Layer Cake

by J. J. Connolly

  I’ve got there about twelve-thirty and the kid in the shop’s sent me through to the back office. Morty’s sat in a kinda armchair arrangement that’s been made outta boxes of sticky books and sex aids. It looks almost like a throne. He’s drinking a cup of coffee outta a polystyrene cup, looking at the pictures in the morning paper and smoking a snout. He barely looks up when I come in. Nobby, who’s got a piece of the gaff and runs it for the other partners, is sitting at the desk punching numbers into a calculator and writing down figures in a ledger, cursing under his breath every now and again.

  Up on the ceiling there’s a blow-up doll that they’ve had filled with helium so it’s just floating around under its own steam, grazing the walls and bouncing off the corners of the room in slow motion. Its bug eyes are wide open staring off into the faraway distance. Its mouth is stretched open as if she’s just received a terrible shock or she’s waiting for a delivery of some sort. The doll’s arms are outstretched and legs are wide open but bent at the knee. Its vivid yellow nylon hair has been pulled roughly into two ponytails and has grubby red gingham ribbons tied around the ends. The kid comes in from the shop to ask Nobby if a delivery of Danish rubber-wear mags has come in yet cos he’s got a punter who’s been back three or four times waiting for something specialised, some odd kink or other, nuns in PVC or something, but Nobby shrugs, no joy as yet. The tiny draught coming in from the street sends the doll bouncing across the ceiling but Morty and Nobby don’t so much ignore it as simply don’t notice it anymore. Morty lights another fag and folds the paper back on itself and carries on reading. I fuckin know he’s dying for me to ask about the doll.

  ‘Some punter brought it back,’ says Nobby, noticing me looking upwards, ‘said it was worn out in under two weeks and he wanted a replacement or his money back. We fucked him off of course but he’s gone down one of those law centres to see if they know what’s reasonable wear-and-tear on an inflatable doll. The geezer’s a total fuckin nut-nut.’

  ‘I’d kinda worked that out on my own.’

  ‘He’s got legal aid to take the whole fuckin caper to small claims court, and that –’ says Nobby pointing up at the dolly ‘– is Delectable Donna and nobody can work out if she’s an exhibit or a witness. His brief was taking the whole fuckin thing very serious – you know, rights of the little man and that, he may be a sleazy perv but he’s still got human rights – but then the geezer tells her that he’s used the bitta kit approximately eighty-nine times, approximately, mind, so he may or may not have been counting. In under two fuckin weeks he’s got eighty-nine offences to be taken into consideration, work it out, that’s over six times a fuckin day and his brief has got the fuckin thing on her desk in a fuckin Tesco’s bag so his fuckin human rights have gone out the fuckin window. She tells the Billy Bunter to take it home and–’ he mimics a bird ‘– “totally cleanse it, use some extra strong bleach on its, you know, working parts, soak it overnight and then scrub it and then scrub it again” so that’s what the sticky cunt does. Now our man, our brief, says that in doing so he’s perished the plastic so we can’t send it to the lab, to forensic, like they do in the movies so he’s fucked our chances of getting a fair result.’

  ‘By interfering with Donna?’

  ‘Exactly. His brief, who’s totally fuckin spooked by now with the geezer, agrees with us. She tells him to settle with us or fuck off, cos we were offering him a new doll to avoid the thing getting in the local papers and that, cos if they get anything juicy they get on to the nationals. It could end up in that fuckin rag,’ says Nobby pointing at Morty’s paper.

  ‘It’s right up their fuckin street.’

  ‘I fuckin know they’d have fuckin fighting funds and everything. We support your right to be a fuckin sex case. We gave him a new doll, those things only cost us about a tenner from Holland, we told him to be gentle with her, take your time, treat her like the lady she is. We even gave him a few old books that have been knocking around donkeys, not of donkeys you understand but shit that’s been on the fuckin premise too fuckin long and ain’t movin.’

  ‘And Donna comes home.’

