Lawless

by Jessie Keane

‘And Michael never made it.’

  ‘No. He never did.’

  Rob took a swig of coffee. He wondered how Kit felt about this. Kit had been Michael’s blue-eyed boy for a long time; but Gabe was his actual son. Gabe was Michael’s blood.

  Joe managed a weak smile. ‘And there you are, as I said – sitting on top of the gold mine.’

  Kit gave Joe a level stare. He had worked diligently for Michael for years to earn the right to be his number one. And Michael’s monetary decisions had been his alone; there had been no coercion on Kit’s part.

  ‘What are you saying?’ he asked Joe.

  ‘I’m saying Gabe’s a greedy little tick and he’s going to want it. All of it. The restaurants, the clubs, the flats, the dosh – everything. He’ll want it all.’

  Kit took a sip of the coffee, then said: ‘It was Michael’s wish that I should carry on where he left off. He knew I could do it. He trusted me to do it.’

  He thought then of his dangerous flirtation with the booze. He’d been dry for a couple of weeks now, and one of the reasons he’d managed that was because he’d been sure that Michael would be disgusted with such weakness.

  ‘What would this Gabe character do with it all?’ he asked Joe.

  Joe let out a guffaw of grating laughter which faded into a painful cough. ‘He’d piss the whole lot up against the fuckin’ wall,’ he said, eyes watering. ‘Spend it on alcohol, cigarettes and loose women. And the rest he’d just bloody squander.’

  Kit had to smile. Poor bastard. He was up shit creek, but he still had a sense of humour.

  ‘You really got no address for him? Not even a number?’

  Joe shook his head.

  ‘You think he’s going to come calling over Michael’s money?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Gabe?’ Joe gave a dry smile and took another pull at the oxygen. ‘Oh yeah. He’ll come.’

  49

  1953

  Tito wasn’t going to rush this. He was like a cheetah, stalking fleet-footed gazelle; he had to be sure of his choice before he broke cover. He took his work seriously. Papa Astorre had spoken to Mama Bella and now Astorre told him what she wanted.

  ‘A little blonde girl,’ said Astorre. ‘Not a baby. Maybe two, three years old? Young enough to forget, not old enough to remember the details.’

  ‘People are going to talk,’ warned Tito. ‘Suddenly you have a child? A girl who doesn’t even look like one of us?’

  ‘We’ll cook up a story. Something plausible. Besides, no one around us would talk. They wouldn’t dare.’ Astorre made a slicing motion, one finger against his cheek. ‘Do it some distance away,’ he said.

  ‘The parents . . . ?’ asked Tito, thinking of blonde women.

  Astorre shrugged. He would leave that to Tito. Snatch the girl without a fight if he could, but if not . . .

  ‘That’s your affair,’ he said. ‘Just see to it, uh?’

  Tito promised that he would.

  Tito took his cousin Gabriel along for the ride, knowing that if Michael Ward heard what his nineteen-year-old son was up to he would be furious and disgusted. Gabe was forever hanging around the Danieri boys, and it was obvious he hero-worshipped Tito, who was now a full-grown camorristi of twenty-eight. It amused Tito, seeing the way Gabe tried to emulate him, making out he was tough and cool and didn’t give a shit for anything.

  Gabe was very impressed with the fact that Tito ran the clubs for the family, and that he had his own flat over the club that bore his name. There were women there, lots of women, Tito had his pick of them. Generously, he let Gabe have his pick, too, and that made Gabe worship him all the more.

  ‘We’re going on a little road trip,’ Tito said, and Gabe was flattered that he’d been asked to go along, to help out.

  Gabe was flattered if Tito so much as talked to him, and Tito knew it.

  For a while, Gabe found the trip almost enjoyable. He’d thought that Tito would be doing a job or two on the way, maybe stitching someone up, doing a few deals, but no: this seemed to be purely pleasure, purely a break in the country. That puzzled Gabe, but he didn’t object. He was with Tito, and he loved that.

  He knew his dad didn’t like Tito, even though they were related by marriage, but Gabe got a kick out of defying his father, going against his express wish that he steer well clear of Tito and the other Danieri boys.

