by Martina Cole
Maura walked into the caravan feeling sick with apprehension. It had gone much better than expected. Michael laughed and shook his head slowly. ‘Sure you want all this hag, Princess?’
‘Yes, Michael, I’m sure. Now, if you don’t mind. I have some books to look over.’
‘Oh, well. Pardon me for breathing.’
Maura laughed. ‘Have a quick coffee before you go. There’s still a few things I’m not sure of.’
‘Okey doke. But I’ll say this much to you now, Maws, you did well out there. They’re the scum of the earth but they’re good workers. But for Gawd’s sake, watch them! If they kiss your hand, count your fingers. And if any get a bit too saucy, you let me know. Most of them would put their granny on the streets if they thought she could pull a few bob. Start as you mean to go on, love. Be fair but hard. That’s the only law they know. Show that you’re stronger than them and you’ve got friends for life. Show a chink of weakness and . . . well, to put it bluntly, you’re fucked.’
‘I’ll remember that, Mickey. Now about these books?’
‘You sort out the books, Maws. I know sod all about it. I told Benny to get his arse down here this morning and show you what he’d been doing. All I ever did was pick up the overall total. How Benny got to it, I don’t know. So you’ll have to sort that lot out yourself.’
‘Well, Benny should be here soon. I’ll ask him.’
‘You do that. Now one last thing, Maws. In the drawer of your desk, on the right hand side, is a gun.’
‘A gun?’
‘Yes, a gun. I told you this was a dangerous business. But don’t worry. I’ve left one of my best boys outside. No one will bother you while he’s there. But just in case, that’s where the gun is. If the filth come snooping about, tell them that they’re paid up to next month. If they see you here they might try it on. On no account get rid of that firearm. Right?’
Maura nodded. She looked troubled and Michael laughed. ‘Still think you can hack it?’
She straightened in her seat. ‘Yes, I bloody well can. Now do you want a coffee or not?’
As she went to put the kettle on she had a fleeting feeling of being involved in something way over her head. She pushed the thought and the feeling firmly from her mind. This was her inauguration into the world of the Ryans. This was to be her career and she would make her name synonymous with villainy. Her brother Michael wouldn’t be in it once she got started!
Danny Forster had been a runner for nearly two years. He worked for ‘Big Bill’ McEwan, a large extrovert Scotsman. He was standing at Baker Street tube station, watching for roving policemen and Panda cars. It was a bright spring day and the tourists were just arriving in force. He saw a strange van parking just down the road from him. It was a Milano Bros ice cream van. He frowned. Within minutes they were open for business. He walked quickly past the van. Inside were four men. He could not see any runners so he assumed that two of the men were breakers. He walked slowly back to Madame Tussaud’s and told the Scotsman what he had seen.
Big Bill McEwan was not known for his quiet temperament. He was once described by a judge as ‘a most obnoxious individual who should not be walking the streets with innocent people’. Big Bill had taken this as a compliment. He saw himself as different from the average person and was gratified that someone educated, as the judge so obviously was, should agree with him. Getting his considerable bulk out of the ice cream van he meandered down to the rival camp. When he arrived he realised that he had been expected.
‘This is my patch. I want you lot to piss off - and sharpish!’ His large stomach, hanging over his trousers, quivered as he spoke.
A very good-looking Italian smiled at him, displaying perfect teeth.
‘We have a licence. Legally we are allowed to be here. I think it is yourself who is maybe . . . how you say? . . . in the wrong.’
Big Bill stared at the man through small piggy eyes. He decided that the Italian was probably a simpleton. Everyone in the ‘creaming’ business knew who he was. That’s why he got to work ‘The Sword’, one of the best pitches in London.
‘Are you going to fuck off or not?’ His voice brooked no argument. By now a crowd had gathered to watch the exchange. Tourists and Londoners alike sensed that a battle was taking place and stood waiting to see who would be the victor.
‘No . . .’
