Krayzy Days

by Micky Fawcett

  ‘Oh, right,’ says the target. ‘What’s that, then?’

  They might be in the market for stolen cigarettes. So that’s what you say you’ve got a load of. It could be whisky if they aren’t after snout – it can be anything you want. You haven’t got it anyway, so you don’t have to restrict your imagination. That was always the joke with the Queen’s Road mob. If your target doesn’t want what you say you’re selling, find something they do want! How hard can it be? Offer them televisions. Anything. Just don’t give up on them. The debates could get quite heated when we discussed customers who were being coy.

  ‘He must want something!’ We’d have to think hard about what would be the appropriate bait. Then we would go back to our customer and the negotiations would begin.

  ‘How much?’ asks the buyer. He’s now very interested. You’ve been whispering your description of the goods. You want to have a bit of going back and forth on the price and the quantity because you don’t want to seem too straightforward. So far, so obvious. Then comes the bit that was unique to the corner. They must come out to collect the goods, the key lies in making out that you’re on the buyer’s side.

  ‘Listen, you better bring somebody with you,’ you advise, ‘to help you. ’Cos we might need a hand.’ The idea was to lull them into a trusting state, tapping their natural greed to get them where we wanted them.

  We always made sure that what we were saying didn’t sound too important – it was just common sense. The buyer, we suggested, will have all this gear to take away and they will be somewhere unfamiliar. We just want to make sure they’re not struggling. That’s good of us, isn’t it? But the real reason was to make sure they were two-handed. We could do this con anywhere, but I particularly liked to meet people at a cafe in Commercial Road, north of the Rotherhithe Tunnel. The other important part of the job was to have a friend with me.

  There would be a bit of a chat at first to get everyone at their ease.

  ‘You got the money?’ I would ask.

  ‘Yeah, got the money.’

  ‘Show us.’ One of them would reach into his coat and get out a bundle of cash. I’d gesture for him to be more discreet.

  ‘Give it to your mate to hold,’ I would say. ‘We don’t want no money on show round the yard. You come with me. I’ve got me brother-in-law there. He’ll load you up.’

  With that I’d leave with the buyer and we’d get in the buyer’s transport and drive straight through the tunnel. Now the buyers would be split up and in completely different areas of London. We would be controlling them. That was the trick and not one you could pull now with everyone on their mobile phone.

  ‘Pull up,’ I would tell the buyer and then I would say to him, ‘Hang on, I’m just going to shoot up and get the keys. I might be a couple of minutes.’ With that I would disappear into a car we had previously parked out of sight nearby and leave him stranded and lost, I would then shoot back through the tunnel and park the car out of sight in another previously arranged spot.

  Meanwhile, the buyer’s mate would still be in the cafe. His mate might have gone but he had the money so there couldn’t be anything wrong with that, could there? So on cue my partner would say, ‘Taking their time, aren’t they? Come on, we’ll have a walk round there.’ He would walk the man with the money in the opposite direction to the one I’d taken his mate, towards a prearranged corner.

  Just before they got there I would hurriedly come round the corner and say to the mug, ‘Take 100 quid out of that money, some have already been sold, the rest are loaded up and your mate’s just coming now.’ Having taken the money out of his pocket and with a bit of encouragement from me, I would expect him to hand me the balance. ‘Your mate said he will pick you up at the café.’ We would then disappear round the corner

  The partner of the buyer would hang around the cafe until he began to realise that all was not well before eventually returning to the corner where we had left him and eventually going through the gates of the only nearby yard to be greeted by no lorry, no friend and a yard owner who would ask what he thought he was doing there. As reality dawned, the buyer’s partner and the buyer himself would be stranded in different parts of London, left to find their way home and work out what had happened – by which time we were long gone. That was how the corner was operated and that was how it got its name. By the end of the day, everyone was round a different corner; once again it’s not what you do but the way that you do it.

  I got to know my way around more of London and I enjoyed the freedom, just as I liked the challenge of the mental agility involved in the corner. The travelling aspect in particular was rare at a time when most people stuck to their own area. The Krays certainly rarely strayed out of the few streets in their immediate vicinity – they moved in straight lines, more or less. I ended up with friends in places like the Elephant & Castle, over the south side of the Thames. Ronnie Curtis knew people nearby, in the Old Kent Road, and I liked their company too, drinking in pubs like the Magnet and the Bricklayers. I noticed the criminals there were more professional than many over my side of the water, though I didn’t do much in the way of business with them myself.

  Reggie and Ronnie hadn’t even heard of any of the pubs over in South London and wouldn’t have been interested in what was going on in them if they had. They were like faithful old dogs, sticking to what they knew and while they might have wanted to move on to bigger things, they were comfortable at home. That’s always the killer, being comfortable, and I always felt they knew the limits of their capabilities too well, especially Reggie. But they were both too nervy to wander far.