  They set off – not in Tito’s usual flashy Jag, but in an old Jeep, the sort left here by American GIs during the war. Tito had packed a tent, it was a real road trip, a total adventure. They stopped off at B&Bs in the country. Tito shaved off his beard and wore shabby, casual clothes, which wasn’t like him. They gave false names wherever they stayed.

  Yeah, it was fun and Tito was a charming companion. He could be scary, Gabe knew that, but right now he was being treated as Tito’s equal, as a friend, even, and he liked that. They went up through the Lake District, and then up further, to the Scottish Borders. All the while Gabe had a sense that Tito was searching for something, waiting for something to catch his eye.

  They came back down, to the north Yorkshire moors, found a campsite and pitched their tent. It was fun, yes, but now Gabe was getting tired of it. All they did was drive, and stop off in pubs, and look around the campsites where they stayed for a night or two, then move on. He wanted to go back to London.

  ‘Patience,’ said Tito, when Gabe asked if they were going home soon.

  After they’d pitched their tent on this latest site, they went to the shop at the centre of camp to buy provisions. There was a pretty young blonde woman toting a basket around the narrow aisles, holding a little silver-white-blonde girl by the hand, cooing to her in some foreign language.

  ‘You see?’ said Tito in triumph, grinning broadly at Gabe. ‘Patience pays off.’

  50

  Kit and Rob drove from Joe’s place back to Ruby’s in Marlow.

  ‘We thought all we had to worry about was Vittore and Fabio,’ said Rob with a frustrated exhalation of breath. ‘Now we got this Gabe character crawling out of the fucking woodwork.’

  ‘We’ll deal with him, if he shows his face,’ said Kit. He didn’t like the way all this was stacking up. Simon dying the way he did, and Daisy getting intimidated, and that business with Vittore at Tito’s funeral – shit he’d been so stupid that day – and now there was Gabe to add to the mix. Michael’s one and only legitimate son – and heir. Except he hadn’t inherited a bean.

  Kit was pleased to see one of his boys on Ruby’s gate, and to note that the instant they pulled in and approached the house, Reg and another handy-looking lad were there to find out what was going on. When they saw it was Kit and Rob, they waved and withdrew.

  ‘What you ought to get here,’ said Rob when Ruby let them in, ‘is a ruddy big dog. Your brother’s got one over at his gaff, great monster of a thing, looks like it wants to tear your throat out.’

  ‘I don’t like dogs,’ said Ruby, leading the way into the sitting room.

  ‘Where’s Daise?’ asked Kit. Ruby had told him Daisy no longer worked at the store.

  ‘Upstairs. All this has really upset her.’

  ‘We’re not stopping,’ said Kit. ‘I just wanted to ask you about Michael’s personal effects. You know, like his wallet, his comb – things he’d carry around in his pocket. Do you still have them?’

  Ruby grimaced. ‘Yes, I do. I haven’t been able to look at them, not since . . .’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I’ll get them for you,’ she said, and quickly left the room.

  ‘What d’you want that stuff for?’ asked Rob.

  ‘Dunno. Maybe there’s something in there that will tell us what Michael was doing. I just want to see, that’s all.’

  ‘You going to tell Ruby about the Gabe Ward thing?’

  ‘Dunno about that, either,’ said Kit. The whole way home he’d been going back and forth over everything that Joe had told them. Was it just a coincidence that one week after Gabe got out of jail, Michael was shot dead?

  Had Michael
– and he was just kicking the idea around, turning it over, looking at it from all angles – had Michael told Gabe about his plans to leave everything to Kit? Had they argued? Had Gabe, fresh from doing bird for GBH, and according to Uncle Joe, unstable, lost it and killed his own father?

  Could it have been Gabe who did the deed?

  This was disturbing. He had no idea where this Gabe was, or what he intended to do next. And even more disturbing was the discovery that there were parts of Michael’s life he knew nothing about, that Michael had kept from him.

  And the Bentley, scratched to hell and the tyres all slashed. He’d been thinking Vittore. But was he wrong? Was that Gabe at work?

  Ruby returned carrying a smallish plastic see-through bag as if it was radioactive. She handed it to Kit.

  ‘You can keep it,’ she said. ‘I don’t want it. It just reminds me . . .’

  . . . of all I’ve lost.

  The words hung unspoken in the air between them.