  ‘She becomes our property again and she’s become a bit of a mascot.’

  ‘I think it’s disgusting having that thing up there, it’s fuckin unhygienic,’ says Morty getting up and giving Nobby his paper back. ‘You’ve been around these fuckin perverts too fuckin long.’

  ‘That thing’s been industrially cleaned, it’s cleaner than when it left the factory.’

  ‘It’d fuckin wanna be, Nobby.’ He gives me a little wink.

  ‘So, Morty, before you go, what am I gonna do?’ says Nobby.

  ‘I fuckin told you, Nobby. Anything you didn’t order, can’t sell or is not up to scratch, send it fuckin back.’ He turns to me to explain. ‘The people over in Holland who supply this outfit keep sending Nobby here stuff that’s no val to us. Either it’s dodgy quality or it’s just too fuckin much. It’s basically all their old shit and every time Nobby tells them to stop they just keep sending more.’

  ‘Have a look at this,’ says Nobby, getting a magazine out from under the desk. He opens it and unfolds the centre page so now it’s a poster-size picture of a bird reclining. ‘When you scratch the scratch and sniff, it don’t sniff,’ he says, scratching at it and going to hold it under my nose.

  ‘Fuck off with that!!!’

  ‘And they got a very funny idea of what’s obscene and what ain’t, like if the donkey in a video’s wearing a condom that’s all right cos it’s safe sex, ain’t it,’ says Nobby. ‘And if you watch one of those films to the end, which is a fuckin hair-raising experience in itself, definitely not a first-date movie, they got a little caption saying that no animal’s welfare has been harmed during the making of this production. They got things a bit mixed up.’

  ‘Slightly,’ I say.

  ‘Like it’s okay if some poor bint’s getting chopped by a beast just so long as Muffin the Mule’s got straw to sleep on and a few barley sugars,’ says Morty.

  ‘See, those people have got no fuckin idea,’ says Nobby. ‘Your British are very straight really in what they want. What’s hardcore over here ain’t worth a wank, literally, to them on the Continent, it’s softcore, show it on the telly, no problem. That’s why we’re getting all this shit getting sent over.’

  ‘Is it paid for?’ I ask.

  ‘No way.’ Nobby shakes his head. ‘And they don’t seem to mind, but it’s cluttering up the fuckin place and stuff we can sell, got punters for, ain’t coming through. See you’re up against the internet now so if the gear ain’t up to it then you’re fucked.’

  ‘Listen, keep all the paperwork straight and send the rest back, pay for what you take. Bookkeeping is your forte, young Nobby,’ says Morty.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so, Morty. It’s just–’

  ‘Listen, Nobby, you fuckin asked my fuckin advice so you got it,’ says Morty, suddenly annoyed now, giving Nobby the pointy finger down his nose. ‘Anyway, I’m outta here. Me and my colleague here have got an appointment. And Nobby–’ he speaks slow like he’s talking to a child ‘–Send That Fuckin Gear Back, Okay?’

  We’re out on the street and walking towards where our cars are parked.

  ‘He’s okay, that Nobby, but he can get on your fuckin nerves at times, lets people talk to him like he’s a fuckin teabag, he’s a benefit-of-the-doubt merchant. Been around these fuckin sex cases and nonces too long.’

  ‘You get people asking you for kiddie porn back there?’

  ‘Yeah, all that stuff’s on the internet now but we still get asked.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I tell the geezers in the shop to tell ’em that we do have it but it’s far too dodgy keepin it on the premises and to come back later, when we shut, when nobody’s about, you know, kid ’em on, get ’em to come back later.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We beat them up.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘I don’t know any other way.’r />
  ‘Not you and Nobby?’

  ‘No, for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t swing a golf club, let alone a punch. No, you can always find volunteers to beat up a nonce.’

  Strangers, Role Models and Heroes

  ‘You’ve got no plans for this afternoon, have you?’ says Morty as we walk to his car.

  ‘No. Where are we off to, Mort?’

