by Robert White
Mitch pointed at me, genuine fear in his eyes. “I will repay you for this Ma’am. As God is my witness, I will get you back.”
I sat on the wall by the canal. The rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through the clouds.
“I’ll just wait here, shall I?” I said, smiling. “If you aren’t back in an hour, I’ll presume you’ve pulled.”
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I’d fled to Manchester to escape myself as much as anything else. I was in a shit state, drinking myself into oblivion every night hoping to find my wife’s killer at the bottom of each bottle.
I lost my honour and my integrity.
My conscience, if indeed I’d ever had such a thing, was left behind on that blood soaked path in Hereford.
It was during those turbulent times that I met Tanya Richards.
We began what some would laughingly call a relationship.
That was, until she too was shot dead on a deserted road between Amsterdam and Rotterdam.
Tanya, and her brother Georgie, dealt cocaine and cannabis out of their Moss Side base. Jamaican by birth, they embraced the Yardie culture and ruled their turf with an iron fist. If you crossed them, you ended up dead.
As I lay unconscious in Leeds General Hospital, with a bullet wound in my cheek and my legs like cinder toffee. Stephan Goldsmith and his cronies planted a bomb in Moston cemetery that decimated the Richard’s family.
Tanya’s mother, brothers Georgie and Michael, nephews Shelly, Bonny and William were blown to pieces. Bonny, at eighteen months old, was the youngest to die.
The sole surviving member of the Richard’s household, was Tanya’s sister Elena, who was married to the man I wanted to talk to today. Vinnie ‘Pit Bull’ Vasquez.
Vinnie was a small time coke dealer. As his name suggested, a big bull of a man, with an even bigger mouth. The Richard’s family tolerated him purely because Elena loved him. There is no accounting for taste.
I’d only met him once, and found him to be a total twat. I would have slotted him just based on that stupid nickname.
Vinnie was a nefarious scum bag. But more importantly to us, a lifelong resident of Ancoats, and just the type to know if any glistening new gangster types had moved in to his now upwardly mobile area.
Since Des had only succeeded in netting a local landlady on his foraging mission, he’d drawn the short straw, was paired with yours truly, and was about to join me and pay the rather unpleasant, ‘Pit Bull’ a visit.
Vinnie lived in a typical Ancoats terrace. However, his stood out slightly as it boasted a wrought iron gate bolted to the front door frame. The door proper being firmly closed behind it.
“Nice,” said Des, giving the gate a rattle and finding that locked too.
“He might be in,” I mused. “These fuckers feel safer behind bars.”
“Do you think he’ll recognise you?” asked the Scot.
I shook my head. “The only time I met him was at some party and he was off his face, so… no, I don’t think so. I only know he lives here because we had to drive the fucker home.”
“So, what makes you think he’ll tell us anything?”
I gave Des my best confused face. The one that points out that you just asked me the stupidest question ever.
Des held up a finger of recognition. “Ah! We’re going to hurt him.”
I banged on the door. We waited.
“He’s not in,” said Des.
We sat in the van to escape the drizzle that had started again. I’d selected my old trusty Escort from the lock-up as I was not going to put Vinnie in anything else I owned. The last time he was in my car, he stank like a camel had slept in his underpants.
Strangely, we didn’t have long to wait. Within five minutes, bouncing along the road in his regulation shiny black tracksuit was the boy himself, carrying half a pint of semi skimmed and The Sun newspaper for his daily reading material.
The moment we stepped out of the van, Vinnie dropped his purchases, turned on his heels and was off like a scalded cat.
The Pit Bull didn’t appear to have done much anaerobic training lately and Des was all over him like a rash. As the Scot got alongside, he stuck out a well-timed foot and legged him up. Vinnie hit the deck with a thump showing far too much of his builder’s arse for anyone who’d eaten breakfast. I grabbed him by his hair and lifted him back to his feet.
“Hello Vinnie.”
Pit Bull screwed up his face. “What the fuck do you cunts want?”
