‘What this needs is subbin out. We need to sub-contract it out.’
‘But to who?’
‘Findin Kinky is most definitely the key, Mort.’
‘You know who I thought of, your pal Billy Bogus,’ says Mort.
‘That’s it. Why didn’t I think of him?’
‘Cos you ain’t as clever as me.’
‘That ain’t his real name, you know. He don’t like being called it either.’
‘What, he wasn’t christened William Bogus?’ says Morty sarcastically. ‘Well I never.’ He’s got a look of mock astonishment on his face.
‘I’ll try and find him. I’ll ring round. He ain’t always in the country. It’ll be a touch if he’s up for it.’
The drive across town only seems to emphasise what a job it is. London is really dozens of little towns grafted onto one another. Morty drops me off at the motor and I head for home. I spot a place doing colour photocopies that’s just about to close. I dodge inside and have the guy run off five copies of both pictures. I get home, I make calls to a couple of people who are mutual acquaintances of me and Billy and, yes he was in town, and yes they’d pass on a message for him to get in touch straight away. They also suggest I try a couple of clubs in the West End that he could be hanging out in. I get a bitta sticky tape, double it over and stick Charlie’s smudge on the bathroom mirror, like in the movies, have a quick shower, some Thai food sent over, eat, get dressed and go out for a bittova drive and a think. I do some of my best thinking while I’m driving.
It’s Saturday Night
I don’t feel like getting involved in any hi-jinx tonight. There might be halfa chance I’ll bump into Billy. I slip into the places in the West End where I’m told he might be on a freebie, cos I know the people who run the gaff. In this end of town it’s all young babes with tit-jobs, messers, chancers and hustlers, double-lemon rag-trade guys, lemon meaning flash, wannabe models, wannabe wannabes, mega-rich girls who look like hookers, showbiz folk, hookers who look like Daddy’s girls, a wagonload of charlie in one-gram wraps that’s been slapped about and a binbag fulla pills. The drinks are a tenner a pop and the place is heaving. It looks like a big jolly-up, a bit wild and decadent. These people do their drugs, they have a dance, they have a booze, hopefully they fuck one another and if anyone dies, which they never do, it’s gonna be self-inflicted rather than the result of any fisticuffs or mindless violence.
I rarely feel in the mood for a nose-up, it’s just a bittova sex-aid really. If the mood takes me, I like to get it on, get the lines chopped out. The whole scene can end up going places it may not usually go. I keep a couple of grams of very, very pure totally uncut stuff that’s pure yellow, almost crystal, tucked away behind the bathroom medicine cabinet. It’s real pukka gear that me, Morty, Terry and Clarkie keep for ourselves and our lust ones, but I can take it or leave it.
I’m sitting in the back bar of a place just offa Berkeley Square talking small-talk with the barman. I’m away from the dance floor and Saturday night crowd. Suddenly there’s a guy walking straight towards me calling my name and he’s on me before I know it, which is a drag cos if I’d seen him coming I would have swerved him. He’s seen me first and he’s on me. The guy’s from an out-of-town outfit who we work with every now and then. I’m usually very good with names but I can’t for the life of me remember this geezer’s name. He’s not dangerous, not like some of his team, he’s more of a camp follower, a delivery boy. He’s slapping me on the fuckin back, pumping my hand and calling me ‘mate’ over and over, which is something I hate.
He’s connected to a gang of jokers who would turn up every now and then and almost demand to do business. From over the border, over the state line, over the M25 so we called them ‘The Yahoos’ or ‘The Banditos’. They would arrange a meet through Jimmy or Gene so you couldn’t just tell them to fuck off or they’d come riding into town like the outlaw baddies in the westerns and start shooting the gaff up. They’re still very stuck in that attitude of what’s the point in having loot if you can’t let every fucker know you got it, even the law. They had all these wild fantasies about being the direct descendants of the old double-flash geezers of the sixties and seventies, you know The Twins and all those pavement-job gents. They’d read all the books, seen all the movies, heard all the myths and legends. The three things that weren’t comical about these firms was the totally senseless violence they inflicted, mostly on each other, to try and impose some kinda loose pecking order, the telephone-number figures that they dealt in and the amount of bird they could get you with their sloppy work and shit attitude. These comics could get you sent down for decades, serious time, tens, twelves, fifteens, twenties. They couldn’t understand the idea of peace and quiet and it wasn’t my place to educate them their jobs. Morty had it right when he said they were in the disorganised crime business.
