The Stash

by Dan Fletcher

  The other man at the table was enormous, with fists like sledgehammers resting on his thighs, but Max’s demeanour left no doubt as to who was the boss. Trying to keep up the act, and appear as if he did this sort of thing all the time, John continued, ‘I take it that you gentlemen have brought the money?’

  Max held him intently in his gaze, ‘Before we go any further you and goldilocks here are going to take a little trip to the bogs with Frank, one at a time. Just to make sure you aren’t wearing a wire. If everything’s ok then we can have a little chat.’ Using a barely noticeable movement of his head, he signalled Frank to get on with it.

  The table was pushed forward slightly by his tree trunk like legs as Frank stood up, and liquid spilled from the tops of the glasses. ‘Sorry boss,’ he said, pulling out a tissue to mop up Max’s spilt beer, his hand trembling slightly.

  ‘Never mind! Just get on with it for fuck’s sake!’ instructed Max, grabbing his glass violently, sending more of its contents onto the table.

  Frank put the sodden tissue in his pocket, and moved towards the toilets, putting his arm around Alan as he did.

  ‘Hold on, I’m not going to the bloody bogs with this ape! I’ve got my reputation to think about,’ Alan said, shrugging away from Frank and taking a step back. There was no way he was going to allow himself to be searched with the gun stuck down the back of his jeans. Anyway if they wanted to search him, he thought it only fair to see what they were carrying in return. ‘You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,’ he said, grinning at Frank.

  ‘Nobody’s going to the bloody toilets,’ John said, ‘Steve’s known me for years! Who do you think we are old bill? Anyway we haven’t got the stuff here so there’s nothing anyone can get busted for.’

  Max eyed John threateningly, ‘You fucking wasting my time?’

  His nerves now forgotten, John replied, ‘No, it’s nearby. We just wanted to make sure everything was ok before we brought it in.’

  Good at reading people, Max could see that John was telling the truth, he was actually impressed that they were taking some precautions. Besides, he recognised Alan. ‘All right everybody settle down and take a seat. How’s this going to go down then gents,’ Max said, gesturing to Frank to retake his. Taking his cue, Alan pulled up a chair from an adjacent table, and joined them on the end between Max and John.

  ‘Show us the money, and John here will go and get the gear, we do the swap and ‘Bob’s your uncle’,’ Alan said, wanting to keep things simple.

  ‘The money’s not here,’ Max replied.’

  Alan started to stand up from his chair, ‘No drugs, no dosh, looks like we are wasting our time after all!’

  Max pulled a small key from his inside jacket pocket, and put it on the table in front of him deliberately, as if it was a prized jewel. ‘This key is to a locker in the tube station, around the corner. The money’s in there. You can sit here with me and the coke, while Johnny boy here goes and gets the loot. He can give you a nod from the window once he’s got it, and you can leave us with the stuff.’

  Why the hell hadn’t they thought of using the station lockers? Max was obviously more cunning than they were. He had made sure that he could do the transaction without being seen to actually hand over the money.

  ‘Right! You better go and get the coke, and it better be the same as the stuff you gave Steve here to try. Any problems and I’ll find you boys and make sure you regret it. Do I make myself clear?’ said Max, looking first at Alan, and then John.

  ‘Yeah crystal,’ Alan replied.

  ‘Don’t be too long or I might just fuck off,’ Max said, purposefully picking the key back up and pocketing it.

  ‘I’ll be back in five then,’ John said, downing the rest of his pint before standing up. He hurried out of the pub, and sprinted across the road to avoid an oncoming car. Shooting through the cutting towards the van, he glanced quickly over his shoulder, to see if he was being followed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Max was safe in the knowledge that Alan was captive, so there was no need to have John followed. The ‘bouncers’ on the front door, were actually two of the men that Frank had brought along as back up. There were another two covering the exit through the kitchen, at the rear of the building. Not wanting to put anything to chance and disappoint his boss, Frank had gone for overkill. Besides he was quite willing to pay for the gear. It was a good price after all. Max was just taking the usual, necessary, precautions.

