by Lenny McLean
He was right, it didn’t come to anything, but it was very close. It makes me wonder sometimes if it’s worth getting involved; but I know if the situation arises again, I’ll be there, putting my neck on the line.
CHAPTER NINE
There were still rumours flying about that I was marked down for being murdered or badly hurt. I couldn’t pin it down, though. When I asked, ‘Who told you this? Who told you that?’ all I got was, ‘Heard a whisper from a mate,’ and so on. I thought it was about time they got on with it. I wasn’t hiding, so I wasn’t hard to find.
Johnny Price came into the Green Man one night. He wasn’t a bad fella, but someone who’s always on the ear’ole, so when you see him you know he’s after something. He bought me a lemonade, and that’s a result on its own. Then he said, ‘Len, can I borrow your car for an hour? I want to shoot down the Nile and see a bloke.’
‘OK, John,’ I said, ‘don’t be too long, and keep your eyes open. Some firm’s got the hump with me.’
Off he went down the Nile, and parked up outside his pal’s house. He’d been followed. He walked about four yards, a motor pulled up, the door opened, and bang, he took two barrels in the back of the legs. Whoever had done it must have thought it was me, because he was tall and big and was in my car.
When I found out about it, I went to St Leonard’s Hospital. He was all wired up, tubes everywhere and a big cage over his legs. The first thing he said was, ‘Len, I don’t want you here. I don’t want you round me, you’re too dangerous.’
I said, ‘John, I warned you.’
‘No, you didn’t. You said somebody had the hump with you. You didn’t tell me there was guns on offer – now I’m fucking crippled.’
He was, and I felt bad about it. I bunged him a nice few quid to help him out so his family wouldn’t suffer too much, but what else could I do? I couldn’t buy him a new pair of legs.
Then my pal Ritchie came to see me. He said, ‘I’ve found out what this is all about. When you were down the Barbican you sorted a bloke out and broke his jaw and his arm. You’ll not remember as it’s one of a hundred, but this particular man is family to an East London firm and they want you taught a lesson.’
I said, ‘I thought that firm had more bottle than to sneak up behind me, but thanks, mate. Now I’ll go and do a few people myself.’
‘No, Lenny,’ he says, ‘that’s what I’m trying to avoid for your sake. There’s no winners here. You’re tearing about ready to kill someone with those fists of yours and the other firm’s doing the same with guns. One man’s in a wheelchair and somebody’s going to get killed or lifed off so I want to call a meet and sort this out.’
I’ve got a lot of time for Ritchie. He’s shrewd, he’s tough and he’s got bundles of nerve, so if that’s what he thinks is best, I’ve got enough respect for him to go along with it. He arranged a meet and I went along. This firm’s got the needle and so have I, so neither of us is going to give it all that ‘I’m sorry’ bollocks.
Ritchie said, ‘Shake hands on the deal.’
The guv’nor of the other mob stuck his hand out, but I said,’ I don’t want to shake your hand because you’re fucking cowards, all of you. I’ll call it a day, though.’ So it was sorted, though I felt bad that it hadn’t stopped sooner – it would have saved Johnny’s legs.
A few weeks later, my Val kept saying she was getting funny phonecalls late at night. I was minding a club down at New Cross so I didn’t get home until one or two in the morning. Another time, she said there had been a ring at the door at about eleven o’clock. She had looked through the peephole and there was a young kid standing on the step. She didn’t open the door, but called out, ‘What do you want?’ It made her a bit nervy to see that when he didn’t know she was watching through the door, he seemed to be talking to somebody hiding round the side by the window. The kid said he was looking for Lenny McLean, but Val just shouted, ‘You got the wrong house,’ and he took off.
She said to me, ‘It’s that East London lot, they’re still at it.’
‘Doll,’ I said, ‘they ain’t kids, if they’ve said it’s over then it’s finished. You’re getting wound up about nothing.’
The next night, on my way home from work at the club, I got shot in the back.
