Joe chortled. “’E might be blowing in her ear, get carried away with passion, and her head could end up in Gotham City.”
“Their honeymoon night would be poxed. I mean, what would she wear? A see-through nightie? Why? The geezer’s got x-ray vision.”
“Superman didn’t really do much shagging, did he? Wonder why? With all those powers he’d be beating the birds off with a stick.”
“Maybe he was shy. Or maybe he really did come from Smallville.”
The brothers chuckled. The lights ahead went red, and Johnny Too braked. As soon as the Mercedes stopped, the Kosovan refugees moved in with their squeegies.
“Here we go,” Johnny muttered, adding loudly, “NO! Not today, mate.”
He waved his hands to translate the sentiment into body language. The lead Kosovan, an unshaven man in his thirties gave him a gap-toothed grin and squirted detergent over the Merc’s windscreen. Johnny was out of the car in a heartbeat, pushing the Kosovan away. “What part of fucking ‘No’ don’t you understand, you mug?” he shouted. Pyro Joe got out of the car too, and growled at the other refugees who kept their distance. Johnny went on: “I do not want scumbags like you rotting my rubbers with your cheap fucking detergent, capisshh?”
The Kosovan lunged at his assailant. Johnny grabbed him in a neck-lock under his right arm and smashed him in the nose with his left fist. “Oh for Chrissakes,” he said. “Now you’re bleedin’ on me whistle.”
He let the Kosovan drop to the floor, put his right boot on his head and shouted at his companions. “Why don’t you bunch of mongrels fuck off back to your own shithole country instead of poncing off of us? Asylum seekers! What the fuck are you seeking asylum from? Eh? EH? Fucking soap by the stench of yer. Newsflash! The war is fucking over, GO HOME!”
The man on the floor stirred. “Grnnkkkk” he murmured.
“Oh, excuse me, mate,” said Johnny, “am I standing on your head?” He turned, putting his whole weight on his victim’s cheek, then kicked him hard in the guts, got back in the car and drove off, straight through a red light.
The Ned Kelly in Rotherhithe is the flagship of the three pubs owned by the Baker clan. In itself, it’s nothing special. It’s got an ancient pool table; one for us, one for the taxman fruit machines; a cash payphone nicknamed the Hoover because of the way it sucks up your cash; and its very own rogues’ gallery on the walls. There were pictures of Johnny Too with the stars – Billy Murray from The Bill, Barbara Windsor, Glen Murphy, Terry Marsh, Dennis Stratton formerly of Iron Maiden, and even one of the two Bakers with Lord Tebbit from a Dorchester function they had gate-crashed. Below them were pictures of “Gangsters United FC” as the Ned Kelly football team has been known unofficially since the late sixties, when old man Baker first bought the pub. Pyro Joe was notorious in his footballing days. It was said he’d have your legs quicker than polio.
Dougie “The Dog” Richards saw young Mickey Fenn looking at the photos and decided to lay it on thick. “Gangsters United,” he said, shoving half a donut into his mouth. “We only got beat once last season, but seeing as the team ’oo beat us ain’t got a pub no more, there’s no worry about losing this season, know what I mean, Mickey?”
Fenn, who was just 17, was in awe of the older man. Dougie The Dog was only 25 but his reputation for violence was awesome. Not only was Dougie one of the ace faces at Millwall, he was also the Baker boys’ cousin.
“Ain’t, ain’t that old Pete?” Mickey stuttered pointing at one of the older pictures.
“That senile fuckhead,” snorted Rhino, Doug’s shadow, a huge black man from Kennington who took his nickname from one of the TV Gladiators and called his cock his pugil stick.
“Leave it out, Rhine,” Dougie protested. “Pete Miller was a real player in his day.”
By which he meant Miller kicked higher than anyone else on the pitch. Football? No, but see him go to work with a cosh, or his Frankie, now that’s when he was a player … Everyone in the Ned was either a face, a player, a wannabe or a woza (as in “he was a face”), just as everybody in South London knew that Johnny Baker was the Man. Christ, you didn’t even use his name in conversation. If you were talking about Johnny and Joey, you just say the Brothers, pronounced “Bruvvas”. The one pre-condition for drinking in the pub was to have a CRO, but nothing recent. Well, nothing recent if it was a conviction for shit-all, because a con for shit-all meant you weren’t much of a villain.
