The Long Firm

by Jake Arnott

  ‘Why don’t we let the young apprentice have a go?’ I suggest.

  Harry nods.

  ‘Beardsley,’ he says, holding up the clips for him to see. ‘Attach these to our friend here.’

  Beardsley frowns as he takes the wires off Harry.

  ‘Uh – Where do I put them?’

  Harry smiles.

  ‘Where do you think?’

  And so they get on with it. Harry delivers this long lecture about business, stopping every so often to nod at Beardsley to give Derek a crank up. Derek goes into this sort of short fit every time he’s given the electric. The rest of the time he’s nodding or shaking his head frantically at what Harry is saying. Desperately trying to agree with him, except he can’t because his mouth’s taped up. At one point there’s some talk of dousing Derek with water or something to increase the conductivity but he’s already pissed himself so it wouldn’t make much difference. I watch and try not to think about it too much. It will all be over soon. There’s a bottle of Johnny Walker on the table and I pour myself one. Take a few sips as Harry delivers his spiel. All this psychology makes me feel a bit sick.

  When they finish, Beardsley rips off the tape from Derek’s mouth and he’s gasping and blubbering away. We untie his hands and chuck him a cloth to wipe up the piss off his legs. We get him to clean up the chair and the floor around it as well. Then we let him get back into his overalls and give him a drink. Let him have about two fifths of the Johnny Walker. He’s like a zombie now. He nods, wide eyed, as Harry explains how things are to be organised.

  Later, me and Harry have a drink at The Stardust. A sort of celebration, like. H proposes a toast, holding up a tall glass of bacardi and Coke.

  ‘To Thiefrow,’ he says.

  ‘Thiefrow,’ I repeat.

  Clink.

  ‘And to the theft of valuables in transit,’ says Harry.

  Yeah, looks like that racket’s all sewn up for a while. Harry reckons Beardsley’s all right for the pick up. I say I’ll keep an eye on him. The Stardust’s dead as ever. This place must be losing Harry money. It’s quiet as fuck and Harry’s just sitting there. Thinking about something. Brooding. I hope he’s not having one of his black moods. Heard horror stories about him ‘going into one’. I get up.

  ‘Just going to put something on the jukebox,’ I say.

  ‘Uh?’ says Harry, only half out of his trance.

  ‘Just going to put a record on.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Harry nodding, all thoughtful. ‘Wait a minute.’

  He grabs my arm.

  ‘What’s up Harry?’

  ‘Remember what that kid said down in the Dilly the other night.’

  He’s off on that business again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said Bernie had talked about a “rich homo record producer”.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, that could be a lead.’

  ‘So, who do you fancy for this “rich homo record producer”?’ I ask.

  Must be plenty to choose from, I think.

  ‘Meek,’ replies Harry. ‘Joe Meek. You know him don’t you Jack?’

  ‘Yeah. Sold him pills a while back.’

  Big amphetamine customer. Practically bought in bulk.

  ‘Well, it could be him, couldn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  Harry sighs, impatient.

  ‘The “rich homo record producer”, of course.’

  I shrug. So what?

  ‘We should go and see him.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Come on, Jack. I need a hand with this.’

  So I get talked into all this palaver once again. I don’t like it. Something wrong about the whole thing. Anyway, before you know it, we’re off up the Holloway Road to Joe’s flat cum studio. Pokey little place above a leather goods shop. Intercom on the door. Harry buzzes.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Joe’s yokel voice crackles on the little speaker.

  ‘It’s Harry. Harry Starks.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Come on, Joe. Open the door.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  Harry slips the lock and shoulders it open. Up the stairs. Strange electronic music echoing about the flat. Broken crockery, smashed records and odd bits of recording equipment strewn everywhere. Promotional pictures of Heinz, blond pop star in silver suit, scattered about the floor. Face crossed out with angry black lines. Music’s weird, like a soundtrack for a science-fiction film.

  ‘Joe?’ Harry calls out.

  Suddenly he’s there at a doorway. Dressed all in black. Shiny black shirt open at the neck. Face as white as a ghost. Eyes popping out of his head. He’s holding a single-barrelled shotgun at waist level.

