Homecoming Blues

by Andrew Scorah



  Copyright © 2012 Andrew Scorah

  Cover design by Andrew Scorah & David Foster

 

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is dedicated to my fiancée Lisa Elphick and all my family for their continued support and also to the ACTION: Pulse Pounding Tales gang, in particular Matt Hilton, author of the Joe Hunter book series, for first bringing me into the club.

  INTRODUCTION.

  This book is my second publication, the first being Eastern Fury and Other Tales, I decided to have a complete change of genre. My first being set in the old West and my protagonist is a ninja warrior. Homecoming Blues is set in the present day and I was reminded of something by David Foster, who did some of the proofing on the book, many thanks to him.

  The book will be available to an audience outside the U.K and so many may not understand some of the slang used. This is why I decided to put in a glossary of terms used. In no particular order-

  Civilians- people outside the criminal fraternity.

  I.C.F- London Football Hooligan firm, mainly active in the 70s, 80s, and 90s. Got their name from the intercity trains they used to travel to away games.

  Chav-Derogative term for a member of a working class youth subculture.

  Dollys- Derogative term used for a woman of low morals.

  Mucker- Friend.

  Sky/Skyrocket- Pocket {cockney rhyming slang}

  Hank Marvin-Starving.

  Orchestras/ orchestra stalls-Balls, male genitalia.

  Gypsy/gypsy’s kiss-Piss, to urinate.

  Dimlo- someone of low intelligence.

  Mug-Derogative term having several meanings, all not nice.

  I hope these help you understand the context a little. Anyway on with the story, I hope you enjoy the ride.

  Act 1

  I climbed out of the Taxi and stood in a fog shrouded Hackney Road. My dad's pub, a two storey black and white Victorian building, The Angel’s Harp, across the road from me; like an Oasis in the desert of liars and cheats: pimps and pushers.

  I heard the sound of the Specials singing 'Ghost Town'. The haunting Two-Tone beat pulsated through the windows and the half open door. I hoped it was not an omen, a harbinger of doom; greeting me on my return from hell's country.

  I was about to return to a world I thought I had left behind. Fifteen years ago, I stood in this exact spot, waiting for a Taxi to take me away from the world of ‘Chaps and their hard faced Molls’. A world ruled by respect, which had its own laws outside the world of 'civilians'. A world that dealt harshly with slights to that respect.

  I could have easily slipped into that world. My dad wanted more for me and so did I.

  My route out of this rat-run gangster world was the Parachute Regiment. For the past three years, I had been on attachment to the SAS. In particular, I was involved in rooting out Mr. Bin Laden's rag head comrades. Betrayal by a Taliban informant brought me full circle to the spot I had started from. With a heavy sigh, I shouldered my Bergen and headed for the pub.

  I pushed open the pub doors to be hit with a wall of window shattering cheers and applause. The atmosphere was thick with smoke, and the smell of stale beer and farts, despite the smoking ban, the fug increased by the low timbered ceiling.

  The horseshoe shaped bar area was heaving with well-wishers and I could see the games room off to my right had its fair share of punters too.

  The first pint was shoved into my hand before I had even reached the bar. Bertie, the pot man, gave me a pat on the back, and stowed my Bergen and suitcase behind the bar. It looked like my homecoming party had been in full swing for a couple of hours before my arrival. A chant of Jimmy, jimmy, jimmy, was taken up like a West Ham football terrace song; indeed some of the faces here were former members of the notorious ICF football firm. Above the bar a banner hung,' Welcome home Jimmy Dalton' the legend said in big red letters, as if I had been away to Ibiza or some other Chav filled destination.

  After all I had been through, what I wanted was some quiet time. Looking round the bar, I knew that would have to wait a while. All the faces were present. The two Tonys, Malpas, and Williams. They worked for Phil Duggan, and his brothers, Davey and Johnny; the main firm in London. They controlled all the drugs, prostitution, illegal gambling houses with links to other similar firms around the country. No blag went down in their manor without their say so. A few of the Duggan's cronies and hangers on and other no name tools had joined the party as well. Frankie 'Shotgun' Shenton was there, arse licking Malpas. Then again, he would attend the opening of a fridge. He used to be a face until he did a ten stretch for armed robbery on a security van, which is how he got his nickname. Used to be a hard man, but rumour had it some West Indian drug dealer used him as his bitch while inside. Although no one had the guts to ask him outright.

  Dad smiled at me from behind the bar. Good old Eric Dalton. Doing his host with the most. Basking in all the glory of the faces around him.

