by Jake Arnott
Beardsley’s here by now and I pass over the bag of pills and he hands me a wad. Slip it in the suit without checking.
‘Might be a while before I get more of these.’
Beardsley shrugs and downs a couple of blues himself. I make to leave.
‘Jack.’
Beardsley whispers. Serious.
‘What?’
‘I want a shooter.’
I make a face. Wide boy mod acting tough.
‘You don’t want a shooter.’
‘Get me a gun, Jack,’ he insists, folding another wad into my top pocket. I shrug, give him a pat on the cheek and push the notes down since they don’t match the tie.
‘All right.’
I get out of there pushing my way past all the jigging kids giving a few Cagney shrugs for good measure. Go round to The Stardust. Mad Harry’s club. More my scene really. Not many people about. A few second-rate faces. Matt Munro on the jukebox.
Someone gives me the nod. Gets me a drink. Respect. I like that. Some wankers think I’ve lost it. But I’m still there. Jack the Hat. I down another bomber with bacardi surreptitious like, and there’s Harry.
Grins as he sees me. Scar crease criss-cross smile lines.
Chicka, chicka, chicka.
DON’T CALL ME SCAR FACE.
‘Jack, you lairy bastard.’
‘Who you calling lairy? You big poof.’
Harry laughs. He can take a joke. We go back. Dartmoor. Did time in the Moor together in the fifties. And in Exeter. Harry saw me deck that screw in the exercise yard. Knows I’ve got bottle.
‘You want to watch that, Jack. People have been known to get topped for mouthing off like that.’
Cornell, he means. Common knowledge Fat Ron topped George Cornell. Went a bit moody over a snide remark.
RONNIE KRAY’S GUNS DON’T ARGUE. DON’T CALL ME FAT POOF.
‘Fat Ron’s got no sense of humour.’
Harry laughs.
‘Well, he is a bit touchy. You want to watch yourself there.’
‘The Twins don’t scare me.’
Harry knows I’m off their firm for the time being. Glad to be out of it, to tell the truth. Don’t fancy being one of their cronies on a twenty-five quid a week pension, doing their dirty work. Fuck that. I’m a freelancer. That’s me.
‘Just don’t push your luck.’
Chicka, chicka, chicka.
‘I ain’t afraid of nobody.’
Reach into my suit pocket for a bomber, pull out a bit of lint.
‘Sure, Jack. Fancy a drink?’
Harry’s got some sort of a proposition, I can tell. We grab a table and I wait for the spiel.
‘Still pushing pills?’
Shrug.
‘It’s a living.’
‘Well I’ve got something lined up. Need a bit of muscle.’
Nod and grin. A job. I’m your man.
‘What?’
‘The Airport.’
‘Heathrow?’
Harry gives this Jewboy shrug.
‘Heathrow, Thiefrow, whatever. The Richardsons out of the picture. It’s up for grabs.’
The South London mob used to run the Airport. Now they’re all sent down after that stupid gunfight in Catford. Charlie and Eddie Richardson, Roy Hall, Tommy Clark and Frankie Fraser. Best of that firm all wiped up. Shame about Frankie. He was in the Moor and all. Chinned the governor for the kicking I got after the exercise-yard business. But Harry’s right. They’re out of the picture for now. Only one problem. The Other Two.
‘The fucking Krays will want to move in.’
‘Eventually. We could muscle in for a while though.’
Chicka, chicka, chicka. I give him a big lairy grin. Fuck the Twins.
‘Look,’ says Harry, reading my wicked mind. ‘All I want to do is make a bit of easy gelt then fuck off out of it. I don’t want to mess with the Twins if I can help it.’
‘Those freaks don’t bother me.’
‘Jack, for fuck’s sake, take it easy. Don’t get involved in anything that’s not necessary. All we got to do is put the frighteners on some bent car-park attendants and baggage handlers for a while, then we’re away.’
Sounds reasonable. Harry’s known for his powers of persuasion.
‘I want some cash to put into legitimate business. The club could do with some capital and all.’
The Stardust is half empty. A band starts up. Some geezer crooning Burt Bacharach over chintzy electric organ. Easy listening. A few bacardis had taken the edge off the black bomber buzz so I can relax into it. No mad chicka, chicka, chicka beat in my head no more. Grab some nosh. Chicken in a basket. Harry’s not happy.
‘Look at this. This place is fucking dead.’