Everything was cash to these guys. We would even take a cheque from one clean account to another from teams we did regular business with, guys we trusted, guys with the peace and quiet principle. I know guys who pay for their stock from abroad by sending diamonds over by courier service. They stick the glass in a padded envelope and have it collected from wherever they happen to be eating lunch that day. Morty once took a four-bedroom house in Southall in exchange for two-and-a-half kilos, but price of oats was higher then. Clean money already in the system was worth more to us than bundles of cash in carrier bags although we would never turn it away. We had front outfits that were very often very successful in their own right, showing that we were, first and foremost, good businessmen. These guys don’t bother with all that, too difficult for ’em. They’re living in big drums, two new motors parked up outside, flashing the cash and even signing on the Kid Creole every fortnight. Balls, they called it. Rank stupidity and greed I’d call it. It’s like asking to get yourself choored, making yourself conspicuous, putting yourself on offer.
So they would show up and we would be gracious and polite but try and keep them at arm’s length. We would entertain them up to a point, we’d explain our position that we were either over-stocked or under-stocked depending if they were buying or selling at that time. We’d actually try and avoid a trade but we’d have to keep greedy Jimmy P. sweet into the bargain so it took a lot of tact. We’d only do stuff with them if it was really foolish not to and even then we wouldn’t encourage them to hang about. Our whole team would be going on at them endlessly about security, talking out the side of our mouths, looking over our shoulders, acting twitchy the whole time, making out we were being targeted by the Other People’s Criminal Intelligence outfit, SO11, some of the Yard’s top boys.
One time we had a little team of sensible guys we serve, from Finsbury Park, make out they were old bill ready-eyeing us, got us under observation. We gave them a special-offer price on a key on condition they take it serious and they played the part to perfection. They needed to be obvious so we had them plotted up opposite this meet with the outta-towners in a flower van, like in a movie, with a big fat telephoto lens hanging out the window, clicking away like mad. You can’t be too subtle sometimes, it coulda been an ice-cream van with the chimes on. They had the cameras pointed at the Yahoos, who were giving the pretend cozzers two fingers, grabbing their dicks and shouting, ‘Suck this, you cunts,’ up the street towards the van. We even had the smudges developed. It started off as a bit of a crack, half as a joke between us and this Finsbury Park firm, to show them what we had to put up with, but it really showed us how they behaved around the Other People, even if they were make-believe Other People. Only very stupid people believe the police are stupid. Half that lot, Crim-Intel, have got degrees in Political Science, whatever that is, so a loada mugs childishly abusing them is only gonna make them even more determined to send us, Uncle Tom Cobberly and all, down the Island for double figures. Morty took the photos off to show Jimmy and Gene, who thought they were hilarious, a real crack up. The message came back that we were to continue to keep these jokers sweet cos in t
he words of James Price, ‘Outfits like ours, like countries in time of war, need our lunatics. They may come in handy at some point.’ Fair enough, but we were left with the job of humouring the lunatics cos Jimmy wouldn’t be seen dead with them. To me they were just big, rude, bullying, useless cunts.
I’m running through names in my nut trying to get his. He’s wearing a naff designer-label-logo top that’s some jumped-up cunt’s name on a two quid sweatshop top. He’s a big old lump so the sleeves are too short in the arms and body’s above the top of his strides. He looks like a big kid whose mum has stuck his clothes in a boiled wash and then left them in the tumbledryer to shrink-to-fuck. In tow this guy’s got a girl who’s delicious. The real what-the-fuck’s-she-doing-with-him scenario. She’s blond with a scattering of freckles around the bridge of her nose, only a smidgen of make-up, a beautiful face that’s innocent and horny both at the same time, and a little crop-top that shows off her flat stomach, her deep, healthy tan and pierced belly button. Her tits are standing up all by themselves, nipples pointing at the ceiling. She has a really fit, taut, athletic bod.
