by Robert White
Verdi was so drunk he almost fell over. He grabbed onto a nearby speaker for support. “You think I ain’t known all these years Eddie? You think I’m fucking blind?”
Eddie was close to smashing Frankie in the face. Joe shuffled from foot to foot, unsure what to do, which side to fall on.
“Come on lads,” he managed. “No need for this eh? It’s the drink talking here innit?”
Eddie squared up. “Take that back Frank, or me and you are gonna have a tear-up here and now, an’ I’ll show you who’s fucking queer. God help me, I’ll smash you up good.”
Frankie laughed in Eddie’s face. “Come on Ed, it’s a joke eh? Just pulling your leg that’s all, just a laugh.”
Eddie looked around for potential witnesses to Frank’s outburst. Happy no one else had been party to it, he hissed. “Very funny Frank. But don’t ever call me that name again, or you won’t be laughing next time yeah?”
Frank pulled a bag of coke from his pocket and stuck his car key into the powder. “Aw fuck it Eddie, I’m sorry pal, come on, let’s do a key each eh? Take the edge off.”
Eddie leaned in, sniffed the powder from the end of the key and wiped his nose. Frank offered the same to Joe, who followed suit.
Frank took the last snort and put the drug away.
“Listen lads, I want that soldier boy sorted… and soon.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Joe.
Frankie sneered. “You didn’t do too well the last time, eh Joe?”
Madden looked a little hurt. “Well it was two on one Frank, come on.”
Eddie found his own bag of charlie and began to chop out a line on the DJ booth.
“I say we find where his dad lives and torch the place.”
Eddie took the line and awaited the hit. He blew out his cheeks as his heart rate went through the roof. “Somebody must know where the gaff is, and we might strike lucky and get all three of them fuckers in one go.”
Frankie was about to comment when Cheryl Greenwood wandered over, her pregnancy now obvious.
“All right lads… how you bearing up Frankie? Must be hard for you today mate, eh?”
Frankie looked down his nose. Annoyed at the interruption. “I’m doing okay Chez… we was just saying how, if it weren’t for that soldier boy, we reckon that Laurie would still be here. We think it was him that turned her head, got her all confused.”
Cheryl nodded. “You might be right there, Frank. That said, he was always a nice quiet lad when I knew him like.”
Frankie darkened. “You knew him?”
Cheryl took a step away. “Yeah Frank, but only like you lot did. He was at our school eh?”
Frank pulled out his coke bag again and started to chop.
“I don’t remember the fucker myself.”
“Yeah,” said Cheryl. “Probably because he was so quiet. Nice lad, lived on the Greenlands estate.”
Frankie took his line and wiped the residue with his finger. The hit was instantaneous, the drug counteracting the alcohol in his system, clearing his head. He bristled with venom, his voice no more than a murmur, yet all knew it could break into a tumultuous tirade at any moment and become an outpouring of bitter frustration.
“Are you telling me you know where the fucker lives?”
Cheryl looked about her. Where was Tony when she needed him? Why did she have to open her stupid mouth? How many times had Tony told her? Don’t get involved in The Three Dogs stuff. Leave Frankie and Eddie be.
“I… I’m not too sure exactly Frank… I mean it was a long time ago like. Erm…”
Frank looked for witnesses, saw none and grabbed Cheryl by the arm, causing her to cry out.
“Listen to me you little slut. Just because you’re Tony’s bird now, don’t think you can keep things from me. You ain’t nothing… understand? You’re just the same as your slag mother. I don’t know what Tony’s thinking taking up with you. You must be good for something though eh?”
Frankie winked at Eddie and Joe and tugged harder on Cheryl’s arm.
His eyes flashed, full of evil, bursting with wickedness. “You used to be fun Chez, you were good for that all right. Remember when I used to fuck you behind the Lion? Up against the wall? You loved it eh? Do anything for a dab of whizz you would. Eddie is testament to that ain’t he? That’s how you ended up with his kid.”