“Nice, isn’t he?” I said.
Des smiled. “Lovely.”
I tightened my grip. “Two choices Vinnie, go for a ride, or invite us in.”
I could see he didn’t like the idea of either option.
“I suppose you’d better come in… just…just fuckin’ let go of me, will yer?”
I released him, wiped the chip fat from my hand and we strode back down his street. The odd curtain was twitching as we passed by, but Vinnie’s neighbours all had the good sense to stay indoors.
The big daft lad opened up his security gate and then his wooden front door with shaky hands. As we stepped inside we were greeted by the stench of sweaty feet and unwashed armpits. The mail hadn’t been cleared from behind to door for a week or two either.
“Elena not doing her wifely duties?” I asked, trying not to breathe through my nose.
“She’s fucked off ain’t she… Done one a few months back…anyway, how do you know the cow?”
I reluctantly grabbed him by the hair again and marched him into his grubby lounge. “Sit the fuck down dickhead,” I barked. “She was too good for you in the first place. At least she’s come to her senses.”
I considered that the smell was even worse in the front room than the hall. God only knew how long the various pizza and curry boxes had been scattered on the carpet.
Des stepped in. “You’re a disgusting horrible fucker ain’t ye big man? Ne wonder yer wee lassi is on her toes eh? Ye smell like a fucking dead animal.”
Now Vinnie hadn’t got the nickname ‘Pit Bull’ for no reason. He was a handy boy in his way. One of those gone to seed types, you know the ‘I used to go the gym five years ago’ kind of bloke. Even so, I could see straight off he didn’t fancy it. He sat in his fetid armchair resigned to whatever fate we were about to dish out, scratching his bollocks and looking uncomfortable.”
Des looked about the place and turned down his mouth. “How’s the cocaine business treating you these days, Vinnie?”
The big oaf found some balls from somewhere and sneered at the Scot. “I got no idea what you’re talking about dickhead. And what’s it to do with you anyway… Jock?”
Des opened his jacket to reveal his Glock and gave Pit Bull his best Glasgow grin.
Vinnie eyed the weapon and deflated faster than a Chinese remould.
“Fer fucks sake,” he muttered. “There’s no need for shooters eh? Look…okay, I suppose it was alright till just recently… but it’s all gone Pete Tong. I can’t deal around here anymore. I’m getting on my toes, soon as.”
Des cocked his head. “What, ne customers with all this building goin’ on?”
Despite the fact Pit Bull had an exceedingly grumpy and well armed Scot in his face, the fool’s attention span equalled that of a goldfish. He’d totally lost concentration on Des and was staring intently at me.
A light came on in his head.
“I fuckin’ know you, don’t I? You worked for that big dealer, Joel Davis didn’t yer? You’re that Colletti bloke, his enforcer.”
He twisted in his chair and tapped me on the leg. Not his best move.
“Hey, I hear that Davis mush is dead… yeah? Topped by the same mush as Elena’s sister… Tanya?”
I had been known by the name Stephen Colletti for over ten years. The identity had served me well, but since
Des’ arrival in Manchester, I’d reverted to my given name. However, Vinnie’s attitude and the mere mention of Tanya’s name ensured my ever shortening temper got the better of me.
I pulled my fastback from my waistband, pointed it at the buffoon’s head and clicked off the safety.
“Keep talking that way and you’ll join them.”
Vinnie leaned back in his chair and threw up his hands quicker than the Italians in 1943.
“Fuck me… more shooters… come on boss, no need for that now.”
Ignoring the fact that I was irritated enough to actually shoot the cretin, Des sensibly ploughed on.
“So why are you no dealing, pal? And why are you living like fuckin’ Worzel Gummidge?”
Vinnie’s eyes shot between us, unsure what to say. There was genuine fear in his face. Finally, he looked down at his muddy trainers and muttered.
“It’s that new crew, init.”
Des frowned. “A new gang? From out of town?”
The boy looked even more uncomfortable than when I’d pointed my SLP at his bonce.