“I hear he’s a right little tear-away,” said Dougie as Mickey sloped off. “A right ’andful.”
“Little acorns,” Rhino smiled.
“You’ve bin watching The Long Good Friday again.”
“You fuck that Lesley last night, Doug?”
“What d’ya reckon? She ain’t here for work cos she can’t fuckin’ walk!” He grabbed his crotch. “I gave her plenty.”
“The Bruvs won’t be happy.”
“Don’t worry,” Doug said, pinching the black man’s cheek. “I’ll sweeten it.”
The Ned had rules, one of them was don’t piss off the bar staff, but that came low down on a list. Rule one concerned the goose that laid the Bakers’ golden egg, cocaine. The only Charlie consumed in the pub had to come from a licensed vendor, one who was authorised by Johnny Too or Pyro Joe. Rule two was “pig in the trough”, meaning you sell stolen parcels outside the pub for a modest profit or you trade inside and the big boys tell you how much you’re selling it to them for (and you do). Then there was the pecking order rule, that’s the easy one: in the Ned the monsters and the crazies come first, the lunatics second, the crooks and conmen come third and human beings trail in a distant fourth. But seeing as any unsuspecting mug punter who did chance upon the Ned would be greeted with a curt “We don’t servo wankers in ’ere” by Ron “Slobberin’ Ron” Sullivan, the cultural attache for South London who doubled as bar manager, fourth place never really applied.
The pub and the police had an understanding. The cops understood that the Ned was full of the pride of South London thievery and “pharmaceutical distributors”, and the pub regulars understood that the Filth could do fuck all about it. The two sides were like matter and anti-matter, kept from meeting explosively by the greasing of palms and force of habit. It was far easier for the boys in blue to nick the odd knobhead for possessing a gram of Chas a few miles down the road. That’s how it had been for two years now.
It’s how it would have stayed if Pyro Joe had listened to his brain, i.e. Johnny, and left “the skaggy slut” alone, but Joe had a bee in his bonnet about Sean Irvine. The bloke was a liberty-taker. He owed them 750 notes. Why couldn’t Johnny see that made them look weak? If the word got round that the Brothers were going soft, North London would try and move in faster than Bill Clinton could whip out his dick on new intern day. No one could be seen to owe the Brothers.
Irvine had been a good screwsman in his day – you may have seen his handiwork on Crimewatch – but his cocaine addiction had messed up his head. Everybody knows that a £750 Charlie debt is best paid quick to people you owe, but likewise those who crave the sweet stuff develop a different set of priorities. Sean Irvine had made a monkey that morning from shifting snide Hackett jumpers and £500 would see him sorted for booze and Chas all weekend. Unfortunately, before he had a chance to spend it, Sean got a tug from Old Bill for a little bit of drumming. He was sitting in the boob at Maidstone police station when Joey Baker forced his way in to his flat, brutally slapped his wife Shirley to the floor and booted her hard in the belly. Sean had no idea he had just become the ex-father of his first son.
David and Tony O’Shea, Shirley’s brothers, had been promising amateur middleweights in their day. David, the younger of the two, had fought professionally as “The Tasmanian Devil” for a few months until he realised crime paid better. The O’Sheas were semi-faces and regular drinkers in the Ned, well acquainted with the Brothers’ reputation and aware of their lowly position in the pecking order. But hearing that your “skaggy slut” sister has been h
urt and has lost her baby has a tendency to make even the smallest of big brothers feel a little put-out.
“Are you sure it was Joey?” David asked the sobbing Shirley for the third time.
“I couldn’t mistake that ugly fucker, could I?”
“Was JT with him?” asked Tony.
“No, he was on his own.”
“Where’s Sean?” said David.
“Fuck knows. I never want to see that bastard again.”
“We’ll deal with that cowson later,” said Tony. “Dave, we’ve got to speak to Johnny Too. That cunt has gone too far this time.”
“Speak?” Dave snapped. “SPEAK? You’re having a fucking laugh.”
“David,” Tony said sternly. “Do not do anything stupid. I can sort this. We do not need warfare with the Bakers. I will talk to Johnny. Nothing will bring the baby back, but we can get Joey reigned in and make sure Shirl is safe. If you wanna fight, hunt down that no good bastard, Sean, all right? Now, promise me you’ll stay away from Pyro. All right?”
David O’Shea said nothing.