Shrug. Breadcrumb-coated skin caught in my teeth.
‘I need to get some class acts on in here. Get the punters in.’
Suck grease off fingers.
‘You could turn it into a strip club.’
Harry wrinkles his nose.
‘That’s the way Soho’s going Harry. Either that or like a mod club or something. If you ask me, a strip club is where the money is. And porn. Real money to be made there.’
Harry looks pained.
‘Jack, this is my club. I want it to be a place where I’d like to go. I want it to be a bit classy like.’
‘Well, the punters want filth. Especially porn. Ship it in bulk from Scandinavia and sell it at a mad profit. Need to pay off the Dirty Squad of course.’
Harry’s ignoring me so I drop it. No point saying wake up, this is fucking Soho we’re on about. He’s off on some showbusiness dream.
‘I need to get some proper cabaret on here. Big-name draws.’
Nod. Yeah Harry, sure.
‘I was thinking Dorothy Squires. She’s got a residency up at The Tempo on Highbury Corner. You know it? Freddie Bird’s club.’
Know it? I’m fucking barred from it. Got into a row. They were using Geordies as doormen. Fucking northerners coming down here doing what they please. I was pissed of course. And pilled.
‘I was thinking of going over and checking her out tomorrow night. Fancy coming?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I says.
No one bars Jack the Hat.
Few more drinks. The bacardi takes the edge off it all. The club closes. One or two faces left sitting around the table. Couple of tarts. Catch up on the chat. Tony the Greek’s fucked off back to Finsbury Park. Bought a restaurant. Gone straight. Big Jock McCluskey’s away on a two stretch. Receiving. Jimmy Murphy’s disappeared. Common knowledge he had Harry over on a long firm. Diplomatic shrugs all round. Maybe he’s propping up the brand-new Westway flyover. No body, no case, though. And nobody sure where the body is. Where the nobody is. Like Ginger Marks. Shot in Cheshire Street then bundled into a motor and spirited away. Only a few spots of blood, his glasses and a couple of cartridge cases left on the street. No body. Should have used a revolver, though. Automatics leave too much forensic.
Harry’s making a fuss over some pretty blond boy. Mouthing off showbiz gossip. Friends in high places. Stroking his leg under the table. Feel randy myself. One of the tarts is still working so I leave with her.
Back at her seedy little flat. On with the gas fire. Thump. Give her a bit of a feel standing up as she takes off her clothes. Pushes me away and gets into bed. I get my clothes off and come around the other side. Fucking freezing.
‘You going to wear that in bed?’ Her screechy voice.
Still got the hat on. Take it off and spin it chairwards. Hits the floor. Bald head showing. Supposed to be a sign of virility. No such luck. All the pills and the booze. Can’t get it up. Can’t.
Suddenly feel awful. Need to hold on to her. Jaw all clenched. Sobbing gently. Face in her tits. There, there. Touches my neck. Been there before. Another useless punter. Poor Jack. There, there. No hair to stroke so she pats my bald head. No Jack the Lad tonight. No chicka boom a chicka. Can’t get it up. Can’t. Oh God. Hold on to this tart. Think of Ma
dge. How I pushed her away. How I pushed her out of the car door.
Can’t sleep. Tart rolls over and starts to snore. Long lonely night. Cold grey morning. Get up, get dressed. Check the hat in the mirror. Straighten tie. Top pocket wad. Thirty notes. Beardsley. What’s that toe-rag want a gun for? Take out five and put them on the bedside table next to an old packet of Durex.
Get out and retrieve the motor. Drive around a bit. Buy a paper. Find a caff. Fry-up breakfast. Place full of workers stoking up for the daily grind. Splat ketchup over snotty egg. Then use sauce bottle to prop up Daily Mirror. Headline: CUT-UP BODY FOUND DUMPED IN 2 SUITCASES. Yard men in hunt for boy’s killer. The naked torso of a youth was found in a battered suitcase yesterday. Nearby was another suitcase, containing the limbs. Eat as much as I can stomach. Speed comedown. Misery.
Drive home. Vodka mouthwash. Collapse into bed. Wake up and it’s already starting to get dark again. Four o’clock. Feel like death. Take a couple of bombers and pick up a bit. Yeah. Have a bath. Shave. Watch a bit of telly. Find a half-clean shirt and give it an iron. No clean underwear so I put on a pair of swimming trunks instead. Dab the suit down a bit. Get ready. Chicka, chicka, chicka. Get suited and booted.
