by Conrad Jones
“We used to watch you every time you fought, didn’t we, Clint?”
“We did, mate. That fight against the Mexican, Morrales. That was class. Absolute class.”
“It was class.”
“Thank you,” Patrick said, embarrassed.
“We did a bit of boxing when we were younger, didn’t we, Clint?” Graham nudged his friend and grinned.
“We did. Schoolboys and the amateur ranks,” Clint said, grinning proudly too. “We did alright too. Won a few area trophies, didn’t we?”
“We did.”
“We were not in your league obviously. All respect to you. Nice to meet you, Patrick.”
“Fucking buzzing to meet you, Patrick. Can we get you a pint?”
“And you, Henry, you’ll have another won’t you?”
“I’m alright for now.” Henry smiled. His glass was full.
“I’ve just bought this one. I’m alright thanks. It’s nice to meet you too,” Patrick said, raising his glass. He sat down and decided to stay quiet and let Henry do the talking.
“The lads were just telling me about your friend, Gary Mason and his family.” Henry took the lead. The two men grinned and nodded enthusiastically. “It seems that he’s well known around town. Patrick said that he was well known, didn’t you, Patrick.” Henry nudged him in the ribs. Patrick looked at him, unsure if he was taking the piss or not. “Well known, you said. You got that right.”
“Do you know him well?” Patrick asked, taking a drink of his pint. He could feel Henry’s eyes on him.
“Yes, we know Gary. We know everyone around town, don’t we, Clint?” Graham said, nudging Clint. They laughed and swigged their beer. “There’s no one in town that we don’t know. Unless we don’t want to know them!”
“Well, put it this way, we know everyone who is worth knowing, eh?” The two men laughed in unison. “We don’t waste time with nobodies!” They looked at the Irishmen to see if they were as impressed as they were with themselves.
“So you do know Gary Mason?” Patrick repeated flatly. He wasn’t in the mood for joviality and the double act were irritating him. The men stopped smiling. They looked at him, offended. “Do you know him well or do you just know of him?”
“Yes, like I said, we know him,” Clint answered, sullenly. He sipped his pint and remained tight lipped. Henry stared at him, making him feel uncomfortable. He wiped his mouth and cleared his throat before speaking. “We’ve know the Masons since we were schoolboys. Reputations start early in this city and the Masons have a reputation. They’ve been around forever.”
“What can you tell us about Gary?” Henry asked, nudging Patrick to be quiet. He could see that he was running low on patience but annoying friends who had information, wasn’t good. Not if he wanted to learn anything.
“Depends on what it is worth.”
“We could make it worth your while.” He shot Patrick a scolding glance. Patrick reached into his pocket and passed a rolled up fifty pound note to Clint. “How is that for beginners?” Henry smiled thinly.
“That’s more like it,” Clint grinned. “What do you want to know about the Masons.”
“Whatever you can tell us.”
“They’re a big family. They’ve been in the mix since they left school. Their fingers are in every pie in town, if you know what I mean.”
“Really?”
“Really. This time last year, the Masons were thought of as lapdogs to the Farrells. They were working with the big boys but they weren’t as big as the Farrells were. Things have changed though. We’ve been hearing a few bits and pieces the last few months haven’t we, Graham?”
“We have, mate.”
“Like what?” Henry encouraged him. He was lost already but he didn’t want to interrupt them when they were on a roll.
“Wait a minute, why are we talking about the Farrells?” Patrick wasn’t so patient. “Who the fuck are the Farrells?”
“They are cousins with the Masons,” Graham explained. “Their cousins were another rung up the ladder. The Masons have always been around but the Farrells made it to the top of the tree.”
“They were major league. Their cousins were Eddie Farrell and his sons,” Clint lowered his voice. “Have you heard of them?”
“No,” Henry glanced at Patrick and they both shook their heads. “The name Farrell doesn’t mean anything to us. Should it?”
“Probably not in Dublin. Eddie senior was a sharp young man growing up, always looking for a scam. He made a lot of money quickly, drugs and prostitutes mostly. I remember he had a Corvette before he was twenty. He was hard as nails but sharp with it, you know what I mean?”
