I Am Not A Gangster

by Bobby Cummines

‘If you’re like this on a bit of work, what will you be like if the Old Bill pulls you in for questioning? They’re giving armed robbers thirty years inside these days.’

  ‘Bobby, I would never grass any of you lot up,’ Dave pleaded through a flood of tears.

  ‘I know that,’ I told him. ‘I’m just glad the bit of work wasn’t as shitty as the smell. Frank, stop the car when we get to the bridge so that me and Dave can get some fresh air. We’ll get some fresh air into the car as well.’

  Old Frank wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going through my mind. Dave was a liability. The best option was to shoot him and dump him over the bridge.

  Yes, for me to be considering that option was an enormous escalation in violence. But that is the way I was thinking; it wasn’t just bravado. As I told Dave, captured armed robbers were going away for a very long time. I saw that the only way out of our predicament was to dispose of our passenger. I would have done so with no regrets.

  ‘I can’t stop here – there’s too much traffic about,’ Old Frank grumbled as the Thames came into view. ‘Let’s wait and sort it out when we get home.’

  That mug owed his life to Old Frank that night. Dave was so very nearly brown bread.

  When we arrived back at the pad I told Dave to go to the bathroom and clean himself up. While he was gone, I looked at Old Frank; he knew I could have done that bit of work – the traffic wasn’t too bad.

  Old Frank told me straight: ‘I knew what you were thinking, but it was a crazy idea. If you topped him you’d get too much bird. I mean, he’s been on that bit of work with us and played an active part, so he can’t scream “Coppers!” He’s in it up to his neck.’

  When Dave returned from his shit-cleaning exercise, I told Old Frank to share out the money in equal amounts as usual.

  ‘I don’t want any,’ Dave said, as the mounds of cash appeared on the table. ‘You guys keep it all, because I fucked up.’

  ‘No, you’ll take your share,’ I commanded. ‘You took the same risks, and if we get nicked you will get the same amount of jail time.’

  We knew that the more involved Dave became, the less likely he was to spill the beans. We made him take his money to ensure he was heavily involved in the crime.

  Dave looked sheepish – although now at least he didn’t smell like one – and left as quickly as he could. Maybe he realised he had been within an inch of his life a few hours earlier and owed his survival to Old Frank.

  ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on him for a while,’ was all I said.

  Old Frank nodded, with that wise look that only years of experience can bring.

  Valuable lesson learned: just because a guy is big built, and can have a ruck in a pub, doesn’t mean that he can be an armed robber or a gunman willing to kill. The really dangerous men I’ve worked with have always been small to medium build – don’t forget that I am tiny and wiry. The Krays, Frankie Fraser and Charlie Richardson were not exactly giants in the physical sense, but they were not the type of people you would want as enemies. They killed if they had to.

  Needless to say, Dave never went on any more armed robberies. I heard that he tried the armed robbery game for a while afterwards, got nicked and gave evidence against his co-defendants. He never said a word about our firm.

  I suppose that being a known grass is one thing; being a grass who shits himself on a bit of work is a bridge too far, even for people like Dave.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE STINGER

  TONY THE GREEK, still one of my best pals during the crazy time after the detention centre, was a worried man. I’d never seen anyone look so worried. His face was in total panic mode, with regular twitches controlling his eyes and mouth. He clenched and unclenched his fists, waved his arms around, then sat down and stood up. After more hand waving, he sat down again and continued to twitch.

  ‘Bobby, Bobby,’ he blurted out, as I’d walked into the Enkel Arms. ‘I’ve got bad news. B-a-a-a-d news.’

  ‘Calm down, calm down,’ I told him, realising I’d picked up his annoying habit of saying everything twice. Not only that, when he worked himself up into a proper lather, he’d say, ‘Oooo oooo.’ I was used to it, but others were not so forgiving.

  ‘Bad news, b-a-a-a-d news. Oooo oooo!’

