Johnny entered the flat and there was an overwhelming smell of cabbage. It did not irritate him as he loved the smell of boiled cabbage. It reminded him of when as a child, he went to visit his grandmother. Cabbage, or rather the smell of it, evoked happy memories. “Come away in,” the old lady said and pointed to a door leading to another room. He twisted the handle and inside, seated at a table were three men – John, and two other fellows he had never seen before.
“It’s yourself Johnny boy,” the Irishman said as he rose from the table to shake his hand. Johnny noticed his handshake was soft, almost like that of a woman. John introduced the other two fellows, “This is Liam,” he said. Liam, a fat looking fellow in a donkey jacket grunted and shook his hand. His handshake was firm. Johnny thought briefly, semi violent, the hand of an Irish labourer who had IRA connections. Liam looked at Johnny suspiciously before sitting down. “And this is Danny,” John proclaimed. Danny, a grey-haired man in his 50s was wearing a smart three-piece suit and looked very inch a prosperous businessman.
“Pleased to meet you, Johnny,” Danny said before shaking his hand. Like Liam, Danny’s handshake was firm and strong, so strong in fact it made Johnny’s knuckles go white. “This is the handshake of a leader”, Johnny thought, perhaps an IRA leader.
He sat down at the table with the men. The old lady made them a large pot of tea. There was also baked Irish soda bread, scones and sandwiches on the table. Johnny spoke first in the most confident and gallus Glaswegian accent he could muster, “Right boys how can ah help you?” Liam looked slightly annoyed, scowled and grunted but said nothing. It was left to Danny to do the talking, “It’s not about you helping us, but how you can help the cause.” Johnny feigned confusion before replying, “The cause?” Danny gave a sly smile, “You’re no’ that daft Johnny, the cause to make Ireland one nation again. You can do your part.”
There was a pause as Johnny sipped his sweet tea, “Oh aye and what’s that?” Danny was straight to the point, “A lot of our best men are in jail or been interned. We need fresh blood. A young fella like you who is not on the army radar and can slip through the net.”
Johnny was grateful for the compliment, “So, tell me, what does it involve?” John was first to reply, “Danny is the leader of the Provisional IRA in Belfast and Liam is his right hand man. They have secured a load of rifles that need to be smuggled back to Ireland.” Johnny was interested, very interested, it sounded like a plot from a Hollywood movie. Danny clarified the situation, “Look we’ve just had a shipment from the Middle East. Guns and dynamite. We need you and your gang pals to shift them for us.”
Big John joined in, “They’re hidden in the dancehall. I had arranged for a couple of our fellas from Belfast tae pick them up but they’ve been incarcerated. Interned by the fucking British who should not be in Northern Ireland anyway.” Liam agreed saying, “We will not be mastered by some English bastards.”
“Ok boys, I agree,” Johnny said. “So what’s the score then?”
Danny replied, “The score is you and some of your boys pick up the gear from outside the dancehall and load it into a van, which we will provide, then drive it to Portpatrick. There, you will be met by a fishing boat which will take the cargo back to Ireland. Job done!”
“Sounds a doddle,” Johnny said, “Is there any money in it for me and the boys?” All three Irishmen looked annoyed with Liam giving him a violent stare. Danny sighed, “Johnny this is for the fucking cause – no money involved but we can give you the greatest gift of all.” Johnny looked confused, “Oh aye and what’s that?”
Danny replied, “The backing of the IRA. You get into trouble with anybody and we, the IRA, will be behind you. And I’ll tell you what, when we are behind you nobody will fuck with you again.”
Johnny nodded his head in agreement. Any future backing of the IRA would be worth far more than a couple of hundred quid in the bank.
John clarified the matter even further, “Look, we work on the principle that if you do us a favour, we owe you a favour. And when the time comes for you to collect that favour we will be there to back you up all the way. A favour from us is worth more than any money.”
It was then the plan unfolded. There would be a van waiting for Johnny and his crew at midnight on Saturday. All Johnny had to do was drive the van to Portpatrick, hand over the gear and then fuck off. The only problem was Johnny could not drive. Well, he could technically, as he had a provisional licence and had taken a few lessons from his father a couple of years back. But he was hardly confident enough to drive a van full of guns and explosives all the way to Portpatrick. It was a minor problem to him. He knew one guy who was a proficient driver, his old pal Malky. Johnny bade the three IRA men farewell and as he did so, they all shouted in unison, “Our day will come. Up the IRA!”
