The Long Firm

by Jake Arnott

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘I don’t know, Harry. I don’t want to get involved in that.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Come on. I just want to make a few inquiries of my own. And I need a hand.’

  Shrug.

  ‘I don’t know, Harry.’

  And I don’t. I can’t fathom this homo business. Nothing against them, mind, long as they keep it all to themselves.

  ‘Come on, Jack.’

  He gets up. I heave a sigh and go along with it. Agree to drive him down to Piccadilly. Feel a bit sluggish so I pop a couple of black bombers on the sly.

  It’s dark by the time we get to the Dilly. Bright lights swirling patterns on advertisement hoardings, extra sharp as the speed rush comes up. Chicka, chicka, chicka. Bright lights luring naughty boys away from Mum and Dad and into all kinds of nasty vices. Groups of long hairs sitting around the statue of Eros. Junkies strung out by the entrance of Boots 24-hour chemists, hoping to score a bent script. We cruise by the Meat Rack and one of the Dilly boys comes out to the motor. Harry gives him a nod and he gets in the back of the limo and I pull away.

  ‘What do you want?’ asks the renter, all cocky like.

  ‘I want to talk,’ replies Harry.

  ‘Oh yeah? Dirty talk?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I want to talk about the kid who got killed.’

  I check the rear view mirror. The kid is looking scared.

  ‘Bernie,’ Harry goes on. ‘You knew him?’

  The kid nods, frightened.

  ‘So did I,’ says Harry.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ the kid says, terrified, all cockiness gone now. He pleads in a whisper, ‘I won’t say anything.’

  ‘Look, son . . .’

  Harry goes to grab his arm but the kid makes for the door. Trying to get out as we’re cruising down the Haymarket. Madge, I think, flinching. I hit the brakes. Tyre squeal, hooter blaring from the motor behind us. Harry and the boy are thrown forward.

  ‘Jack!’ Harry shouts.

  The boy gets up, hysterical. Harry slaps him.

  ‘Jack!’ he shouts again. ‘For fuck’s sake move us on.’

  And I pull away. The boy’s sobbing quietly in the back now and Harry’s talking softly, trying to reassure him.

  ‘Look, I won’t hurt you. Just tell me what you know,’ he says, handing him a handkerchief.

  The kid calms down a bit. Blows his nose. Then starts the spiel.

  ‘Yeah, I knew Bernie. Not very well. Just that he was on the game like me. Nice kid. Quiet, a bit dreamy. Haven’t seen him round the Dilly recently. Last time I saw him he said he wasn’t doing trade no more. Said he was going to be a pop star. Found some rich homo record producer he was going to cut a record with. Just like Bernie. Always dreaming. Only thing he’d ever starred in was some tacky porn smudges he’d done with some bloke in Old Compton Street. Even then he was going around saying that he was going to be a famous model one day. But I don’t know anything about what happened. Honest.’

  ‘Right,’ says Harry. ‘Take us back around, Jack. Look, son, what’s your name?’

  ‘Phil.’

  ‘Look, Phil. If anyone asks any questions, keep shtum. But ask around on the quiet if anyone knows anything. If you find out anything then let me know.’

  Harry hands him a business card and a few notes as we come around Piccadilly Circus again. As we pull up to the Meat Rack, Harry pats Phil on the shoulder.

  ‘Don’t forget, anything you hear, let me know.’

  Phil shoves the money and the card into his pocket and gets out of the Daimler. Harry squeezes his arm as he goes.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ he says.

  ‘Where to now?’ I ask, hoping that we can go for a drink somewhere.

  ‘Take us up Shaftesbury Avenue. I think we should have a shufti around Old Compton Street.’

  Yeah, well the kid was involved in porn so maybe that’s a lead. Another reason why Moody’s been dragged into the investigation. Detective work. I can see why it’s so appealing. But I don’t want to get caught up in all this. What’s Harry up to? Maybe he’s – nah, I don’t want to think about it.

  We get into Soho. Go up Wardour Street, past The Flamingo. Hang a right into Old Compton Street.

  ‘Pull up here,’ says Harry.