“I know what you’re saying.”
“He was a millionaire before he was thirty, always one step ahead of the law and two steps ahead of the competition. His legitimate businesses made as much money as his bent ones. His sons joined him when they left school and they did very well for years. The Farrells were established and untouchable until the foreign outfits started moving in.”
“Foreign muscle?”
“About fifteen years ago it all changed.” Clint leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Turks, Latvians, Estonians, Albanians, you fucking name somewhere and they had a crew here. It was like the fucking United Nations here, wasn’t it, Graham?”
“It was unbelievable, mate. It was like the Wild West here on a Saturday night. Places were getting shot up every week. Eddie Farrell was clinging on by the skin of his teeth.”
“Then the Russians arrived and crushed the fucking lot of them. They identified that the Farrells were the main competition in town and that they could keep all the other wannabies in their place. So the Farrells went into business with a bigger mob.”
“The Russian mob,” Graham reinforced the point, just in case it wasn’t clear enough. “Heavy shit, mate.”
“They made a deal and became the muscle for a Russian outfit called the Karpovs.” He paused. “You must have heard of them?”
“We have heard of them although they don’t have a foothold where we are yet,” Henry said. He looked at Patrick with a concerned expression. Patrick’s heart sank at the name. The fact that an established Russian mob had been mentioned shook his confidence. “They’re a competent outfit then, the Karpovs?”
“Competent?” Clint chuckled and nudged his friend again. “Are the Karpovs competent, Graham?”
“Very fucking competent, mate.” Graham said, staring straight into Patrick’s eyes. “They are one fucked up bunch of psychos, mate. I think you probably have to skin one of your own kids and eat it to get into that mob, you know what I mean?”
“We know what you mean.” Henry smirked. He could see that the colour had drained from Patrick’s face. The chance of rescuing something from the deal was slipping away. “So the Karpovs were behind this Farrell family?”
“Big time, mate,” Clint said nodding. He leaned forward again, his voice a whisper. “Eddie Farrell didn’t take a shit without telling the Karpovs what colour it was. You know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean.” Henry chuckled. “So the Farrells were up there with the big boys?”
“They were up there alright. Top of the tree for years they were until someone killed Eddie’s son.”
“Really?” Henry pretended to be interested. He could feel Patrick shifting in his seat. He wanted to know about Gary Mason and Clint was going all around the houses. “Someone killed his son?”
“Yes, really. They caved his head in with a brick.”
“A brick?” Henry nudged Patrick. “Would you believe that, Patrick?”
“You couldn’t make it up, could you?” Patrick muttered sarcastically. He smiled to feign interest.
“A brick across the head. Killed him instantly. A fourteen year old kid did it.”
“Fourteen years old, no way!”
“Yes way, mate,” Clint said, seriously. “Eddie lost the plot apparently. He caused havoc trying to get to the kid who killed
his son and the Karpovs kicked off because of all the attention he was bringing down on them. The story goes that they fell out with the Russians and then vanished. One day they were there and the next, vamoosh!”
“Vanished?” Patrick muttered. “What do you mean they vanished?”
“Disappeared, mate!” Clint scoffed.
“No one disappears. What happened?”
“No one knows for sure.”
“There must be rumours.”
“Plenty of rumours, aren’t there, Graham?” Clint chuckled.
“There are plenty of rumours, mate.” Graham agreed.
“Could you share some of them with us?” Patrick asked flatly, tiring of the men’s incessant chat. They glared at him. “If you don’t mind that is.”
“No, we don’t mind,” Clint said, pretending not to be offended. He sipped his beer and made them wait a few seconds. He leaned close again, his voice hushed. “A couple of the doormen on one of Karpov’s nightclubs reckon they were given an early bath.” He winked.
“Early bath,” Graham repeated and winked too.
“You know what I mean?” Clint tapped his nose with his index finger. “Feeding the fishes.”
“Finding Nemo,” Graham added.
“Playing submarine commanders…”
“Snorkelling with his boots on.”
