Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1)

by Lee Cooper

  “I’m doing the same, like.” He surprised me, he seemed very at home in this world, maybe he was too comfortable.

  “Shite! You won’t get out this game.”

  “No seriously, that’s it. I’ve seen enough.” Everything he'd seen me go through, pushed him to the edge. Besides he had a family, eventually they'd be pulled in somewhere down the line.

  “What you going to do, ‘en?”

  “My scrap business. Gonna make a go of it. Want a job?” Fuck me! All I wanted was a job in the first place, now he’s offering me one.

  “Aye, I’ll have a job!” That was it settled, after today was over, I would work for Tim, suited me fine. Get me back on the straight and narrow.

  Taking off my jacket, I slouched down in the passenger seat for what I hoped would be the last time I’d have to, shutting my eyes and ignoring the world. My body by this point had been pushed to its limits, the past month in the gym. My brain drained, but in the right space, my body fatigued, but more ready than ever. I only had one more workout to complete. That would push me mentally and physically to the edge of life itself.

  Stories surfacing. The Reaper was like a man possessed, hearing a nobody from the Granite City being lined up as his replacement. As far as I knew, he'd only ever had bare-knuckle fights. I didn’t know much about his past, only what Mr Dean told, which wasn’t much. The money wasn’t important to me here.

  Living out my demons and having a future, was everything.

  Chapter 59

  The Docks:

  Arriving near the venue too early after Tim grabbed some supper, I had no appetite. We pulled into the banks of the neglected shipyard on the edge of the Clyde. The traffic noise of Glasgow buzzing in the background, but the sound of water trickling downstream made it feel peaceful, the river adding to the cold chill in my body that night. We parked outside a large, brown-cladded fabrication shed, still operating. This must be it, I said to myself.

  “That’s it over there, see it?” Tim pointed over to a derelict square building, hundreds of metres away to the east.

  “Why the fuck we parked over here?”

  “See this huge welding shop. There’s a tunnel stretching from here to that building over there.” This obviously happened before. Tim’s knowledge of the place no coincidence.

  “How the fuck do you know that?”

  “I’ve been here before, lad. Many years ago.” Tunnels were common around the shipyards, mainly used for running electrical mains cables under the river and across the huge expanse of land. Tonight, the tunnels would be used as a gateway into the venue, as they had been, time and time before. Parking the cars beside the massive fabrication shed was a good disguise, misleading snoopers and the filth from the trail.

  “It’s too early to head over.”

  “Aye, I know. Come on, we'll find a pub an’ chill out for an hour-ish.” Fucking sick of pubs. Usually by this time, I’d be tortured by anxiety and nerves. Something else pre-occupied me, something I had to know was done, before concentrating on my reason for being here.

  “You hear that?” My phone rang from inside the Merc.

  Call from Steve Dean:

  “Steve.”

  “Joe, you in Glasgow yet?”

  “Aye, we’re here.”

  “I hear the truck’s in London as we speak. It’s your call.” It wasn’t my call, it was in another man’s hands, a man that I would be delighted to see the back of.

  “Sorry, Mr Dean. It’s not in my hands at all. I’m waiting on confirmation.”

  “And what about your friend, Skinner?”

  “No word yet, I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Remember Mr Rhodes, this stays between us. Understand?” The reference to the family name I disowned, telling me I was still in his pocket, and how much information he held over my head.

  “Perfectly, Steve.” Not one for goodbyes, he hung up. I searched for a number I didn’t care to have in my contacts list. Bewildered by the conversation, Tim tilted his head and screwed up his face. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  Call to Detective Magill:

  “Where’s the truck?” I asked.

  “It’s just pulled up in a lorry depot. We’re waiting for the switch, before we jump in.”

  “And Skinner?”

  “Just preparing the road-block, shouldn’t be long. Are you at the venue?”

  “Aye, I’m here. There’s nobody here yet. Stick to the plan. I’ll text you the address later on.” My plan was coming together, not long now.

