The Guv'nor

by Lenny McLean

  ‘Agree?’ I said. ‘Give me the address! I’ve never turned down a fight in my life.’

  ‘I knew you would say that. Everything is arranged, even your purse, which in sterling will give you about £14,000, plus expenses, of course.’

  ‘Good stuff,’ I said, ‘and what are you getting out of it?’

  He just tapped the side of his nose. ‘What I get is what I get,’ and he laughed.

  On the way out, just as I was getting in the motor, he called over, ‘Lenny, should you lose, look for a horse’s head in your bed.’ He had a sense of humour.

  ‘The horse is safe,’ I said, gave him a wave, and drove off thinking about America.

  A week later, we were on our way. I took a pal of mine, but I’ll leave his name out because he’s a high flier in the straight world now, and his clients might get a bit fidgety finding out who he’s mixed with in the past. Some geezer with my name printed on a piece of card met us at Kennedy Airport and took us to a motor that I swear was as long as our street at home – it was like three joined together. We were dropped off at the Plaza, and this place even had a carpet outside. Red carpet all the way up the steps and there’s an old fella hoovering away for all he’s worth. In we went and everything was laid on – posh suite each, everything on the family slate – the business.

  The guys we were dealing with picked us up that night and took us out for a meal. Waiters were flapping all over the place, treating us like royalty. I couldn’t help wondering what my mates back in the East End would think if they could see me now. We had a nice meal, sorted the business, and arranged for a pick up the next day for the fight.

  These guys run most of the business in New York. Forget the Mayor, forget the police. I’m putting away a two-pound steak with four men who are looked up to by everyone in the city. Funny though – no dark glasses, no menace. Just four businessmen. Pretend you don’t see the Rolex watches, $5,000 suits and handmade shoes, and these blokes could be your own.

  The next morning, my pal and me shot down to Central Park so I could have a little warm up. This was Saturday, which meant that all the gates were shut to traffic and only pedestrians were let in. And they make the most of it. I’ve only ever been used to Victoria Park in the East End. This place is two miles long and a mile wide, and as far as you can see it’s packed with skateboarders, joggers, roller-skaters, groups doing aerobics, all working their bollocks off to get fit. I fell in behind this old girl who had to be 85, wearing a pink leotard and going like the clappers. I couldn’t keep up with her. Either she was very fit or I was fucked before I even started.

  Come the afternoon, I’d had a bit of a nap and was ready for the Irishman. The same motor picked us up, stretch limos they call them, and we were driven out to a big warehouse on the other side of the Bronx. It was a bit like Notting Hill, but bigger. Same faces going by, though.

  The warehouse had a big sign on the front saying Bottles & Rags. I didn’t see any rags, but there were millions of bottles on pallets stretching for miles. The doors were locked behind us and the driver led us to an area right in the middle where all the others were waiting.

  Who said McCormack was an Irishman? He was as black as the ace of spades. Big bastard, 6ft 8in, 24 stone, give or take a pound. He was stamping up and down and punching one clenched fist into the open palm of the other, over and over again. Our mates with the suits are there and they had some hired help to do the running about. The suits know what they are, so they were quiet, polite, and behave like gentlemen. But the help, because they’re fuck all, were dressed up like spivs and gangsters and look like extras from The Godfather. There was one light bulb above our heads and most of the help were wearing sunglasses. The one doing the Cagney impersonation checked me over to see if I was clean. It was like being in the nick. I thought, ‘Any minute now he’s going to feel round my nuts and I’ll down him, gun or no gun.’ I could see he was carrying from the bulge in his jacket. He didn’t though, and the fight was on.

  I tucked my head down, flew at McCormack, and drove him back against a concrete pillar with a flurry of tight punches. As he backed up I swung one to his forehead, cracking his head against the post. If he hadn’t grabbed hold of me I think he would have gone down, because for a second his eyes rolled up.

