by Paul Kirby
“I have, Burt. I’ve got a nice bit of handiwork put away. I’m gonna blow his thick paddy brains out,” replied Dell.
“You can’t do that. They haven’t shut your cell door yet, for fuck’s sake.”
“You watch me, Burt. He’s a dead man. He’s gotta go. I can’t have this. No way, no fucking way.”
“Mickey, talk some sense into him, please. He’s only been out five minutes. They’ll throw the key away, for Christ’s sake.”
“Yeah, he’s right, Joe. I know you’re angry, but killing him ain’t gonna get ya money back, mate, is it?” said Mickey in a calming sort of way.
“You know he’s right, Joe,” Burt reassured. “Come on, let’s go back into the bar, have a beer and a think and consider our options, and whatever happens, don’t let on to anyone what’s happened. This has to stay between us three for the moment. Just try and act normal.” This was why Dell always sought Big Burt’s advice. He had a fatherly influence on him and the seventeen-year age difference made Dell respect Burt all the more.
Over at Big Burt’s, the fourth horse romped home, leaving Bill an extremely relieved and happy man, although he wasn’t going to show it in the shop. He just sloped out, clutching his betting slip, and headed back to the park. This was a life-changer for Bill. He would be free of the infamous Flowery Dell forever. Well, that’s what he thought anyway. Bill got his mobile out of his pocket as he neared the park bench he was on earlier and phoned his brother-in-law.
“Fergus, you little beaut, ya,” he bellowed down the phone when Fergus answered.
“I know, Bill, I know. Wasn’t that fricking great? I told ya, didn’t I, Bill, I fucking told ya!”
“Yeah, you did, Ferg. Jeessuss, the bookies must have lost some serious dough there, Ferg,” said Bill with the biggest smile on his face possible.
“Fuck me, have they, Bill, millions I would say because those boys don’t bet small, do they?” replied Fergus.
“No, they don’t, Ferg, that’s for sure. Oh, thank you, Ferg, thank you. You just saved my life, so you have.”
“Well, I’m glad about that, Bill. I’m now off down the pub to celebrate.”
“Okay, Ferg, and be sure to say hello to my big sister and tell her I love her dearly and I’ll be over to see her very soon.”
“Will do, Bill, now you go and enjoy yourself, mate,” said Ferg, hanging up.
Bill walked away more than just a happy man. He felt alive again. As he bounced through the park like a spring lamb, he suddenly had a bad thought. I should have put that bet on with one of the large bookmakers like Corals or Ladbrokes. Why did I do it with Big Burt? He is a small independent bookmaker. I might have ruined him and he is a big pal of Dell’s too. This could turn out terribly after all if it ever gets out. He paused. But this was an Irish sting he’d gotten wind of. What the hell, hopefully no one would realise. He could’ve just gotten lucky and picked the horses himself. Doubtful, but he could have, couldn’t he? Looking at the situation now, Bill thought it best he just went home and had a little celebratory drink indoors by himself. He would then go to Burt’s in the morning to hand over his betting slip when the dust had settled. Looking on the bright side, he could pay Dell back and just say he’d borrowed the money. He just hoped news of the betting sting didn’t get out. And as Burt’s shop had taken the bet, it had no option but to pay out.
Chapter 5
Back in the pub, Burt, Dell, and Mickey were having a drink, having calmed Dell down a bit and gotten him to consider his options. As it stood, the plan for the moment was to act as if nothing had happened and to carry on as normal.
Burt was telling the boys how he’d also been a victim of crime that day, having been robbed by the missus at Westfields. Of course he had no idea he’d just been taken to the cleaners by Bill as well. The girl in the shop, Sharon, would lock the place up if Burt wasn’t there, so he had no need to go back that day. He could enjoy a few pints and go home once Janice had arrived. It was a pretty normal day for Burt, really, nothing out of the ordinary, except for Dell’s missing money. He was sure that could be resolved. All was normal in the pub too. Then the Durleys walked in, all squeaky voices and bullshit.
“Look out,” Burt said to the other two as he heard that really annoying voice that belonged to Dick.
“Alright, lads?” he squeaked.