Slobberin’ Ron Sullivan eyed Dougie The Dog suspiciously. He didn’t like the fella. He was too flash, too mouthy and too quick with his fists. He ate like a pig, too. But Doug was family to his bosses, so Slobberin’ Ron swallowed his contempt. Ron suspected Doug was the reason Leslie wasn’t at work today, but it was midweek and the Ned wasn’t busy … only about sixteen people in. Pyro Joe was sitting quietly at the bar sipping Red Bull and vodka and chopping out a fat line of cocaine when David “Tasmanian Devil” O’Shea crashed through the door, a two-foot lump of scaffolding pole in his hand, and charged right at him, bringing the tool smashing down towards Joey. The big man moved with impressive speed, twisting his torso so the pole just caught his right shoulder before whacking into the bar and sending up a pricey cloud of white powder. Pyro hit the floor and rolled. O’Shea didn’t need to be told that having started this he’d have to go all the way. He lifted the pole quickly and slammed it down, catching Joe hard in the stomach. Sadly for O’Shea, Pyro Joe’s paranoia levels, unusually high even by villains’ standards, meant he had taken to wearing body armour some months earlier.
As O’Shea raised his tool to deliver the coup de grâce to Joey’s head, he made the fatal error of pausing to say, “This is for my sis …”
This was all the time Rhino needed. He shot over from the pool table like Jenson Button on a promise, his prize pool cue in his hand, and delivered the sort of whack English cricket fans can only dream of seeing to the back of O’Shea’s swede. The Tasmanian Devil hit the floor. Half a second later Dougie The Dog was over his body smacking his skull repeatedly with a 330ml Budweiser bottle. As it shattered, O’Shea’s head became a bloody mess of claret, beer and shards of broken brown glass.
“That’s it, Doug,” said Rhino. “He’s sparko.” Rhino laughed. “Fucking good night nurse.” Dougie wasn’t smiling, neither was Pyro Joe who had grabbed a handful of O’Shea’s hair and dragged his unconscious body eight feet to the pool table. One-handed, Joey slung his attacker across it. Coolly he walked back for the scaffolding, and with his face a mask of hate he proceeded to smash each kneecap repeatedly. Slobberin’ Ron stopped counting after the 23rd blow. His rage finally vented, Pyro grabbed O’Shea again by the hair and threw him out on to the street. Then he turned to one of the “c” category drinkers and barked, “Scrape that shit up off my pavement and drop him off at casualty.” As an afterthought, Pyro picked up the length of pole, cued up the white ball and potted the black. He turned to the crowd of regulars and said, “How about that for a fucking trick shot?” They laughed and Pyro roared. He hadn’t lost face. He never lost face. Dougie The Dog took his cousin’s head in his hands and kissed it.
“Who luvs ya, baby?” he said. “C’mon, Joe, we’re going up West. I feel like a party.” Pyro grinned. He looked at his watch. It was 9.35 pm.
Exactly 43 minutes later the van and car rolled up outside the Ned, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing. Six of the Met’s finest marched in. Slobberin’ Ron was busy polishing glasses with a dirty tea towel. A couple of lads were throwing arrows at the dartboard. An older man sat on his own, absorbed in Lenny McLean’s autobiography, The Guv’nor. No one was playing pool because the table had gone. Seeing the police, a little mob of half a dozen Millwall boys laughed into their lager. The boldest of them, Mickey Fenn, clocked the Inspector and said, “Mine’s a lager top, mate, if you’re going to the bar.” His mates laughed. Inspector Frank Turner did not.
“We got a call to a fight,” he said to Slobberin’ Ron.
“Spiteful bastards ringing up wasting police time,” the guv’nor replied.
Turner glared at him. “There is blood on this carpet,” he snapped.
“Yeah,” said Ron. “Some bird come on all of a sudden. We had to send her ’ome cos the Tampax machine in the Ladies is fucked, know what I mean?”
The Millwall boys erupted. Slobberin’ Ron rode the laughs. “Yeah, some little toe-rag poured water into it, ripped the dispenser clean off the wall,” he said.
Turner raised his eyes to the ceiling. What is the fucking point? He thought. But out loud he said, “Where’s John?”
“Mr Baker’s out,” Ron said.
“Joey?”
“Not been in all day, Inspector.”
“So, no trouble?”
