‘Look, Mr Dopolpolis, or whatever your name is, what do you want and how do you know who I am?’
Mr Dopolis shook his head sadly.
‘You young men! Always in a hurry!’
He snapped his fingers again and the boy brought over their drinks.
‘Please, Mr Ryan. Sit down and have a drink with me.’
Roy sat down opposite the man. Up close he realised that his first thought had been correct. Dopolis did stink of garlic.
‘Drink your whisky, Mr Ryan. We are going to have a little chat.’
Dimitri stood between the two of them and Roy noticed that he was carrying a gun. In his padded leather jacket it would have been virtually undetectable by anyone else. However, Roy was unnerved to observe that it was no ordinary handgun the youth was carrying. He would bet his last pound that the thigh-length leather the boy was wearing had a special ‘long pocket’ fitted inside it. That meant only one thing. Young Dimitri was carrying a sawn-off shotgun.
He glanced at the door, weighing up his chances of escape. Mr Dopolis laughed out loud, bringing Roy’s head round to face him again.
‘I know what you are thinking, young man.’ Dopolis held his hand up as if to stop Roy leaving. ‘You are free to go when you have heard what I have to say. You won’t need your gun. Not tonight anyway.’
The man’s voice was cold and calculating, as if he took great pains to pronounce his words properly.
Roy leant back in his chair nonchalantly and took a long sip of the Chivas Regal Dimitri had placed in front of him. He was well aware that he was not Brain of Britain. Roy had never overestimated himself. He could work the bookies, the hostess clubs, the minding. He was also first in line for any armed robberies that were in the offing. Roy was the eternal heavy. That’s why he was in the Lotus House now. He was collecting the ‘rents’, the protection money. What he did not know was that Dopolis had picked him out for these very qualities. He wanted a message taken to Michael Ryan and Roy seemed to be the perfect messenger boy.
‘I want you to tell your brother something for me, Roy. May I call you Roy?’ He did not wait for an answer, but carried on as if taking everything he said for granted. ‘I want you to tell Michael that although he has run the West End satisfactorily for many years, people are getting . . . how shall we say? . . . upset at the way he has gradually taken over East London and even parts of Essex!’
He laughed as if it was all a big misunderstanding. ‘He collects the “rents” on the restaurants and bookies, not to mention the pubs and the clubs. He owns all the cab ranks. He even has the monopoly on the ice cream and hot dogs. Not forgetting that he gets a percentage of any blags that take place on the manor. Now I ask you, is that fair? My friends and I would like to know what is left for us? We want to earn a living as well. We have all joined forces, so to speak. We have only one avenue left for making money - drugs - and the blacks have always had the edge where they’re concerned.’
His voice became low and conspiratorial, as if Roy was his dearest and oldest friend. ‘You must tell your brother what we have been discussing. Tell him that myself and many others have joined forces. We will fight him if needs be. Tell him that we want the East End. The pubs, the clubs, the restaurants. Everything. He must make do with the West End, North London and South of the water. Surely that is enough for him? Tell him that he has my word we will not interfere with him.’
Roy burst out laughing. He sat and literally roared with laughter. Great bursting gales of merriment that rendered him incapable of talking. This man was some kind of nutter. He had to be. Everyone in the East End who was employed in a ‘fringe’ business, whether it was a jellied eel or a market stall, worked indirectly for Mickey. Even the blaggers, and they were getting more and more as the years went on, came and saw Mickey or one of his intermediaries before nipping into their local Tescos waving their sawn-offs at everyone. Now this little Greek twat wanted him to take a threatening message to Michael. He bubbled over with laughter again, forgetting the youth with his shotgun, forgetting everything except the crazy man before him.
Dopolis stared at him icily.
‘You can laugh, Mr Ryan, but I am afraid that I and my friends are very serious. Very serious indeed. As you will soon find out.’
Roy wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. ‘Listen, Cocker, Mickey has not, as you put it, muscled in on the East End. We fought for this shitheap and we won it fair and square.’