“Yeah,” they said together in the same bored, uninterested tone. The Durleys must have gotten the message—they didn’t try and join in. They stayed at the bar while the other three sat at a table talking very quietly amongst themselves.
Not so the Durleys, though. They were both talking loudly, making sure everyone could hear and desperately trying to impress anyone who would bother to listen. The poor barmaid had to listen to it all while appearing interested. Bart started banging on about a boat he’d gotten that he kept moored up at Poole Harbour, a forty-five-foot motor cruiser that slept six people, that cost him a fortune, and that he intended to use more now the weather was picking up a bit. He asked the barmaid if she fancied a day out on it with him, but she politely claimed seasickness.
Mickey just happened to overhear this conversation. He listened in as it all sounded very believable and very convincing, but it was Bart Durley telling the story. Nonetheless, Mickey took it all in, thinking to himself, Those boys love to spin a yarn, don’t they? Then he thought, Supposing Di had taken him up on his offer, what the hell would he have done then? That really would have been funny, watching him trying to wriggle out of it. Probably all bullshit as usual, but what if it wasn’t? Hmm, Mickey thought for a moment. I’ll store that.
At that moment Janice walked in, armed to the teeth with bags of shopping. “Well, you certainly got something then!” said Burt, greeting her with a hug.
“Yeah, and you owe me another hundred and fifty quid.”
Spitting out a mouthful of beer, Burt said, “What?!” then looked across the table to Dell. “Bloody ‘ell mate, and you think you’ve been hard done by. I’ve got this for the rest of my life.”
Dell smiled for the first time that afternoon and then got up and kissed Janice on both cheeks. “Nice to see you again, Janice. How are you? What would you like to drink, love?”
“Ah, Joey, good to see you too. You are looking very well, my love, all things considered, and thank you, I’ll have a large dry white wine, please, if you don’t mind.”
“My pleasure,” replied Dell as he got up and ordered more drinks all around. Now, with Janice joining them at the table, the conversation took a turn for the better and they were able to take their minds off the money incident—for now, anyway. And to make things even better, Gerry Funnel turned up and joined the Durleys at the bar, keeping them away from Dell’s little crowd. They were still itching to get acquainted with Dell, but at the moment, it just wasn’t happening for them.
After a while, Mickey leaned back in his chair and couldn’t resist asking Gerry in a loud tone if he’d ever been on Bart’s boat. “Nah, but he’s told me all about it, Mick. Why?”
“Well, I was thinking of organising a sea fishing trip and wondered if he would take a few of us out for the day, that’s all,” said Mick sarcastically.
“No problem,” Bart chipped in. “Just let me know and I’ll sort it.”
“Okay, then. I will.” Mick turned back to talk to the others.
The reason Gerry had come in to see Bart wasn’t to have a drink with him, although he stayed for a couple; it was to supply him with drugs, cocaine, in fact, which he would take home to the missus. They’d be up half the night talking shit and watching porn and all the rest of it.
The time was getting on a little bit now and Dell announced he was going home after a final one. Burt and Janice agreed. They’d had a long day and were quite happy to do the same.
“Give Shifty a bell for us, could you please, Mickey?” Dell asked.
�
�Yeah, no worries, mate,” and he did just that. “Ten minutes.”
“Lovely. Thanks, mate,” replied Dell. They agreed to meet up again the next morning to discuss the day’s events. Little did any of them know the day had been more eventful than anyone could have imagined.
Chapter 6
Burt was the first to rise the next morning, even beating Dell’s early morning prison routine. He had to open the shop himself and be there before the staff arrived.
He jumped in the shower and washed his big frame. Once out of the shower, he dried himself, then wrapped a towel around his waist and ran hot water for a shave, going extra carefully around the cheek-to-cheek scar he had sported for over thirty years. Now that Burt was in his late sixties, the Chelsea smile he was so well known for hadn’t faded any since he had first received it during a fight with a man of Arabic descent on the Edgware Road.