Cheryl’s eyes widened in a mixture of shock, fear and anger. How did Frankie know? She and Tony had kept it so quiet.
Frankie didn’t even notice Cheryl’s quandary.
“Now,” he spat. “Do you know where this fucking soldier boy lives, or not?”
Cheryl’s own temper was coming to the boil, her fury overcoming her anxiety. She grabbed Frankie’s hand and prized herself away from his grip. She looked across to Eddie, he had a smug grin on his face. She felt suddenly dirty.
Straightening herself, she did her best to regain her composure.
“I know what I was back then Frank, but I’m not the same girl now. I was young and stupid. Stupid enough to get involved with you.”
Cheryl turned on her heels and put distance between her and Verdi.
“Laurie was right about you. You are a mean bastard Frankie Verdi… and there was no need to treat me like that.” She pointed from a safe distance. “No need at all. No wonder Laurie wanted away from you. Just wait till I tell my Tony what you just did. You won’t be fucking laughing then.”
Frank turned to Joe Madden. “Don’t worry, she won’t say a fuckin’ word. Go find out what she knows about this soldier boy.” He slapped him on the back and laughed again. “You’re good with whores.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Joe Madden sat in his car, watching the front door of 11 Greenlands Terrace.
The older bloke, that had been at Laurie’s funeral, had been in and out a couple of times. Once to buy his morning paper, and once to buy a bag of groceries.
However, there was no sign of Jamie Strange or his flat-nosed Aussie mate.
Joe was bored shitless. He was not cut out for observation duties. That said, he wasn’t cut out for killing either.
He didn’t mind dishing out a bit of pain to the odd wayward dealer or late payer, but murder? No way. Joe knew his limits. His job was to watch the house, and as soon as the soldier boy was confirmed inside, to ring Frankie at the club.
End of.
* * *
Jamie Strange climbed the stairs to the landing and walked into his father’s bedroom at the front of the house. He opened the curtains and stood at the window looking out on the street below.
Harry shouted from the lounge downstairs. “He seen you yet?”
“Oh yeah,” said Jamie. “He’s seen me all right, he’s scuttling off to the phone box right now.”
“Has Bird seen him?”
Richard Valance was sitting two cars back from Joe Madden’s.
Jamie turned on his walkie-talkie. It was only a cheap model from the electronics shop in town, but good for a couple of hundred yards.
“You there, Birdman.”
“Roger, he’s dropping the dime as we speak Strange Brew.”
“Nice one. Don’t get too comfy there pal. I reckon we’ll have company shortly.”
“I’m on it Strange Brew, you and Harry get your kit sorted. I reckon we’re in for a lively night.”
Jamie dropped back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Harry had already pre-empted Bird’s request and was laying out their meagre arsenal on the table. Claw hammers, crowbars, axes, anything he could find in his garden shed. Even though they would all wear gloves, Harry had taped the handles of each of the tools in order to hamper any fingerprint evidence should they get torn or lost.
Alongside the almost medieval array, were the gloves, two sets of black coveralls and two black balaclavas.
; Bird was already kitted up and had a pickaxe handle and a meat cleaver for company in his car.
“I wish we had a couple of Brownings to go along with that lot, Dad,” said Jamie, pulling on his coveralls. “I reckon Frankie will be tooled up.”
Harry picked up a claw hammer and tested it for weight. “We have to make the best of what we have son. Let’s kit up and get settled eh?”
* * *
The company didn’t arrive until darkness fell, and it came in the shape of a red Audi Quattro, driven by Tony Thompson.
Jamie’s radio crackled into life.
“Big Tony’s on plot Strange Brew.”
“Roger that. Any sign of Eddie or Frank?”
“No mate, just him.”
Of course, Jamie, Harry and Bird had no way of knowing how many would come. They had planned and prepared for a possible full-on onslaught, yet one thing was for certain: one way or another, this would all be settled tonight.
