. They're fucking animals. Even the bentest copper in the Met would think twice before webbing up with them. They won't have a fucking clue, man. Losers, each of them. The only way they get ahead is with ultra violence. Fuck 'em. You can do it.'

  Tubbs said to the black guy at the bar: 'I shared a cell with a geezer called Blakey, up in Brum. He told me to look for a face named Beretta. I'm just out and I need supplies.'

  'They fed you well inside,' said the black man, looking Tubbs up and down.

  'Prison gym,' he replied. 'And it's amazing what extras you can get in the shovel these days with mates on the out.'

  'So why don't your mates help you now?' asked the black man.

  'You know I took all the questions I could stomach from the pigs,' said Tubbs. 'I didn't expect the same when I came in here for a quiet drink.'

  All of a sudden the door burst open and three more black men entered and the barman scuttled to get drink on the counter before they reached the jump. They were trouble, Tubbs didn't have to be a genius to spot that. And it looked like they'd been too long on the toot. Their skin was the grey of elephant hide and all three seemed to have heavy colds. 'Whose wheel's in our
space?' the biggest of the black men demanded. 'We had to walk.'

  'What car, man?' asked the man Tubbs had been talking to.

  'Flash Beemer. Red,' the other replied.

  'That's me, man,' said Tubbs. 'I didn't see no double yellows.'

  'Red route, boy,' said the first man. 'Our red route. Now get it moved.'

  'You a traffic warden, boy?' said Tubbs. 'You left your pretty uniform at home?'

  The three men looked at each other and then Tubbs. 'Who the fuck are you?' said one, a handsome man with a shaven head. 'This is our pub.'

  'Just popped in for a drink,' said Tubbs. 'I heard good things about the place. But I reckon they was wrong.'

  'Who the fuck is this cunt?' said the third black man to no one in particular, a cadaverous type with huge hands and feet. 'Let's kill the fucker.' And with that, he pulled a handgun from the pocket of his overcoat.

  'Hey, man,' said Tubbs, stepping back sharpish. 'Chill. I'll move the fucking car. I was just looking for someone called Beretta.'

  'Looks like you found it,! said the man with the gun. 'This is a fucking Beretta, you cunt.' And he pointed it at Tubbs's head.

  Everyone in the pub had moved out of the line of fire and Tubbs suddenly decided that maybe undercover wasn't such a good place to be after all.

  'Why you looking for me?' asked the first man pushing his companion's gun down. 'I'm Beretta, man. Who the fuck are you?'

  'My name's Tubbs,' said Tubbs. 'I've been away. I heard that you could help me.'

  'With what?' said the first man, his brow wrinkled in thought.

  Tubbs looked round. 'In private, man,' he said.

  'We're all friends here,' said Beretta. 'At least I hope we are.' His tone was menacing, and Tubbs tried hard not to swallow and give his nervousness away. 'Now who gave you this information?'

  'A geezer called Blakey.' Tubbs repeated his story. 'We shared a cell for a few months in the Green.'

  Beretta's forehead wrinkled even further. 'How long you been out?'

  'A month or so,' said Tubbs. 'I took a holiday after.'

  Beretta nodded. 'Moses. Chop one out,' he said, and Tubbs almost heaved a sigh of relief.

  The man with the gun put it away, went to the bar, wiped it down with a pristine white handkerchief he'd taken from his pocket, produced a fat baggie of white powder, poured a hefty pile on to the bar, then chopped it into lines with a one-sided gold razorblade. 'We the kings here,' said Beretta. 'No go zone for coppers. Are you a copper, my friend?' he said to Tubbs.

  The pub went very quiet, the jukebox died and everyone seemed to hold their breath, including Moses who was making pretty patterns on the bar with the cocaine.

  'What the fuck…?' said Tubbs, his voice rising. 'Fuck you, man. You call me out as five-oh in front of these people. I got a reputation to think of. I'm leaving.'

  'Cool it, big man,' said Beretta. 'Stay and have a snort. It's cool. Moses '

  Moses went back to his task and once the lines were out, the three took turns, using a gold tube that Moses supplied. Then it was Tubbs's turn and he took a monstrous hit, which just about turned his brain to jelly.

  'Christ,' he said, 'That's fucking good.'

  'Only the best for us and our friends,' said Beretta.

  'You got any of this for sale?' asked Tubbs, after he'd lit a cigarette and taken a hit on his beer to cut the metallic taste of the drug. 'It's just the sort of quality I could use.'

  'Maybe,' said Beretta. 'And Blakey's dead.'

  Christ, thought Tubbs, Mark never told me that, the bastard. 'What?' he said. 'How? When?'

  'Got shanked in the shower a few weeks back,' Beretta went on. 'Thought you might've heard.'

  'He was fine when he used to spot for me in the gym,' said Tubbs. 'We looked out for each other.'

  'Sure you did. Shame you got out then. You could've watched his back.'

  'Man, that's too bad,' said Tubbs.

  'He never should've dropped the soap,' said Moses, and all three laughed, like it was the best joke they'd heard in years.

  'Funny you never heard,' said Beretta. 'You being best mates and all. I wonder about you. Moses, you take this fucker to the shitter and check him out.' He turned to Tubbs, squinted at him and said: 'You wired?'

  'No man,' said Tubbs. This geezer is as changeable as the weather, he thought. One minute all friends, the next as paranoid as fuck. Too much sugar on his cornflakes probably.

  'And?' said Moses.

  'If he is, flush him.'