  “Joe, you’re doing the right thing here.” Magill tried to reassure me being a snitch was creditable. It wasn’t, but what choice did I have? I had a burning need for something. Willing to do anything for that one chance I needed.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Utterly bamboozled, Tim couldn’t understand. His first thought I was a snitch, working with the filth, playing Mr Dean.

  “You’re on a ‘need to know basis’ and you don’t need to know, my friend.” I had to return the call to Mr Dean, update him on the progress.

  Call back to Steve Dean:

  “Steve, both arrests are close to completion.”

  “Excellent, Joe. The gun deal will be proceeding as planned.” Once again, he hung up. His conversations short and sweet, preferring conducting business face-to-face, analysing body language.

  “Look! Will you tell me what the fuck’s happening here.” Tim’s brain ticked over, trying to find the answer. “Are you working for the filth?”

  In a way yes, I was. But, working with them to trap Magill in my web. “No Tim, this is retribution.”

  Chapter 60

  Back To The Interview:

  Back to the weekend of Micky’s unprovoked assault on Billy Duncan, and the second half of the police interview with detective Magill. Magill got my attention the second he muttered my Father's name.

  “Well, he’s hovering around somewhere. Where is he?” Magill began to see he made a breakthrough. Unaware of my undying need to locate my Father, he was about to find out how much I craved that Father and son catch-up.

  “Yes, he's definitely about somewhere, Joe. We just need to know where.”

  “Aye…where, then?” I didn’t intend on leaving this grotty interview room until the information was laid on the table.

  “We’re kind of hoping you can enlighten us to where he is.” A professional in his trade. He caught on to my desperate need to locate my Father. Fuck knows why he figured I knew, I continued to dig.

  “Not a fuckin’ clue. But, you obviously know something!” His body language changed, became tense and shoulders tightened, trying to squeeze what information I had. Desperate for information, both of us were.

  “He’s a wanted man, Mr Marks. Or should I say, Mr Rhodes. Have you heard from him at all the past few years?”

  “No, not a peep.”

  Hadn’t seen or heard from the callous cunt since that day in The Fountain, where he left my broken body lying under the shadow of the slot-machine in shards of glass.

  “Wanted for what?” He needn’t bother with the chit-chat. This was the nearest I’d got to his throat in years.

  “Aberdeen Police have been trying to locate him for some years, Mr Marks. We made the connection between you two, through your juvenile records, and his old Tilly address.”

  “Fuckin’ Hell, took you long enough.” I started to act disgusted at his amateur police skills. It annoyed him and his silent colleague.

  “We’ve been looking for a Mr Rhodes. That’s why we’ve had no luck finding you.”

  “Well, you’ve found me. What do you want?” He was surprised at my forwardness.

  “What?” Detective Magill maybe wasn’t the professional I’d thought.

  “Let’s not play any more games, Magill. Both of us want his head on a plate. What do you want from me?” My desperate need to find my Father, made me go against my morals about dealing with the cops.

  Magill switched off the interview rec
ording. This was the first signal from him that he needed my help. “Glad you asked. Let’s say you feed me information now and again…I could keep you informed of his whereabouts, if we get any leads.” His colleague sat silent, awkwardly gazing at me, he wasn’t surprised at Magill’s behaviour. Pausing, the effect it would have on my name on the streets if it leaked out. “And the charges you’ve picked up this weekend will be thrown out before the court date.” That proposal sealed the deal for me.

  “Tim’s charges?” I felt responsible for his arrest outside The Fountain, only trying to help me with the squad of filth. Here, Magill turning to his trainee, Munroe, who wore goofy designer rectangle glasses, nodded in agreement. Tim would just have to live with the charges until I could tell him. Magill thought I would be sown into the inside of his pocket, but I managed to reverse the roles.

  “What kind of information do you want?”