Burt had thought long and hard as he shaved about the missing money Bill Winters had quite obviously stolen. Bill would be a very lucky man if he was to get away with a scar just twice the size of his. Anyway, he certainly didn’t want his friend Dell killing Bill, and he certainly didn’t want Dell going back to prison. Burt finished his bathroom routine, dried his face, put on his dressing gown, and made for the kitchen. After a nice cup of tea, he went to the door, got his newspaper, and sat down for a read before making his way to the shop.
The headlines screamed of yet another terror attack. This time, in Paris, yet another vehicle had been used to mow down innocent people going about their everyday lives. “Fucking wankers, cowardly no-good bastards,” Burt muttered to himself. He turned to the financial section, checked his shares, and had a quick read before heading to his betting office. As he strolled the mile and a half to work, he kept turning around when he heard a car approaching—he was starting to feel a little unsafe walking the streets of London these days, as were many other people. Who knew when these extremists might strike again?
Burt reached the shop in one piece. As he walked through the door, he bent down and picked up all the day’s broadsheets and the two copies of the Racing Post delivered each day to the shop, supposedly giving punters all the information they needed to make some easy money. Burt put one copy of the Racing Post on a table in the shop and kept the other copy to read himself. He looked at his watch. It was only seven thirty and the shop didn’t open until eight. He had plenty of time to have a good read and see what was happening in the world of racing. He looked around the shop, smiled, and thought to himself that Sharon was a good girl. She always left the shop nice and tidy and did everything he asked her. I think I’ll keep her on, he thought.
Burt’s eyes lit up as he saw the headline that dominated the front page of the Post, which was very different to that of the national papers. “IRISH BETTING SCAM COSTS BOOKIES MILLIONS.” Burt chuckled to himself. This sounded interesting. As he read on and turned to the inside page, he shook his head in disbelief. Well, I never. They’ve got some cheek, these boys, he thought, and kept on chuckling.
Having read the story about the Irish mob, Burt had a quick look at the day’s meetings to see if there was anything he fancied as he didn’t mind the occasional flutter himself, but not in his own shop, obviously. Burt switched on the screens and his computer at the front desk. He saw a notification flash up on his screen. “CAUTION, BIG WINNER.” Burt wasn’t overly worried as he’d seen these warnings many times before, and they would only amount to a few hundred pounds. But to his shock, this one was very different. This one amounted to a few hundred grand. What the fuck? thought Burt. Who the hell has pulled this on me? Why didn’t Sharon let me know this was happening? I could have laid a lot of this off. I’m finished. What am I going to do? I can’t pay this sort of money out. This will ruin me. Poor Burt couldn’t think straight. He was lightheaded and also very, very angry, upset, you name it, he felt it. Every emotion you don’t want, Burt had. What was he going to do?
He sat down with his hand over his forehead and thought long and hard about the situation he found himself in. He hadn’t opened the shop up to the public yet and already he was the best part of three quarters of a million out of pocket. Was it worth opening up? He would have to sell his house in Cornwall to pay for this, and if that wasn’t enough, he’d have to sell the apartment he lived in with Janice. Janice—Christ, what was he going to tell her? This was one great big mess that needed to be sorted and quickly, before he had a heart attack. Burt was stressed out to the maximum, but he needed to find out who was in the shop yesterday. He would have to ring Sharon and get her out of bed. He needed to get to the bottom of this fast. But there was no bloody answer. That’s great, he thought. She wasn’t due in until 1 o’clock and Burt certainly couldn’t wait until then. He needed to know who the punter was with the contact in Ireland that had pulled a stroke on him. “Ireland, Ireland,” Burt thought, then a certain name flashed into his brain: Bill Winters.
Bill was already up and about, feeling really pleased with himself on this bright and sunny morning. All his feelings of apprehension had now left him, and before he went down to Big Burt’s, he thought he should get himself a copy of the Racing Post from the corner shop and just have a look to see if there was any mention of the scam pulled yesterday. Bill didn’t think there would be. He’d be alright handing over his winning slip. Bill got the shock of his life when he saw the scam had made headline news. “Shite. No,” Bill said out loud as he handed over the correct money while reading the report, without bothering to look up at the bloke behind the counter. He hurried out of the shop and went back to the same park bench he was on the day before. As he read the story, just like Big Burt, Bill chuckled to himself, but of course Bill was on the right side of the scam and Burt wasn’t. What a difference a day makes. Burt couldn’t prove Bill hadn’t picked those horses himself, and fuck him anyway. The shop took the bet and Burt paid up the stake. Bill was owed a nice few quid and that was that.