  He grew up in a different East End to the one we lived in now, Vallance Road in Bethnel Green, two doors down from Ronnie and Reggie, the infamous Kray twins who once ruled the East End with an iron fist.

  He was always banging on about stories from back then. How being a gangster meant something more than just 'hats and gats'. People loved him though, so they put up with his moaning and gave him respect. He not only lived near the infamous twins, he had been part of their firm, and knew where all the bodies were buried.

  "Welcome home, son," said Eric Dalton, his voice seeming more gravelly than normal from his constant chain smoking.

  There was a bit more silver to his hair too since last I saw him and his six-foot frame seemed a little stooped.

  He reached over the bar and shook my hand, his grip firm but dry, "Paulie's sat over by the bandit son," he added, nodding towards the pub’s only Slot machine.

  I took my pint and ran the gauntlet of well-wishers to Paulie's table. Paulie and I had grown up together. We had been best mates since school, fought together, and laughed together and chased tail together; we was closer than brothers.

  He was seated with two aviation blonde bimho's, tongue deep down one girls throat.

  "Nice to see nothing changes Paulie," I said.

  He looked up at me through eyes glazed with his usual poison of choice, a potent cocktail of Quinalbarbitone and pseudo-ephedrine, mixed with his other best mate, Jackie- D.

  "Well, here he is, the man of the hour... Girls meet Jimmy Dalton, war hero and hung like a donkey." The girls giggled like schoolgirls. I sat down, putting my pint on the table.

  "Good to see you too."

  Paulie turned to the girls," Give us a moment eh, gotta lot of catchin' up to do with me mucker!"

  They smiled at me and sidled out from behind the table, hitching down their almost there skirts, and disappeared into the crowd looking for more prey.

  "You'll be catch somethin' from Dollys like them," I said taking a sip from my pint.

  "Too late for that, mate!" I almost choked and he went off in a fit of hysterics.

  While I waited for him to calm down I scanned the bar, half of London's underworld seemed to have turned out. Five-Oh would have had a field day... I stopped myself, disappointed at how quickly my thoughts had immediately sunk back to the street. A Street I fought so hard to get away from.

  I could have gone the way of so many people here tonight, running with a firm then ending up dead in some warehouse or floating down the Thames.

>   When he had finally calmed down I asked, "So, what you been doing with yerself, twat?"

  "I'm working for Phil Duggan." I grimaced at hearing that name, "Before you go on, he's the only one that's put any real money in me sky. You were lucky, left school with papers and straight into action man plc!"

  "I wasn't going to have a go, even though I think you're a mug..."

  "Thought you weren't gonna have a go!"

  "I'm not."

  "Good," he said taking a sip of his Jack.

  "Mug."

  I laughed and he flicked some of his drink at me. "Okay, seriously, what's he got you doing?"

  "A little bit of all sorts. Drivin' his product round, sellin' on bent motors, rent collection, you know the usual."

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see Tony Malpas. He smiled, the vivid scar on his left cheek wrinkling, and shook my hand.

  "It's good to see you home where you belong, Jimmy."

  "It's good to be home," I lied; the only thing good about it was seeing my dad. I wanted nothing to do with the rest of the bottom feeding slime slingers.

  "Look, I know you just got home and not had time to even take a gypsy, but if you need a job, you come see me." He tucked a business card into my top pocket. "We could always use a man with your particular skill set." With a nod to Paulie, he slunk back, through the crush of punters, to the bar. So, it had started. The night wore on and I made my excuses around three in the morning, and went up to my old bedroom.

  I awoke the next morning drenched in sweat and shaking, after a night filled with burning buildings, bullets, and the screams of the dead.

  It had been the same nearly every night since I was pulled out of that hellhole in Helmand province, a mission that had been F.U.B.A.R-ed by a military intelligence cluster fuck.

  Jumping out of bed, with my head banging out a tune from last night's abuse, I headed off for the three s's, shit, shower and shave. The smell of bacon and eggs wafted in from the kitchen making my stomach do cartwheels.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was seated at the kitchen table with one of my Dad's belly-buster full English in front of me and a cup of strong black coffee.

  "Get that down yer neck son, soak up some of the booze from last night," he laughed as he sat down opposite me and tucked into his own.

  "It's so good to have you back, son. I can't tell you the nights I lay awake worrying 'bout you." He shoveled in a mouthful of egg and I started to tuck into mine. Surprised to find I was starving.

  "I noticed Malpas talking to you last night," he said around a mouthful of fried bread. "Stay away from him and his ilk. You worked so hard to get away from that crap. I'd rather you get a job stacking shelves at Tesco's than working for him."