I’d got out of my motor, turned to lock the door, and the bang and the pain came both at the same time. I spun round and fell against the car, and just before I hit the deck, I copped the geezer’s mug before he ran off. I know him. I know the slag.
It feels like I’ve been smashed with a hammer, but I’m not dying. So I get back in the car and drive myself down to the hospital. Am I lucky or what? The kid’s used a .22 handgun, which doesn’t fire much of a slug. Still, it’s put a neat little hole in my back and out the front of the fatty bit just below my ribs. I don’t know what’s in there but the bullet missed the important bits. I gave the doctors a false name and address. They injected me, packed the wound, and did me up, and I slipped out the side before Old Bill’s turned up. Fucking hospitals always grass you up.
I was back indoors by half-two and Val was still waiting up for me. ‘You’re late,’ she said.
‘Sorry, babe, got myself shot.’
She screamed and covered her face up. ‘God help us, Len, I’m going to get a call one day telling me you’re dead. I don’t think I can take much more.’
For about three days I could hardly move. One of our neighbours who was in the St John’s first-aid mob came in every now and then to change the dressing. One of your own he was; kept his mouth shut. After a week I was fit enough to get a few things sorted – it wouldn’t take a lot of effort.
I told Val that I was popping out to see a pal – no need to worry her – and drove over to Hackney. I knew just where to put my hand on this fucker. The bloke must have had an easy conscience or none, because he didn’t even have a sly look out of the window to see who was knocking. As I banged on the door he opened up straight away and I grabbed him and pulled him outside. ‘Tell me who’s behind this and I won’t hurt you.’ He was shitless, and didn’t even try to argue.
‘Quinn, it’s Quinn, Billy Quinn’, he said.
‘Right, where can he be got at?’
‘I dunno. He phoned me and offered two hundred – I haven’t seen him, honest.’
‘Good boy,’ I said, ‘you haven’t wasted my time by trying to lie your way out of it.’
The look of relief on his face was comical. I turned to walk away, swung back and hit him full in the face. It split all ways and he just dropped to the ground. I can’t say it hurt me more than it hurt him, though it did give me a bit of a twinge in the side. If he didn’t have to be wired up and drink soup through a straw for the next month I would have been losing my touch.
When he could move his face enough to talk, he told Old Bill he didn’t see who did it, so they were bolloxed. It was a liberty what he tried to do, but I had to give him ten out of ten for that. Believe it or not, we palled up some years later, no hard feelings.
I couldn’t lay my hands on that Quinn. He was like that Scarlet what’s his name – they seek him here and all that cobblers. I sought that piece of shit everywhere but he’d gone again, so I put it on hold. I didn’t forget it, I just got on with other things.
Freddie Starr was a bloke I’d laughed at loads of times on the telly. I’d never met him, but I thought he was the funniest man around.
Fred had a problem so he got in touch with some people. They were pals of Johnny Nash so they rang him, and then John phoned me. See how we all graft for each other? If something needs sorting, we all work together until it’s done. So John phoned me and we arranged to meet at the usual place, Highbury roundabout. Fred’s got a club down in Windsor and John had already said to Fred that we’d see him about half-ten.
We got down there with a bit of time to spare. Freddie wasn’t there. The two of us sat there like a couple of lemons and time rolled on. Eleven, twelve, one o’clock, and I’m getting the right hump.
I said, ‘John, this bloke ain’t making me laugh this time, he’s taking the piss. When he walks in that door I’m going to bollock him. Do you make me right?’
John agreed, he wasn’t too pleased either. ‘Len, you are a hundred per cent right.’
Half-past one. Bang, the door opened and in walked Freddie Starr. He had both hands over his eyes and he said, ‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’
I said, ‘Sorry? You’ve taken a fucking liberty with us.’
He’s still got his hands over his eyes. ‘I ain’t had a wink of sleep, I’ve been up all night with a bird.’ As he said that he let his hands go and two big bloodshot eyes came shooting out on the end of springs. Me and John fell about. How can you tell off a geezer like that? This bloke’s a star all right, he’s the same off stage as he is on.