The little man sat straighter in his chair. ‘Your brother -’ he pointed at Roy - ‘firebombed a taxi rank belonging to my cousin Stavros. Only two days after your brother’s funeral my cousin was crippled for life. He was so badly hurt he could not control his armies.’ Dopolis’s face was red with temper and he had flecks of spittle at the corners of his lips.
Roy interrupted him rudely.
‘Armies! What fucking armies? He couldn’t control a bumper car. He had my brother murdered!’ Roy was losing his own temper now. The last shred of fear dissolved in the face of Dopolis’s argument. Anthony’s death was still an open wound with all the Ryans.
Dopolis forced himself to remain calm. He smiled. ‘That famous Irish temper of yours . . . it will be your downfall one of these days. Remember this - when you are in a temper you do not think straight. Michael should have worked out an agreement with my cousin. Something that would have been satisfactory to both parties. If he had done that your brother would be alive today.’
‘Bollocks!’ Roy stood up. ‘Let me tell you something, Mr Oppodopolis or whatever your fucking name is . . . Mickey will rip your ears off and shove them up your arse. And he’ll smile while he’s doing it. So do yourself a favour and piss off. I’m a very busy man.’
He pushed Dimitri out of the way. ‘As for your Action Man, if you’re gonna use your weapon, do it now. You’ve been standing there like the orphan of the storm . . . you big prat!’
The boy looked at Dopolis who shook his head slowly. Roy walked through the service door into the kitchen of the restaurant.
Mr Wong was sitting in there with his wife and daughter clutching him, frightened. His son was standing behind his father. He had recent bruises around his face. They all stared at him pathetically. Roy’s blood was up now and taking his gun from its holster he stormed back into the restaurant. These people paid protection money. The least he could do was protect them. The restaurant was empty. He walked back to the kitchen.
‘What happened?’
All four started talking at once, the mother and daughter in Cantonese. Roy put his hands over his ears and shouted: ‘SHUT UP!’ at the top of his voice. They all stopped speaking abruptly. Roy pointed to the son, Hap Ki, who spoke reasonable English, and said: ‘You tell me what happened.’
‘I tell you, Mr Ryan. The man took monry we had for you. In future, he say, you pay monry to us. Get bugger! I say we pay Mr Ryan. We always pay Mr Ryan. Nor anymore they say. If we no give monry, then place burned to ground by weekend. Still we not pay. My father tell them that Mr Ryan good friend and will protect us . . . So they start to bash me in face.’ He pointed to his swollen eye. ‘So my father gave them monry. We can’t pay you now.’
Roy nodded. ‘Never mind about that now. Look, I’ll be back at the weekend as usual. If they come to see you before I get back here, phone me at this number.’ He took a small card out of his jacket pocket. ‘Now don’t worry. This will all be sorted out in a few days.’ He nodded to the women and walked out of the kitchen. He put his gun back in its holster. Then taking a serviette from the counter, carefully picked up the glass that Dopolis had used. Now, he thought, we’ll see how good our friends at the Met are.
He left the restaurant and went to his car. Tessa, his Doberman, was lying on the back seat asleep. She shot into action as he unlocked his car, barking and growling. Roy spoke to her gently until she calmed down. She had been lying asleep on more than sixteen thousand pounds. As the dog settled back down Roy smiled to himself. He collected over sixty-four thousand a month.
There was no way Michael was going to let that go, especially not to a relative of Stavros, the man who’d murdered Anthony. Roy started up the car. That Dopolis had to be some kind of head banger.
Michael Ryan was pacing up and down his office, a sure sign he was agitated. He pulled on his cigarette and blew the smoke out noisily from between his lips.
‘Did he look familiar like? Have you ever seen him about?’
Roy shook his head.
‘Nah, never seen him in my life before. He was a saucy fucker, though. The big bastard, Dimitri, was carrying a sawn-off, I’m certain of it. They’d collected old Wong’s rent before I got there so they were definitely waiting for me.’
‘What exactly did he say about Stavros?’
‘Just that he was his cousin, that we had bombed him out and while he was hurt . . .’ Roy laughed again ‘. . . he couldn’t control his “armies”. Armies, I ask you! Then he went on about you having the whole of London. Oh, Mickey, I tell you. He was a right prat.’