  “Micky MacDonald, Mike Jenkins, Kenny Mackie and Skinner.” Soon as I heard the first name, there was no chance I’d ever give him up. “We know they're all crooks, I want them off the streets of Aberdeen.” Kenny Mackie was Micky’s dealer, and a loyal friend of mine.

  “Aye, I could do that, on the condition I get information on ma’ Dad, regular as possible, no bullshit, Magill.” I’d keep him happy with whatever I could give him.

  Chapter 61

  The first half of the meeting with Mr Dean after returning from Northern Ireland.

  “So, Mr Jenkins is planning on cutting my feet on my next delivery?”

  “Looks like it, Steve. Can’t see no other reason to why he would visit The Rover.”

  “Well, I’ll have to cut his throat before he cuts my feet.”

  “I have another option.” Preparing to tell Mr Dean I was in Magill’s pocket could result in serious repercussions and a painful afternoon for me. Gangsters like Mr Dean slashed the throats of people like me with no second thought, no mercy. We were cast aside.

  “I usually don’t care for other people’s ideas but, go on.” Crossing over his legs, placing his whisky glass on the round montage table, taking a more comfortable place in his seat.

  “I’m about to tell you something that will shock you, but hear me out until I’m finished.” Ogling me, waiting to hear my proposal. “I’ve gone and got myself into a little hole with the filth. Detective Magill knows my Father’s whereabouts.” Pausing, he didn’t speak, waiting for me to finish, an impassive look. “I’ve agreed to feed him info, on local faces, in return for that information. One of those locals, is Mike Jenkins. We could set him up, hand him over to the filth.” Finishing that part of the story, Mr Dean allowed things to run around his cunning mind.

  “I know your Father, Joe. We met on a couple of occasions, years ago. Why you so desperate to find him?” He knew I wasn’t a back-stabber at heart, gathered that by the way I conducted myself and spoke with honesty. Plus, the job I had completed in the past week, helped my cause.

  “It’s a long story, short version. He caused my Mom’s suicide.” His face stayed stone cold.

  “You don’t have to say any more.” He understood straight away. “So you want to set Mike up, and that’s because of the Skinner fight?”

  “Aye, that and that only. I’ve got to give the filth something. That gets my own back, then you can do whatever you please with him.”

  The genius that was his mind ticked over, wandering over to his bottle of Talisker whisky, pouring another large one, then opening his humidor, lighting one of his finger-long cigars. Stood with his back to me, taking slow drags, creating a plan with little thought. The experience he'd gained over the years worked it all out. Dealt with problems and snitches all too often, he knew the way.

  “The delivery will enter the ferry as planned with Roy and the driver. I’ll send an empty van on with two men, two men not known to them. Overnight, they can empty the stash from the Argos truck, swap it over to our van. Paying the men on my take a little more, I can make sure the two vehicles sit back to front.” He made it sound like a flawless plan and he could make it happen. With a collection of loyal men on his take, it would be easy.

  “And what happens when the truck gets to this side of the border?” But, I underestimated him and his planning expertise.

  “That’s where you come in. The filth can hijack the truck at the finish line. I would wait until it reaches its destination, catch everyone involved.”

  “Will they not check the goods during the ferry ride, or after they're off?”

  “That’s a gamble. Obviously the weed will be in the other van by the time they’re off the ferry. Usually the back door stays padlocked, not opened until it reaches my hideout. The lock can be cut, then replaced.” Sucking in another long drag, the plan developed. “What we'll do, we'll replace the contents of the boxes with a little present.” Thinking outside the box was a natural skill for him. The present would be a fitting shock to everyone at the scene.

  “It sounds good. I trust this conversation will stay between us.” That question answered itself. Knew he wouldn’t want anyone outwith his inner sanctum knowing anything about this. What made him so keen to help me, was his need to outsmart anyone trying to meddle, or double-cross him in a trade he’d been operating in for the past thirty years.

  “Of course, Joe. I won’t tell anyone you’re a snitch.” The answer meant I was now in his pocket. Now on his take. He could use me as he pleased, having a hold on me.