  ‘We’ll take my car and I’ll drop you back later.’

  ‘What’s the appointment about?’

  ‘Have you eaten yet?’

  ‘I’ve had breakfast.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘I’m getting there.’

  ‘Cos it’s a bittova drive to where we’re going, so you’ll be hungry when you get there.’

  ‘So, Mort, where the fuck are we going?’

  ‘To have a spot of lunch, a late one.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d gathered that, but where? with who?’

  ‘It’s meant to be the bollocks, this gaff we’re going to. Someone’s asked to see us, well, see you really.’

  ‘Is it business?’

  ‘Oh yeah, it’s business all right, it’s always business with this guy.’

  I think I’ll just wait till he tells me. A minute goes by.

  ‘I got a call this morning from Mister Price,’ says Mort. ‘That’s who we’re going to see. Why, I don’t know, so don’t ask.’

  ‘Why’d he wanna see us?’

  ‘I said don’t ask, so you ask.’

  ‘Didn’t he say anything?’

  ‘No, I said that, didn’t I. He just asked or rather told us to meet him and Gene in this gaff called Pepi’s Barn out Epping way, so it’s a bit of a drive.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘He says to meet him at two o’clock. Jimmy’s driver’s given me some instructions and a fuckin grid-reference cos the place is so fuckin exclusive it’s hidden away from the riff-raff, it’s tres exclusive, unlisted, a well-kept secret, says James.’

  ‘I bet it’s not a café he’s got us driving halfway across London to eat in. I bet Jimmy likes his grub.’

  ‘You’ll be able to ask him yourself in a little while.’

  I’m thinking that I’m gonna let Jimmy ask the questions here today, cos people don’t get to where he is without being a cute old fucker and a ruthless one as well. Round our way the likes of Jimmy Price were looked up to like great statesmen or magnates, self-made men who had come up the hard way from nowhere to command respect. That’s the romantic view, like the made-for-TV movie. The reality is that these gents could be horrible, nasty cunts when necessary and it was necessary a lot of the time.

  He’s to be admired, is James. He is as cute as fuck. He’s got interests all over the place, straight and not so straight. He was one of the first to realise that taking libbos, believing too many Jimmy Cagney movies, taking the piss outta the old bill, was a mug’s game cos they just get the zig and come at you with more legal firepower. Far better, thought Jim, to keep a very low profile and crack on, retain all the best lawyers and barristers just in case it all goes crocked and avoid any kinda attention. This might seem like stating the fuckin obvious nowadays but this geezer’s from a different era where it was par for the course to show out that you was at it. Depending on who you listen to, Jimmy’s one of the few guys in London who could straighten the very top old bill, the top players up in Scotland Yard, with a few bob or one of the only guys in London that the old bill would actively fit up. They would put their pensions and solid reputations on the line to place Jimmy Boy in the boob for a score of years. Some guys wanna tell you that he’s a fuckin genius, some folk wanna tell you he’s a visionary, others that he’s to be avoided or watched.

  Of course there’s the sub-species at the bottom of the pile who are simply envious of the man, the lagging boats down the boozer, the Born Losers Arms, who start running off at the mouth once they’ve had a bucket saying the geezer’s a wanker and next morning they wake up shitting themselves hoping, praying, that nobody’s heard them and they’ll spend the day hiding under the blankets, sobbing and shaking with that particular brand of paranoia that the booze brings. It’s pure old-fashion jealousy. They’ve got a fat old cunt of a misses that they would dearly love to strangle and bury off the motorway somewhere, they’re getting grief from the local gathers who know they’re wrong ‘uns and drive ’em mad, they’ve been in and out the shovel since approved school, still doing the same old shit and getting nowhere, they’re eating dogshit that passes for food, they got ill health, no fuckin future and they turn round and look at Jimmy. Is it any fuckin wonder that these sad cases can’t handle it? He’s off the manor, nice fuckin tan cos he’s just got back from a little working holiday over on the Costa del Crime and when he comes down here he’s like the Pope waving and walking on rose petals and they, the fuckwits, are either grafting against all odds, bubbling one another up or bleeding starving. Terrible thing, envy, it can eat you away like fuckin cancer if you let it. They can resent the man cos he’s never done his big lump in the jail. He’s done all the kid stuff of course, the borstals and DCs and that, but he’s never had his collar felt as an adult which is pretty fuckin remarkable seeing all the knavery and skulduggery he’s into, but he’s shot through with pure animal cunning. Fair fuckin play.