“Well, they ain’t from round here that’s for sure.”
I was suddenly all interested. “English or what?”
“Naw, all kinds… Russians, Arabs, Pakistanis…”
Des gave me a knowing look.
I leaned in with my Sig Sauer 1911. “How do we find these fuckers, Vinnie?”
He turned and looked straight down the barrel. Obviously more frightened of the new competition than us.
“You don’t find ‘em mate. They find you.”
Des kicked the bottom of Vinnie’s foot to get his attention. “So, how did they discover you my old son?”
Vinnie snorted and shrugged. “I were just doing my rounds, couple of nights back, just local like, you know, gram bags for the party people. Anyway, this mush rocks up. Russian or Polish or something he was. Big fucker with a little tattoo on his neck. I was in one of them late night trendy boozers that have sprung up lately. Must have been two-ish. Anyway, he says he wants to buy six gram. Well, I only got four left on me, so I says, I’ll give him a phone and tell him where to meet me. But get this, he ain’t got a mobile. I mean, how fuckin’ stupid is that? I think, fuck me, you got £300 to blow on beak, but you can’t afford a fuckin’ Nokia? So I say, okay wait there and I’ll go get it.”
“And?” spat Des impatiently.
“And then it goes tits up, don’t it? I step outside and there are three other faces waiting for me, eh? Two black dudes and one other mush. I get thrown in the car and they take me to some old fuckin’ garage somewhere up Salford. It was horrible, I’ll tell yer. They had shooters, fuckin’ machine guns, everything. They put a fuckin’ AK to my head and says that if I keep buyin’ from Tricky Micky, I’m a dead man. Said they was takin’ over and if I wanted to deal in Ancoats, I had to buy from them or...”
Vinnie made a slashing motion across his throat with his finger and funny clicking noise with his mouth.
I put the Sig away for a moment.
“But they obviously let you go Vinnie. I mean, you are here, stinking out this room.”
He pulled his face.
“Only because I agreed to buy their beak. And what a fuckin’ palaver that is. If I want it, I have to drop a fuckin’ note under some brick someplace, then pick up my gear from some bin, then leave the dosh somewhere else…Anyway, I only said yes, so they’d let me go. I mean, come on, if I start buyin’ from these new dudes, Tricky Micky’s gonna have me balls for breakfast, within the week. You know what a horrible bastard he is.”
I did. I also knew what an unreliable lying fat twat Pit Bull was. I got as close to him as my nose would allow.
“Well, he isn’t as horrible as me, Vinnie, I promise you that. Now, think carefully before you answer…Did they already know about Mickey… or did you grass him?”
Vinnie squirmed some more.
“Oh, I dunno about that boss, see I was shitting myself and all paranoid coz of all the weed mixed with the charlie and stuff.”
I shook my head. Druggies, they were all as bad as each other.
“So where was the DLB?” I asked.
“The what?”
Des raised his voice. “The drop you feckin’ idiot. Where this new crew were dropping the drugs?”
Vinnie shook his head. “I never found out, did I? As we was talking, this other guy turns up. He comes in, shouting the odds in some foreign language, and they all fuck off and leave me to it.”
We were getting nowhere fast. Des looked out of a gap in the boy’s curtains into the street, “So where you going to go, Vinnie? You’ll get a good price for this little place now, eh? Even in this shit state.”
Pit Bull suddenly got all talkative.
“Oh, well aye, that’s the other thing I ain’t mentioned. There’s these other dudes, eh? They’ve been here months. They come knocking on the door all fuckin’ smiles and waving cash wanting to buy everyone out. And now I know why, eh? I ain’t fuckin’ stupid.”
I doubted that immensely.
Vinnie had obviously encountered his greatest brainwave ever. He tapped his temple with a fat finger.
“The smiley dudes want all the old Ancoats folks gone, so this other crew, the ones with the fuckin’ AK’s and shit, can deal the beak eh? You know? To all the rich guys movin’ in? Rich guys with cash to spend? The two crews are workin’ together eh? The old fuckin’ good cop bad cop.”
