The Long Firm

by Jake Arnott

  ‘What happened to you?’ I ask Beardsley.

  ‘More to the point, Jack,’ he mumbles through wrecked jaw and teeth. ‘What happened to you?’

  He’s right. I should have been there.

  ‘It was a fucking set up, Jack. They were saying that it was their racket. They took the money and the acid and beat the shit out of me.’

  Fuck. Money gone. Acid gone. We end up owing Marty a hundred nicker with nothing to show for it.

  ‘We’ve got to get those bastards, Jack.’

  Beardsley mouthing vehement through the pain.

  ‘Yeah,’ I humour him. ‘Sure.’

  But I’m thinking: this racket’s over. Cut our losses. Acid is bad news. Don’t want to deal with that diabolical stuff no more.

  ‘Get me a shooter, Jack. I’ll fucking straighten them.’

  ‘Take it easy, son. You just worry about getting yourself mended.’

  Beardsley’s eyes burning fierce through the bandages. His mind full of revenge.

  ‘Just get me a shooter, Jack.’

  On me own again. No more rackets. Airport gone, drugs gone. Harry stitching something up with the Dirty Squad about the porn. Probably doesn’t need to cut me in. The Summer of Love is over, leaving poor old Jack skint. Weather’s turning colder and I’m damn near boracic. The word keeps coming. A job for the Other Two. Someone needs doing. And I’m up for it. I could get back on their firm. I know I’ve bad mouthed them but this could straighten things out. Maybe get me back on a pension. Whatever, I need the money.

  Arrange a meet. Get ready. New shirt bought for the occasion. Strap on a shoulder holster over it. Put on my best suit and hat. Get out the long-nosed Colt .45 from the chimney flue. Unwrap it and slip it in under the suit jacket. Practise a couple of draws in front of the mirror. Down a few bombers. Chicka, chicka, chicka. Pull a bit of hat-brim down. I’m ready.

  The meet is at the Grave Maurice in Whitechapel. The Twins are there with some of the firm. Predictable show of strength. Never subtle when it comes to front. Try to stay calm but I’m pilled so I’m flapping about like crazy. Talking too much. Mr Payne, their business front, wants topping. The geezer who runs their long firms is looking dodgy. The Twins are worried that he’s going to grass so they want him snuffed out. The Man with The Suitcase has got to go. I get handed a package. £250 up front and then there’s another £250 when the job’s done. There’s something heavy in there. A shooter no doubt.

  Billy Exley’s doing the driving. We’ve got an address in Dulwich, so we set off over the water. Billy was a good middleweight in his day but he’s past it now. Looks ill.

  ‘It’s my heart, Jack,’ he says, as if explaining his state to me. ‘I got a bad heart.’

  I unwrap the package and pocket the money. Pull out the shooter. It’s a poxy little automatic. A .32 or something.

  ‘These things are no good,’ I tell Billy. ‘Automatics are always jamming. And they leave too much forensic. Cartridge cases all over the place.’

  I slip the little automatic into my pocket.

  ‘This is more like it.’

  I pull out the .45 and cock the hammer. Billy gives a start and nearly swerves off the road. He pulls over to the kerb and starts fishing about in his pockets.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he mutters, red faced. ‘I don’t think my heart can take it. For fucksakes Jack, put that thing away.’

  He gets out a bottle of pills and downs a couple. I offer him a black bomber but he shakes his head.

  ‘Come on, Jack, let’s not fuck about. Let’s get this done quickly and quietly.’

  We head off again, through Camberwell. I hope old Billy doesn’t have a heart attack on me. Some hit squad we turned out to be. Truth is, I’ve never shot anyone. Still, it should be straightforward enough. I go through it in my mind. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Door opens. Bang, bang. And we’re away. What could be simpler? Just need to keep my bottle. This will prove I’ve still got it.

  We get to Dulwich and find the address. A nice big house for a nice big businessman. Billy parks up. I go through the routine with him. Get the motor started when you hear the shots. Stay calm, that’s the main thing. I’ll walk, not run, back to the car. Then we’re away.