Geoffrey got up from his seat and glanced at his watch. ‘How about we let Roy get home and get some shut-eye? It’s nearly half-past four.’ He looked at Roy. ‘I expect you’re dying to get home. The baby’s due any day, isn’t it?’
Roy nodded, a big grin on his face.
Michael rubbed his eyes with his fingers and leant against the wall of the office.
‘I’m sorry, Roy. You get off home, mate. Tell Janine that she’s got to phone the old woman as soon as she comes into labour. The old Dutch is like a cat on a hot tin roof over this baby.’
Roy laughed.
‘If you could see the bloody stuff that they’ve got for it. Cots and cribs and bleeding layettes. It’s enough to drive a man to drink, I tell ya!’
Michael smiled. ‘You love it, mate. Is Carla going home when the baby’s born?’
Roy’s face dropped.
‘I don’t think so, Mickey. Maura’s house is nearer her college and that.’
There was an embarrassed silence. It was a well-known fact that Janine could not stand her daughter around her. Carla gravitated between her grandmother’s house and Maura’s. Geoffrey coughed loudly.
‘Anyway, mate, we’ll see you later on. Give Janine our best.’
‘I will, Geoff.’ He got up to go. Michael took a package off his desk and passed it to Roy.
‘One last thing, would you drop this off at Black Tony’s house? Tell him it’s a pound bag and I want the money for it by Saturday latest. Give it the big’un while you’re there. He’s been getting a bit lairy lately.’
Roy took the package.
‘Okey doke. See you later then.’
When he had left, Geoffrey poured out two brandies. Giving one to Michael, he sat himself in the easy chair opposite the desk. Michael sat at the desk rolling the brandy in his glass.
‘So, Mickey. What do you think? Trouble?’
Mickey sipped his drink. ‘With a capital T, Bruv.’
He tossed back the rest of the brandy and stood up. ‘Let’s get off home, Geoffrey, I’m knackered. I can’t think when I feel like this.’
Geoffrey gulped his own drink down. By the time he had pulled on his overcoat, Michael had already turned off the lights and made his way down the stairs. Outside the club they stood on the pavement, both gulping in the cool night air. Michael touched Geoffrey’s shoulder before getting into his car and driving off.
As Geoffrey watched Michael’s Mercedes pulling away he was aware of a feeling of annoyance. He walked slowly to where his own car was parked. He knew in his heart that Michael wanted Maura’s opinion on the night’s aggravation and he resented it. Over the last few years she had gradually moved up in the firm, until now, at only twenty-five, she practically ran the lot with Mickey. She was his right hand, as he never tired of telling anyone who would listen. She was the only person who could openly disagree with him and get away with it. This fact alone had earned her the respect not only of all her brothers but of the entire workforce, every man Jack of them. She had also masterminded a bank robbery that still had the police baffled eighteen months after the event. Geoffrey was beginning to hate her. Marvellous Fucking Maura . . . the Woman of the Century. He unlocked his car and sat in it for a few minutes, staring out into the night. His whole life had been built around Michael, and he was realising more and more each day that his brother did not really need him. It was a frightening thought. Without Michael, Geoffrey was nothing and he knew it. He started the car up. As he pulled away he turned on his radio. The soothing sound of the Carpenters filled the car. Geoffrey smiled to himself. Maura was like most women . . . give them enough rope and they generally hanged themselves. Eventually she would foul her nest and Michael would give her the bad news. All he had to do was wait.
He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and allowed the strains of ‘We’ve Only Just Begun’ to wash over him.
Michael had driven from the club to Maura’s house in Rainham, Essex. He had to see her about the events of the night. Maura had something that he would never have in a million years: she had a calculating nature. She never let her emotions interfere with her work. Michael respected this trait in her. Where he would lose his temper. Maura would calmly sort out a crisis. Her favourite expression was, ‘Think with your head, not your heart.’