Before the Italian could finish his sentence, Big Bill was already walking away and hauling himself back into his van, a bright pink and yellow affair with ‘Dingle Dells Ice Cream’ written in green letters along the sides. Without speaking to his server he started up the van and reversed out of his parking place. The server was still trying frantically to get a lid on the hotplate, which was covered in chopped onions and half-cooked hamburgers. He turned off the gas and the ice cream valves. He was not taking any chances.
Big Bill drove his ice cream van straight at the Milano Bros vehicle. The four men inside stood rooted to the spot as they realised his intention. He hit the back of their van so hard a box of flakes that had been standing on one of his own back shelves shot forward into the front seat, crumbling its contents all over Big Bill’s trousers.
He reversed back again and once more rammed the Italians’ van. They were hanging on to anything they could grab. Then, pulling his van up beside the driver’s window. Big Bill shouted at the four men: ‘I’ll be back tomorrow with shooters and anything else it takes to shift you. This is your one and only warning.’
Then he drove away at a leisurely pace. The Hot Dog War of 1967 had started.
Maura listened to all that Big Bill had to say. In the few weeks she had been doing the job she had begged for, she had gained an insight into the world of the ‘creamers’.
‘So what are you going to do, Mrs?’
Maura sighed. If he called her ‘Mrs’ once more she would strangle him.
‘Well, Bill, I’m not sure exactly what action I’ll take yet, but I promise you that I’ll have it sorted in the next twenty-four hours, OK?’
‘You’d bloody well better have, Mrs. I’ve lost an awful lot of money today.’
Maura cut him off. ‘I’m quite well aware of that, Bill. Now you shoot off home and leave this to me.’ He turned to go and she called him back.
‘One more thing. My name is either Maura or Miss Ryan. I don’t care which you use. But, please, don’t call me Mrs.’ She smiled at him icily.
‘Fair enough, Mrs. I’ll let you know what I decide to call you.’
Maura mentally chalked one up to Big Bill.
Left alone she pondered what he had told her. This was the chance she had been waiting for. If she could successfully pull this off alone, without any help from her brothers, she would be set. She called in her minder, a large black man called Tony Dooley after his grandfather, an Irishman who had taken a West Indian woman as his wife. Tony stood in front of Maura as she outlined her plan. When she had finished, he smiled. Maura took the gun from the drawer and placed it in her shoulder bag. It was time to go and see the Milano Brothers.
George Milano surveyed the young girl before him. He let his gaze roam over her body. He decided she had good tits. He was disappointed that Michael Ryan could make such a bad decision. He had always understood that Michael was an astute businessman. He had respected him. Then this! It had hit the street that he had given his little sister the ice cream and hot dog business. Now she sat here, in his office, making veiled threats. It was laughable! He smiled at her.
‘Listen, Miss Ryan, I appreciate you coming here today to speak to me, but I’m afraid that you are wasting your time. I have legitimate licences for all those vans of mine. My advice to you is to go and see your big brother . . . or has he given control of the rest of his businesses to your mother?’ He spoke in a sarcastic manner, causing Maura to grit her teeth.
‘So you won’t listen to what I have to say?’ Her voice was soft. He shook his head, still smiling that maddening smile. Maura stood up. She noticed him looking at her legs.
‘Very well, Mr Milano. We shall have to come to some other arrangement.’
She left the office with Tony Dooley following her, her head held high. Milano might have won the first battle but she was determined to win the actual war. She went from the Milano Brothers’ offices in Aldgate East to Brixton where she had a meet with one of Tony Dooley’s brothers. Two hours later she left the meeting smiling.
Back in the caravan she had a telephone call from Michael. She assured him that it was all under control. All he had to do was wait. Tony made her a cup of coffee and they sat together companionably. News came in all day of different pitches that had been encroached on. Maura told each driver the same thing. To go home and come back the next day.
Geoffrey was annoyed and Michael knew it. ‘She can’t cope with all this on her own!’
‘Let’s just see how she gets on, Geoff. I think she might surprise us.’