  I get out and go up to the house. Heart pounding away like fuck. Wrought iron gate squeaks open. Gravel drive crunching away underfoot. Slip my hand into my jacket. Ready. Get to the door. Hit the doorbell. Bing bong. Avon calling.

  Hear footsteps in the hallway. See distorted outline of person through mottled-glass panel. Ready to pull out the shooter. Wait. Wait till I see them proper. Then I shoot them. Bang, bang, you’re dead. We all done bad things, Jack. Never killed anyone before. But I got to do this. Got to. Get your bottle together, Jack.

  Door swings open.

  ‘Yes?’

  It’s a woman. It’s a fucking woman standing in the doorway.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

  ‘Er, is Mr Payne in?’

  What am I going to do? She’s seen my face. I’ll have to kill them both.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she says.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘He won’t be back all evening, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, sorry to trouble you.’

  ‘Who shall I say called?’ she asks but I’m already legging it down the gravel driveway.

  ‘What happened?’ asks Billy when I get back in the motor.

  ‘He wasn’t in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, “He wasn’t in.” Now let’s get the fuck out of here.’

  What a fuck up. Why does it always happen to me? Still, I’ve still got the £250 advance. I can keep that and go back and finish the job some other time.

  ‘What are we going to tell The Twins?’ asks Bad Heart Billy as we motor back up north.

  ‘You mean, what are you going to tell them, Billy?’

  ‘Jack, you can’t do this to me.’

  ‘Look, they said he’d be there tonight. I kept my part of the bargain. Tell them to set it up again properly. And tell them to get their information right. Then I’ll finish the job.’

  ‘They ain’t going to like this, Jack.’

  ‘Well that ain’t my problem, is it Billy?’

  Poor Billy’s shaking his head and rubbing his chest.

  ‘I don’t think my heart can take much more of this.’

  Beardsley’s out of hospital. Meet him in the Mildmay Tavern. His stitches are out but he still looks a right state. Broken nose gives him a new look. He looks proper tough now. Sad really, to see his youthful looks all gone. Even his expression looks old. Bitter and full of hateful brooding. He’s done his apprenticeship. He’s earned what I’m going to give him.

  A few faces in the boozer. Kray hangers-on. Giving me moody little smiles. Not sure whether I’m in on the firm or not. Fuck them.

  Me and Beardsley have a bit of a chat about setting something up together. He’s got a fix on getting his own back on those greasers. I go along with it but think: some quiet little racket, that’s what we want to be looking for.

  ‘I got you something,’ I tell him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something you’ve always wanted.’ I tap myself under the armpit. Poxy little automatic’s almost too small for the shoulder holster.

  Beardsley smiles for the first time this evening. His nasty little face beaming. Evil eyes lighting up with joy.

  ‘Let’s have a look, Jack,’ he says.

  I look around the taproom, at all the second-rate faces, all the little Kray spies.

  ‘Not here son. Later. Outside.’

  ‘Fancy another one?’ I ask Beardsley.

  ‘They just called Time.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, son.’

  I go to the bar.

  ‘Same again.’

  ‘Sorry Jack, we’re closed.’

  ‘Come on, don’t fuck about. I want a drink.’
/>   ‘I said, “We’re closed.”’

  ‘You’ve done afters before.’

  ‘Yeah, well not tonight. If you want a late one you can go up the Regency.’

  ‘I don’t want to go up the fucking Regency. I want a fucking drink.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, Jack,’ someone says.

  Muttering in the bar. Troublemaker, a voice says. Cunts. You want trouble? I pull out the shooter. Point it at the barman.

  ‘Just get me a fucking drink.’

  He starts pouring out the bacardi sharpish. Everyone’s gawking. Turn the shooter on them.

  ‘And you lot,’ I say, grinning like a maniac. ‘Drop ’em. Go on, you stupid cunts. Drop your trousers.’

  And they fucking do and all. Pass a glass over to Beardsley and pick up mine.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, raising my drink and waving the shooter about.

  Beardsley’s laughing away like a drain. We drink up.

  ‘Come on Jack,’ he says. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  I hold up the pistol. Haven’t cleaned it or checked it since it was handed over to me in the Grave Maurice. Common knowledge: Kray firearms notoriously unreliable.