  I look over at Harry. Nod. I’m ready to rush Joe. Harry holds up a hand. Easy. Madness, he understands it.

  ‘It’s all right, Joe,’ he says softly. ‘We just want to talk.’

  ‘It ain’t safe to talk,’ Joe says in his west country drawl. ‘They’re listening in.’

  ‘Who are, Joe?’ asks Harry, humouring him.

  ‘The police,’ replies Joe. ‘And EMI.’

  Harry slowly moves towards Joe.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he says, soothingly. ‘It’s all right.’

  He comes right up to him with his hands out.

  ‘Give us the gun, Joe.’

  Joe shrugs and zombie-like hands it over.

  ‘You can have it,’ he says. ‘It isn’t mine anyway. It belongs to Heinz.’

  Joe starts to sob quietly. Harry hands the shotgun back to me and pats Joe on the back.

  ‘There, there,’ he whispers.

  ‘Ungrateful bastard. After all I did for him,’ says Joe.

  ‘Come on Joe, he ain’t worth it.’

  Harry leads Joe to the settee. Chucks some of the junk piled on it off onto the floor and gets him to sit down. I stash the shotgun behind it. Harry sits next to him.

  ‘We need to talk,’ says Harry.

  ‘I told you, it ain’t safe to talk. They’ve got this place bugged.’

  ‘Well, we’ll whisper then. They ain’t going to hear us above this racket.’

  The air is still full of this electronic din.

  ‘It ain’t a racket. It’s my space symphony. It’s called “I Hear A New World”. I did it back in 1960. Nobody liked it. The rotten pigs.’

  ‘Well I think it’s very, er, interesting. And if we talk quietly they won’t be able to hear us above it.’

  ‘I hear voices all the time,’ says Joe, getting agitated again. ‘They’re trying to steal my sound. Steal it out of my head.’

  ‘Shh,’ shushes Harry. ‘It’s all right. We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  He pats Joe on the leg and Joe smiles.

  ‘So what do you want to talk about, Harry?’

  ‘Bernie. Bernie Oliver.’

  Joe stiffens up, lurches forward. Harry holds on to him.

  ‘Poor little Bernie,’ says Joe. ‘Chopped up and put in a couple of suitcases.’

  ‘That’s right, Joe. And we want to find whoever did that to him.’

  ‘They’ve got stuff on me. I’m a known sexual offender, Harry.’

  ‘Who’s got stuff on you?’

  ‘The police. Highgate nick are in on the investigation, Bernie was from round here, you see?’

  ‘What have they got on you, Joe?’

  ‘They nicked me. Back in ’64.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘“Persistently importuning for an immoral purpose”.’

  Harry laughs.

  ‘What, at that cottage on Holloway Road?’

  ‘Yeah. But I wasn’t being persistent, I can tell you. He was nothing to write home about.’

  And they’re both giggling like girls on the settee.

  ‘Thing is,’ Joe goes on, ‘I met Bernie there one night. So I’m a suspect. They want me to go in and make a statement.’

  ‘Who, Highgate nick?’

  ‘Yeah. But then
this other copper turns up. Plain clothes.’

  ‘Not out of Highgate nick?’

  ‘Didn’t say.’

  ‘Murder Squad?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. Told me I was eliminated from their inquiries.’

  ‘Did he ask any questions?’

  ‘No. He just told me to keep quiet about the whole thing. If I knew what was good for me.’

  Harry frowned. Joe went on.

  ‘Maybe he was one of them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, maybe he was trying to steal my sound.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. So did you make a statement at Highgate?’

  ‘No, no. I’m frightened of leaving the flat, Harry. I’m scared.’

  ‘Well Joe,’ says Harry, patting him on the back again all reassuring like. ‘Why don’t you give me your statement?’

  Joe shrugs. OK.

  ‘I meet Bernie at the cottage. You know, the one up the road. He comes home with me. When he finds out who I am he wants me to record him singing. He’s a lovely kid, lovely long blond hair. But he can’t sing. I play back the tapes for him and we have a good laugh. He says if I play around with the recording enough, put plenty of echo and compression on and that, it’ll sound OK. I humour him. I like the kid and he shows a bit of appreciation. Not like some of these selfish bastards who’ve made a career out of me. So I tell him to come back next week and we’ll try again. That was the last I saw of him.’