We settled down and I asked him what the problem was. It turned out it was hardly a problem at all, or I should say, to me it looked like nothing. To be fair to Fred, because I don’t want it to sound like he didn’t have any bottle, if you’re straight, certain things can get all out of proportion in your head and that’s what had happened. One phonecall, and two minutes later it was all squared away. When we went down to see him we didn’t know what to expect; it might have been World War Three, it didn’t matter, we never questioned it, we just put ourselves out for him.
Fred was well chuffed that we’d been able to put his mind at rest and wanted to give us a good bundle of dough apiece, but I wouldn’t have it. As we left, he said, ‘If ever I can help you, you’ve only got to call.’
Later, when I was banged up on a murder charge, he phoned up my Val and offered to pay for bail or barristers, anything, money no object. And he wanted to visit me in Brixton Prison. I would have loved that, but he was a big star and it would have turned into a circus. He understood that.
When I got out I took Val to see one of his shows at the Circus Tavern. He heard we were there and invited us backstage before the show, gave me a cuddle, and wished me all the best. At the end of the show that lovely man said, ‘I want to dedicate my last song to a big-hearted man in the audience, Lenny McLean and his wife Val. They’ve had some rough times recently but they’ve come through it.’ Then he sang that song, ‘You Always Hurt the One You Love’. I knew what he meant.
We had our photograph taken with him and I had it framed and it sits on top of the telly. Whenever I look at it I think, ‘I was there when he had a problem, but when I was in trouble Freddie was there for me at a hundred miles an hour.’
On another occasion, a very well known boxer came to see me. He said he’d got some problems with a certain crowd of people and could I have a word with them. I told him it would cost a few bob and he asked me how much exactly. I had a little think because you’ve got to weigh up what’s involved, gave him a figure, and he pulled a face.
‘All right, Len, thanks very much. When I’ve raked up the dough I’ll come back and see you.’
I said, ‘Hold up, what do you mean rake up the dough? You must have a fortune tucked away.’
He just put his hands up. ‘I haven’t got a tanner. Things have gone downhill. The missus buggered off and got everything – house, money, the lot.’
I couldn’t believe it. This bloke was at the top not many years ago, a world champion, now he’s an odd-job man.
A few months later he came down the club again and said, ‘That bit of bother, Len, it’s all sorted now, but thanks for being there for me,’ and he shook my hand.
I said, ‘I was there for the money. I don’t have to tell you it’s a cruel world and you’ve got to dig a living where you can.’
He said, ‘Never mind, thanks anyway.’
I used to talk some bollocks sometimes. I was never as mercenary as I made myself out to be. But you’ve got to be careful you don’t get taken for a mug.
It’s funny how you think that stars have bundles of wedge. They’re right up the top of the tree and coining it in. As soon as they stop what they’re doing, bang, they take a dive. Unless they’ve used their nut while the money was good, they end up without a pot to piss in, yet all the punters still think they’re up in the clouds. When Danny Macalindon was British and Commonwealth Champion, and a good crowd drawer, Frankie Warren went to see him and tried to arrange a fight with him and me. Danny turned it down. ‘Mr Warren,’ he said, ‘I’ve just heard about the fight Lenny had with Roy Shaw. One of them’s just come out of Broadmoor, and the other one’s on the way in. He’s a nutcase, so if you don’t mind I’ll stick with what I’m doing, boxing proper and earning a nice few quid.’
Since then I’d fallen out with Frank, and Macalindon wasn’t at the top any more. At that time I was minding The Camden Palace, a high-class place, well known, and all the stars used to hang out there.
I went to work one night, and as I walked in someone said, ‘Danny Macalindon’s upstairs at the bar and he says he’s come to see you.’ I thought, ‘Hello, he’s taken his time to accept a challenge, but never mind.’ I flew up the stairs and went right up to him. ‘I ain’t in Broadmoor, son, ready to take me on?’
I had put on about three stone since he saw me last, so he went a bit pale. ‘No, mate, no, I don’t want to fight you, and that was a joke about you being a nutter.’
I knew it was, I was just getting him going.