“Okay, okay. We get it,” Henry said, holding up his hand. Clint looked disappointed. “Which nightclubs do the Karpovs run?”
“What?” Clint frowned.
“You said that the doormen on their clubs were talking about what happened to the Farrells,” Henry said. “Which nightclubs are theirs?”
“Liquid and Gold,” Clint grunted.
Patrick made a note of the names on his phone. “This is all very interesting but where does Gary Mason come into this story?”
“I was just telling you the history behind it or it won’t make sense,” Clint said sulkily. He shifted in his seat and looked around to make sure no one was prying. “When the Farrells were with the Russians, they were bossing everything, Big Ron Mason was their attack dog. He was the real teeth behind the operation. Anytime there was friction between the Farrells or the Karpovs and anyone else in town, you could put money on it that Big Ron had sorted it. ”
“They’re cousins, you know, the Farrells and the Masons,” Graham added, knowingly.
“Yes, you said,” Patrick smiled thinly. “Several times.”
“Okay, mate,” Graham snapped. “There’s no need to be an arse. We don’t need to tell you fuck all, you know?”
Clint and Graham looked at Patrick, angrily. Henry turned to him and shook his head. “Do you want to hear this or not?” he said calmly but his face was stern. “If you don’t want to listen, fuck off to the bar and get another round.”
“I didn’t mean any offense,” Patrick said, swallowing his beer. “It’s been a long week. I’m just tetchy.”
“No problem,” Clint half smiled. “Anyway, I was saying that the Masons did the wet work for Eddie Farrell and the Karpovs. You know what I mean?”
“Yes. We know what you mean.”
“Big Ron was their enforcer. No one fucks with Big Ron.”
“Big Ron is one fucking mean man, isn’t he, Graham?”
“He’s a very bad man.” Graham agreed. “Some of the stuff that I’ve heard about him would make your toes curl…”
“Hold on, hold on!” Henry held up his hand. “And where exactly does Gary Mason fit in?” Henry frowned, confused by this new name. “I’m struggling to keep up here,” he joked. “We have the Farrells, the Karpovs and now Big Ron Mason. Tell me who Gary is, please.”
“Big Ron’s little brother.” Clint shrugged as if it was obvious. He smiled. “He is a fucking Muppet.”
“A fucking Muppet?” Henry glanced at Patrick. Patrick hadn’t done his homework. Gary Mason was not at the top of the tree. “We thought he was in charge, didn’t we, Patrick?”
Patrick nodded, tight lipped, blushing slightly. The two men looked at each other and laughed. Henry didn’t see the funny side. They saw his expression and stopped laughing, quickly.
“He couldn’t run a raffle. Gary Mason is in charge of fuck all,” Graham said, looking from Henry to Patrick. “Is he, Clint?”
“He’s in charge of fuck all, mate.”
“Big Ron fronts the Masons. He always has. If it wasn’t for the Karpovs, Big Ron would have been top dog years ago. The Karpovs backed Eddie Farrell and that is the only reason Big Ron was kept inline. He would have eaten Eddie Farrell for breakfast and shat him out at lunchtime.”
“Big Ron is the man in charge, proper nutcase, mind you.”
“So Gary Mason was second in command?”
“Yes. That’s what we said.”
“And you reckon that the Masons have stepped into this guy, Eddie Farrell’s shoes?” Henry asked.
“Pretty much.” Clint nodded. “Rumour has it that the Farrells left a lot of money behind. Eddie was a millionaire several times over, wasn’t he, Graham?”
“Several times.”
“Of course his sons should have inherited the estate but one was dead and the other vanished along with Eddie. We heard the property and businesses went into probate because he is missing, not dead. The thing is there were plenty of cash rich income streams and we heard Big Ron snapped them up before any of the Farrells could get their greasy paws on them. Plus he liquidated some properties that Eddie had stashed away in a shell company. We heard that Big Ron has found a lot of Eddie Farrell’s money. Money that the law or his cousins can’t touch. They probably didn’t even know it was there. Farrell was minted.”
“Fucking minted, mate.”