  I park by a seedy-looking shopfront. ADULT BOOKSHOP, it says in big white letters. We go in. Soft porn in the front part of the shop. Musclemen posing against Greek columns, that sort of thing. Bead-curtained doorway into the back where the heavier stuff is, no doubt. Weedy-looking queen hunched over a book by the till. Looks up and sees Harry.

  ‘Harry!’ he whines in a sing-song simper.

  Harry nods, grunts.

  ‘Jeff.’

  ‘And what can I do you for?’

  ‘I want a word,’ he replies all serious.

  The queen blinks and pushes his specs back into the ridge of his nose.

  ‘Better come through here then,’ he says.

  The curtain makes a little clattering noise as we go through into the back room. Stacks of hard-core books and magazines shrink-wrapped. A pile of rollers in the corner, Super 8 films with titles like Dark Desires and Forbidden Love.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ asks Jeff.

  ‘Has a certain OPS officer been around asking questions about this Suitcase Murder?’

  ‘George Mooney? Yeah, he’s been in.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘Not a lot. He was more interested in upping his normal licence fee to keep me out of the investigation.’

  ‘And anyone else been around asking questions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Right. Well, tell us what you know.’

  ‘Well, Mooney was in and out of here quick as a ten bob wank. In such a hurry to get his money he didn’t give me a chance to show him this.’

  He rummages about in a pile of glossies and comes up with a handful.

  ‘I don’t do much of my own stuff any more. A lot of the stuff is from the States or Scans, you know, Scandinavian. But I meet this kid and he’s into it, so I do a session with him. Pretty kid, not really butch enough to tell you the truth, still he looks a lot younger than he is so I figure it would work for the juve market.’

  He holds up one of the smudges. Skinny kid looking shyly at the camera. Mop of blond hair, one hand on hip, the other holding on to a hard cock. I look away. Harry grabs the photo and examines it closely.

  ‘It’s Bernie,’ he says.

  ‘That’s right. Poor old Bernie. Or, rather, poor young Bernie.’

  Harry looking at the smudge. Frowns all funny like. Looks up at Jeff.

  ‘You weren’t involved in anything heavier than this with him, were you?’

  ‘Look, I do a bit of bondage, a bit of fladge, that’s it. All harmless fun. I only did the session with Bernie because I ain’t going to use real juves. Sure, I get some right weirdos in here. Get offered some pretty heavy stuff as well. But that’s all import.’

  ‘So you don’t know anything else?’

  ‘On my life.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Harry gives him this nutty grin. ‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

  We walk through into the front of the shop.

  ‘Any trouble off the Maltese, Jeff ?’ Harry asks.

  ‘No, they only deal with the straight stuff. Tight-arsed catholicism, I reckon. Can’t say the same thing for the Dirty Squad, though. They’re very broadminded. So long as they get their licence fee.’

  ‘I’m thinking of expanding my operations, Jeff,’ Harry announces.

  ‘Well, I’m a bit specialised here,’ Jeff lisps. ‘Not a big market, really.’

  ‘No, I mean the straight stuff.’

  Jeff wrinkles his nose.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I want to start arranging leases on a chain of bookshops sometime soon. Might need a hand in setting up front men.’
>
  ‘Of course, darling.’

  We go to the door and Jeff sees us out. All eyes and teeth. Gives me a big wink as I go out.

  ‘I’ll keep hold of this picture, if you don’t mind,’ Harry says, holding up the glossy. ‘And if anyone comes asking about this suitcase thing, let me know.’

  We drive back to Harry’s flat in Chelsea. Harry’s in the front, brooding. I try to snap him out of it.

  ‘So, you are moving into the porn racket,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ he mutters all faraway. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Means having to deal with that cunt Mooney, though.’

  ‘Let’s sort out the Airport first. And this.’

  He taps the picture of Bernie propped up on the glove compartment. Shy little teenage face peeking out under a blond fringe, staring out at oblivion.

  We get to Harry’s place. He peels off a few notes. My share plus a little extra.

  ‘Thanks for all your help, Jack. I’ll get in touch regarding the baggage handlers. You can get hold of Beardsley when we need him?’

  I nod.

  ‘Right then.’ Weary sigh. ‘I’ll see you, then.’