  ‘Any idea of where he went after that?’

  ‘He said he was going to this party in a big house out in the country. Rich people.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . strange name . . . nightmare . . . just a . . . just a . . . heart . . . well . . . just a mare . . . just a . . . nightmare.’

  Joe’s gabbling. Speed talk. Madness. Harry waits for him to finish.

  ‘And that’s the last you saw of him?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, honest. Next thing I know he’s in the papers. Just a, just a nightmare. Do you think they got him, Harry?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, them.’

  Harry gets up and looks down at Joe.

  ‘I don’t know, Joe. We’re going to try and find them, though.’

  Harry gives me a look. Time to go.

  ‘I know who might know,’ says Joe.

  Harry’s ears prick up.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Buddy Holly,’ Joe gets up off the settee and starts to move around the room. ‘I need to get in touch with Buddy,’ he says, suddenly urgent again. ‘He’ll know.’

  Harry nods over at me. We make our way out of there, leaving Joe to mutter away to himself as all this space music is floating around the place.

  ‘Just a, just a—’ stutters Joe as we leave. ‘Nightmare.’

  We go downstairs and get into the motor.

  ‘He’s sick, Jack,’ Harry says in the motor as if he needs to explain it to me. ‘We need to talk to him again when he’s not in such a state. He needs help. I know a shrink. Maybe . . .’

  Harry’s voice drifts off into brooding.

  Maybe he could do with some of those loony pills of yours, I think. The ones I saw in your bathroom cabinet. Don’t say anything, though. Harry’s a bit touchy. But maybe Joe could do with some pills like that. Something to bring him down a bit. All that speed isn’t good for you. Sends you loopy.

  A week later and I’m driving Beardsley out to the Airport in the Zodiac. Making sure the pick up runs sweet. Beardsley’s sporting a holiday look as cover. The bovver boy look might raise a few too many eyebrows. Probably scare the shit out of the British Airports Authority Police but we don’t want to upset anyone, do we? So he’s wearing a straw pork-pie hat and wraparound shades. Sta-Press but with loafers instead of boots. Bottle-green Fred Perry shirt and a windcheater jacket. Little holdall bag looking like hand luggage for the loot.

  Beardsley makes the pick up in a gift shop in the Arrivals area. Derek goes in and leaves a package hidden between the rows of little dolls dressed in national costume all lined up in see-through plastic cylinders. Beardsley follows in and stuffs the package in his holdall on the sly. Picks up a doll to avoid suspicion and pays for it at the counter. Easy. We make our way out to the car park as the Arrivals board clatters away behind us. Beardsley’s swinging this little doll by its string tassle.

  ‘You going to chuck that?’ I ask him.

  Beardsley holds it up and looks at it. It’s all dressed up like a Dutch girl. He grins.

  ‘Nah. I’ll give it to me kid sister.’

  Then the car park. At the barrier we hand in our ticket and the bloke in the booth slips us a big fat envelope. Then we’re away. Nothing simpler.

  We drop off the stuff with Harry and take out cut. Everything’s running sweet but Harry’s brooding away. Preoccupied with this other business, no doubt. I worry about him ‘going into one’. Don’t want things to fuck up now when everything should be just ticking over fine and earning us easy money. Still, there’s nothing to be done so we leave him to it. I agree to give Beardsley a lift.

  Driving back across town Beardsley talks about our own little racket. Drugs. Pills and that. Might as well keep that scam going in case this one falls apart. Had a little trouble on the supply side, though. Certain people wanting their share of everything. The Other Two. Greedy bastards. Kind of fucks things up. Still, me and Beardsley are on a roll, feel a bit cocky. So we decide to pay a visit to Marty the dealer.

  ‘Need to pick something up from my gaff first,’ I tell Beardsley.

  Get to my drum and have to wade through all the junk I haven’t got around to clearing up yet.

