The card school broke up. Blue decided to stay with Regan and Red for the night in their rented cottage about three hundred yards away from Yosser’s home. This was a cottage they rented as winter approached. Living in the van had become impractical. All three woke the next day with blinding headaches, the hangover from hell.
“Only one thing for it,” Regan croaked through dry lips and arid throat, “hair of the dog.”
“Fucking A,” agreed Blue and Red followed suit.
Several pints of Guinness were the order of the day for breakfast, no food – just Guinness. “Guinness is food,” cried Regan. “It was food for my father, his father and all my Paddy ancestors!”
Red frowned and said, “Begorrah, not the Irish bullshit again.”
All three had toked some weed before the pub “breakfast.” No doubt that contributed to all three howling with laughter at the last exchange between Red and Regan.
The thing was - from both perspectives, Blue on one side and Regan and Red on the other, a relationship had formed. All three felt comfortable in the company of each other. The next day Blue cashed in on this camaraderie when he asked Regan and Red to drive him to Liverpool to meet an old friend of his. The name of the friend was Bill.
There was a knock at the door of Room 207, the Feathers Hotel, Liverpool. Bill was half asleep but in a state of dress. By habit he reached under the pillow to feel for the handle of his gun. It was there and he slipped it into the ankle holster still strapped to his leg. He opened the door of Room 207 and saw Blue, Regan and Red in the doorway.
Chapter Ten
LATE SEPTEMBER 1976
REGAN KNEW THE TIME was ripe to call Bill following the meeting in Liverpool and the subsequent drive from that city to Wales. He called the number provided by Bill.
“You are in then?” Bill asked Regan.
“I’m not saying that. Just saying let’s meet and talk. Not over the phone.”
“Okay. Where and when?”
Regan replaced the handset on the cradle and puffed out his cheeks to release tension. He turned to the other man in the room and said, “Okay, Red, it’s all set. Next week. I’ll pick you up at your place Tuesday at 11 am.”
“Alright boss,” Red replied as he pulled a funny face and threw a mock salute. Regan ignored his buddy and close friend.
Regan nodded when Red spoke next, “Suppose that means we have a few days off now.” It wasn’t a question.
THE GLOUCESTERSHIRE countryside was home to Red. He grew up and still had family there including his father. He hadn’t been close to him when younger but now his father was ailing in health, Red spent more time with him – whenever the undercover work permitted. Red’s partner for the past five years, Jenny, understood. She was that kind of woman. Regan had got to know her well and often thought he should find a woman like her. “Have you got a sister,” Regan once asked Jenny. “No, only two daughters but too young for you, so stay away Regan,” she laughed.
This break gave Red another chance to be with his father. He always called his father ‘Fred.’ There was no reason to that. It was simply fact.
“Hey, Fred,” Red called out through the letterbox of the Forest of Dean house with its pebble-dashed walls. His father had lived there for forty years. These houses were built in an era when size mattered. The house was roomy by any standards. The gardens, both front and back, were also generous. Red’s father had always worked on the land before ill health prevented him from any kind of daily toil.
Fred had no money worries. He owned the home he lived in. He had paid off the mortgage arranged for him by the previous landlord and landowner. It had been a tied cottage, like all the neighbouring homes, but the owner knew Fred was an asset so he allowed him to buy the home he had previously rented.
Few men who work the land dream of owning their home. So, Fred was surprised when his boss, the landowner made the offer. He was also worried because he did not understand. Fred contacted an old friend, Jack, to advise him. They had known each other from schooldays. They clicked despite their very different personalities. Jack left school and became a civil servant with a government department. Fred worked the land getting his hands dirty. Jack advised him to proceed saying, “It was a great opportunity.” No one knew of this arrangement except for the landowner, Jack, and Fred.
Fred heard Red’s call at the front of the house. “Is that you, son?” wheezed a response. Fred was a three pack a day man. Red’s father opened the front door to let Red in. Turning back down the narrow hall, Fred said, “Tea?”
They sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Red gazed out of the kitchen window to the overhanging sycamore tree.
“It needs pruning.”
A few coughs were followed by a nod and Fred replied, “Yes. It’s getting out of hand.”
“Any petrol in the chainsaw?”
“Yeah, but don’t bother. I’ll get around to it.” Fred coughed and spluttered some more. Red ignored his father as the response was bravado and pride on his father’s part.
Red fired it up and the old chainsaw roared into life. As he looked around for the ladders, Red slipped on a moss covered paving stone.
Fred heard the commotion and wheezed his way to the back door.
“Oh my God,” was all he said.
The paramedics arrived to find Red prostrate on the grass lying in a pool of blood, his left arm severed at just below the elbow. Red was alive but with the weakest of pulses. It took the paramedics fifteen minutes to reach the emergency department where Red was rushed straight to the operating theatre.
Chapter Eleven
RICK GREEN CALLED REGAN to tell him about Red.
“Fucking hell, boss! Stupid bastard!”
“Look, take another week off. Go see Red when he can receive visitors ...”
“Fuck no. I gotta take care of business. The show must go on and Red would agree with me on that score. I know he would.”
REGAN PARKED THE VAN next to the shiny clean rental car. The driver of the car had flashed the headlights three times. Regan knew the driver was Bill. The meeting had been arranged for Epsom Downs, the home of England’s famous horse race – the Derby. A large unmade car park accommodated both van and car in addition to several delivery trucks with drivers taking their mandatory break.
Bill sauntered across to the van parked nose in overlooking the magnificent view of Central London to the east, Heathrow to the north and the Hogs Back to the west. Neither Bill nor Regan were in the mood for touristy views.
“Where’s Red?” snapped Bill.
“Cut his fucking arm off with a chainsaw.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Regan put on that stone face look – the don’t fuck with me look.
“Sorry. Tell him I hope he recovers soon.”
“What? As in grow another arm?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, sorry, I’m still shocked about it.”
“I bet.”
“Where’s Blue, anyway?”
“Gone to Miami. Seeing to business.”
“I see,” Regan said. “Okay, fuck all the small talk. What’s the deal?”
“You got a passport?”
“No.”
“Get one, pronto. I need you in Miami in two weeks.”
“No problem. But what about the visa?”
“You limeys don’t need one. You’re good to go on arrival Stateside. Here, take this.”
Bill handed Regan a slip of folded paper. “Don’t bother reading it now. It has a time, date, room number and motel name in Miami. Be there. Likely someone will meet you at the airport but this is just in case.”
“But what about the product?”
“Change of plan. You are going to meet the main people. If it all goes to plan, you will be rich beyond your dreams. I take it that interests you?”
“See you in Miami,” Regan said extending his hand towards Bill. They shook hands - a firm hands
hake.
Regan looked into the side mirror of the van. He watched Bill drive away off the car park and turn left towards Epsom. He decided to stay a while and dream. Those same dreams returned. This time they were day dreams. The same fast cars, beautiful blonde, a life of leisure and no money worries.
Why not? Why should it be some other asshole and not me? It’s not as if I’m forcing druggies to use the crap. That’s up to them. Besides, my piece of the action is far removed from the street. No more debt. No more worries. I can tell the bank manager where to stick his overdraft. What overdraft? The bastard won’t give me one!
“Fuck it. I’m gonna do it. Go rogue,” Regan’s own words disturbed his day dream.
Then the argument commenced in his head.
You will end up in jail, he thought.
“I can do the time,” he answered his own thought out loud.
What about your Mum and Dad? They would be devastated.
“I knew you would say that!” he yelled back at the questions and accusations running through his head.
Regan’s father had been a cop for twenty-five years. He was proud of his old man. Although they had their differences, they were close after a fashion.