‘How you doin, good to see you-’ I’m smiling, lying, patting him on the shoulder ‘– How’s tricks?’
‘Good, mate, good. This is Tammy,’ he says.
‘Hiya, Tammy.’
Nice smile, nice eyes, deep blue. Is it my ego or my dick or is she showing out just a bit? She’s fluttering the eyelashes just a bit too often, throwing her shoulders back just a tiny little bit so her tits go even more skyward.
‘Hi,’ says Tammy. She’s looking at me with big eyes.
‘Who you with, mate?’ asks Gormless.
‘I’m just out for a look around on my own. I was gonna shmyes in a little while. I’m only in the mood to look tonight, anyway. I’ve had a long day.’
‘You want some shampoo, mate?’ He’s got a bottle of Champagne by the neck in his hand. The pair of them have got glasses well topped-up.
‘No. I’m all right. I’m not drinkin tonight.’
‘Well, you can have one glass, just to be sociable.’
He’s well coked up and so is Tammy, who’s sniffing away like mad. I still can’t think of his name but I’ve got him narrowed down. This guy is a pal of an operator from across the border, a capo called JD. His name is Tom, Dick, Harry, Bert, Eric, one of those real old names that go back before the war, real old-school.
‘What are you doing up this end, brov?’ I ask.
‘Fancied a change. Tammy wanted to check it out.’
‘You two been seeing each other long?’ I says to Tammy.
‘Nah, we’ve only been out, what, three or four times? Ay, Sid?’
Sidney. That’s the name. What she’s saying is it ain’t serious. Tammy, I’d get the gear outta the medicine cupboard for you.
‘Four times.’
‘Sorry, Sid?’ I say.
‘We’ve been out four times.’
So Sid obviously was counting. He saw it as a bonus to run into a face he knew, even if I didn’t leap up and engage in an orgy of backslapping, cos you could sense that they had been traipsing around the gaff, charlied and boozed up to the gills. I reckon that Tammy was using him as a driver-cum-coke-supply, she wasn’t all that into him romantically or sexually. To steam into Tammy would be more than tricky cos it’s all about protocol with these guys, it isn’t the done thing, they take it all very personal. So now I’m talking bollocks-talk about nice club, nice people, nice DJs, but what I’m really thinking is how good it would be to have that little top straight off over Tammy’s head, have her kick off those flimsy little sandals, unzip those silky, satin jeans and have her wriggle outta them and then peel off her, no doubt sexy, little knickers and have her standing naked in front of me. I reckon she could be undressed in about four seconds top whack. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing too. Meanwhile, Sid’s going waffling on in my ear’ole about some old bollocks but really the canister’s gonski. I realise I’ve got a hard-on tugging away in my strides just sitting here thinking about this little soft porn scene. I don’t want the little head telling the big head what to do. I make a double effort to listen to Sid, be polite, not give Tammy any blatant encouragement. What I’d dearly love to do is nick her for a session of freestyle, points awarded for wit and imagination, lust, coke, animal passion.
She’s looking at me and she’s a real love-a-player type. She knows I could bury her up to her pretty little neck in powder. There’s telepathy or a chemistry going on here that Sid, poor cunt, is totally oblivious to. She can tell instinctively by Sid’s slightly crawling attitude that I’m most definitely a connected dude and that, to her, is a turn-on. She’s dancing on the spot, starting to let go, getting horny on the music, the coke and her prick-teasing, moving her hips in a figure of eight, but like slow, her eyes half-shut, her head thrown back. I’m thinking what it would be like to have her in my bed right now, to put her on top of me so she’s dancing and fuckin me senseless at the same time, moving to the bass thump, pleasuring herself with my dick, tweaking her clit, biting and scratching. What it would be like to stick a pillow under her arse and ride her slow and long, to spin her over and bite her firm little bottle. What it would be like to be down on her, running my nose along her wet lips, in among her slippery, slidy pussy with her groaning with pleasure, begging in anticipation, ‘Now, now, now!!!!’, the very tip of my tongue making dollar signs on her clit, $$$$$$$$$.
‘Do you wanna line, mate?’ Sid’s shouting and nudging me at the same time, waking me up.
‘A what?’