Valance watched as Thompson walked around to the rear of his car and opened the boot.
He pulled out a large petrol can and a bunch of rags; set them on the floor and took a long look at number 11 Greenlands Terrace.
Bird was on the radio in an instant. “Fuck me Strange Brew, he’s only planning to torch the house.”
Jamie was about to instruct Bird to take Tony in the street, before Harry grabbed the comms unit and stopped him.
“Let him come,” he said. “Tell Bird to get in close as he starts the fire. And the moment my front door opens, give the boy a quick shove in the back.”
Jamie looked at his dad. Calm, collected and in charge. He’d always known Harry had seen a lot of combat. He’d always known he’d had to kill many of his opponents, both overtly and covertly, but he’d never dreamed he would be working alongside his father this way.
“You’re the boss, Dad,” he said, and relayed the message.
Harry smiled. He hadn’t felt so alive in years. “Now, go get a couple of blankets off the bed and get them soaking in the sink… quick sharp.”
Bird, slumped down in his seat. He watched as Tony dowsed the rags in the petrol. Parked just two car lengths away, he could even smell the fuel. He’d no idea what Harry had in mind, but whatever it was, it was going to be hairy.
The street was quiet, half an hour to pub closing. The drinkers still drinking, the abstainers ready for bed.
Finally, Tony appeared happy with his work and strode off toward the house. Can in one hand, rags in the other.
Bird quietly opened his car door and crouched by the car.
Thompson was indeed a big guy in every way. Powerful, young and muscular. Bird selected his pickaxe handle as his preferred weapon and, using the garden hedges as cover, set off after him.
Harry strode down his hallway and stood to the left of the door, back to the wall, within reach of the handle.
He figured that Thompson would pour the accelerant through the letter box, then push a burning rag or two through to ignite the carpet beneath. He just hoped that the sets of coveralls he’d dug out from his time in Aden were still fireproof after all this time.
He forced himself to relax, but gripped the claw hammer in his right hand, ready to pounce.
Jamie stood at the end of the hallway holding the sodden blankets, awaiting his father’s instructions.
The summer night was quiet, still, with no breeze to hide the slightest sound. Harry heard the latch on his gate open. He nodded at Jamie who depressed the pretzel on his Walkie Talkie twice to indicate to Bird, they were ready.
Tony Thompson set the petrol can down on Harry’s front step and took another good look, up and down the street.
All quiet.
He pushed the letter box open with a gloved thumb and wedged it with one of the petrol soaked rags. Then he lifted the can and began to pour fuel inside the home of Harry Strange.
Tony thought that the glug-glug noise the can made was loud enough to wake the dead, yet no one stirred.
Thompson smiled to himself. Once the soldier was burnt to a crisp, then Frank would be happy again, and they could all get back to how things used to be.
He found his Zippo and lit it, touched the flame to a second rag and stuffed the burning cloth through the door.
The rag dropped to the carpet. Instantly, there was a whoomph as the petrol fumes ignited and the subsequent fire sucked air from the hallway to feed itself.
Harry grabbed at the handle and swung his front door open.
Thompson stood rooted on Harry’s doorstep, plainly shocked at the sight of two men, standing in the hall, knee deep in flames.
Right on cue, Bird arrived behind Thompson and gave him an almighty shove in the back.
Tony couldn’t steady himself and fell forward toward Harry and the fire. The old marine was quicker than anyone could have thought and grabbed Tony as he teetered, pulling him face down into the flames.
Thompson crashed to the floor and was instantly engulfed. His long curly locks instantly aflame. He began to scream as the fire ignited his shirt, he rolled on the petrol-drenched carpet in agony, the movement only soaking his clothing in more accelerant, feeding the flames, searing his skin, boiling his blood.
Harry stepped over, raised his hammer and brought it down on the back of Tony’s head with all his might.
The boy was instantly quiet.
Jamie wrapped a blanket around the smouldering legs of his father’s coveralls, then dropped a second onto the body of Tony Thompson extinguishing the fire.