  “What you going to do with the three of them, once this is over?” There was little chance Mr Dean would let any of them off Scot free. Let them return to their normal lives without punishment.

  “Have them killed, Joe.” Calm, peaceful and frightening, his attitude towards ending a life. “One more thing, if I’m prepared to give myself all this stress, there’s something you can do for me.” There it was. The condition, the demand he required from me. Lounging back on his brown leather side-chair, slightly tipsy. I was relaxed, and satisfied with his acceptance of my idea.

  “And that is?”

  “You, Joe, can fight for me.” At the time, that’s the last thing I wanted. But, his condition was non-negotiable. I needn’t argue or complain. After all, he agreed to work with me, agreed to my request. People agreed to his demands, not the other way round. Assigning me onto his take, keeping me afloat with two grand a month, and five for the next two fights. It took the money worry away. The two grand a month was virtually a gift. All I had to do, was keep him informed of Magill’s schedule. The rest of the money was for my fighting services.

  Chapter 62

  Lousy Bastard:

  Magill called while we sat sharing a juice in a local bar. By this point, I had to explain the whole story to Tim, taking time for it to sink in. He was stunned that I was capable of such a thing, while spending much of the time in a drug-fueled rage.

  During my two-month binge after the Masson fight, the grief-ridden spell after Micky's death reminding me of Mom, it was obvious to him now. This was a massive build-up of pressure, causing me to erupt in alcohol and coke binges.

  The charges on the night of Billy Duncan’s slaughter were dropped by the police, in exchange for my inside knowledge of Mike Jenkins and Skinner. I relayed that information to Tim, and he was grateful I thought of him in the middle of everything. Reassuring him his name wouldn’t be dragged down with mine, reassured him I was close to coming out the other side, close to a promising future.

  Call Back From An Upset Magill:

  “Magill.” The simple word indicating I expected the call.

  “JOE! You lousy bastard, you knew there was no weed in those boxes!”

  “What boxes?” Playing dumb to piss him off.

  “Fucking child-porn, you sick bastard!” Replacing the weed with kiddie-porn was Mr Dean’s touch of class. Knowing they’d get put on the paedo list amused him. The weed driven to his warehouse in a white transit van, arriving early afternoon, leaving the driver and The Rover with the truck-load of child-porn traveling dow
n the motorway toward West London, where Mike rendezvoused with them.

  They planned on conducting a private deal with an acquaintance of The Rover. After concluding the deal, they all planned on flying off to live a new life in the Costa del Sol. Tickets booked to leave Monday afternoon from Heathrow. During the ferry ride, in the early hours of the morning, the padlocked truck was broken into. Getting away with this con for years, the boxes were lackadaisically taped shut. So easily sliced open and replaced with explicit images of child-porn on DVDs, USB sticks and laptops. Once the exchange was made, the padlock was replaced with an identical one. Mr Magill himself followed the truck to London, working in connection with English police forces. Once all parties were on the scene and Mike broke the lock, they were flooded by a raiding squad, to the great surprise of Mike, The Rover, the driver and the other party involved. Their faces once the boxes were opened, priceless, and all arrested.

  “Really?! Child-porn? That’s fuckin’ disgusting. What about Skinner?” I really wanted to rub his nose in it.

  “We got him and his two side-kicks with four million.” Skinner’s arrest was just cream on the cake for me. Just what the bully deserved in my eyes. Informing Magill of the counterfeit deal particularly pleased him. Skinner was a hard man to track down. Lived off-grid in his own anti-social bubble. After moving their operation to a location in the fishing district in Torry, Aberdeen, I gave the location of their previous counterfeit operation in Montrose over to Magill, knowing full well it was abandoned. Did this only to keep him off my back, ticking over an idea I had at the time.

  That idea I ran past Mr Dean. Hijacking him and his two side-kicks on the way to Glasgow, four million of fake paper inside his motor. He didn’t question my request, Skinner’s set-up had no effect on his dealings and he didn’t care for him.