  Jimmy was what the Yanks would call an underboss to old Dewey and he was a fuckin legend, no two ways. He was a fuckin gentleman, a fuckin naughty one, but a gent none the less. Sure, he could be a lunatic but he commanded respect from all the underlings and even people who ordinarily would have only contempt for geezers in his line of work. My old man, who was a straight-goer all his fuckin life, driving his trains to fuck-knows-where, had great respect for old Dewey. The man was a Don. If Dewey had’ve been born into a different class he would’ve ended up running the fuckin railways or a big city bank, but it turned out how it did and he ended up running large parts of London with his allies.

  When Dewey died of heart failure Jimmy smelt what was in the wind. Drugs changed everything. He spotted the new, younger, hungrier, seriously talented, ruthless families and clans coming up and moved sideways before he was bulldozed over like so many old relics. He realised his limitations and downsized, as big corporations do, his operation. What Jimmy did was carve himself out a principality among the bigger nation-states and kingdoms. It wasn’t about turf or territory, you couldn’t draw a red ring around it on a map, it was about Jimmy and his teams being given the respect to march on, doing their business unhindered. James’ operation became lithe and flexible, less graft, more profit. It moved away from the factory floor.

  I’ve got a feeling of fear mixed with excitement cos I know that if Jimmy’s sending for me it’s got to be important, but also I’m on my way to meet a fuckin legend of my youth. Old Dewey, Jimmy Price, the Tylers, Crazy Larry Flynn, the Archer Boys, the O’Mara family, seven brothers and five sisters, the girls as fuckin mad as the boys, and not forgetting our Clarkie’s clan, they were like the royal families of Europe when we were growing up. Their fallings-out and feuds, their treaties and pacts, arranged marriages and messy divorces, their myths and legends, bar-brawls and escapades, their betrayals and treachery, were like a drop of poor man’s Shakespeare to us kids who played three card brag in pissy stairwells and hung around smokin snout on cold street corners. We got hear-say and rumour, Chinese whispers and fuckin gross exaggeration and there was kudos to be earned if one of the greats’ shadows fell upon us. We would have collected their pictures on bubblegum cards if we could.

  ‘What do you think of Jimmy Price, Mort?’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before.’

  ‘And you’ve never given me a straight answer before.’

  ‘He’s very good at his job.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He’s very good at what he does.’

  ‘Very diplomatic, Mister Mortimer.’

  ‘I try.’

  ‘I mean, do you like the geezer.’

  �
�I don’t think guys like Jimmy are there to be loved.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘So why ask?’

  ‘A moment of temporary insanity, Morty, I don’t know what came over me.’

  He draws a deep breath and does that thing he does with his eyes, rolls them skyward. ‘To answer your question, no, I don’t like Jim, but I tell you what, I fuckin respect the geezer.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Mort, but are you scared of him?’

  ‘I won’t take it the wrong way, and no, I ain’t scared of him or anyone else. What’s the worst they can do, they can only fuckin kill ya.’

  Only.

  ‘But you respect the guy?’

  ‘Yeah, for holding things together after the old boy croaked. It was all up for grabs. He was a hard act to follow was Dewey.’

  ‘So they tell me.’

  ‘But Jimmy sorted it. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t saying I’d like to go on me holidays with him or anything cos between me and you, cos we’re the only ones here, he’s a leery, bullying cunt is James at times, and to answer your question, no I don’t like him all that much.’