Burt wasn’t feeling quite the same way, but he desperately needed to get hold of Sharon. He continued ringing until she finally answered.
“Hello, Burt. What’s up?”
“What’s up? What’s up?” said Burt angrily. Then he composed himself. It wasn’t her fault. She was only doing her job and she was a good girl really, just had a lot to learn. “Sorry, Sharon, I didn’t mean to talk to you like that. Were there many punters in yesterday?”
“No, not really. What’s this all about? I haven’t been nicking out of the till or anything, you know,” said Sharon with a bit of attitude in her voice.
“I know that, and I’m not ringing about that. Did you recognise any of the punters in here yesterday?” Burt inquired.
“Not really, Burt. Only that bloke from the pub, the Irish one, you know, the one you said keeps losing his money, he couldn’t pick his arse.”
“Ah, right, yeah, that one,” said Burt. “Did he have a four-horse Acca with a hundred pounds each way on it?”
“Yeah, something like that. I didn’t really take that much notice. Why? Did it win?”
“Yes, it bloody well did.”
“Cor, lucky git,” said Sharon with an element of surprise in her tone.
“Yeah, well, he might be, but I’m in a spot of bother now,” Burt said.
“Ah, no. Have I still got my job? ‘Cause I like working for you, Burt, I do,” she said, creeping now.
“Yeah, ‘course you have, Sharon, but I need a favour. Could you come in early, please? I’ll look after you, my love, don’t worry.”
“Yeah, alright, Burt. Give me an hour and I’ll be there for ya.”
“Good girl, Sharon. Thanks very much. See ya soon then,” said Burt, hanging up the phone. Apart from his intimidating exterior, Burt was really a nice, soft-hearted bloke, although he wasn’t feeling like it right now.
When Sharon arrived as promised an hour later, Burt shoved a fifty-pound note straight in her hand as a thank you fo
r coming in early.
“Ahh, thanks, Burt. That’s well nice of you,” she said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“Make the most of it. There might not be too many of them flying about soon,” replied Burt. He didn’t have any sort of smile on his face, apart from the Chelsea smile the Arab had given him.
Next on Burt’s agenda was a call to his old mate Dell, asking him to rally the troops in order to decide how to get on top of this thing. Before Burt knew it, Flowery, Ice Cold, and Torrial were at the shop ready and waiting to hear what Burt needed. This must be pretty serious the others agreed, for Burt to ask for all of them. He also wanted Mickey there.
Sharon would man the tills and if Bill came in with that ticket, she would have to put him off and tell him he would have to deal with Burt in person. Burt needed time, lots of it, and this was just the start of the stalling process.
Once all the boys were settled in the office, Burt took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming at such short notice, boys,” began Burt in his deep, rough London accent. “Now there’s been an eruption, a diabolical liberty has been taken, not just on Joey here and on Mickey for that matter, but I am also a victim of that sneaky little Irish cunt. Read this.” Burt threw the morning’s Post on the desktop so all the lads could read it. There was a couple of deep breaths and a “Jessuss” here and there as Burt began to explain how the Irishman must have gotten wind of the scam from somewhere and then had the nerve to place the bet in that very shop. Sharon had taken the bet while Burt and his missus had gone out shopping, and his phone was off for the best part of the day. Anyway, it wasn’t her fault.
Now the big question was, what were they going to do about it? Burt felt exactly the same way Dell had felt the day before. “He’s gotta go, Burt,” Dell said with an evil snarl on his face. “I told you that yesterday, mate.”
“Yeah, I know, I know, and now I’ve decided to call a rule four,” said Burt. Dell now smiled and nodded in agreement, for he knew only too well what a rule four meant. This wasn’t the first time a rule four had been called, and this wasn’t the first time Dell had been asked to deal with it. He was licking his lips in anticipation. The snidely little Irishman had asked for it, and now he was going to get it.