As he walked down the tenement stairs towards Thistle Street, he felt once again elated. Sure, he was now an IRA gun runner with the backing of no less than the leader of the Belfast IRA. But it was frustrating in a way, he could not exactly boast about it. He could not go into a pub and announce, “Ah’ve got a new job, an IRA gun runner!”
The thought amused him until he got onto the street. The three Irishmen were still in the car. The driver smiled once again and gave Johnny the thumbs up. Johnny gave the thumbs up back and winked.
The wink summed it up, he was going places, even if it was only Portpatrick.
Chapter 29
ADVENTURE
Malky agreed to the plan straight away. Not only was he a car fanatic but an adrenaline junkie – he thrived on adventure, the more dangerous the adventure, the more his adrenaline flowed. He liked the odd pint but to him nothing could replace the feeling of all that adrenaline pumping through his body. He was a proficient driver and an experienced car thief. His uncle Roger had taught him from an early age how to hotwire cars. If you fancied a stolen car with equally stolen number plates, Roger was the man to see. He could get you any car on the black market if the price was right.
He was always cruising round Glasgow in various cars which he had hot-wired. Malky had been his apprentice in crime, learning the tricks of the trade. Roger taught him to acquire and sell stolen licences and where to obtain dodgy plates.
But it all went wrong for Roger when he spotted a cracking looking red Jaguar just off Sauchiehall Street. Malky, then aged 12, was with his uncle at the time. They nicked the car and made off laughing all the way to a secret garage in Maryhill where they hid the vehicle. He said he had a “Paki business guy” who owned a string of shops who was quite willing to buy the stolen Jag for several thousand pounds. His plan was to ship it back to Pakistan.
All was going well until reports in the Glasgow newspapers proclaimed, CHIEF CONSTABLE’S CAR STOLEN. Of course from then on every bobby on the beat, every CID guy, every PC plod was on the look-out for the red Jag. The word got out amongst the cops- find the chief constable’s Jag and get a promotion.
Another thief, who was in custody for numerous vehicle thefts, gave police the information they were looking for. He grassed Roger up to escape an 18 month sentence. Both Roger and Malky got caught red-handed cruising in the Jaguar through Maryhill towards the Pakistani man’s shop. Roger ended up doing two years. Malky got off because of his young age and the two police officers who arrested them got promotions. The message was – don’t fuck with the chief constable, and don’t ever fuck with his red Jaguar.
Meanwhile, back in the present, Johnny met up with Malky and Chris in the Dixon Blazes bar in Caledonia Road. The place was empty. It was clear Malky was excited to be a part time recruit of the IRA. Chris, who was from an Irish background, was more sceptical. But after a few pints went down his throat, he seemed to go through a metamorphosis.
They all shook hands on the matter and just when they thought it was all sealed without any hassle, wee Alex turned up. He was told briefly about the plan and began to shout, “Ah want tae come, ah wan tae come, ah’m in.” But they made it clear he was not neede
d.
Besides, the last thing they required was a complete and utter nutcase sitting on a pile of guns. They would have all ended up in jail or in an asylum. “Nah,” Johnny said, “Ah’ve got enough handers at the moment Alex. Besides, there is only room for two passengers in the van, so maybe next time,”
Alex looked disappointed, “OK then, but if ye change your mind, let me know and I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
“Sure you will, Alex, sure you will,” Johnny said while patting Alex on the back. He looked like a social worker patting a spastic on the back before putting him on a bus for children with special needs. Saturday night came and the boys stood in South Portland Street waiting for the van to arrive. It was freezing cold and they waited and waited until their teeth chattered.
“Ach, ah don’t think those IRA tubes are gonnae turn up. Let’s fuck off, it’s freezing,” Chris said clapping his hands together to keep warm.
Malky agreed, “Johnny, they’ll no’ be turning up now, something must have gone wrong. It’s well past midnight.” Just as he said this, a large white van appeared and drew up beside them. John was at the wheel. He got out of the van and handed Johnny the keys who promptly handed them to Malky.