  Max still wasn’t really happy, not knowing where the coke came from, and he decided to quiz Alan as they waited for John to return. Alan was busying himself by trying to get a reaction from Frank, by blowing kisses at him. Knowing full well that the situation meant he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Frank was just staring stoically ahead, seemingly oblivious to Alan’s antics.

  ‘Knock it off you two,’ Max said, looking at Frank.

  ‘I haven’t done anything boss! He keeps pulling funny faces at me,’ Frank replied.

  ‘This isn’t the fucking playground Frank, just ignore the bastard and shut up,’ said Max, despairing that his henchman was such a simpleton. Can’t have it all he supposed. Turning his attention to Alan, he asked, ‘Where’d you get this stuff from anyway? Haven’t seen anything this good for a while.’ hoping that the backhanded compliment would prompt a reply.

  Alan wasn’t that stupid, ‘Friend of ours who wants to remain anonymous. Not really used to trouble, and doesn’t want it coming knocking on his door, if you know what I mean, so he left it to us. Not that it’s any of your business.’ Realising he wasn’t going to get anywhere, Max decided to probe Alan on something else.

  ‘You’re Alan Shorey aren’t you? Used to hang around with Mike the mechanic and his crew over in Stamford Hill, pull a few bank jobs together? You won’t remember, but I saw you with him once in the Sunset Strip, getting wasted after a job.’ Max let this sink in before continuing, ‘Mike and I did time together after that and he used to brag about what you two got up to. Reckoned you were the brawn and he was the brains, but I guess that was a long time ago.’ Max acted casually, as if he was passing the time, chatting about old friends, rather than delivering a veiled threat.

  Alan tried to hide his shock, knowing exactly what Max meant. Small world wasn’t that what people said? Too bloody small, in Alan’s humble opinion. Trying to look nonplussed he answered, ‘No, must have me confused with someone else. I’ve never heard of Mike the fucking mechanic. Like you said must have been a long time ago.’

  Max nodded feigned agreement and, smiling amicably, said, ‘Guess so.’ They both knew full well that Alan was lying. Max never forgot a face, or a name for that matter, but he decided not to show his hand for now.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Earlier that day, in the dazzling sunshine just off Malibu beach, Santiago Martinez was not enjoying the moment. The man in front of him, begging for his life, was Carlos “the Blade” Gomez, caught dipping into the takings. The fact that their history together went back over thirty years didn’t matter. Santiago would kill him, there was no choice. That was the way things were. They had both taken the oath.

  They met in the early days of los Sombreros, doing time in Bakersfield Penitentiary. Santiago was the founding father of the gang, forming it to combat repeated acts of violence from el Mano Rojo, an established Mexican gang from the south side of Los Angeles. Carlos joined Santiago’s group, seeing it as an opportunity to get some kind of protection on the inside

  The prisons were a mess with inmates dictating the rule of law. The guards stayed out of it for the most part. Why bother getting involved? It was just scum killing scum as far as they were concerned.

  There were dozens of rival gangs, competing for the supply of cocaine and other illegal products demanded by the prisoners. The fighting escalated, and alliances were formed and broken so quickly that nobody trusted anybody, outside their own following.

  Serving twelve years for manslaughter, Santiago used his t
ime to build up both the numbers, and reputation, of los Sombreros. Originally all from farming backgrounds, most of them wore the classic Mexican attire. The name had seemed appropriate, but didn’t quite convey their ruthless methods. Carlos disposed of four men for Santiago in Bakersfield, and another nine more in the two decades since. His preferred method was the shank earning him the nickname “the Blade”.

  His previous loyalty didn’t matter anymore. The oath was for life, death being the only accepted retirement. Rewarding his years of service, Santiago allowed him to run one of his casinos, where Carlos enjoyed the high life. After a while all the women, drugs, and debauchery bored Carlos, and he turned to gambling. Unfortunately he wasn’t very good at it, and lost a fortune. Unable to repay, and desperate for more, he dipped in to the Casino’s takings, planning on putting it back before Santiago noticed. He should have known better.