  A hard day’s work and home to Trevor. What time is it? Just gone eleven. The night is still young and I’ve still got a bit of a buzz. Chicka, chicka, chicka. Time for an after-hours’ nightcap. Need a drink, all this queer business leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Nothing against Harry, mind, but you know what I mean. Pick up the Zodiac and head north.

  Stoke Newington. The Regency. Big sign says, ‘North London’s Smartest Rendezvous’. My arse. Three floors of tacky nightclub, more like. Favoured meeting place for many well-respected faces, though. Gets a bit lively on Saturday night when it fills up with young hooligans trying to act tough to impress the birds. But it’s Tuesday night so it’s bound to be quiet. Yeah. Take it easy, Jack. Just a couple of drinks then fuck off home.

  It’s half empty in the downstairs after-hours’ drinker. A few of the Kray firm are about, lording it over. Nods, grins, all right Jack and all that pony but I can tell they’re a bit wary. Yeah, I’m all right. Don’t trust any of this lot. No sign of the Other Two, thank Christ. Shouldn’t have come here. Harry’s right, I should steer clear of all their firm. But fuck it, I ain’t afraid of them. The Lambrianou brothers come over. Tony and Chris. Obviously well in with the Twins now. Chris is friendly enough, gentle sort of a bloke really. Tony’s a bit more sly. Suddenly feel all alone, eyes darting at me, people whispering: Jack the Hat, he’s a troublemaker, he’s got it coming to him. I’m on my own and I ain’t even tooled up. Finish the drink and get out of there.

  Get home to my flat. The place is in a right state. A shithole. Can’t sleep. Feel uneasy. Maybe it’s the pills. Maybe it’s something else. Get up and reach up into the chimney breast. Pull out my shooter all wrapped in cloth. Give it a clean. Long-nosed Colt 45. Spin the cylinder slowly. Click, click, click. Feel a lot better for giving it a good oiling. Then put it back in its hidey hole. Feel safe it being there. That and the sawn-off under the floor boards. Eventually I drift off. Half sleep. Mad dreams. Luggage going around the Airport carousel. Two suitcases come around, like the ones that kid was cut up and put into. But when I go to pick them up I see that it’s my name on the tags.

  Get up late the next day. Try and sort out the flat a bit. Take a bag of smelly old clothes down to the laundrette, drop a couple of suits off at the cleaners. Have something to eat in a nearby caff then spend most of the afternoon picking losers out in the bookies. Do a bit of shopping on the way home. Crack open a new bottle of vodka and watch a bit of telly. Stare at the fuzzy old screen until it’s all over. National anthem, then that sharp tone to wake up the dozy fuckers who’ve fallen asleep in front of the box. An empty signal buzzing in my head. Closedown. Drink to stave off nightmares. Go to bed alone.

  Lunchtime, Harry calls up to arrange the meet at the Airport. Get a full tank in the Zodiac and drive out west. Get hold of Beardsley and he says to pick him up at a pub just south of Dalston junction. He’s outside when I pull up. Looking right flash. New crombie, Ben Sherman shirt, tightly tailored with buttoned-down collar, Sta-Press trousers with razor-sharp creases, a bit short in the leg to show off the lethal-looking ox-blood polished boots. Well, he’s been spending some of his newly earned gelt on this get up. No hat this time but he wears his brand-new number-one crop with a well-studied glare. Obviously been practising the look. Learning off the grown-up gangsters. Other little touches too. A silk handkerchief in the top pocket of the crombie held there with a tie pin. And a steel comb poking out from there as well. No doubt its rat-tail end sharpened up just in case there’s no time to get his Stanley blade out. Every detail of style spelt violence.

  And there’s this gang of kids hanging around him. All trying to look like him, act like him. They ain’t as flash, of course. Donkey jackets, monkey boots, that sort of thing. But they’ve all got the regulation crop. It must be a new craze, I suppose. But I ain’t seen nothing about it in the papers or on the telly. They’re all fannying on about long hair and swinging London. Kind of reassuring to bald Jack that you don’t have to have much of a barnet to be fashionable.

  So, anyway, Beardsley hops in and I ask him about it.

  ‘So, what? Ain’t you a mod no more?’

  ‘Nah, I told you, it’s all over now. All that lot down The Flamingo have gone all hairy. Beads and flowers. Peace and Love. Fuck that.’