  ‘Poxy little thing probably doesn’t even work. Probably jammed or something.’

  I aim it at the optics and pull the trigger. BANG. A whole row of bottles explode. Everyone ducks except me and Beardsley.

  ‘Fuck,’ I say. ‘I didn’t expect that to happen.’

  ‘You fucking nutter, Jack,’ says Beardsley. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Beardsley examines his new toy as I’m driving down the Ball’s Pond Road. Pulls out the clip, shoves it back in again. Clicks on and off the safety. He’s happy.

  ‘Thanks, Jack.’

  ‘Well, you be careful with that.’

  Winston Churchill on the gramophone when I go around to see Harry. Bad sign. Empty bottles of Stematol and Napoleon brandy lying around. Anti-depressants with cognac chasers, a desperate attempt to stave off his gloomy madness. I figure all that grief has come to the surface with this Suitcase thing. And he never really found out what happened in the end.

  Trevor’s gone. Harry feels he’s driven him away. The horror of it all frightened him off.

  ‘He kept saying, “It could have been me that got cut up like poor little Bernie,”’ says Harry. ‘And after a while I felt he was accusing me. Like he was saying, “It could have been you that did something as terrible as that.”’

  Trevor’s gone and Harry’s going into one. Not the best of times to bring up the subject of work. I want Harry to cut me into his porn racket. Figure it would be an easy little number. Keep me out of trouble.

  ‘Thing is, Jack. Word gets around. You’ve been acting lairy a few too many times. I can’t afford for things to get out of hand just as I’m getting started on this. I’ve got to keep a respectable front.’

  ‘I’ll behave myself, Harry. Promise.’

  ‘Jack, you’ve been winding up the Twins. I told you I didn’t want to get into any of that. I can do without another enemy in Soho. I’ve got enough on my hands with the Maltese.’

  Here we go again. The Other Two. Fucking everything up for me again.

  ‘And, well,’ Harry goes on awkward like, ‘well a certain somebody isn’t too happy with you being involved in all of this.’

  ‘Mooney.’

  Harry shrugs.

  ‘Yeah. Look. I need someone who the OPS fancy. Someone who can keep his head down. And someone who knows the trade. I’m using Wally Peters.’

  Fat Wally. Rumour has it he was running a blue-film racket with George Cornell just before George had the top of his head taken off by a luger in Whitechapel.

  ‘Harry—’

  ‘Times are changing, Jack. It’s the Dirty Squad what are calling the shots with this one. Being polite to the Old Bill isn’t exactly your style, is it?’

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  What he means is: Jack the Hat is bad news. Trouble. A bringer of bad luck. A Jonah.

  Shrug.

  ‘So this is it, then, eh?’

  Harry sighs.

  ‘Jack, look, sort yourself out. Deal with it. Straighten things with the Twins. There’ll be other jobs in the future.’

  ‘Right then,’ I say and make a move to get going.

  No point in making a fuss. Wipe your face and move on. That’s the thing.

  ‘Business is business, Jack.’

  What he means is: times change. You’re a dinosaur. And he’s right and all.

  Double handshake at the door. Folded wad slipped into my palm. Rude, and downright stupid, to refuse.

  ‘Be lucky, Jack,’ he says.

  And I’m off.

  Page four headline in the Evening Standard a few days later:

  MAN HELD IN ARCADE SHOOTING.

  Two men were seriously wounded yesterday when an assailant walked into The Golden Goose amusement arcade in London’s West End and fired a pistol at them as they were playing on a pinball table. Gunfire caused panic in the crowded arcade. Witnesses say that the victims were both members of a motorcycle gang. Both men are in a critical condition. Police have arrested Simon Beardsley in connection with the incident and he is being held for questioning . . .

  Silly cunt. He’s gone and done it now. All my fault. Should never have given him that shooter. Well, I’m well and truly on my own now. Doesn’t matter. I can look after myself. Feel uneasy, though. Bad thoughts. It’s dangerous to be alone.

  Can’t sleep at night. Can’t stay awake during the day without the black bombers. Keep taking the pills. They fuck me up but I can’t do without them.