Phone Harry. Arrange to meet him in The Mildmay Tavern on Ball’s Pond Road. Have a few before going on to The Tempo. Barred? What a joke. Ready to go. Down a couple more bombers just to be on the safe side.
Get to the pub about eight thirty. Harry’s there. And Jimmy Briggs and Patsy Murphy. And one of the Lambrianou brothers. Tony.
‘Tony’s just got out of the boob,’ Patsy says.
Been in Bristol Prison. Slip him a few notes. The done thing.
‘Anything I can do for you?’ I say.
Harry’s keeping shtum about the Airport which is just as well because the Lambrianous are getting well in with the Twins. Word is they’re being courted by the Other Two. I fanny on about helping Charlie Wilson escape from Winson Green.
Get to The Tempo mob-handed and a bit tanked up. Bother on the door. Some fucking Geordies in monkey suits don’t want to let me in. Freddie comes out.
‘Look,’ he says all reasonable and shit. ‘We don’t want any trouble from Jack.’
Harry intervenes. One club owner to another like.
‘It’s all right, Freddie. He’s with me. I’ll look after him.’
Freddie lets me in grinning nervously. You know he’s thinking about his fixtures and fittings. I put up with this shit and stroll in, unimpressed. Feel a bit wound up, to tell you the truth. Down a couple more bombers, chase them with a bacardi and Coke. That’s better. Stay out of trouble, Jack. Chicka, chicka, chicka. Fuck them. The Tempo is all red walls and chairs sprayed gold. Trying to be classy, I suppose. All fur coat and no knickers if you ask me. At least the teenagers I push pills to know how to enjoy themselves. All this poncing about in dinner jackets. Don’t impress me.
Me and Harry grab another drink and a table. Dorothy Squires has started her act. Short blond hair. Looks a bit washed out to tell the truth. Hoarse voice singing some sad song. She’s past her best but she can still belt it out good and proper. Harry loves it. But then queers always seem to go for this sort of thing. Some washed-out old bint wailing on about what a mess they’ve got themselves into. Like old Judy Garland. Harry’s a sucker for her and all.
Dorothy’s taking swigs from a bottle between numbers. Pretending it’s water, I suppose. It’s obviously booze. Looks like she’s had a few already. Harry looks a bit concerned. Unprofessional, he’d call it.
‘She’s pissed Jack,’ he says a bit affronted.
‘Maybe The Saint ain’t giving it to her enough,’ I reply.
You see Dot’s married to Roger Moore who plays The Saint on the telly. Harry doesn’t see the joke and goes to take a piss. Dorothy’s beginning to slur her words. I feel the speed and the booze surge up inside me. Feel great. Poor old Dot looks fucked, and the crowd’s getting a bit restless.
‘Where’s The Saint?’ I shout.
Laughter. Then lots of shushing. Dorothy looks out blearily across the crowd, rotten drunk. Chicka, chicka, chicka. I can’t stop myself.
‘What’s he like in bed then?’ I shout over. ‘The old Saint?’ Get a few laughs. A bit more shushing. Dorothy loses her rag.
‘You mind your own business!’ she yells, her voice thick with Welsh. ‘He’s a lot better’n you!’
Laughter. No more shushing. I’m part of the floorshow now.
‘Come down here, darling!’ I call back. ‘We’ll soon see!’
‘I’ll come down and have a fight with you!’ she screams, her accent getting Welsher all the time.
More laughter. Everyone turns around to look at me. I stand up. The whole club does a bit of a spin around me. Faces everywhere. Looking at Jack. Jack the Hat.
‘Come on then, darling!’ I shout out.
I move forward. Knock over a chair and kick it out the way. A couple of doormen are coming over.
‘All right, Geordie boy!’ I call out to the biggest one. ‘Me and Dorothy are just working on our double act.’
This thick northerner’s grunting something in a stupid accent but no one can hear a thing because Dorothy’s giving the whole place a mouthful.
‘Fuck the lot of you!’ she’s screeching as she leaves the stage.
Game girl. I give her a clap and a cheer. The doormen are moving in but people are getting up and walking out. Lots of pushing and shoving. A ruck starts and the thick Geordie boys go off to deal with it. Booing and whistling from the back of the hall. Some prat of a compère in a crap shiny tuxedo announces the next act over the row. An exotic dancer. I move towards the stage. The row’s been settled. The doormen are dragging someone out.