  ‘Please Santiago! I was going to put it back. I only needed it for a couple of weeks, honest,’ pleaded Carlos, as the boat bobbed over another swell in the sea. Both he and the two armed men, holding his elbows, swayed with the movement. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and he showed obvious signs of being beaten. His face was badly bruised and swollen.

  ‘You should have come to me first! How long have we known each other? You knew what would happen,’ barked Santiago.

  Desperately pleading for his life, even though he knew the futility, Carlos said, ‘I’ll give it back to you next week, take my car, take my house, take my wife if you like! Just don’t kill me!’ It was no secret that he had hated his wife for years, so the last offering was a little empty.

  Santiago was offered little choice. If word got around that he let this go he would be finished by mutiny from within his own ranks. ‘Take him to the back of the boat,’ he said, showing no emotion to the two men holding Carlos.

  Obediently they took Carlos to the stern, and held him with his back to the waves. Santiago, standing about five feet away, removed a pistol from his dressing gown and shot Carlos straight through the heart, sending him toppling over the parapet into the water. He floated off behind them, facedown like driftwood.

  Watching him disappear in the wake, Santiago replaced the pistol in his pocket and smoothed his thinning hair over his sunburnt scalp. No point dwelling over things he couldn’t change. He went back inside the saloon of his Predator64, and poured himself another scotch, before flumping down on the L-shaped sofa.

  He was flicking through the TV channels a while later, when he remembered to phone the Chief. Picking it up from the small galley table in front of him, he found the eleven digit number stored in the phone’s memory.

  The Chief was sitting in his tenth floor office on Lagos Island, overlooking the naval dockyard, showing little activity for years. The couple of smaller cruisers moored at its key hadn’t moved for decades and were covered in rust. When the phone rang he recognised the number, and dismissed Patience. Loyal as he was, the Chief kept matters as close to his chest as possible.

  Once the door was firmly shut, he picked up the phone. ‘Hello Carlos! How’s the weather over there?’ he said beaming.

  ‘Yeah, Not so bad amigo,’ Carlos replied, looking at the sundrenched sky, ‘how is it your end?’ The question had two meanings.

  ‘Yes, fine, we are all set up for next week,’ replied the Chief. ‘The sample should be with you on Thursday morning. I’ll give you another call to confirm the time,’

  Hopefully, this was to be the first in a long line of lucrative deals between the Chief and Santiago. Heroin was much more profitable than cocaine, and per kilo the Chief would make eight to ten times more for the same risks. He was sending ten kilos over by plane to clinch the deal, before sending the first full shipment.

  ‘Who’s bringing it?’ Santiago wanted to know who to pick up from the airport.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. I’ll let you know when I call next week,’ said the Chief, ‘I’ll speak to you then.’

  Thinking it was a bit strange that it wasn’t one hundred percent organised, Santiago replied, ‘Uh, yeah OK. Talk to you then.’

  Again the Chief didn’t give too much away. He already knew that he would be sending Happy and Patience. It was too important to trust to anyone else.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  John drove frantically home and picked up the packet of cocaine, scared for his friend’s safety, and still not sure whether he was being followed. He sweated as he pushed the packet under the front of his T-shirt, tucking it into his jeans as he did. He pulled back on his jumper and put his jacket on, zipping it closed over the bulge on his front.

  After driving just as erratically back, and re-parking the van, John arrived back outside the ‘White Swan’, panting heavily. Stopping to draw his breath, he faked a smile at one of the bouncers as he walked towards the door, ‘Getting livelier now is it?’ The doorman said nothing and simply held the door open for John to walk in. The pub was definitely getting busier now, and he weaved his way through drinkers to reach the gallery. When he finally broke through the revellers, John was relieved to see Alan still apparently alive and well. He did look a little off colour though.

  John sat down, and leaning as if to tie his shoe, he reached under his clothing and slipped the packet under the table to Alan. He covered it with the jacket already in his lap. It was smoothly done, and no one around them seemed to notice. Alan lent towards Max and lifted the jacket slightly, showing him the coke, but shielding it from the rest of the pub.