  ‘Christ, Jack,’ Beardsley gasps. ‘Your place is in a bit of a state, ain’t it?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  I lead him through into the bedroom and reach up into the chimney flue. Pull out the shooter. Unwrap it and hold it up to his face. He gives this little noise of excitement in the back of his throat.

  ‘There you are son. Colt 45.’

  Give the cylinder a little spin. Click, click, click.

  ‘That’s a real fucking shooter. You could blow someone’s face off with that.’

  Beardsley’s all wide eyed like a little kid. I load it up with shells and hand it to him.

  ‘Go on,’ I tell him. ‘Have a pop. I can tell you’re dying to.’

  Beardsley feels the weight of the thing in his hands.

  ‘Go on. Fire it into the chimney breast.’

  Beardsley’s gripping the revolver, squinting and gritting his teeth.

  ‘Keep your arm straight. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it too sharp.’

  Bang. A big flat bang fills the room. Little clouds of blue smoke and plaster dust. The recoil’s knocked Beardsley back a couple of footsteps. He’s giving a mad little giggle.

  ‘Quite a kick hasn’t it, son?’

  I take it off him and slip the safety on. Shove it in my waistband and do up my jacket.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and pay a little visit to Marty.’

  I can tell Marty ain’t pleased to see me when he opens up but he puts on this stupid smile to try and fool me otherwise.

  ‘Jack,’ he tries to say all friendly but it sticks in his throat. ‘How you been?’

  ‘Busy. That’s why I ain’t been around much, Marty. But me and the kid here want to resume our little arrangement.’

  ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Let’s get down to business.’

  ‘Thing is, Jack,’ Marty starts up, trying to be diplomatic. ‘Thing is, things are difficult.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Like what?’

  ‘The Twins. I had to pay them off last time I dealt with you.’

  ‘So? That’s your business.’

  ‘Well I thought it was sorted out with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s why I dealt with you. You said it was sorted with them. You were sticking t
heir name up. I dealt to you because I thought it was sorted with them.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had to pay them off, haven’t I? They said you weren’t on their firm no more and I have to deal through them in future.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Marty?’

  ‘I’m saying that I can’t afford to fuck around, Jack. I don’t want to mess with the Twins.’

  ‘You saying you ain’t going to deal to me?’

  ‘Jack, this puts me in a difficult position.’

  ‘Well let me make it easy for you, Marty.’

  I pull out the shooter and press its long barrel against his nut. Beardsley gives a mean little laugh.

  ‘Let’s stop fannying around and do business, shall we?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ stutters Marty, shitting himself. ‘Point that thing somewhere else, can’t you.’

  Marty goes off to get some stuff, shaking his head and sighing.

  ‘This could bring a lot of trouble, Jack,’ he says as he comes back.

  ‘Don’t you worry about the Krays,’ I tell him, tucking the shooter back in my waistband. ‘They’re on their way out. They don’t bother me.’

  Bravado. Still, I’m not afraid of them am I? Am I?

  ‘Well,’ Marty goes on, sighing like he’s resigned to his fate. ‘Since I ain’t got much choice you might as well have something a bit special.’

  Marty’s beady little eyes light up as he takes out a sheaf of brightly coloured paper. I take one off him. It’s blotting paper, marked off in little squares.

  ‘What the fuck’s this?’ I ask him.

  ‘LSD, Jack. It’s the new thing. A couple of chemistry students are knocking up this stuff in a makeshift lab in Canning Town. All the Beautiful People are mad for it.’

  ‘Beautiful People,’ Beardsley snorts.

  ‘I’m telling you Jack, it’s the height of fashion. Cut them up into little squares and sell them to longhairs for ten bob or a quid a piece.’

  ‘What is it, speed?’

  ‘Nah. It makes you see things brighter. Colours and that. Gets you into all of this peace and love shit. Lasts for hours and all. You only need a tiny bit. Just a drop of it on the blotting paper, that’s all.’

  What the hell. Have to keep up with the times. We buy a load of it even though Beardsley doesn’t look too keen. Get some black bombers and all. Largely for personal use. Though I’m going to cut down. Don’t want to end up like Joe Meek.