  Kit could see Michael’s wallet in there. His heart clenched on a churning wave of fresh grief as he saw the Dunhill lighter and gold cigarette case, so much a part of the boss that it was like he was here in the room. Matchbooks. A South African Krugerrand set into a big, heavily ridged gold ring. A Rolex watch. A wallet. A comb.

  ‘You don’t want to keep the watch?’ he asked, swallowing hard past a lump in his throat. He reached into the bag, pulled out the Krugerrand ring. ‘How about this? Look, it’s engraved.’

  Ruby looked at it. I’m Still in Love with You was etched in tiny Italic script on the inside of the band.

  ‘Michael never wore rings,’ she said, then she shrugged. ‘Probably his wife Sheila gave it to him years ago and he carried it around with him for sentimental reasons. No, I don’t want it. Keep the Rolex. He would have loved you to have that, I’m sure. That and his record collection; I’m glad you kept that. It’ll remind you of him.’ Ruby looked keenly at Kit’s face. ‘How was Joe?’

  ‘Pretty bad. Too much smoking. You ought to go see him.’

  ‘I don’t think Betsy would make me very welcome.’

  ‘What’s the story there? Why’d you fall out with her?’

  ‘Betsy don’t get on with women. She only likes men. Preferably young ones.’

  Kit had seen this with his own eyes; Ruby wasn’t giving him any bullshit.

  ‘Right,’ he said, then hesitated. ‘We’d better get back.’

  ‘Call anytime,’ she said, hope and eagerness plain in her voice. It hurt Rob to hear it. He liked Ruby, and he wished Kit would stop treating her so coldly.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kit, and left the room with Rob in tow.

  Ruby sat there and stared at the closed door for long moments.

  Kit still hates me, she thought.

  She felt tears start in her eyes. She gulped, blinked, refused to cry. Instead, she stood up, breathed deeply. She’d go out. Do something. Anything. Take her mind off the fact that her son, whom she loved to distraction, still, despite all her efforts, despised her.

  In the car while Rob drove, Kit examined the items in the bag. There were a couple of fifties and some loose change in the black leather wallet. A comb, still with strands of Michael’s thick iron-grey hair attached to it. He touched the strands, thought about Michael combing his hair for the last time, not knowing . . .

  Shut up with that.

  He put the comb aside, picked up the ring. It was heavy, the mount a solid lump of gold, a costly item with the springbok bounding on the gold coin. He turned it over, looked at the hallmark, reading the inscription again.

  I’m Still in Love with You.

  ‘Ruby’s right,’ he said to Rob. ‘I never saw Michael wear this or any other ring. Did you?’

  Rob shook his head.

  ‘But he was carrying it around with him. Why was he doing that?’

  Rob shrugged. ‘So what? I got all sorts of shit in my pockets, haven’t you?’

  Kit let out a sharp sigh. It worried him that Michael had had secrets from him, but of course it was only natural that he would. After all, Kit wasn’t his blood, he wasn’t his son. And Rob was right. The inscription on the ring, even the ring itself, probably meant fuck-all.

  ‘I want you to phone around when we get back, see if you can find any addresses or contact numbers for this Gabe.’

  ‘Will do.’

  If there were any answers to be had, Kit wasn’t seeing them. And he wondered if he ever would. He leaned back, closed his eyes. Thought of those carefree days with Bianca . . .

  He’d phone her, as soon as he got home. He needed to hear her voice.

  51

  Bianca was worn out with staring at the fucking phone. Days had gone by and it felt like that was all she’d done: stared at it, willed it to ring. Well, it had. Suppliers, workers, Mama Bella, everyone had phoned in. But not the only one she wanted to hear from. Not him.

  Her weekend bag was packed and her coat was on, ready to go and visit Bella, she hadn’t been up to the Smoke since Tito’s funeral – ah, God what a day that had been – and still here she was, thinking Ring, come on, dammit! While the girls looked on, shaking their heads as if thinking, Christ, Bianca Danieri’s been screwed over – didn’t see that one coming.

  ‘Well, I’m off,’ she said to the assembled troops. ‘Cora’s in charge, OK.’

  ‘Have a good one,’ said the barman.

  ‘We’ll be fine here,’ said Cora.