He looked at the house. It was in darkness. He got out of his car. When Maura had bought this house he had laughed at her. It was a large Georgian monstrosity that had seemed to be falling down. Now, a year later, it was beautiful. She had put in new windows, new doors, and the large overgrown frontage was now an in-and-out driveway. She had bought the place for pennies and if she sold it she would more than double her investment. In Michael’s eyes this was another of Maura’s clever schemes. Something that, until she had looked into and studied, he would never have dreamt of investing in.
He crunched across the pea-shingled drive up to the large double front door. He rang the bell. About five minutes later a bedraggled Carla opened the front door to him, her face lighting up as she smiled.
‘Hello, Uncle Mickey. Auntie Maura’s just getting dressed!’ Michael playfully slapped her behind. ‘Don’t you let Maws catch you calling her “Auntie”! She’ll skin you alive!’ They walked into the lounge.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ Her voice was full of fun.
In fact, Carla was one big bundle of fun and laughter. She was a natural mimic, and had the gift of making people laugh. It always amazed Michael that her own mother had so little time for her. Still, he reflected, she had Maura and his mother. They more than made up for Janine’s indifference.
‘Shall I make a pot of tea?’
‘Yeah. There’s a good girl.’
He watched her as she left the room. At twenty she was a lovely girl. She still had reddish-brown hair and freckles, but now had the grace that her mother had always had. She walked like a cat, with a long-legged stride. As she was now, in a shortie nightdress, her legs looked impossibly long. Michael sat himself on the Chesterfield and waited for Maura. When she walked into the lounge she looked as if she had never even been asleep. Her blonde hair was now cut in a bob and it was immaculate. She wore a pink silk robe that barely covered her full breasts, and high-heeled mules. She grinned at her brother.
‘So what brings you here at daybreak?’
‘There’s been some trouble, Maws.’
‘I guessed as much. Ah, here’s Carla with some tea!’
She took the tray and placed it on the Edwardian table to the left of the sofa. As she poured the tea Carla kept up a stream of chatter.
Michael smiled and answered Carla’s seemingly endless supply of questions, relaxing back into his seat. Maura had good taste. The room was decorated in a mixture of peach tones and pinks. The carpets and heavy drapes were a deep burgundy. It was a cosy room. Even though it was full of expensive furniture it was a room that looked lived in, from the magazines on the coffee table to the Jacobean bookcase full of every title imaginable. Dickens and T
rollope rubbed shoulders with Harold Robbins and Len Deighton. Maura’s tastes in reading were as extreme as everything else in her life.
Carla did not think it at all strange that her uncle should get them out of bed at six in the morning. It was like everything else in her life with them. The unexpected was the norm around here and you had better get used to it or you were liable to go up the wall!
Michael and Maura allowed Carla to chatter to them. She was like the family mascot. Loved by them all, as if the rejection she had experienced when her mother had literally handed her over to Sarah, had made her their communal property. In their own ways, they tried to make up to her for what her mother had done. Though with Maura, Michael guessed, it went deeper. Carla was the child she had had aborted from her body. She was funding Carla through college. Maura made sure that Carla had everything, from decent clothes to a small car.
Carla finished telling them about her latest boyfriend and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece of the Louis XVI fireplace.
She squealed: ‘Oh, no it’s nearly seven o’clock! I’d better get a move on. I’ve got to leave at eight!’ She flitted from the room, all legs and hair. Michael laughed.
‘She’s a nice kid, Maws.’ Even though Maura was only five years older than Carla, no one ever alluded to that fact. It was as if Maura had always been a woman. In Michael’s eyes anyway she had never been any different. She had been a little sister for a long time, then she had become the mainstay of his life. There had never been an inbetween. Maura had never seemed to have that coltish look that Carla had. That magical illusion that was the turning point from adolescent to woman. Maura had become a woman overnight and had been one ever since. Maura Ryan had been a women from the age of seventeen.
‘She’s a good kid, Mickey, as well as a nice one. I miss her when she’s at Mother’s.’
‘I bet you do. She’s company in this great big rattling drum of yours.’
Maura laughed. ‘You leave my house out of it. You’re just gutted that you didn’t buy it. Now what’s all this about? What’s happened?’
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