“He will get over it,” said Regan to no one in particular, but thoughts were still racing through his mind.
What about Mum?
A tear rolled down from Regan’s eye. “Oh fuck me! Why mention her?”
Steve Regan was the first born. His mother had always doted on him. She could see no wrong in him even when he did wrong. Regan loved his mother and could not countenance the thought of her crying if he ended up in jail. So, he dismissed the thought from his head with the same speed it had entered. The tears dried up.
“BOSS, I NEED A PASSPORT and need it double quick.”
“What for? Where are you going?” asked Green.
“Miami, Florida, the United States of A!”
“Over my dead body!”
“Bang! Bang! You’re dead,” Regan pointed a make-believe gun and pulled the make-believe trigger twice.
Three days later Regan held his new passport in his hand. “Hey boss, I don’t know how you do it but that was rapid.”
Rick Green fired back, “You don’t want to know. Come in my office, Steve.”
As Regan eased into the leather high-backed chair and stretched out his long legs, Green closed the door behind them.
“Uh uh! I’ve seen that look before. I could be in for a bollocking.”
“No bollocking, but I do want a serious chat.”
“That’s even worse. A bollocking I can take, but seriousness ...”
“Steve, shut the fuck up ... please. And take off those sunglasses. I bet you sleep with them on.”
Regan removed the Aviators and said, “Sorry boss. Go ahead.”
“I’m concerned about this trip ...”
Regan’s mouth started to move ... “Shut the fuck up.” Green cut off Regan before he could utter a word.
“These guys are serious players. Fucking Colombians ....”
“Bolivians actually, boss.”
“Same fucking thing. They don’t fuck about. This isn’t our guys making acid here. These are the real deal. Nasty fuckers. What really worries me is you are going in alone now that Red is off the scene.”
“In some ways that’s better.”
“How so?”
“These guys are gonna be wary of a twosome. It’s kinda like classic Starsky & Hutch stuff, don’t you think? Besides less chance of cock-ups if I go alone.”
“Yes, there is that to be said for it but how are you going to keep in touch?”
“I’m not. Too risky.”
“Take a wire with you,” Green said.
“No fucking way, boss. Those things are the size of house bricks. I’m dead if they pat me down and find that thing and the wires. Besides you need half a ton of sticky tape to stop it falling and hitting the floor with an almighty bang. ‘Oh fuck me!’ says I – ‘where did that come from?’ No way!”
“I have to agree with you on that one. Promise me this – as soon as you land back at Heathrow, call me.”
“Promise.”
“And don’t do anything stupid.”
“Such as?”
“Just behave, is all.”
“You sound like my dad,” laughed Regan.
“Fuck off, Steve. Who would want you as a son?”
“My mother?”
Green erupted in laughter, “You have always got an answer.”
“Let’s hope that is always the case. It may just keep me alive.”
“Bon Voyage, Steve, bonne chance.”
“Ca Va! Et au revoir.”
Chapter Twelve
MIAMI, OCTOBER 1976
MIAMI INTERNATIONAL Airport seemed to be always surrounded by cumulus nimbus. Those huge hammerhead clouds signifying thunderstorms were close at hand. Humidity and thunderstorms go hand in hand. Steve Regan walked towards the glass sliding doors of the airport. Whoosh – they opened as if by magic and whoosh Regan felt wet. Not just wet but soaked. Within seconds his shirt stuck to his back. He had never experienced such humidity.
“Like being in a sauna,” Regan said to his driver.
The driver of the white stretch limousine ignored him. His task was to meet Regan and drop him at the motel. He wasn’t paid to talk. Besides, he knew talking could get you in trouble with his bosses.
“Talk to me fuckin’ self then,” Regan mumbled. The driver did not hear or chose to ignore the Regan cussing. Instead the driver, who reminded Regan of a Mexican featherweight boxer in looks and physique, took the bag containing Regan’s belongings and placed it into the trunk of the limousine with its mandatory black tinted windows.