‘A line, do you want one?’
‘Oh no, sorry Sid, no, I’m all right. You have one,’ I say.
‘Tammy, do you wanna line? a bittova livener?’
She nods and he hands her a wrap. She turns away, swaying, and as she turns she gives me a sly, naughty look, a kinda be-right-back look, but Sid just don’t spot it, thank fuck.
We’re sitting on a couple of barstools, side by side like we’re best mates. The bar’s starting to empty out. Outta politeness more than anything I ask him about a few faces I know from out this way and he starts to tell me this story about a pal of his, I think he may even mean JD’s cousin who I’ve met once or twice. He always tries to stay in the shadows this guy, fancies himself as a Mister Big, Charlie Large-potatoes.
‘This is a funny story, mate, this’ll make ya laugh.’
‘Go on, mate, I’m all ears.’
This is the story he tells me. A pal of his, an old friend, they went to school together, did a lotta shit together, grew up together, tore up the old neighbourhood together. (Now where have I heard this before?) The guy’s name is Darren, but he likes to be known as ‘Duke’ or ‘The Duke’. Duke’s doing really well, he’s into shifting powders, pills, steroids, ringing motors that end up abroad, moving bootleg copies of movies before they’ve come out, distributing home-made porn, financing booze cruises, buying and selling guns, a real live-wire.
He’s bought himself a big house, the whole number, swimming pool, whirlpools, three-car garage with three motors to go in it, all stuck in a few acres of land. For Christmas one year, for half a joke, this guy’s bought his live-in girlfriend a little can of CS gas with a twenty-four-carat-gold cover that you slip on and off, like those covers you put on those cheap throwaway lighters that you get from the Continent. He’s had it knocked up special by a goldsmith, to order, so it looks like a bitta very expensive jewellery on her key-ring, dead flash, like, with the keys to the Merc sports, the house keys, the Gucci and Chanel key-rings so it don’t look too suspect. He thinks his little joke is hilarious.
Her name is Sarah but she likes to be called Sacha, but behind her back people call her Slasher. The two of them have got a very serious cocaine problem. From wake-up bugle in the morning, all through the day, they’re snorting line after line of charlie so in the end they’re both dead paranoid, neurotic, and she’s dead thin, which she don’t mind. Duke is also injecting steroids, drinking liquidis
ed rump steak and lamb’s livers, maniacally working out in the gym. They’ve got, very foolishly, toot all over the gaff, in sugar-bowls on the coffee table, on mirrors in the bathroom, by the bed, but he’s got his private stash that he keeps hidden from her and she’s got her stash that she keeps hidden from him, in case the supply should dry up, thinking about if times become lean, which is the sure sign, a dead give-away in fact, of the dedicated coke addict. She reckons he’s got a bit of a problem and he reckons she’s got the makings of one but in their delusion they think that all this decadence and living extra-large is a sure sign that they’ve arrived. In reality, for all the big drum and scattering of creamy motors, they’re barely holding their shit together, they’re winging it in grand style, but getting by each day by the skin of their teeth.
They ain’t got no kids cos she don’t wanna fuck up her dolly-bird figure. She’s got an arse like two peas in a hanky after all the coke. What they’ve got instead is two thick-as-pig-shit Dobermanns. What he’s trying to do is teach the dogs back-commands, meaning that if someone says ‘Kill!’ the dog don’t do nothing, maybe lick their face, but if someone says ‘Sit!’ the pair of cunts will tear any stranger’s throat out but he don’t know how successful he’s been at this cos he ain’t got nobody to try it out on. It’s a method he’s invented himself so he don’t know if it works or not. Not very Kennel Club.
In his highly frazzled state he’s always telling the bird that he don’t give a fuck about cozzers.
‘Fuckin cozzers, I piss on them,’ Duke’s telling Slasher. He’s more worried about being turned over, skanked, by someone who’s madder, badder and a drop more naughty than him, which would be tough cos he’s very mad, bad and totally para two-four-seven. All this ranting and raving is going in under her radar so she’s getting more and more edgy and twitchy. His paranoia’s feeding off hers and hers offa his so the atmosphere is really quite electric. It’s crackling. The needle’s in the red.
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