“I would be the first to call you if there were any, Inspector.”
Turner nodded his head towards the door. The police filed out. Just a token show, same as always. “Thank you cuntstable,” said Mickey Fenn as the door slammed shut.
“See ya, orifacer,” piped up his acne-faced sidekick. “Eat shit and die, ya Filth.”
Geraldine Bielfeld topped up her glass out of sheer boredom and stared at Tony Golding’s stomach. They had been sleeping together for what, six months? And he must have put on at least a stone. Tony was dull and self-important, but a partner in the law firm of Edmonds-Sachs & Co where she worked as the senior partner’s PA. On their second date he had bought her a £300 bracelet. Geraldine had slept with him that night. Now Tony was telling her that his wife was getting suspicious.
“I told her not to be silly,” he chuckled. “I said, ‘Why would I want to leave two women sexually frustrated?’” Geraldine smiled, but Tony’s “joke” wasn’t that far from the truth. “Pony Tony”, was her private nickname for him. God, he was a lousy shag. Geraldine was 29, Tony Golding was 46. He had already told her he would never leave his wife, which was information Geraldine had been thoroughly relieved to hear although she had feigned hurt until he’d bought a Karen Miller designer suit. His generosity had long since evaporated, though. Look where he’d taken her now! A naff comedy club in Camden Town where some fat middle-class student type was on stage talking about her periods. How could she get out of this one?
The guy on the next table seemed as unimpressed with the comedienne as she was. “Fuck me, how long can that live out of water?” he’d said when she walked out and he had maintained a running commentary ever since. As Tony wobbled off to the gents, Geraldine heard the guy cruelly jibe, “A pig born that ugly would have demanded plastic surgery.”
She laughed out loud, caught his eye and was mesmerised. What a hunk! He winked, and Geraldine actually felt herself blush. The woman he was with, an attractive but overly made-up blonde, noticed it too but didn’t seem to mind. How was Geraldine to know she was a £500-a-night escort girl?
Tony returned but he was talking on the phone to another partner. Business, business, business. Geraldine excused herself and went to the bar. She took out a Peter Stuyvesant. A lighter appeared from nowhere. “Allow me.” It was the funny guy.
“Shit this, innit?” he said.
Geraldine smiled. “I thought you were quite entertaining, though.”
“Wanna move on somewhere, get a bite to eat mebbe?”
She looked into his face. The eyes were like a magnet. She had never seen eyes that blue. “Yes, I think I’d l
ike that.”
“Can you lose fatty?”
“No problem. What about your, uh, friend?”
“Who? Maddie? Don’t mind ’er, she’s me sister.”
“Really? No, I don’t think I want to know. Give me five minutes to feign a headache, and I’ll meet you outside. He wants to see the headline act so he won’t be a problem. I’m Geraldine. What do I call you?”
“Johnny, darling, Johnny Baker. They call me Johnny Too.”
As soon as the police had pulled away from the Ned Kelly, Pyro Joe and Dougie The Dog burst back into the bar from upstairs and the whole place erupted into antique chants of “’Arry Roberts is our friend, is our friend, is our friend. ’Arry Roberts is our friend – he kills COPPERS!”
Joey popped open two bottles of champagne and within minutes he was performing his party piece, knob out, lighted cigarette tucked under the foreskin. Slobberin’ Ron bolted the door and dimmed the lights for a lock-in. This was going to be a late one. A few miles away, unaware of the excitement, Johnny Too’s taxi arrived at its destination. Geraldine had wanted to go to Stringfellow’s because she’d never been. She was surprised when the doorman not only recognised Johnny but treated him like visiting royalty. “I done a bit of business with Peter once,” he shrugged, by way of explanation. “Back when the gaff was fashionable.” There was a twinkle in his eye. Geraldine decided she didn’t mind if that was the truth or not.
For his part, Johnny Too was quite taken by her. She was tall, about five-foot-eight, with shoulder-length black hair and magnificent breasts. She was posh, too, and a lot brighter than his usual bits of stray. Christ, she even got his jokes.
Geraldine sipped a glass of champagne. “After we’ve eaten, I’m going to take you up the back passage,” Johnny said quietly. She almost choked on her drink. John grinned. “It’s a little drinking club I know in Streatham,” he said. “Very upmarket.” Geraldine felt herself blush again and buried her head in the menu.
The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) Page 3