He had a point.
We knew Lucas Estates would make millions in rent from the housing project. All genuine bona fide income for Khalid Kulenović and his company. But just think of the black market trade. Gone are the smokey old pubs, the pensioners and derelict buildings. Say hello to the café culture, the trendy bars, the well-heeled professionals, many of who will want to get high and can afford the best. With Al-Mufti and Yunfakh running that side of the business, Kulenović was on double bubble.
I pressed the lad further. “It’s an interesting story, Vinnie, but what I want to know is why these guys left you in the garage and ran off?”
Vinnie shrugged his shoulders. “Honest, I don’t know man. The dude that turned up seemed like he was in charge, yeah? He was talking all foreign like. Well angry he was. The only words I understood was black man. So, I presume it was some black dude they was after.”
Des spun around. “Black man, or Blackman?”
Vinnie shrugged again.
The Scot pressed. “What did he look like this guy?”
“Big tall bloke, only young like, maybe thirty, dark skin, beard, ponytail, like something off Miami Vice in the eighties, man.”
My head swam. Vinnie could have been describing Abdallah Al-Mufti twenty years ago. It just had to be Siddique.
Des picked up the same vibe. “And what night was this?”
Vinnie scratched his disgusting head. “Aww man, like I said, I do a lot of drugs. Know what I mean? I dunno, maybe three… four nights ago now.”
The night Todd was murdered.
I tried to be nice. “Tell you what Vinnie, show us the garage they took you to and there’s £500 in it for you.”
The boy nearly shook his head off his shoulders. “Come on boss. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast half the time. I’ve no chance of finding that place again. Anyway, what does it matter eh? Either Tricky Micky cuts my bollocks off for grassing him, or these foreign dudes leave me lookin’ like a tea bag. You might as well shoot me here and now.”
See? Nice doesn’t get you anywhere.
I pulled the Sig again, pushed the barrel into his eye socket and put my weight behind it. “Listen you piece of shit. I need to find this ponytailed fucker. And when I do, I’m going to nail him to a wall, spill his guts out on the floor, take his picture and send it to his Daddy.
So, slotting you right now wouldn’t be
a big deal to me, would it? So, if you can’t tell us where the garage is, I’m sure you can help us identify the big boss man with the eighties fashion sense eh?”
I turned to Des.
“Go find a pillowcase, pal.”
Lauren North’s Story:
I watched as Mitch appeared at the doorway of the third bar along Canal Street. A guy of about similar height and build to the American was standing with him. But unlike Mitch, he was shaven headed and sported a full set. He was also dressed like he’d just stepped off a Harley Davidson, or taken part in a Village People video. They shook hands and Mitch strode over towards me with a big grin on his face.
I returned it and gave him the thumbs up. It was difficult not to, his infectious smile and engaging innocence belied his inherent fondness for killing people.
He waved a DVD.
“You got it then?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. The boys over there were really cool. I told them that my brother’s boyfriend had been mugged by the phone booth over there, and they gave me the footage straight away.”
I raised my eyebrows at the fact that the obviously homophobic American could drop into such a tale so easily.
“Well done.”
Mitch pursed his lips. “I believe that they knew I was straight immediately Ma’am. I didn’t once feel that they might think otherwise.”
I took the disc from him and examined it.
“So, what’s this then?”
Mitch looked puzzled.
Scrawled across the DVD in red pen was ‘07799655434, call me…Brent x.’
I held in my laughter.
Mitch didn’t speak all the way back to the lock up.
* * *
We arrived to find Rick and Des printing out A4 size pictures of what appeared to be an ancient Salford pub called The Railway. It had been less than a month ago when I’d watched Rick go through a similar routine, just before the job on the Anson Estate in Longsight. Only then, it had been JJ Yakim slouched in the seat now occupied by Mitch Collins. I pushed my sorrow to the back of my mind and said a little prayer for all of us.
I scanned the pictures of the awful excuse for a public house.