  "I don't plan to, dad. I gotta bit of money put aside to tide me over and some contacts for some private security work when I am ready."

  "Good man, now eat up; breakfast, the building blocks of the day,"

  After we had eaten, I helped him wash-up, then ready the bar for opening. It always amazed me the energy he had for a man of his age. After mum had died two years earlier, I thought he would have given up the pub, but no, he threw himself into making it a growing concern; using what was left of her life insurance to renovate the Angel to its former glory.

  The pub had always been a popular venue for faces because of what my dad like to call his ‘life before’, and out of respect for my dad; no trouble was ever started in the bar. After the renovations, business increased so much he had to take on extra staff.

  I carried the last crate of mixers up from the cellar, before grabbing my scuffed leather jacket from my Bergen, which had appeared in my room sometime while I was sleeping. I hoped to god that I was not thrashing about in the grip of my nightmares when it was delivered.

  "I'm off out dad," I called as I opened the door and stepped out on to Hackney Road. The pub sat at the corner of Teesdale Close and Hackney Road. The area had seen many changes over the years, primarily the influx of Bangladeshis who set up shops and restaurants around the area. It now had the feel of a foreign country rather than an area of London. I was not racist and did not mind the changes but some of the mushes who frequented dad's bar always bemoaned the change and relished a return to the areas former so called glory. The face of gangland had changed. No longer having to contend with homegrown bad boys, you had the Somalis, the Yardies and now the Russian Mafia is trying to make inroads. Violence was on the increase all the factions fighting for their piece of the pie. Well, I did not give a shit; they could all blow themselves away.

  I headed down Teesdale, not sure, where I was going. Turning on to Old Bethnal Green road, a car pulled up alongside me. The driver wound down his window.

  "Dalton, Mr. Duggan wants a word. Get in the car." I recognised the speaker as Steve Duffy, one of Duggan's low-level foot soldiers, the guy in the passenger seat was Danny Trent. I knew him from school and a right nut job he was.

  "No thanks, me mum always told me never to get in a car with strangers."

  Trent jumped out of the passenger side. His face was a mask of fury. His nose red from that mornings dose of Columbian get up and go powder.

  "It wasn't a fucking request ya mug!"

  I could see that this was going to get ugly. I poured petrol on the already hot coals.

  "Still bopping school girls Danny, 'cause you can't get a real woman?"

  It was glorious to see. He did a Sweeney over the bonnet.

  Launching at me, spittle flying from his mouth. I was ready for him. Punching low to his stomach then I Grabbed the arm which was reaching for me. I sidestepped and locked out his arm then slammed him hard and fast into the shop wall behind me. I applied more pressure to his elbow. He squealed like a girl. Duffy jumped out of the car.

  "Take another step and I break his arm, then both of yours: cappice?"

  He held up both his hands, placating, "Easy, easy Jimmy, Mr. Duggan just wants a chat is all."

  I propelled Trent back towards his mate. He glared at me rubbing his arm and the side of his face, already reddening with building burn.

  "Well, tell Mr. Duggan, if he wants to chat to come see me 'imself and not send two of his monkeys to wind me up." I put emphasis on the Mr.

  They jumped back in the car and gunned off down the road. I watched them disappear round the corner. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Only back one day Jimmy and already upsetting the locals! I was not scared of them, any of them. I knew I would have to go face Duggan at some point; else, they would just keep pushing. Needing some SP on the man, I headed over to Paulie's Gaff.

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting in Paulie's flat on Chester Street; overlooking Weavers Field. He looked the worse for last night's session.

  "Man, was I paggered last night," he said, "I got a right Tarrentino head, so don't go askin' me any pop quizzes." He downed a glass of fresh orange while scratching his orchestras through his Calvin's.

  I laughed, "You look rougher than a two dollar crack whore."

  "And you were watchin' too much yank goggle, so what the fuck you doin' 'ere so frickin early?

  "Just had a tug off Steve Duffy and Danny Trent. Danny accidentally, on purpose, butted a wall."

  "Fuck 'em! They both mugs. What they want?"

  "Duggan wants to speak to me. You work for him, so what's the spiel?"

  "I know exactly what he wants with you. He was bending my ear a couple of weeks ago 'bout you."

  "And I guess you told him everything?"

  "Duggan's not a man to not answer questions to. You know what he's like," he said, "He's got trouble, big time 'n all."

  "How so? C'mon Paulie I need to know." Paulie had a habit of travelling all-around the estate before reaching his door.