  Tony the Greek, all the way through from his school days, had dabbled in petty crime. He was always on the fringe of heavy stuff, but never quite made the grade. He would nick this and that, sell on some stolen carpets and offer round a bit of puff. He was a regular sight with a box of watches, an armful of kettles, a pile of plates or anything else he could lay his hands on. He’d never been on any proper work; we didn’t ask him to go, and we couldn’t imagine him at the sharp end.

  Because I’d grown up with Tony the Greek, I knew his habits off by heart. In football terms, he would have been a product of the youth system who never quite made it. He was always on the fringes of the first team, but lacked the talent and imagination to make the grade. He wasn’t the type you would want beside you in the trenches, waving his arms around and causing mayhem right, left and centre.

  On the other hand, Tony was as good as gold. He was ten years older than me and would lay his life on the line for his friends. I just wished he would act and talk normally.

  ‘Bobby, Bobby, oooo oooo!’ he continued, to the annoyance of my brother Frankie, Eddie the mountainous minder and driver Neil, as we sat in a side room to discuss business arrangements.

  ‘What’s it all about, Tony?’ I pleaded as he jabbered and waved his arms about, threatening glasses and bottles all around us.

  ‘Your mum knows these people. Your mum knows these people.’

  My ears pricked up. My mum and dad had endured the ‘razor on the ground’ stuff and the detention centre episodes, and were really dear to us all. So if he said ‘your mum and dad know them’, we would have to listen and do something about it.

  ‘What people?’

  ‘Ooooo. Ooooo. Stavros and Eva. Stavros and Eva.’

  We all leaned forward and listened.

  ‘You know, it’s the fish and chip shop not far from your mum’s house,’ Tony explained, as I sat nursing a bitter lemon in the quiet room beside the busy bar. ‘They’re a nice little family. They’re good people. They’ll be having a breakdown soon. They’ll be having a breakdown soon.’

  I wondered what had happened to Stavros and Eva. Now and again we would pop in to their shop if somebody fancied a bag of fish and chips, but most of the time we ate in restaurants like the Greek ones, or the Indian or Chinese. We used to go out for meals because we had money.

  Stavros and Eva knew me from when I was a young boy growing up – I used to say hello to them. They were a nice family; they were nice people. My mum and dad used to chat to them because they were around about the same age.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, trying to move Tony on to his main point. He was so on edge that he twitched and shook like a nervous rabbit. He paced around the bar and returned, ready to provide another instalment about the chip shop family’s predicament. He also returned with another bitter lemon for me.

  ‘It’s bad news,’ Tony blurted out, talking fast and drinking at the same pace. ‘Their daughter has got caught up with some Turkish guys. Turkish guys.’

  Tony was an unmistakable figure in the Enkel Arms. The pub in Holloway was usually packed with Irish revellers, but he towered above everyone. His thick black hair was curly, he had a large nose and, basically, he stood out in a crowd.

  Tony was over the top with birds; Tony was romantic. If he chatted up a girl, he would buy her a drink – then disappear off to get her a flower. Sometimes he would run off and come back with a box of chocolates. He was over the top with everything. If he bought you a drink, he would buy everyone in your company a drink, too. He was very generous in that way.

  ‘Spit it out, Tony,’ I urged him, keen to know what the Turks were up to.

  ‘These guys have their daughter on heroin. And now they’re
trying to get her on the game. Can you sort it? Stavros and Eva will pay whatever you want.’

  Well, I wasn’t worried about being paid. I’d just been out on a nice little earner, robbing, so it was a case of keeping everything sweet in the manor. We’d been trouble-free for a while. I could see that my services were needed sharpish, though.

  ‘Bad news, bad news,’ Tony muttered, turning to Peter the Poof, who’d strolled in a bit earlier for a glass of wine. (That was his nickname throughout North London in the 1960s and 1970s, so I can hardly call him anything else.)

  Peter had introduced some of the boys to wine and cocktails as a change from beer or lager. We grew up with Peter and never cared about his sexuality. He was one of the firm, and had our full protection and respect; if another firm insulted him, they paid a hefty price, usually at the hands of Eddie. Those massive hands were not to be messed with. Once, when someone from another firm said Peter was ‘a lovely boy’, the result was a broken jaw and a harsh warning for all to see.