  She knew they would. Sensible people, well trained: she’d surrounded herself with a good team. Tanya, the single weak link in an otherwise strong chain, she’d sacked and replaced with someone better.

  ‘Well – bye then.’ Bianca went out and threw her bag in the car, a beaten-up old cream Morgan. She already had the soft leather top down. It was a golden day, beautiful, spring in all its glory; a person should be happy, in love, ebullient, on a day like this.

  She was in love. But it was a tragic sort of love, a one-way street, because he hadn’t phoned.

  Bianca started the engine, listened to its deep throaty roar. She loved to drive, to feel the wind whipping through her hair. She slipped on her shades and heaved a sharp sigh. She knew what Cora and Claire and the rest were thinking. She’d been done over. Used, then dumped. And they were right. She was furious with herself, and even more furious with him. Tony Mobley. The bastard.

  ‘Fuck it,’ she muttered, and slipped into first, and shot off towards London.

  She was better than this. She was camorristi. Tito had drummed into her the ways of the Camorra, how to be proud, how to be vengeful. She remembered everything he had taught her so well.

  Behind her, in Dante’s, the phone started ringing.

  ‘Is Bianca there?’ asked Kit, slumped on his sofa, wanting to hear her, speak to her. He’d put one of Michael’s LPs on the stereo, he had a bundle of them, a lot of Henry Mancini and some good Everly Brothers stuff, some Elvis, Roy Orbison, Billy Fury. Billy was currently singing ‘Jealousy’ to a hard tango beat.

  Jesus he’d missed Bianca so much – but with all the shit going down since he’d got back, he hadn’t had a moment to get in touch.

  ‘Nope. Who’s calling?’ asked a stern female voice.

  ‘K— um . . . Tony,’ said Kit.

  ‘Tony Mobley?’

  ‘Yeah. Can I speak to her? Who is that?’

  ‘It’s Cora. She’s not here.’

  ‘Where is she then?’ He felt his stomach drop away, he was that disappointed. And the business with the fake name, what a fucking embarrassment that was turning out to be.

  Old habits die hard.

  Yeah, he’d become used to the usual deceptions most bachelors practised to keep themselves out of the firing line. But with Bianca . . . the minute the lie had come out of his mouth, he had wanted to snatch it back. It felt wrong, distasteful.

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Come on. You can.’

  ‘No can do.’

  ‘Give me a clue, yeah?�
�

  ‘No. She’d kill me if she knew I’d given out her whereabouts to a total stranger.’

  ‘I’m not a stranger. I’m . . .’ oh shit ‘. . . Tony. So you know about me? Did we meet when I came in the club recently?’

  ‘We did meet. Briefly. When Bianca’s not here, I manage the place.’

  ‘I remember you. Tall redhead, right?’

  ‘Yeah. OK. Right.’

  ‘So you know I’m not a stranger. Tell me where she is.’

  ‘No,’ said Cora.

  Cora placed the phone carefully on its cradle.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Claire, passing by with the barman lugging a crate of mixers behind her.

  ‘Nobody,’ said Cora, and went back out into the bar. All men were wasters, especially the gorgeous ones. Maybe Bianca just needed to learn that lesson the hard way.

  52

  ‘Got some more news,’ said Jay in Vittore’s ear.

  He had just joined his boss at the busy bar in the Danieri club called Goldie’s. It was late evening and the place was full of customers. ‘Waterloo’, Abba’s big hit from last year’s Eurovision, was banging out of the speakers at a colossal volume. People were bopping on the strobe-lit dance floor in flares and cheesecloth tie-dye tops, and waitresses in gold miniskirts, gold boots and gold nipple tassels were shimmying around among the punters, carrying trays of drinks to tables and corner banquettes.

  Vittore had been watching these girls with disdain. As he had tidied up Tito’s – now transformed as Vito’s – so he intended to clean up this place too. These girls were dirty whores, flaunting themselves. They disgusted him and they would have to go.

  ‘Let’s discuss this upstairs,’ said Vittore, and led the way up to the office.

  Jay followed and closed the door behind him, deadening the noise. Vittore sat down behind the desk. Jay sat, too.

  ‘So?’ asked Vittore, looking at his henchman’s ugly face, at the long scar running down his left cheek, disfiguring the mouth on that side. Jay wasn’t pretty, but he was loyal and straight.