  I was being crushed by his massive arms and I couldn’t move. Down came his head to nut me senseless, but I got mine in first and did his nose. He let go of me and I got four rib-breakers into him, then jumped back and kicked him as hard as I could in the balls. He was wearing a codpiece so it didn’t have the effect it should. Rattled him though. The atmosphere was like a fight I had at a fairground over in Leytonstone, dead quiet – it was all too serious for a bit of cheering.

  We broke apart and weighed each other up.

  With a big lump on his forehead and suffering a good bit of pain from his ribs and nuts he looks beaten, but he’s not. Whoop – look out, he came at me like a fucking bull. I side-stepped, clenched both fists together and smashed him in the kidneys.

  My belt and his own momentum carried him into the hired help and I was right behind him, knocking them all over the place. He fell on to his hands and as he got up I kicked him full in the face, rolled him over, and kicked him again. I won’t give him a second, I want to destroy that black face. He’s trying to fight back but it’s all reflex. I don’t think he can even see me.

  Six punches to the jaw, cheek and forehead finished him. Blood was pouring from his nose and torn lips and dripping on to the stone floor and making a little pool beside his head. Hard luck, son, but you would’ve done the same to me, that’s the name of the game.

  Funny really, I’ve just smashed the family’s best and you’d think there would be a bit of a fuss but there was no reaction at all. The suits handed over a briefcase with the money, wished us all the best, and were gone. They never even looked at their man laying flat on the deck, bleeding and still spark out.

  Twenty minutes later, me and my pal are back in the hotel and my hands have come up like balloons – both busted again. I said, ‘I think we’d better get out of here. The bosses seem good stuff but some of their boys were looking a bit cross-eyed, and they might just take it into their heads to get the money back.’

  We slipped out, grabbed a taxi and took off for Kennedy Airport. Seven hours we hid in the place until our flight was called. I stuck out amongst the punters like a sore dick. My face was bruised and my hands were cut and broken, so I got some funny looks, especially from security. But nobody put themselves out to front me up so there was no trouble, and we got back to London without any problems. I squared my pal with a few grand, got my hands plastered up, and went home.

  I gave Val the money and went upstairs to lay on the bed. When she brought me up a cup of tea and counted the money, she was crying. ‘Oh, Len, I wish you’d give up fighting, the strain’s doing my head in.’

  I gave her a kiss and a cuddle and said, ‘Doll, it’s a hard game but it don’t half beat cleaning windows. I’d have to wash and polish Crystal Palace twice to earn the sort of money I’ve just picked up.’

  I was dozing on the bed and I could hear the kids downstairs saying, ‘Daddy’s been fighting again.’ They’re just like Val, take it all in their stride.

  When I was training down at Freddie Hill’s gym a few years before there was a skinny little kid, John, who used to come in and spar about with us. I suppose he was about 16 then, dark haired, a nice kid. Nothing of him, but game as a bagel. We never used to hit him, just played around, but he took it all dead serious and would steam into a fighter three times his size. It didn’t make much of an impression but it shows you what he was made of. I took a liking to him and when he went to fights all over the place, I’d let him walk into the arena with me, or front him up with all the big villains who were about, and he loved it.

  Time went on and he grew up into a good-looking bloke. What with his bit of boxing, training and looking after his body, he got into modelling. One thing led to ano
ther and he got webbed up with five other lads and they formed a group of posers called Excalibur, in the same game as the American Chippendales. They went down a bomb with the ladies, who couldn’t get enough of them. So John was on the way up. Soon afterwards, he was all over the newspapers as page seven fella of the year and flying high mixing with all the right people.

  Of course, being page seven he was working with those lovely page three girls and whenever I saw him around with some little darling on his arm, I’d think, ‘Lenny, you got yourself into the wrong game.’ So he dated bundles of these models until eventually he met Dee Wells and she was special, in a class of her own. She was gorgeous to look at, had a lovely personality, and was like the girl next door. Well, not like any girl that ever lived next door to me, but you know what I mean. She was the sort you could take home to Mum, down to earth, a proper home girl, and on top of all that she idolised him. Don’t some blokes have all the luck?