This is the life, thought the undercover cop. I really could get used to this. But not the friggin’ heat, as he wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled his shirt away from his sticky back. As Regan climbed into the first row of seats behind the driver, he felt the contrast. The air-conditioning of the vehicle had been set at 60 Fahrenheit. Boy, this is good. Cold, but good. Regan was equally as impressed with the stealth of the limo as it purred away from the terminal. He was unable to detect any engine noise; only the swish of the tyres on concrete. Regan glanced up and saw the breeze making the fronds of the palm trees dance.
It took around forty minutes through heavy traffic to arrive at his destination, a beachfront full-service condo overlooking Miami Beach. Steve Regan checked in, immediately feeling comfortable in his new surroundings. Sure beats Blackpool, was an idle thought.
The bell boy carried his solitary bag to Room 620 and gained access to the room. Regan stepped inside. It wasn’t a room. It was a suite with a large living area, a kitchen/dining space, large bedroom with a king size bed and best of all a huge balcony overlooking the ocean. He tipped the bell boy a one dollar bill and received a cheery, “Have a nice day!” Regan thought, They really do say that here, and grinned.
There was a large TV set so Regan pressed the red button on the remote and it flickered into life. He spent the next five minutes zapping through the multitude of channels. He never knew so many existed. The unfamiliar but typical American ring tone of one drawn out ring of a nearby phone drew his attention. Regan found it a contrast to the British trill-trill sound. Just like in the movies, he thought.
Picking up, he spoke into the mouthpiece, “Yes.”
It was Bill. “Listen, Steve, get settled in buddy. It’s a long flight and you must be whacked. Let’s meet and talk tomorrow after breakfast. I will send a car for you.”
“No argument from me.”
“One more thing. Do you want some company tonight?”
“What do you ....”
“What do you think? You want a girl for the night?”
“No mate. Thanks, but as you say, I’m whacked.”
“Okay but the booze is in the fridge. It’s all on the house so enjoy. Same with room service if you get hungry.” The lin
e went dead.
Regan used the telephone to order room service. A cheeseburger the size of a small loaf of bread defeated him. It was too much even for his voracious appetite. He finished off all six cans of beer and fell asleep fully clothed on the giant sofa in the living area. It was eight in the evening local time.
He woke, startled, at exactly two the following morning and could not get back to sleep. “Bloody jet lag,” he said out loud to no one as the room was empty. He carried on with the monologue. “Time to shower.”
Pow! Regan could not believe the force from the shower head. “What the fuck!” He yelled again, “How do they do that?” Now acclimatised to the force of the water, he soaped up and spent the next ten minutes in the shower. I could really get used to all this, was his overriding thought.
Regan wiped the bathroom mirror with the towel and surveyed his face. He looked younger and cleaner and not because of the soap and water. He thought it best to dispense with the hippie look. Not entirely, but tone it down some. His hair was now cut shorter but still hung well over his collar and the beard had vanished. A droopy Mexican-style moustache still adorned his top lip.
Steve Regan spent the remainder of the night watching old movies, Once more mesmerised by High Noon. No matter how many times he watched that film, he never tired of it. He first watched it at the cinema in Liverpool. He was no older than ten when his parents took him to see it. They were both film fans. Regan started to think about his mother.
Mum, I hope you understand. If I go rogue please don’t disown me. I love you. It was now daybreak. His chest rose and fell and he started to sob. His soul was troubled.
A few moments later Regan snapped out of his introspection, once more talking to no one save for his inner self, “Fuck this! Get real or you’re going to fuck up big time, Steve.”
“Shower, Mister Regan?” No, he thought, the air conditioning had made sure he hadn’t sweated up, just a roll of the deodorant and he was fine. He threw on a linen shirt and slid into a pair of chinos, checked the breakfast menu and dialled room service.
Who the F*ck Am I? Page 5