  Moses, and the third man - Karl, Tubbs surmised - hustled Tubbs to the gents, which stank equally of piss and chemicals.

  'Strip, boy,' said Moses. 'Right down.'

  Tubbs removed his new clothes, slowly draping them over the door to the sitdown.

  'You respect your threads.' said Moses. 'I like that in a man.'

  'You like peeping too,' said Tubbs when he was naked. 'You've been inside, I can tell. Whose bitch were you?'

  Moses hit him hard with the barrel of his gun and Tubbs had to hold on to the wall to prevent himself falling. Meanwhile the third man was going through his pockets. 'No ID,' he said. 'Man of mystery, huh?'

  'I don't carry anything with my name on, ever,' replied Tubbs, who'd purposefully dumped anything that could identify him before meeting Mark. 'Strictly cash.'

  Karl riffled through the notes he found and pulled an approving face. 'You can say that again.' Then to Moses: 'He's clean. No wires, no weapons. Just cash, and plenty of it.'

  'Gimme,' said Moses, and the third man handed him the money. 'Get dressed, boy,' Moses said to Tubbs.

  Tubbs did as he was told, looked in the stained mirror and touched the bloody lump on his head. 'Here,' said Moses and handed him the handkerchief he'd used to wipe down the bar. 'No hard feelings.'

  'None taken,' said Tubbs, dabbing at his face.

  'Outside,' said Karl, and Tubbs, now fully dressed, walked back into the bar.

  'He's clean,' Moses said to Beretta. 'And he brought us a present.' He handed the cash over and Beretta slid it into his pocket. 'How much?' he said to Tubbs.

  'Two grand or thereabouts.'

  'What you need all that for?'

  'Just walking around money.'

  'Nice place to take a walk. Fair enough. Now what did you want with me?'

  Tubbs looked at the other faces in the bar and said: 'Like I said, it's private.' 'Yeah.' 'So?'

  'Siddown,' said Moses, then to the barman. 'And get him what he's drinking. And another round for us.'

  The quartet moved to a spot behind the pool table, out of hearing of the rest. Once the barman had brought them their order and was safely back on his perch, Tubbs said: 'I need some powder.' 'Who doesn't?' asked Moses. 'Where you from again?' 'North London,' replied Tubbs. 'That's a big place,' said Beretta. 'Holloway.'

  'How long were you away?' asked Moses. 'Two years.'

  'For what?' Beretta again.

  'Weed. Got captured with a big bag. Cops didn't take kindly to it.'

  'They tend not to,' said Moses.

  'Now it's bloody almost legal,' said Tubbs.

  'Wrong time, wrong place,' said Beretta and sniffed loudly, which was the cue for Moses to bring out the coke again, and all four hit on a line each. 'This is good stuff,' said Tubbs. 'You got more?' 'More than you can afford,' said Beretta. 'How much?' asked Tubbs.

  'How much we got, or how much is it?' said Beretta. 'Both.'

  'You might be grass,' said Moses. 'Why should we tell you?' 'You've got my two grand. And there's plenty more where that came from.'

  'Our two grand now,' Beretta corrected him. 'OK, your two grand. Take it as a down payment.' 'We're taking it anyway,' said the third man. 'Sort of a gesture of faith on your part.'

  'Whatever,' said Tubbs. 'You got any now?'

  'You've got no money,' said Moses.

  'I can get more.'

  'When?'

  'Tonight.'

  'Maybe,' said Beretta. 'You got a phone number?'

&
nbsp; Tubbs reeled it off and Moses made a note of it in a little book. 'We'll think about it, Mr Tubbs,' he said. 'We'll ring you later. Or maybe tomorrow. Or maybe never. We need to check a little. Make sure you ain't five-oh. You get my drift?'

  Tubbs nodded. He wondered what they'd turn up, if anything. He had a small record from way back, but that was under his real name, which he hadn't supplied.

  'Now go,' said Beretta. 'We'll talk later.'

  Tubbs left the bar and climbed into the BMW, which he drove through the narrow streets of Brixton, before parking up and calling Mark Farrow on his mobile.

  'I met 'em,' he said. 'Not nice people. They told me Blakey was dead. Thanks for telling me. I felt like a right wanker.'

  'I never knew. Sorry, mate. So what happened?'

  'They gave me some lumps and took the two grand I was holding.'

  'And?'

  'And nothing. They're doing some checking on me. But they're so stoned I don't reckon they'll even remember my name in half an hour.'

  'It's risky, Tubbs. If you want to pull out, do it now.'

  'No, Mark. They've got lots of dope, and I want us to get it.'

  'This is crazy,' said Mark.

  'No worries,' said Tubbs. 'I'm going round to Eddie's. They're going to phone me.'

  'When?'

  'Whenever. Could be they're dialling now, could be next week, could be never. I'm sorry about the cash, Mark.'

  'No problem. Did you make a fuss about it?'

  'No. One of them had a gun on me at the time. But I told them there was more where that came from.' 'Good.*

  'You figure they'll try and take the rest?' 'Yeah. That's why we hit them first.' 'But I want that gear.' 'Sure you do. We'll work something out.'

  Chapter 23

  Tubbs went round to Eddie's flat, dug him out of bed and told him what had occurred at the pub. Eddie sat, bent over his first cup of tea, listening, then said: 'Christ, Tubbs, this is getting heavy.'

  'We knew it would.'

  'They could've killed you.'

  'No pain, no gain, my man.'

  'So what now?'

  'Now we wait.'

  And wait they did.