  John came down to the club one night, fought his way through all the birds trying to get his autograph, and got himself up to my office. I gave him a cuddle, because I’m always pleased to see him, got some coffee in, and we had a bit of a chat. I could see in his eyes that he was trying to get round to asking me something but was putting it off. In the end I said, ‘What’s up John? You in a spot of bother, or what?’

  He said, ‘Len, you know I don’t take liberties with our friendship, I never ask for anything, do I?’

  I said, ‘Hold up, son, before you go on, I know just what you’re going to ask me. You can’t handle all these girls that’s chasing you all over the place so you want me to take a few off your hands.’

  That made him laugh. ‘No, Len, what it is, a very good friend of mine has got himself into a situation that looks a bit heavy and I wondered if you could step in and see what you can do.’

  ‘Look, son,’ I said, ‘you don’t have to go all round the houses to ask me for a favour. If he’s a pal of yours, he’s under my wing. What’s the problem?’ So he put me in the picture.

  This friend of John’s, a fella in the same game, modelling, page seven and all that, had got himself involved with a page three girl as well. The trouble was, when they met, she was still going out with a guy from East London who came from a good family of money-getters. This fella had a bit of a jealous streak in him and I can’t blame him for that because we can all be a bit possessive where our ladies are concerned. Anyway, the girl got a bit tired of not being trusted and fed up with the boyfriend getting the hump every time she had a photo shoot with some of the good-looking blokes who had to work with. So she wanted to park him up. John’s pal knew she was involved with someone, so at first he kept her at arm’s length. But as time went by and they couldn’t help themselves, they got closer and closer. Somebody put the bubble into the boyfriend and next thing there were some heavy threats being put about.

  What can I say? I hate bullies, especially when they’re hiding behind menacing phonecalls, upsetting straight people and their families. So I said to John, ‘Get your mate to call round to my house on Monday morning, then I can get all the details from him and work out the best way to settle the business.’ This was Friday night. I said ta-ra to John and put it out of my mind for the moment.

  I keep pretty late hours, what with the club and other business, so it was about four o’clock on Sunday morning and I was just getting myself ready for bed when there was a bang on the door. I had a quick look through the spy-hole before opening up just in case some mug was going to have a pop with a shooter and all I could see was a face I didn’t recognise, covered in blood.

  I pulled the door open and this game little fucker said, ‘Hello, Mr McLean, I’m John’s friend. Sorry I’m a bit early.’ What a state he was in. I’ll tell you what, he didn’t look anything like the good-looking fella I’d seen in the papers often enough. He looked like he’d been run over by a bus – face swollen up and bleeding, clothes all torn and shivering with shock. I sat him in the kitchen, Val got of bed, and we cleaned up the cuts and bruises as best we could. Once we’d got him a bit comfortable with a big mug of tea in front of him, he told us what had gone down.

  Him and a mate, a famous pop star who’s since died, were just coming out a club up West when a big flash motor pulled up. Out jumped two blokes and they were both carrying guns. One of them stuck a gun into this bloke’s chest and forced him into the car, the other one pointed his shooter at the pop singer and told him to fuck off or he’d get it on the pavement.

  Don’t ever think that because these lads take up modelling for a living that they’re pansified or soft. I know John can handle himself, what with his boxing training, and it seemed like his pal was made of the same stuff. He was wedged between two big guys with a gun each side of his head and he tried to fight his way out. He landed one of them a back-hander in the face and the other bloke knocked him unconscious. By the time he came to, he was being dragged out of the car in the middle of Epping Forest – near London, nice and quiet, and nobody around to poke their nose in.

  There was another motor already waiting in the woods, and out got the boyfriend who had been making all the threats, and has he got the raving hump or what? Two of the blokes force this young guy to his knees and hold him while the other brave bastard sticks a gun in his mouth. ‘One warning … keep away from my girlfriend or you are a dead man.’ Then he beat him round the face and head with the gun, threw him back in the car, drove to London, and dumped him in the street.