  ‘You told me twice that there was bad news and I heard you the first time, darling,’ Peter pranced around and told Tony off, as usual. ‘I’m not deaf, you know. You only need to say things once.’

  Peter talked a little bit posh. We all talked like Cockneys, but he used some fancy words. He had an air of authority about him. If he walked into a room, immaculately dressed, with his blond hair perfectly combed, you would think he was a male model, or maybe a banker or something like that. He was no mug; he was well educated, and his old man worked in the City.

  Peter was always around when we were growing up. We’d always thought he was a little bit unusual. While the boys played football, he would be skipping with the girls. As he got older, he became an out-and-out crook. He was like us, but was more into fraud with cards and cheques. He would do shoplifting and that sort of thing – soft stuff, as we called it.

  Our gay friend had a terrific eye for fashion. And he really knew all about it. If I went shopping with him, I would put some gear on and ask, ‘How do I look, Peter?’ He would say, ‘No … mmm, that shirt doesn’t go with that tie, darling.’

  The women all fancied him, but he would tell them, ‘Oh, sweetheart, I’m no good for you – but I could be good for your brother.’ He was unavailable, and that made them want him even more.

  And his pad was like a showroom. The rest of us had little two-bedroom flats, but his place was fitted out with modern, arty gear. He did a lot of shopping, but he didn’t pay for anything in his pad – it was all stolen!

  I remember one day he came round to our house, looking like a male model as usual, and wearing make-up.

  My dad said, ‘What are you doing with all that make-up on, Peter?’

  ‘I’m gay, Mr Cummines,’ Peter replied.

  My mum, cooking in the kitchen, heard what was being said and poked her head into the lounge. ‘Oh, that’s good, we’re all happy in this house.’

  ‘He doesn’t mean that,’ my dad said with a laugh. ‘He’s a pansy.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ my mum said, looking a little concerned. ‘He’ll get better. You’ll get better, won’t you, Peter?’

  I can’t blame Mum for her reaction; in the 1960s and 1970s people didn’t tend to ‘come out’ like Peter.

  Back in the Enkel Arms, waiting for me to make my mind up on what to do about Stavros and Eva’s daughter, Peter and Tony were having a squabble about who was the better thief. Peter said that Tony was a ‘jump-up merchant’, which meant that he jumped up and stole things from the backs of lorries. Peter said his own stuff came from Harrods or Fortnum and Mason, while Tony’s gear came from Woolworths. After their short diversion, they looked at me to see if a decision had been reached about getting involved in the chip shop crisis.

  We did have a democratic process, discussing the work to be done. If anyone didn’t want to get involved, they had the chance to duck out. I listened to everyone’s views, took everything into account and made my decision. I always had the final say.

  In those days, if people had a problem, they didn’t go to the Old Bill; they didn’t want to be known as police informants or grasses. Instead, they would go to the head of the local manor – in this case, that was me. All the way through, from the early street gangs to the heavy firms, I evolved as the natural leader. That never changed. Also, people close to me knew that if they did not do as they were told, they would be shot. I was prepared to carry out the threat, whereas others might have shirked that brutal solution.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I said, finishing the last mouthful of bitter lemon.

  I left Tony to his twitching and drinking and decided to pay his Greek Cypriot friends a visit, just around the corner. When I arrived at the shop, I could see they were genuine, hard-working people; they had their aprons on and were grafting away in the chip shop. The girl’s dad, Stavros, was small and podgy; he had a receding hairline but greasy strands remained and straddled his face. The fat was sizzling, excited voices relayed the food orders and, at first sight, everything looked normal.

  Stavros took me upstairs, where his wife, Eva, was in tears. She was also a short lady, and looked totally worn out with all the worry. She had dark rings under her eyes and the problems of her troubled family were obviously weighing heavily on her shoulders.

  ‘We just want these people to go away,’ they both sobbed. ‘We’ll give you anything. Just say what you want. Our daughter is in danger here.’ Stavros produced a biscuit tin full of rolled-up notes. It was the family life savings, really.