The Irishman took them to the back of the van, opened the doors and it was loaded with crates. They had stickers on them saying: ELECTRICAL PARTS. DO NOT OPEN AS COLD AIR WILL DAMAGE CIRCUITS.
John told the boys that as a decoy the first two large crates did indeed have electrical parts but the crates stored behind had guns, rifles and some hand grenades.
“Right boys” said the Irishman, “Keep to the story. If you are stopped by the police, tell them you are delivering electrical components to a factory near Portpatrick.” He handed Johnny a small loaded revolver, “And if any polis fucker tries to arrest you, shoot the bastard and make a quick getaway.”
Johnny was nervous and put the revolver is his coat pocket, as the Irishman walked away through the darkness, leaving them to their own devices. “Good luck boys,” he shouted in his thick Irish brogue.
Johnny, Chris and Malky went into the van. Johnny looked at the gun,“For fuck’s sake, ah’ve carried razors, knives and even a sword but never a gun.”
Malky laughed, “Shut up, ya big girls’ blouse, you’re in the IRA now. When in Rome, do as the Roman’s do.” Chris quipped, “More like when in Scotland do as the IRA do.”
They all burst into uproarious laugher as they drove through the night towards Portpatrick. It was a beautiful evening and the stars glistened like diamonds in the sky. Johnny felt less nervous when he hid the revolver under the passenger seat. Malky decided to drive the van fairly slowly through the back roads, so the journey of 100 miles would take about three hours. This way they would not attract the attention of the police. Through the night everything went well until they were about 20 miles from their destination when they saw a blue flashing light behind them.
“Fuck’s sake, it’s a panda car, we’re all done for now, ”Chris said in a nervous voice. Johnny was calmer but had beads of sweat on his forehead, “Shut up Chris, keep the head. Right Malky, you give the polis the patter, you’re the fucking motoring expert.”
They stopped the van and the panda car stopped behind them. A big policeman looked through the van’s open window at Malky and his passengers, he said, “Evening sir.” Malky was quick to reply, “Evening constable. Can we help you by any chance?”
The constable shone his torch into Malky’s face, “Can you tell me what you have in your van?” “Certainly constable,” Malky replied in what sounded like a posh Glaswegian voice, “We are delivering electrical components to a factory near Portpatrick.”
The constable replied, “Oh aye, do ye mind if you show me your load?” “Certainly officer,” Malky replied as he got out of the van. He opened up the back door and the policeman shone his torch inside. Johnny fingered the gun which he now had in his coat pocket. He would shoot the polis bastard if needs be. No way was he doing 20 years for this, even if it was for the IRA.
After looking at the crates with his torch, the policeman said, “That looks fine to me. Can I now look at your driving licence, sir?”
Malky replied with a smile, “Certainly officer, no problem.” He produced a driving licence from his pocket that said, ‘George McKinley.’ The officer studied it for a few seconds. Johnny fingered the gun. The policeman said, “That looks fine to me Mr McKinley. Sorry to have bothered you, but recently, there have been a lot of break-ins to farmhouses near here. I hope you understand that there are thieves and rogues everywhere at this time of night.”
Malky nodded in agreement, “I know what you mean, officer, you can never be too careful. There are lots of dodgy characters about. Thank goodness for policemen like you.” The policeman enjoyed the compliment and got into his panda car then made off through the night.
Johnny said, “Fucking hell, Malky, that was a close one. Good job you had the patter and the stolen licence”
“Aye, otherwise we would have been well done for, “Chris said with a sigh of relief. Johnny agreed and waved the revolver, “Ah was ready tae shoot the bastard… he’s a lucky man!”
The journey continued with Malky looking nonchalant at the wheel, “The trouble wi’ you guys is you’re too nervous. Take it easy.”
When they arrived at Portpatrick harbourside there was not a soul around and then, suddenly, two men approached the van. Johnny recognised them immediately, they were the Irish fellows he had spotted in the large car a few days before in Thistle Street. He handed one of them the revolver and instantly felt relieved. The two IRA guys carried the crates of guns to another vehicle before driving slowly away. Not much was said but the ruddy-faced driver gave Johnny the thumbs up sign which he had done in the Gorbals. Johnny did the same and added the familiar wink.