  Word gets around. Jack the Hat. Jack the Troublemaker. Had the Twins over one time too many. Making trouble in pubs and clubs they’re giving protection to. Still owe them for the bungled hit. Not my fucking fault he wasn’t there.

  Staying in. Watching telly. Spending what cash I’ve got left on the horses and bottles of bacardi to help me sleep. Got to get out. Worried about getting into bother. Need some sort of job. Ready for anything. Need to be seen. Need to let it be known I’m still a face.

  Fuck it, I’ll go to the Regency. They might be there, so I need to watch my back. It’s dangerous to be alone. Take a load of bombers to shore up my bottle. Chicka, chicka, chicka. I ain’t afraid of nobody. Nobody. Pull up the floorboards and get the sawn off out. Shell in both barrels. Shove it in the shoulder holster. Doesn’t fit quite right but it’ll have to do.

  JACK THE HAT’S GUNS DON’T ARGUE!

  Chicka, chicka, chicka.

  Drive up to Stoke Newington. The Regency. North London’s Smartest Rendezvous. Walk up to the upstairs bar. If any of the firm are here they’ll be in the private bar in the basement. Mind throbbing with pills and bacardi. Shotgun butt poking out of suit jacket. People looking at me with fear. Backing away. Giving me a wide berth. Get a drink and stand at the bar, looking around. Chicka, chicka, chicka. One of the Barrys comes over. Moody grin. All polite with nervousness.

  ‘All right, Jack?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Anything the matter?’

  ‘Should anything be?’

  Look around. Shotgun hanging out between the lapels. People backing away. Drifting out of the bar.

  ‘Any of the firm here?’ I ask him.

  Palms out, big smile. Black and White Minstrel gesture.

  ‘I’ll go see,’ he says and walks off.

  Faces peeping out from behind upholstered booths. Read their minds. What’s he going to do? I lean back against the bar and sip at my bacardi and Coke. Room swirling around me. I’m on my own now. Pill madness buzzing in my head. People looking at me. Clocking the fact I still exist. I’m still here. I’m Jack the Hat.

  Barry comes back.

  ‘There’s no one here, Jack,’ he says.

  ‘None of the firm?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. None of the firm.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Why don’t you get off home, Jac
k? You’re in a bit of a state.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Yeah, right. He’s right. What the fuck am I doing? Push myself off the bar. Nearly tumble over onto the floor. Stumble out. People edging out the way like I got the plague or something. Get into the Zodiac and weave my way home.

  Hungover. Broke. Find myself driving up West in the afternoon. Looking for a clue. No ideas. Piccadilly. Junkies and tourist gathered around the statue of Eros. Rent boys lined up along the meatrack. Boarded-up window on Golden Goose arcade. Head up into Soho. There’s got to be something for me up here. Something to keep me away from the East End and the Other Two.

  Old Compton Street. Pull up outside Fat Wally’s bookshop. You never know. He might know something. Wally’s all smiles and pleased to see me. A little nervous. Knows that I’m bad luck to have around.

  Have a chat. Nothing doing.

  ‘I’ll let you know if I hear anything Jack, but . . .’

  Plastic strip-curtain flutters. Someone coming in.

  ‘Heads up,’ Wally mutters softly.

  It’s DCI Mooney. Doing his milk round no doubt. I hate that fucker.

  ‘Hello Wally,’ he announces all casual.

  Then he sees me.

  ‘Jack.’ He frowns. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s a free fucking country.’

  Wally hands over an envelope.

  ‘I don’t know where you get that idea,’ says Mooney.

  He wanders out to the back of the shop. Where all the hard-core stuff is. I follow him through. He starts picking up shrink-wrapped mags. Schoolgirl Lust, Animal Farm.

  ‘Did you tell Harry Starks you didn’t want me on this racket?’ I ask him.

  ‘This is my patch, Jack. I think I can have my say about who I deal with.’

  ‘And you told him you didn’t want to deal with me?’

  ‘I said that you were unsuitable, yes. That you have a problem with authority.’

  He turns to face me. A bundle of smut in his arms.

  ‘You cunt,’ I hiss at him.

  ‘You’re a hooligan, Jack the Hat. You’re just a second-rate thug.’ I lunge forward. Wally grabs hold of me.