“You okay Dad?” he asked, coughing through the smoke that now filled the hall.
Harry nodded. “Never better son. Now, you let me deal with this, take what kit you want from the kitchen, and get off through the back. You two know the script. Go and finish this. Make them fucker’s pay lad.”
Jamie held his father in his arms.
“I love you, Dad.”
* * *
Eddie checked his watch.
“Tony should have been back by now.”
Frankie eyed his own timepiece. “Maybe. Maybe he had to wait for the street to get quiet?”
Eddie shrugged his powerful shoulders and took a drink. Frankie had invited half a dozen women into the VIP area. They guzzled free Asti Spumante wine, laughed inanely and did nothing but annoy him.
One redhead insisted on sitting close to Eddie and periodically rubbed his thigh. It was only a matter of time before she offered him more than a thigh-rub, so Eddie leaned in close, his lips touching the girl’s ear. “Fuck off, slut,” he whispered.
Red stood up, all indignant and offended, but it didn’t last. Minutes later she was giving Frankie the same treatment.
Frankie got the charlie out and theatrically rolled up a fifty-pound note to snort it with. Red squealed with delight and her hand moved north to Frank’s crotch.
The whole show made Eddie sick. Maybe it had been better when Laurie was around? At least it kept a lid on the number of tarts Frankie groped in an evening. He’d also noticed that, with no one to guide the staff, the club was already slipping away from the high standards that Laurie had insisted upon. He’d seen at least three guys wandering about in jeans, and one openly smoking a joint.
He needed to drag Frankie away from the redhead and talk to him about appointing a new manager.
But first, he’d do a line or two himself.
* * *
Jamie and Bird had driven to Toast in a stolen Ford Granada. It was ten years old, rusting and smelled vaguely of sweaty feet. But it was big and quick, so would do just fine.
It was Harry who had selected the car, as his neighbour Kevin Jones had the identical model. It had been a simple task to copy Kev’s number plates and stick them on the stolen motor.
Should the cops randomly check the number, the old Ford would show it was Harry’s kos
her neighbour driving around town. The ploy wouldn’t stand up to intimate inspection, but it was good enough for the boys’ needs.
They pulled up just thirty yards from the front door of the club. People queued patiently awaiting entry, and it took Jamie back to the night he and Bird had visited the place. The opening night, when Laurie had looked so beautiful. When she and Frankie had argued, when Frankie had tried to have them followed.
Since that night, Verdi had made Laurie’s life a misery, treated her like dirt, beaten her, and just as she had come back to Jamie, just as they had started to make plans, had taken her life. Well, it was time for vengeance, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Bird pulled on his balaclava. Between his knees he gripped his pickaxe handle and meat cleaver. Jamie already had his mask in place and held a hammer in each fist.
The boys knew, that if this was to work, they would need maximum aggression, and give no quarter. They also knew, however, that innocent people were inside the club. People there simply enjoying a night out, people doing a job. And that made the task harder.
First, they had to take out the door staff. They needed a swift entry and exit and it was the lads on the door and the guys working the floor inside, that could slow them down, so they had to be dealt with first.
These guys would be handy lads, but they didn’t deserve the hammer and meat-cleaver treatment, it had to be elbows, knees and feet, that did the required amount of damage.
The pair slipped from the car.
“You ready Bird?” asked Jamie.
“I ain’t going to let you down a second time Strange Brew,” answered Bird, and sprinted toward the door.
A split second before they reached the main entrance, some of the queueing public saw them and there was instantaneous panic.
The sight of two six-foot-three, sixteen stone, muscle-bound men, dressed in black coveralls, wearing balaclava masks and wielding hammers and meat-cleavers, spread instant terror.
The orderly line became a melee of confused, scared men and women who began to run about like headless chickens.
One of the guys on the door stepped forward to try and calm them, then turned to see the reason for the alarm in the crowd.