‘What if she gets hurt? Have you thought of that?’
Michael laughed. ‘She won’t. Why do you think I gave her Tony Dooley? Just leave her be, Geoff. If she cocks it up we can easily take over. If she gets a result, she’s proved herself a worthy asset. Now let’s forget it.’
Geoffrey was livid with Michael. How could a young girl like Maura be expected to cope with the likes of the Milano Brothers? ‘Have you any idea how she’s going to sort it all out?’
Michael lost his temper. Sometimes Geoffrey was like an old woman!
‘No, I ain’t! Now for fuck’s sake give it a rest. She asked for twenty-four hours and she’s gonna get it, all right?’
‘All right . . . all right. Keep your hair on!’
They sat together in silence. Michael hoped that Maura did not let him down. He was well aware of the stir her appointment as head of the creamers had created on the street. He had been a laughing stock, not only among rival villains but among his own workforce. Not that anyone would ever say it to his face. In their world women were either wives or mistresses. They were not thought capable of running a ‘moody’ business, unless they were brasses; then they sold the only asset they had, their bodies, and nine times out of ten a man was behind that - either a pimp or a boyfriend. He crossed his fingers as he thought about what he had done. A lot lay on Maura’s performance in the next twenty-four hours. He just hoped that he had not overestimated her.
George Milano was forty-five years old. His wife was twenty-two. She had flown over from Palermo two years earlier, a week before he married her. She had already given him two sons, and was lying beneath him passively as he puffed and panted on top of her when the telephone by the bed rang. George glanced at the clock. It was two o’clock in the morning. Not letting his stroke falter, he answered the phone, still pumping away at her. She watched his face, a detached expression in her eyes. She had been quick to learn that if she lay quietly he was soon finished. Even though she felt nothing for this fat old man on top of her, it annoyed her female pride that he answered the phone while he made love to her.
‘Yeah?’ His voice was breathy and stilted.
‘Is that George Milano?’ It was Maura Ryan’s voice! He was so shocked he nearly missed his stroke.
‘What do you want?’
‘I just thought I’d let you know that your yard was blown up five minutes ago. I happened to be there when it went up.’ The line went dead.
As did George’s erection. He lay on top of his young wife with his mouth hanging open, the telephone receiver still in his hand.
Magdalena Milano brought up her long slender arms and, putting a finger under her husband’s chin, pushed his mouth closed. She had to endure his nightly assaults, she accepted that, but she did not have to look at his false teeth and his yellow tongue.
The action spurred him back to life. He leapt from the bed, his flaccid penis lost in the roll of fat that was his stomach. Screaming abuse in Italian, he began to dress himself. Magdalena rolled over and closed her eyes, grateful to whoever was on the phone for cutting her husband’s sexual appetite short. When he left the house five minutes later she was asleep.
By the time George got to his yard in Aldgate East the worst of the fires had been put out. He saw a police car and went straight to the officers standing by it.
‘I know who did this thing! It was the Ryans! They rang me up to tell me . . .’ His voice trailed off. Sitting in the police car was Maura Ryan.
She looked at him innocently. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Suddenly George Milano realised exactly what he was up against. His vision of usurping the Ryans’ position in London was replaced by one of his body floating in the Thames. He heard the two officers laughing. Turning from their grinning faces he went to what had once been his yard. Nearly all his vans were destroyed. As Maura watched the man’s shoulders slump inside his suit she felt a moment of pity for him. She had just ruined his business. Then her heart hardened as she reminded herself that if he had had his way the boot would be on the other foot. She got out of the police car. Her brother owned most of the officers in this area. She went to George Milano and put her hand on his shoulder.
‘I did try to warn you, Mr Milano.’
He nodded imperceptibly. ‘I know that.’
‘I’m not sorry for what happened here tonight, but I am sorry it had to come to this.’
He nodded again. She left him. Getting into her car with Tony Dooley, she went to her own yard. She would stay there for the rest of the night with Tony and a couple of his friends. If there were going to be any comebacks she would sort that out herself as well.