  The corner kept me busy and I built up a good idea of the kind of customer I wanted to target. Big, successful fences. All of us who did the corner avoided ordinary people unless we were really hard up and even then we’d prefer to go for someone who was just starting up as a fence. We were rarely sussed with what we called the Johnny – from Johnny Horner, corner – and we had loads of energy. Apart from veterans like Albert Lovett, we were young, fresh-faced kids and we had the enthusiasm to win anyone over – even ourselves – the really good con men end up convincing themselves on some level. They’re a little bit eccentric. Tommy Hume was one veteran of the game who got himself worked up into quite an outrage when he was told a buyer wasn’t going to pick up the entirely non-existent goods he’d been promised.

  ‘You have to deliver to him,’ he was told.

  Tommy was fuming. ‘Well, if he don’t come out, he can fucking go without them!’ he said in all seriousness. It was as if he’d imagined the merchandise in such detail that, in his mind, they really existed. Who could argue with that?

  When customers went to the police – who overlooked their crimes or paid them for information – we were usually okay. We were good at covering our tracks and the police had no more idea than the customers who was behind the con. Some fences were more dangerous. These were the ones who had a bit of their own mob around them and they wouldn’t use the police. They could be on you any time. They could see you at some later point in a pub or someone might tell them, ‘I bet I know who that was.’ I could deal with all that, though, and I never got caught. I was extremely cautious and I made sure I never left any traces. I was always looking out for trouble. I had a good instinct for self-preservation.

  If a customer did get too close we would retreat to The Double R, where I was beginning to get on very well with Reggie. The customers didn’t know that. They came crying to him and he never let on that he was on our side.

  ‘I’ll sort that out for you,’ he would say, ‘but don’t think I’m doing it for nothing.’ He got even more money out of them.

  Reggie acted like a seagull following the trawler of the corner with its fishermen and swooping down to grab some of the easy pickings left behind. If it was possible for those hapless buyers to get less than nothing out of a situation, that’s what they’d end up with. If Reggie did precisely nothing for them, who were they then going to complain to
? In return for helping us, Reggie didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t even force our targets to give him anything. They just seemed to have this unshakeable belief that, whether it was us or Reggie, somehow the world owed them a living.

  After Ronnie came out of prison, later on, there was an unfortunate situation when a couple of fellas who worked the con; Larry Cardy and ‘Steamy’ Jim, ripped off someone the twins knew.

  Ronnie said, ‘That money’s got to go back. You can’t have it.’ The victim might not even have been a good friend. He could well have been someone who just offered the Krays a bigger cut to get his original money back. It was just one of those things. This target had simply got through to the twins and they wanted the money back. Sometimes that happened.

  ‘Bring the money to me personally,’ said Ronnie. This was the last thing Larry wanted to hear.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said to me. ‘I don’t want to go round there.’

  Jim later told me what he’d said. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ I said. ‘Ron loves American comics. That’s what you need to talk about. If you get him started on that you’ll be safe as houses. It’ll take his mind right off everything.’

  Ronnie was left in complete ignorance of this conversational gambit and, as Larry should really have known, had even less idea about American comics. When Larry arrived at his home and kicked off with, ‘Have you read any good comics lately?’ he was lucky to get away with his life.

  Later that night I saw Ronnie for a drink. Larry had at least taken the money to the Krays’ place and that was probably the biggest factor counting towards his continuing existence.

  ‘That Larry Cardy’s a fucking idiot,’ said Ronnie. Still not having tumbled, he remained baffled by the obsession the man seemed to have with comics.

  I managed to avoid those sorts of situations most of the time. When only Reggie was around and Ronnie was still inside it was even easier. I never gave him a penny in all my life and certainly not for any of the cons. The Double R might have been a handy bolthole for us but having us there was good for Reggie too. He saw an opportunity to make a few quid now and again and more than anything else, though, he liked the con – it was brainy, it was clever and he was fascinated by it. It was him who found our very first customer, a firm in Mile End called Chambers Wood Yard.

  ‘They’ll buy a load of crooked tyres off you,’ he said. ‘I know who to stick up.’

  Stick ups were mutual acquaintances of us and our customers and they provided the all-important initial introduction. They helped to create trust in the form of common ground. Reggie later sent other targets our way, even when he didn’t get money from them himself. He knew we would be loyal to him, which we were, in those days. As the Krays were establishing themselves he was known for being fair in business and he stood out for his good manners and politeness.

  Dion O’Banion, a Chicago gangster in Capone’s era, was Reggie’s model. The American had a florist’s as one of his front businesses and owning one became something of an obsession for Reggie. Nobody really knew how gangsters should behave at that time. I seized upon any nuggets of information. There wasn’t the unstoppable media interest in them that there is today. Reggie didn’t really have a clue how the real mob operated. Myself, I remember when The Green Felt Jungle made a big stir on its first publication by lifting the lid on Las Vegas gambling and Frank Sinatra. Turkus and Feder’s Murder Inc was another rare glimpse of what went on.

  The Krays went on to make their own myths. By the time their career ended there would already be almost too much being written about gangsters. Their every move was documented but what wasn’t so well recorded was the way Ronnie almost ended everything way back before it had properly began.