  ‘So what are you lot called?’

  ‘We ain’t got a name yet. We’re into aggro.’

  ‘Aggro?’

  ‘Yeah, you know, aggression, aggravation. Aggro.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I give a little chuckle. ‘Aggro.’

  We go across town, get onto the Great West Road at Hammersmith.

  ‘So what about the shooter, Jack?’ asks Beardsley, a bit too cocky for his own good.

  ‘I told you son,’ I reply. ‘You got to do your apprenticeship first.’

  He goes into a bit of a huff about this.

  ‘Look Beardsley, don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to prove yourself. You’re into the, er, ag, what do you call it?’

  ‘Aggro.’

  ‘Yeah, aggro. Well, there’ll be plenty of that this afternoon.’

  I give him a wide grin and he smiles back. I feel a bit queasy though, to tell you the truth.

  Harry’s got Mr Charles, the car-park supervisor, to set up a meeting with the main baggage handler. It’s a set up of course. We’re in the basement level of the multi-storey car park waiting for this mug who fancies himself as boss of all the thieving. Charlie’s closed this level to the public so we’ve got it all for ourselves. We’re waiting in the shadows, half hidden by concrete pillars, back lit by sickly yellow sodium lights. Harry likes to stage manage the fear.

  Beardsley’s a bit twitchy, raring to go. I crack each set of knuckles and give him a wink. Harry’s calm as ever, leaning against the Daimler all nonchalant.

  Echoed footsteps coming down the ramp. We’re on.

  ‘Charlie!’ this voice booms around the concrete.

  ‘Over here!’ Harry hisses, stage whisper.

  This geezer walks into a pool of yellow light. Overalls, loading hook slung over one shoulder. Harry reaches into his motor and turns on the headlights full beam. The baggage handler shields his eyes.

  ‘Charlie? What the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘Mr Charles couldn’t make it,’ Harry announces softly.

  Me and Beardsley fan out each side of the baggage handler.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ the man demands looking each way as we circle around him.

  ‘I’m your new guvnor, Derek,’ says Harry.

  Derek grabs his hook and blindly makes a swing with it in a wide arc. Harry steps back from it. I come around the back and kick Derek’s legs from under him. He’s down on his knees and Beardsley follows in. Putting the boot in. I step on the hand still holding the hook and it lets go. Kick the thing across the floor of th
e car park. Harry nods at Beardsley to stop kicking. He walks up and stands over Derek who’s now curled up in a ball snivelling. Looks down his nose at him.

  ‘We’ve got to discuss our new business arrangement,’ he says, gently prodding Derek with his toe cap.

  We tie his hands behind his back and tape up his gob. Harry gets a big sack from the Daimler and chucks it over at me.

  ‘Put him in this.’

  Me and Beardsley bundle him into the sack and secure it with some twine. Derek’s making muffled noises. Harry kicks the bag and tells him to shut up.

  ‘Right,’ says Harry. ‘Put him in the boot of the Daimler.’

  Then we’re off. Beardsley goes with Harry in the Daimler and I follow on in my Zodiac. End up at a disused warehouse in Bermondsey. Unload Derek like he’s dry goods. Upstairs, a long dusty space with cast-iron pillars. Empty, except for a table with a few things on it and some chairs. One of the chairs is right in the middle of the room. All on its own. It’s been nailed down there.

  We get Derek out of the bag and tie him to this chair. Still gagged. Then Harry brings out the black box. It’s got a little handle on the top of it and wires coming out with little crocodile clips on the end. The Black Box. I’ve heard about it. Never sure it was true. The Crank Up, I’d heard it called. Rumours. Not from anyone who ever had it done to him, mind. I mean, that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Funny really, you get the idea, like in all them war films and that, that torture’s used to make people talk. But Harry uses it for the opposite reason. The whole point’s they don’t talk, ain’t it? Don’t grass.

  ‘Take his overalls and his pants down,’ Harry says to Beardsley.

  Derek tries to protest through the tape gag but he doesn’t struggle.

  ‘You want to do the honours, Jack?’ Harry asks.

  He holds up the wires by the clips, moving their hinged ends so that they snap like two little pairs of jaws. I try not to flinch. Big grin to hide any lack of bottle.