  I wondered why they preferred a biscuit tin to the bank next door, but that was their business.

  ‘You can have it all,’ Stavros said. ‘We just need this problem to go away. We’re terrified of these people and what they’re doing to our daughter.’

  ‘I don’t want any money,’ I answered, angry at the way the family was being treated. ‘I’ll make the problem go away.’

  ‘You must take some money,’ he pleaded, handing me the tin and prodding bunches of notes.

  ‘Look, Stavros, I don’t want your savings. If any of my family comes into your shop, they get free fish and chips for life. Is that OK? If my mum comes round, she gets a free supper. That will be your payment.’

  Stavros’s face lit up. ‘Do you really mean that?’

  I really meant it. He gave me the names I needed, and the address: the Turkish brothers had a little lock-up garage where they repaired cars.

  I walked back over to the pub and nodded to Old Frank. He was up to speed with all my ideas, even though he was twenty years older and from another generation. I always admired him for having such a young outlook.

  ‘Go and get Kennedy,’ I ordered.

  ‘Going on a bit of work, are we?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Go and get Kennedy. I need to see that he’s ready for action. Let’s do it.’

  Old Frank assumed we would be off on another armed robbery. He went to get the gun from its hiding place and reappeared in his car. It was an unremarkable-looking 1970s Vauxhall Cavalier 1.6GL, in a disgusting brown colour, with velour trim. Yes, it was a horrible-looking vehicle, and that was the idea. It was totally anonymous; there was no point in screeching around in a flashy Jag during an armed robbery.

  We kept everything as low profile as possible to keep the coppers at bay – and the Cavalier didn’t really have a 1.6 engine. My mechanic Brucie had installed a souped-up lump in there – probably twice the size of the original. It rocketed from 0 to 60 in about nine seconds and kept going like shit off a shovel. Top speed? I’ve no idea. It was all a bit of a blur, and the average cop car stood no chance of keeping up. Brucie had also fitted suspension and brakes to cope with the mean machine’s awesome power.

  I’ll never forget Frank braking from 100 miles an hour to a standstill if anything blocked our path. The normal practice was to brace yourself as if for a crash landing, and hang on because your life depended on it – no one wore seatbelts in those days, of course. Religious types usually muttere
d a prayer or two.

  Outside the Enkel Arms, Frank emerged from that wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing and slipped me Kennedy for the once-over. I scrutinised the gun to make sure everything was in perfect condition.

  ‘OK, Kennedy is good to go. Pick me up at seven o’clock in the morning. It’s an early job for “the stinger”.’

  The next morning, Frank arrived at my house in his suit exactly on time. I was also immaculately dressed, as usual.

  All suited and booted for the ‘stinger’ raid, then, I checked the gun over again. I scrutinised the two hammers and two triggers, and made sure Kennedy was in prime condition to fire. I inserted one cartridge which contained the normal buckshot. I filled the other cartridge with hard rock salt.

  The idea was that you could shoot someone and damage their legs, but the salt melted into their wounds, so the name ‘stinger’ was ideal. Despite intense pain, the wounds would heal, leaving no trace for any forensics people. The weapon was used in the underworld as a punishment tool.

  I have to tell you that there was violence going on all over London in the 1970s. Inter-gang warfare was commonplace; people were getting cut, and shot in drive-by shootings. When they were hurt, they didn’t go to the doctor or hospital, because that would attract the attention of the Old Bill.

  It was also common for the inter-gang rivalry to spill over to outside London. If a member of a firm had overstepped the mark, he could be set up at a bogus meeting in the country somewhere like Kent, Surrey or Sussex, to avoid attention. He would then be attacked with baseball bats or shot in the legs.

  We pulled up outside the garage. The doors were open. One of the brothers was working under a car so Old Frank and I walked straight through the door and aimed at his legs. The gun went off, blasting him with the salt. He writhed in agony and I left him to scream. He probably thought he had been peppered with real pellets. He screamed and he screamed. The sound of someone making that noise, thinking that death is the next step, has to be heard to be believed. I knew that sound off by heart.