As they were heading back to Glasgow, Chris said, “Ah’ll tell you what, that was better than being at the pictures. Fucking unbelievable.”
“Too right Chris,” Malky said, “When you work for the IRA it’s just like being in a movie and we’re the stars!”
Johnny was pensive for a few moments, then replied, “Aye, like stars, in a fucking gangster movie!”
Chapter 30
TONY CURTIS
Johnny, once again, had terrible dreams. The big machines were chasing him and the faster they ran the slower his progress seemed to be. They caught him, almost crushed him. But he woke up in the nick of time, drenched in sweat. It was around 4am, the Gorbals was quiet but there were some sounds of rats fighting and a dog barking continuously. He hated the fucking barking! He had a good mind to get dressed find out who the owner was,sight and kick the fuck out of him. He smirked briefly thinking that the Gorbals was full of mad people with mad dogs. He then fell soundly back to sleep and this time the machines had gone, only to be replaced by Cathy with flowers in her hair standing in the Glasgow Green saying, “I love you” over and over again.
When Johnny did get up just after eight, he went as usual for a wash and a shave in the kitchen sink and looked at the world coming and going in Crown Street. Much to his surprise, something very interesting caught his eye. Passing by Thomson’s furniture shop, across the road he spied McCoy, fully recovered, with his father, accompanied by two men. One was short, fat and bald with a slight moustache, perhaps in his late 30s. The other was a tall, athletic-looking fellow, in his 40s, who could have passed for an ex-boxer.
The important thing was, as Johnny shaved, he saw them but they did not see him. Forewarned is forearmed. What the fuck was McCoy and his dad up to? Who were these two guys they were with? He had no doubt they were all part of a team planning to exact revenge on him.
He felt a shiver go down his spine, but it was not a shiver of fear. It was a shiver of apprehension. He was confident he could set about these four guys on his tod but if he needed reinforcements, they were on hand. He got dressed quickly and put on his new dark blue Arthur Black shirt. He looked in the mirror and combed his th
ick black hair, murmuring to himself, “Looking good Johnny boy, but you need a haircut.” He went into a chest of drawers and pulled out a hammer which he tucked into his waistband. “Just in case,” he thought. If they were going to attack him now, they were going to get beaten into a pulp.
He came out of the close into Crown Street but there was nothing to be afraid of, just the usual mob of faces, old men standing at the bank corner, families out for their messages. He went into Felix the barbers in Rutherglen Road and the place was empty. Felix looked pleased to see him, “How ya doin’, young fella. Same as usual?”
“Aye” Johnny replied, “Same as usual – a Tony Curtis.” Over the years, the haircut had become popular with gang leaders. The haircut gave Johnny a style that separated him from the other Cumbie gang members. “So, Johnny what have you been up tae?” Felix said while cutting his hair. “Ach a bit of this and a bit of that, ye know. If ah told ye, ah’d have to kill you!” Johnny replied in a humorous tone.
Felix laughed, “Ye cannae kill me ah’m the best barber in the Gorbals!” Johnny laughed, “Too true, Felix, you’re safe for the time being, until a better barber appears on the scene. But gi’ me any more of your cheeky patter and I’ll have tae give you a short back and insides!”
The banter continued until the Tony Curtis haircut was complete. Johnny looked in the mirror, “Good job as always, Felix.” The barber blushed with pride, the leader of Glasgow’s toughest gang was wearing one of his haircuts. Now that was an accolade!
Johnny felt more gallus than usual, the haircut had given him some kind of power. Some kind of charisma that he had been lacking in recent weeks. But he was careful- he scanned Crown Street for any hint of the McCoy mob, but no sign. But he did see ‘Mick the mixer’ standing outside a shop in Rutherglen road. He had known Mick from the age of five but even after all these years he still did not trust him. Nice enough guy to your face but he was two faced. He was always stirring things up between the boys at school. He would go up to one boy and say, “So and so has been saying something about you.” He would then go up to another boy and say the same thing. Result? A square go between the boys resulting in much bloodshed.
The Incredible Rise of a Gorbals Gangster Page 17