“Drug dealers tend to be,” Patrick grunted.
“Well you’re not a very good drug dealer then,” Clint joked. “You don’t look minted to me. Maybe he’s a shit drug dealer, eh, Graham?”
“Yes, shit drug dealer,” they laughed. Patrick grinned and drank from his pint. There was no point in getting into a war of words with them. They seemed harmless enough if not a little annoying.
“Funny,” Henry laughed with them. “You were saying… about Farrell’s money.”
“When they disappeared, the estate was huge. The Masons got their hands on a wedge of money, didn’t they, Graham?”
“That’s what we heard. Since then, they have been strutting around town like Johnny Bigspuds. Especially Gary Mason. He’s a prick.”
“Say we wanted to talk to him. Where would we be likely to find Big Ron?” Henry asked casually.
“He runs security for most of the city centre pubs. He’s always around somewhere checking on things but he tends to be in Rotter’s at the end of the night. He actually owns that one. Rumours have it that he’s trying buy a few more. We heard he’s using Farrell’s money to buy up whatever he can.”
“You said it was called Rotter’s?”
“Yes. It’s the big club beneath the tower,” Clint explained. “Why all the questions about Ron Mason?” Clint asked. Henry shot him a glance, his lips narrowed. “I thought it was Gary that you were interested in.” Henry stared at him in silence. “Okay, okay. Just asking, that’s all. If you don’t ask the question, you never get the answer, eh, Graham?”
“Is right, mate.” Graham frowned. “Come on, spill the beans. What has Gary Mason done to attract your attention from all the way over in Dublin?”
“You haven’t heard, have you?” Patrick asked quietly.
“Heard what?” Clint grinned.
“Gary Mason is dead. They had a deal hijacked and Gary was killed.”
“Fuck off,” Clint said shocked. “Gary Mason is dead?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Is this true, Henry?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Someone had Big Ron off and killed his brother?” Clint said, nudging his pal. “We’re not having that, are we, Graham? That is fucking unbelievable.”
“Un-be-fucking-lievable.”
“We would have heard about it. Surely, we would have heard about it.”
“I’m telling you, they got jumped.” Patrick lent forward. “They strung Gary Mason up and beat him to death.”
“Who did?” Clint asked. His voice almost a whisper.
“We don’t know.” Henry smiled. “Yet. That is why we are here. To find out.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Holyhead.”
“North Wales, Holyhead?”
“Yes.”
“Holyhead where the ferries go to Ireland?”
“The same.”
“So that is why you two are here?”
“Yes.”
“No way. They killed Gary Mason?” Clint whistled through his teeth. “That is not sinking in at all.”
“Well, it is true.”
“Murdered during a drug deal? I’m assuming it was a drug deal?”
“It was.”
“So what happened?”
“We’re not sure. All we know is that the deal was hijacked, Gary was murdered and Frank, Brian and Jimmy Farrell are all still missing.”
“No fucking way! The Farrells were there too?” Clint hissed, a narrow smile touched his lips. He looked at Henry for confirmation. Henry nodded that it was true. “We had heard rumours that the Masons were gearing up but we had no idea that they were bringing the Farrells back into the game. Gary Mason set this up?”
“He did, with Patrick here.” Henry nodded. “And whoever whacked him stole our property. Obviously we want our money back.”
“Ah, now it makes sense,” Clint said, tapping his nose again. “Now I can see why you have been wheeled out of retirement, Henry. You must have been retired?”
“You never really retire. Not in my game. You just don’t get your hands dirty as often.”
“I’m shocked. This is bad news for you but not bad news for everyone.”
“What do you mean?” Patrick frowned.
“There will be a lot of people who won’t be sorry to see the back of Gary Mason and a few of the Farrells. That will be a massive blow for Big Ron. I didn’t like his brother but they were tight. Losing Gary will weaken his position. Some people will be happy about that. It is always good when the competition is weakened. He will be on the warpath.” Clint sat back and looked at Graham. “Go and get a round in and get chasers too. I think we should raise a glass to poor old Gary. Will you have a whisky with us?”