  It started with one of the cellmates he had while he was away, Bert Rossi. His nickname was Battles and he was one of the proper Italian mob living in Clerkenwell. He had been jailed for four years for the attack on Jack Spot, which had made the first newspaper story I’d read about him. Battles contacted the Kray family outside when he first realised that Ronnie was mentally ill. I’m not sure what gave it away – perhaps Ronnie had attacked Battles or he might have been getting paranoid. Either way, the family were alerted. Ronnie himself had a sentimental side and very much appreciated the gesture. He could be faithful and he never forgot.

  Not long after they were both released, Battles had a falling out with some other Italians at the Central Club in Central Street in Clerkenwell. The Central was a working man’s club. As a small fella, Battles asked Ronnie over, thinking that his presence might be helpful. When Ronnie arrived he was more than present – he pulled out a revolver and started shooting around the room. The place was a blur of Italians diving under tables and running for their lives. By chance Ronnie failed to hit anyone, though a bullet went through someone’s jacket sleeve. Battles had no further problems with the Italians. More significantly, it was a pointer to the later shooting of George Cornell in The Blind Beggar, a demonstration that Ronnie was quite prepared to stroll in and take potshots in front of large numbers of witnesses.

  Ronnie styled himself as the Colonel and life for the rest of us was undoubtedly more straightforward before his return. I don’t quite remember where he was before he came out – in prison or in mental hospitals. He was certainly still ill; he went to St Clement’s Mental Hospital in Mile End as a voluntary patient and he thought his dad, old Charlie, was an FBI agent for a while. Mind you, even when he didn’t think that, he always hated his dad. They never got on.

  Though it wasn’t so apparent to begin with, Ronnie was really mad and I’m not just being judgemental here. I speak as someone who has experienced schizophrenia in my own family and I can tell you that Ronnie was even then totally insane. That’s what makes me laugh when they all say how powerful he was, ‘king of the underworld’ and all that. It was all a charade with him. He wasn’t king of anything. There was one time I remember he said to me, ‘I don’t care who the guv’nor is. Just so long as they don’t want to be my guv’nor.’ And that just about summed him up. Ronnie was always at best erratic. Despite dressing in the crispest of suits he would often as not come home with the cuffs of his shirts flapping around. He’d have given the cufflinks to a young boy somewhere.

  The people who surrounded Ronnie weren’t into our sort of life. I spoke the same language as the other fellas at The Double R. Ronnie’s cronies didn’t have the same background as us, not the ones he came out with. They wouldn’t have known what you were talking about if you mentioned anything crooked. None of them had the slightest idea of what an earner was. To me they just weren’t very interesting. My friendship with the twins was based around our business and that’s what I was after. It could be fun but it was also work. At its best it was like being in a film – that was the excitement – and Ronnie’s friends didn’t quite fit into that.

  At least everything was on the surface with Ronnie. He could be very urbane, whereas Reggie was much more like their father. As I got to know them both I saw that Ronnie was the more frightening, but you always felt he was genuinely pleased to see you. Reggie was buttoned up in every way. His style of speech was nervy and breathless and with his suit done up tight he would be in constant movement even while he was talking to you, twitching and rocking around on the balls of his feet as if he were in the ring waiting for the round to start. Very serious. Both of them were naturally suspicious and Reggie always looked quizzical, one eyebrow raised as if it was doing it on its own, as if he was betraying the fact that he didn’t quite believe what you were saying, whatever you might be talking about. He always wanted to know who you’d seen, who was about, I understood this and it didn’t bother me but it worried most people.

  The difference was that Reggie didn’t have the same kind of mental health problems to begin with. His problem was more some kind of deep-seated personality disorder and over time that became more apparent. Towards the end of their reign, Reggie’s own madness came to the fore. There would be much less to tell betw
een the twins by then. Alcohol played a massive part. The twins virtually merged into one mass of drunken rage. But in the early days Reggie had the facade of the charming, rough-edged club owner.

  I thought it was best to be scared of both and I was hard to frighten. Each was as strong as an ox and although I would be critical of them, I wouldn’t question their reputation. Others have, over the years, and it’s true they did go into a decline, but there was a time when you could go into a pub and everyone would be in awe of this double vision they presented. They were always together and, usually, united. The rumour was they were no good on their own. The point was, they were never on their own. What chance did you have?

  The twins had their own agenda which they never shared with anyone else. They would always get the first blow in. That terrified everyone more than anything else. You never knew when they were going to attack until it was too late. That was how they operated.

  There were always fights in The Double R. That was largely down to the licensing laws being different the other side of the old Bow Bridge, east of Mile End. It was the border of London proper, really, and if you headed west from the Stratford and Canning Town side after 10.30 pm you could drink at The Double R in Bow Road for an extra half hour. It was also the local place that served alcohol in the afternoons, a fact that was not lost on the Thames dockers. They used to plague us – they’d ‘bomp on’, which I think meant they’d turn up at the dockyard, sign in and then say there wasn’t a boat for them to work on. They’d then go in search of drink. But The Double R kept its licence by being a strictly members-only club. The doormen adhered to the regulations, taking down names and addresses in a book. There was no choice. When the police staged one of their occasional raids on the place they would corral all the punters and check them off against the recorded details.