‘I’m a bit down on my luck, Len. I was wondering if you could fix me up with a bit of work.’
I thought, ‘Fuck me, another one having a problem making a living.’ But if somebody’s polite, I don’t mind looking out for them, so I got him fixed up with a job on the door.
Everything was lovely for a bit. There wasn’t much aggro and the little bit there was he handled nicely. No punch-ups, just diplomatic. Like all the places I look after, on Saturday nights I like to have the door covered two-handed. So on one particular night I had Danny with another doorman called Basil. He’s a fella who had been minding for about 15 years and knew the game. I was upstairs and I had just got myself a nice lemonade and a coffee, when I got a call that there was trouble at the door. I had just got down to the door in time to see my two blokes get plunged by this pair of drunken slags. Down they went and these drunks are standing over them waving knives about.
I did one with a right and the other with a left, and they were both spark out. I didn’t hurt them any more because I was concerned about Danny and Basil lying there bleeding. I picked the knives up and dropped them in the bin, went over to Danny and pulled his shirt up. He was cut right across the stomach. He said, ‘Am I going to die, Len?’
‘No, mate,’ I said, ‘you’ll do. Ambulance will be here in a minute.’ I went over to Basil. He’s holding his stomach and he’s crying and there’s blood pouring through his fingers. I said, ‘Straighten yourself up, you mug … fucking crying. Macalindon’s cut worse than you and he hasn’t said a word. Be a man and stop showing yourself up.’
Then Old Bill arrived at the same time as the ambulance, and the four of them were carted off. I told them I didn’t see anything. All I knew was that these two slags were causing a disturbance so I knocked them out. I didn’t see the stabbing so I didn’t know if they had done it or not. They asked me to give evidence but I said, ‘No. I’ve done my job without you, so you fucking well do yours and leave me out of it.’
Basil and Macalindon pulled through all right and spent a bit of time in hospital. The other two were nicked for GBH and I was asked to go to court. Five times they came round my house but I fucked them off every time. In the end, I told them if they didn’t pack it in I’d get myself a brief because they were harassing me, and anyway even if I had seen anything I wouldn’t go to court – that’s not my game.
So they left it out and went to court without me. I don’t blame Macalindon for getting up and pointing the finger because he’s a straight guy. What choked me was when Basil gave evidence that got the two blokes four years each. What’s the difference? I’ll tell you. Basil ducks and dives, he knows the score and he’s been on t
he other side long enough to know you don’t help Old Bill. It doesn’t matter that he got a little stripe across the belly, he’s still a grass. He knows we’ve got ways of dealing with our own who step out of line.
I don’t see Macalindon any more, he’s better off sticking to the straight world. As for Basil, he knows better than to show his grassing face near me. I don’t want him around – he makes me sick.
An old guy I had become friends with through Alex Steen asked me to visit him at his home in Canterbury to discuss a proposition. He didn’t have to ask me twice because I had bundles of respect for him, so the next day I jumped into the motor and drove down to see him.
He met me at the door of his great big house. He was wearing a dressing gown and looked like your grandad. But this 70-year-old Italian–American was a semi-retired Mafia Don. Or if you don’t want to shout the words out a ‘Man of respect’. If you saw him out walking you’d want to help him across the road, and the little slags who are growing up today would probably shove him off the pavement. They wouldn’t have a clue who he was or what he could have done to them by snapping his fingers.
We went in, had a bit of lunch, and then he dug out the brandy and cigars. This old geezer knew how to live. ‘Lenny, my friend,’ he said, ‘I was talking to one of the family in New York; he rings me every week to keep me in touch. After business, we spoke of boxing and I told him in this country we have the toughest street fighter I have even seen. No one is a match for this Lenny McLean.’
I said, ‘Now that’s a lovely gee, but you didn’t ask me down here to tell me that, I know.’
He patted my knee. ‘Hold on, Lenny, there’s more. My friend said that the family have a champion by the name of John McCormack, who is also unbeatable, so we talked some more and now I want you to go to New York and show him he is very wrong, but only if you agree.’