  Max, who was now completely content in the knowledge he knew who Alan was, took the key back out from his pocket and held it out to John. ‘Box number 67, it’s on the right as you go in.’ As John tried to take the key from his hand Max held on to it for a second and looked like he might say something. Then, as if thinking better of it, he let go of the key, ‘Hurry up will you, I haven’t got all night.’

  John shot off with the key in his hand, and within three minutes was back outside the window, with a black rucksack over his shoulder. Beaming stupidly, he gave the thumbs up to Alan.

  ‘This is yours then, I guess. Nice doing business with you,’ Alan said, passing the packet to Max under the table before standing up.

  Max slid it into a holdall that was open on the floor between his and Steve’s chair. ‘Yeah, likewise. Don’t forget to say hello from me to Mike when you see him,’ Max said seriously, looking for one last reaction from Alan.

  ‘I told you I don’t know any bloody Mike,’ Alan replied, turning his back on them, he went to join John outside.

  Together they walked back to the van briskly, checking behind them as they did, John resisting the temptation to break into a run. Alan drove, and turned left out of Compton Terrace onto Canonbury Lane. Heading straight over Canonbury Road, he sped through the back streets of Arsenal and beyond for a full five minutes, making a series of erratic manoeuvres, until he was absolutely sure they weren’t being followed. Eventually satisfied, he slowed to a more normal speed and turned to look at John, ‘That wasn’t so bad was it?’

  In an outpouring of relieved tension and fear, John laughed hysterically. In their moment of triumph and euphoria they both completely forgot about Mr Akintola, and the origin of the cocaine. They also forgot all about about giving Steve his cut.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tunge had spent the morning with his father and one of the NDLEA’s most senior officers, playing eighteen holes on the Ikoyi Golf Course. It was only about thirty degrees Celsius, and the rainy season, but the almost one hundred percent humidity made it feel like you were being boiled alive. Tunge’s golf shirt was drenched in sweat, and walking around the golf course felt like wading through mud, so soft was the ground. Tunge lost his ball numerous times, as it plugged into the quagmire and was swallowed up, never to be seen again.

  The Chief arranged the meeting because he was worried, due to an increase in the NDLEA’s activities lately, that he might become a victim of one of their enquiries. The Commander-General of Narc
otics was there to reassure him that, thanks to an enormous bribe, he definitely would not be subject to any scrutiny whatsoever from the NDLEA.

  They were, publically at least, upping the war against drugs, recently boasting on CNN that they were burning thirty marijuana farms a month in Nigeria. This was just a tip of the iceberg, and barely affected those growing, including the Chief, who simply moved location. Thanks to interfering western journalists, it was also now common knowledge that Nigeria was a central point in the trafficking of cocaine from Columbia to the USA, and Europe.

  There was also an established route through Nigeria for heroin, coming from Afghanistan and Asia that was destined for the West. It came by land via Sudan and Egypt, after travelling through the Middle East, and finally crossed the Nigerian border by boat over Lake Chad. Using numerous small fishing boats to make the crossing, meant that the NDLEA had uncovered few of the pipelines used by the smugglers.

  Drugs bred corruption, and corruption bred more drugs. The sad fact was that due to its popularity as a trafficker’s paradise, millions of Nigerians were also now addicted to cocaine and heroin. Robberies soared, as already poverty stricken citizens struggled to find money to feed their increasing habits.

  Due to international pressure, the Nigerian Government even made a few examples of corrupt officers within the NDLEA’s own ranks. The most memorable being the arrest of the NDLEA’s ex-boss Lafiagi. The Chief enjoyed a profitable relationship with Lafiagi for years, and the investigation threatened to touch him.

  Under sufferance, Lafiagi kept his silence and was serving a minimum term of four years in prison. Where he was being treated like a veritable king, for keeping quiet by the Chief. Lafiagi’s cell resembled a hotel suite, more than anything belonging in a jail.