  He didn’t want to go home and frighten his mother so he got a cab and had himself delivered to my front door. So here he is, and I’ve got to square things off for his sake and for John’s.

  I told him, ‘There are two things you can do. Walk away and don’t have no more agg or fight back.’

  He said, ‘What do you think?’

  I said, ‘Never mind what I think, do you love this girl or not?’

  ‘Len,’ he said, ‘it sounds a bit poetic but I’m willing to die for her.’

  That’s all I want to hear. ‘Good kid. You won’t have to fight and you won’t have to die because I’m going to have a few words and get this all straightened up. Now I don’t want to upset you but I’ve got to say that, personally, I think you’ve taken a bit of a liberty with this bloke. How would you feel if somebody nicked your bird? Still, looking at you sitting there, I think he’s gone a bit outrageous so that’s why I’m going to help you.’

  I didn’t have to growl or chuck my weight about because the family I had to deal with were reasonable people. I had a quiet talk with the father of the boyfriend, who had no idea his son was playing up, and we shook hands when he said he would get him back in line.

  Everything turned out right. The ex-boyfriend must have had respect for his father because, when he was told to behave, he let it go and never gave John’s pal any more aggravation. Him and his girl carried on seeing each other and had a lovely relationship, though I’ve heard since that he got himself another problem, but this one was something I couldn’t help him with. I don’t want to say any more about that, I’ll just say life’s full of ups and downs; some you can sort, some you can’t. I’m still nicking a few quid out of the fights. Not as much as I used to because with my reputation there aren’t too many who fancy having the shit belted out of them and losing their money. Still, there’s always the odd mug who fancies his chances. One of these was Man Mountain York, and we’d fixed up a fight down at Woodford. Two things happened on that night. Well, three really, if you count the fact that I smashed the bollocks out of Mr York. He’d got them to put on the poster: I am 24, 6ft 7in and 25 stone. LENNY HAS HAD HIS DAY. What a comedian. I kept doing his ribs until I’d got him down to about 6ft, then a blinding right stretched him across the canvas. And I was giving him a dozen years.

  Before that, though, when I was in the dressing room, a pal of mine said, ‘Guess who’s a late entry on the undercard?’

  I said, ‘King Kong?’

  ‘Nah, it’s your old mate Quinn
, the geezer you was looking for.’

  ‘Lovely, where is he?’

  ‘Right next door in the other dressing room. He’s in there with York, the bloke you’re fighting.’

  All these dressing rooms have got connecting doors, so I tried the door and, as you’d expect, it was locked. I’ve got my wild up thinking about that low-life slag sitting in the next room. Two kicks and I smashed it to pieces and tore inside. They were both shocked enough to look as though they’d shit themselves. I growled at the big fella. ‘Don’t fucking move or I’ll hurt you now instead of in the ring.’ He never said a word.

  I got Quinn by the ears and smashed his head back against the tin lockers. It made more noise than hurt him but it frightened him so much he was shaking, then he started crying. I said, ‘Shut up, you mug, you were big enough with a gun in your hand or paying somebody to shoot me. Now look at you.’

  He’s screaming, ‘Please let me explain … please let me explain.’

  The big fella moved behind me and I shouted at him, ‘Keep out of it or you’re in trouble.’

  Quinn was still crying, ‘Len, please, I was on the gear, I was on drugs … I didn’t know what I was doing.’

  What am I going to do with this mug? If I’d caught him after the shooting I could have broken every bone in his body and never thought about it. But too much time has gone by and what satisfaction am I going to get out of hurting this cry baby? I flung him down the end of the dressing room and he put his hands up to stop me jumping on him, but I’d finished – he wasn’t worth it. ‘Please let me apologise … let me shake your hand.’

  Shake my hand? He’s trembling from head to foot. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll shake your hand to say it’s over but I want you dressed and out of here in two minutes. Forget your fight, just get as far away from me as possible.’ We shook hands and I never saw him again.