Tony bought the Daily Mirror at five-thirty. The explosion in the Milanos’ yard had made the middle pages. It said that following the ramming of rival ice cream vans in Baker Street, a well-known Italian ice cream merchant’s yard had been firebombed. The police believed it was the work of another Italian family. The Italians were known to be the main distributors of ice cream in London and the surrounding areas. The story went on to describe George Milano’s father’s rise to riches. From an ice cream barrow-boy in the late eighteen hundreds, he had built up the Milano Brothers business empire . . .
Maura, Tony and the other men laughed. They had done it!
Michael took the call from George Milano at nine-fifteen. ‘Hello, Michael. It is George . . . George Milano. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, Georgie. Which is more than I can say for you, ain’t it?’
‘I did not realise your sister had your protection . . .’ His voice sounded desperate. Michael cut him off.
‘My sister has my protection, Georgie, but only when she asks for it. Whoever done that bit of business last night works for her, Georgie, not me. It’s her you’ve got to pacify.’
The line went quiet.
‘I know what you was thinking, Georgie. Chatter always gets back to the person being chattered about. I know what the word was on the street. That I was a nutter for allowing my sister to take over the creamers. But it paid off, didn’t it? She pissed all over your fireworks, didn’t she? Well, I’ll tell you again. If you wanna bargain, you do it with her.’
He replaced the telephone in its cradle, then laughed out loud. He looked at Geoffrey, and, pointing to the newspaper on his desk, said, ‘She’s a fucking girl ain’t she?’
At six-thirty that morning Maura’s workforce turned up for work. They greeted her warmly. She had not only their respect but their friendship. To Maura this was an added bonus. As she watched them sorting out their vans and stocking up, she felt a sudden pride in what she had done. They drove from the site with her watching. Then, as if all of one mind, they began to play their jingles. The noise was deafening. The Dingly Dell music was a clanging rendition of the old music hall favourite: ‘How much is that doggy in the window?’
Maura laughed out loud as she placed her hands over her ears to blot out the noise. All that day she found herself humming the tune. It was a turning point in her life. Within eighteen months she ran every site in London. Thanks to her own natural friendline
ss, coupled with a ruthless use of pickaxe handles and muscle men, Maura Ryan was well and truly on her way.
Book Two
Pecunia non olet
(Money has no smell) - Emperor Vespasian, AD 9-79
I fear the Greeks,
even when they bring gifts - Virgil 70-19 BC
Chapter Fourteen
1975
Roy walked into the Lotus House Restaurant in Dagenham. It was three-thirty in the morning, 1 December 1975. He walked up to the tiny bar in the corner of the restaurant and banged on the counter. He frowned. Mr Wong was usually there to greet him, offer him a complimentary drink and pay him his money. Instinctively, Roy’s hand went into his jacket, to the gun that he kept there. With his free hand he banged once more on the counter.
‘Oi, anyone at home!’
He sensed rather than heard two men step from the shadows of the dimly lit room. He turned to face them.
‘Mr Ryan? Mr Roy Ryan?’ A short swarthy man stood there smiling at him - an oily smile that dripped from his face. Looking at him, Roy knew that if he got close enough the man would stink of garlic. His hand tightened on his gun. ‘You have no need of your firearm tonight, Mr Ryan. I am intending to be very nice to you. Very friendly. I am a very generous man.’
He snapped his fingers at the large muscular young man beside him.
‘Dimitri, get Mr Ryan and myself a drink.’ As the younger man walked to the bar, the smaller one offered Roy a seat.
‘Who are you?’ His voice was careful and controlled.
‘I am Mr Dopolis. You may laugh if you want.’ He paused to allow Roy to chuckle. Roy ignored him. ‘Normally you English hoot with laughter when you hear it.’ He shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, that was my father’s name and his father’s before him.’ He smiled again. ‘I could not have changed it.’ His voice was conversational, as if they were old friends.