The dancer’s music starts. Some mad Turkish racket. Drums going like crazy. Boom ba di boom ba di boom ba di boom. And this bird’s on stage in a gold bikini shaking it all about. I’m jerking about to this wog rhythm going chick, chick, chick on the offbeat as I get nearer the front. Tits shaking along to the beat on stage. Hypnotic.
‘Yeaaah!’ I call out, showing my appreciation. ‘Get them off, darling!’
The bird on stage ignores me. ‘Sit down!’ someone shouts and I ignore them. Everything’s coming up in a mad rush. Boom ba di boom ba di boom ba di boom. Chick, chick, chick, chick, chick. I’m climbing onto the stage. What the fuck am I doing? I’m climbing on the fucking stage, that’s what I’m fucking doing.
I’m moving about with her. Shaking it all about.
‘Come on, darling,’ I say to her.
‘Fuck off !’ she hisses back at me.
Charming.
Suddenly she stops shaking her tits about and walks off. Booing and whistling from the audience. People shouting for me to get off. Throwing things. A glass smashes on the stage. Look down at the sea of faces. Cunts. I’m not scared of you. I’d fucking take the lot of you on. The music’s still going so I start dancing in front of all these nasty cunts. Take off the jacket and duck an ashtray. Have to do better than that. Loosen the tie, slip it off and whirl it about my head like a stripper’s feather boa. Throw it into the crowd and start unbuttoning my shirt. I’ll show this lot I’ve got bottle. I’ll show you.
Take off my jacket and shirt in one go and people stop chucking things. Big cheer as I drop my trousers. I’m entertaining these bastards. A lot of laughter when they see the swimming trunks. Keep the hat on, of course, and dance about a bit to the music.
The Geordies are on stage with me now. One each side, moving in. Take a swing at one of them and down he goes, crashing into a table near the front of the stage. I turn and catch a punch from the other fucker on the side of my face. Stagger back. Manage to chin him with a hook as he comes forward. Follow with a cross and he’s down too. Just about to kick the fucker when someone’s got me from behind. Both my arms are pinned to my sides and I’m being dragged back.
‘Jack! For fuck’s sake!’
Harry.
He drags me backstage. Bundles
me past the dressing rooms with his coat over my shoulders. The bird in the gold bikini is screeching filthy words at me. Dorothy’s taking another swig from the bottle, tired, seen-it-all-before look on her face. Harry pushes me out through the stage door into the freezing night air.
‘Come on you stupid cunt!’ he says, holding on to my arm.
‘Get your hands off me, you fucking poof !’
WHACK. Had that one coming, I guess. Get it right on the hooter and go down. I’m on my hands and knees in this filthy dog-piss back alley with Harry’s steamy breath in front of me.
‘Want me to leave you here?’
Wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Blood. It’s fucking freezing out here and I’m bollock naked but for the overcoat and the swimming trunks. And the hat. Get up and brush myself down a bit. Straighten the trilby.
‘I’m sorry, Harry.’
‘Yeah, sure. Come on then.’
The stage door bangs open behind us. Shouting. Freddie Bird and the Geordies.
‘You’re fucking barred, Jack!’
He throws the rest of my clothes out after me. I gather them up.
‘Don’t fucking come back here!’
One of the Geordies mouths something unintelligible. And another voice, not northern, a London voice, not Freddie, don’t know who it is, a whisper hisses in the piss-stained alley: ‘You’ve got it coming to you, Jack the Hat.’
I snarl back.
‘Leave it, Jack,’ Harry whispers and off we go.
Harry’s Jag is parked just around the corner so we go in that. I’m in no fit state to drive. I’ll pick up the Zodiac tomorrow. We motor down Upper Street towards the Angel. Streetlights throbbing in my head. Feel like shit. Suddenly need to spew so I wind down the window and lean out. It all comes out. Try to aim at the gutter away from Harry’s well-waxed paintwork.
The wind hits my face. Blow-drying the puke around my mouth. It hits me. I’m hanging out the window and it hits me. Madge. The moment I pushed her out of the car. Just gave her a shove. Didn’t mean to push her out of the fucking motor. She was yacking on at me. Yacking on and on. Told her to shut up. To fuck off out of it if she felt like that. Gave her a push. I didn’t know the door wasn’t closed properly. I just meant to give her a shove. But I pushed her clean out of the car.