  "Okay, his daughter got pinched, Russian Mafia types snatched her from his house a month ago," he said, "Killed the two men he always kept in the house while he is away. They are forcing him to work for them on a drug running and arms deal."

  I remembe
red his daughter from years back. Jamie Lee Duggan had been a feisty ten years old, all pigtails and scuffed knees. She must be about twenty-five now.

  "So what's he want with me?"

  "Your expertise, Jimmy my boy. He don't wanna trust it to any of his monkeys. These Mafia types are the real deal, scary mothers, ex Speztnas and KGB. They would chew up and spit out his guys."

  Shit and fan came to mind. I supposed I had better go pay him a visit or the tugs would never stop. My decision to help would be made after I spoke to Duggan.

  One hour later, I was banging on the rear staff door of Duggan's cash and carry. One of his legitimate business ventures. Not very gangster, I know, but a great place for passing hooky money through its tills. The door opened and Steve Duffy smiled at me.

  "Sorry 'bout the misunderstanding this mornin' Jimmy."

  "Don't sweat it. The man here?"

  "Upstairs in the office."

  I followed Duffy up the stairs, where he led me to the office at the end of a long corridor. Phil Duggan was seated behind a large oak desk. Trent sat on a faux leather sofa, leafing through a sports magazine. He looked up and glared at me. I gave him a tight smile in return.

  "Thank you for coming to see me Jimmy." I could see the deep worry lines etched into his tanned face. The weight of the world seemed to be sitting heavy on his shoulders.

  "No problem, Mr. Duggan." I made no mention of the earlier trouble and neither did he. He motioned to a seat in front of his desk and I sat down.

  To save time I told him I knew about his daughter being pinched and who by. He did not look surprised at my knowledge.

  "That's just the half of it," he said, "Gulag Thirteen is the name of this particular firm, all ex-military and KGB. Been trying to make inroads on our turf for a while now."

  He tossed a file across the desk, "In there is info on them from a friendly police source, photos of the main players, business interests; both kosher and not so."

  Duggan looked at Trent and told him to go make some coffees. Without a word, he left the room.

  "I used money from them to finance a job. Didn't have the collateral free at the time the job came up." He rubbed a hand across his tired looking face, "The job went tits up. My men went in ten minutes after a rival firm had done the place over and plod was on the plot before my men could get away. All of 'em got pinched. To add salt to the wound, Gulag Thirteen were behind the rival firm."

  I laughed inside, but kept a straight face. This was not the same Phil Duggan I knew from old. To be tucked up like this was the mark of a rank amateur.

  "I take it they still want their money back?"

  "Yeah the thieving cunts, they made over a million from the blag and still want the measly fifty- grand I borrowed from them. Our worlds not the same any more Jimmy, I feel like a dinosaur."

  "They holding Jamie Lee till you pay up, I take it?"

  "Yeah," he sighed. "They are making me use my routes to import their drugs and arms."

  "So why aren't they using their own routes? Why the need for yours?"

  "It's what they do when new to a country. Seek out the top boys and either infiltrate the organisation and take it over from the inside, or force the firm to work for them. Which is what I fear is happening here. Unless I do something, I am not going to see Jamie Lee again. Her mother's going garrotty over this."

  "Where do I come in Mr. Duggan? You got enough guys on your payroll, psychotic enough to go against 'em?"

  "Let's have it right Jimmy. I got any number of men willing to do the job but not one of em has got your nouse, your training," he said. "Anyone can pull a trigger or stick an Axe in someone. That will get Jamie killed quicker than disco. She's my baby and I want her back unharmed."

  He had a point. I thought of some of the knob jockeys he had working for him. They all must have floated up from the bottom of the gene pool sharing one brain cell between them.

  "You have any idea where they are holding her?"

  "Could be any number of places, they got gaffs and spielers all over the smoke and others around the country."

  "Not gonna be too hard then," I laughed.

  He must have seen the look of indecision on my face because that was when he dropped the bombshell.

  "Don't take too long to decide. Duffy and Trent will be keeping an eye on your old man while you are getting Jamie Lee back for me. I would hate for him to have an accident down in the cellar while you are not there to keep an eye on him," he said with an excellent poker face and a liar's smile.

  "When you bring her back, I will have a million quid waiting for you, as a reward for your hard work."

  "If anything happens to him, you do know it is you I will be coming to see."

  "Well, let's just hope he stays healthy." He reached into a desk drawer and tossed me a set of car keys.

  "You ain't got a motor so take these, it's out back, don't worry it's clean."

  I caught the keys and snatched the file off the desk. I held his steely-eyed stare as I stood up. Duggan had left me no choice.

  Act 2