Heavy Duty People

by Iain Parke

  Popeye and his strikers plunged down into the ditch beside the car, opening doors and bundling the dazed Wibble and his bag out of it. They got the gaffa tape on him while he was still too out of it to put up much of a fight and three of them carried him, starting to kick and struggle as he came to, a pair of them following him into the back of the van where they had thrown him and pulling the doors shut behind them. Popeye slung the bag onto the passenger seat of the van and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  And all the time I sat there, incognito behind a skull bandanna, in stranger’s clothes and on a stranger’s bike.

  Gut meanwhile had jumped out of the cabin of his wrecking truck and was working with one of his guys to get a tow rope on the front of Wibble’s motor.

  ‘Right, let’s get out of here,’ he said to me, heading across to join Popeye in the van. He jerked his thumb at his driver, ‘It’s OK, it’ll just look like he’s doing a recovery if anyone comes along. He’ll take it back to my place and we’ll lose it.

  Good old Gut I thought, as his massive bulk clambered up into the van. Never one to miss an opportunity. Popeye eased the van past Gut’s recovery truck which now had its amber lights flashing and I slipped the clutch and tucked in behind to follow him while the other bikes made themselves scarce.

  I didn’t know where they were planning to take us although I guessed that it was likely to be the place they had seen me before. I just had to go along for the ride at this stage and hope to hell that my plan was going to work out.

  It was an old farmstead, isolated a way up the coast. A tumble down barn and an old farmhouse, barely habitable.

  We were gathered around the table in the familiar looking kitchen, just Gut, Popeye and me, the others were either with Wibble where he had been bundled away, or keeping an eye out outside, Wibble’s bag sat in front of us.

  It was time to find out how much he was carrying, so I picked it up and emptied the contents onto the table.

  There were four parcels, two addressed to Glasgow, one to South Wales and one to somewhere in the Midlands which was new. But then I’d noticed a new payment coming through recently banked somewhere around Brum, so maybe that was it.

  ‘Who’s in Glasgow then? asked Popeye.

  ‘The Rebels,’ I said off-handedly, as I looked the parcels over. About the right size I thought.

  ‘What d’ya mean The Rebels?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a moment,’ I said, getting out my knife and flicking it open.

  ‘And what’s in ’em?’ asked Gut suspiciously.

  ‘Well now,’ I said with a broad smile as I picked up a parcel and slit open the jiffy bag it was in, ‘let’s just have a little look-see, shall we?’

  The stuff inside was wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap which was a moment to cut away and then there it was, a genuine Cali brick, with the scorpion logo printed across the paper wrapping just the way Billy had described.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ whispered Gut as I handed it to him and picked up the next package.

  ‘Yep, and I’m betting they are all the same.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Popeye and I plonked the next one into his hand. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much gear. And you knew he had this?’

  ‘I didn’t know how much he would have but I was pretty sure he’d be carrying.’

  ‘So what do we do with it?’

  ‘You hold onto it for the moment. You stick it somewhere safe where it won’t be found and don’t mess with it, we’re going to need this later. But meanwhile I need to keep the addresses off these parcels,’ I said, cutting the front panels off the jiffy bags and stuffing them inside my cut off.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For contacts,’ which wasn’t really an answer but seemed to do for now.

  ‘Now what?’ Gut asked as I closed my knife and slipped it back in my pocket.

  ‘Now I need to speak to Wibble.’

  ‘Speak to Wibble?’ You’ve just helped us knock off a Brethren courier for four bricks of finest Charlie and now you want to blow your ID? Are you nuts?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I want to do.’

  ‘It’s your funeral.’

  ‘Yeah it is, isn’t it?’

  Down in the cellar, Wibble was gagged and blindfolded with silver grey gaffa tape, and watched over by the two strikers.

  ‘Take the tape off his eyes,’ I instructed.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the larger one asked surprised.

  ‘Yeah, I want him to see my face.’

  ‘OK, if that’s what you really want.’

  ‘Well he’s heard my voice now hasn’t he? So what’s the difference?’

  The striker bent down and none too gently caught the ragged edge of the tape and ripped it off Wibble’s face. There was a furious look in his eyes and also one of shock as he saw not only me, but also Gut and Popeye.

  I squatted down on the floor in front of him. He had been chained to some old pipework by the looks of it and his hands had been gaffa taped in front of him.

  ‘Listen Wibble,’ I said conversationally as I sat down on the floor opposite him and leant back against a post, I might as well get comfortable ’cos this was gonna take a while, ‘that’s right, it’s me Damage. Look, sorry it had to be this way, it’s nothing personal, it’s just business that’s all, and once I’ve got this thing sorted out you’ll be free to go.’

  His eyes told me he didn’t believe me, didn’t give a fuck and would quite gladly rip my balls off if he had half the chance.

  ‘Look Wibble, I need to talk to you so I’m gonna get ’em to take the tape off your mouth but don’t start shouting the house down or it goes straight back on again. Understood?’

  There was just his furious glare.

  ‘Understood?’

  He just stayed stock still.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes then,’ I sighed, nodding to one of the hulking looming strikers to get it off him.

  There was a hesitation, without looking round I could sense the striker looking to Popeye for instructions, which must have been nodded because the striker leant forward and ripped the tape from across Wibble’s mouth releasing an ‘Oh fuck!’ of pain and a stream of muttered obscenities.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Fuck off Damage you cunt.’

  ‘Look Wibble, you’ve been in a shunt. I’m asking if you’re OK?’

  He looked at me appraisingly. I could see him thinking. He was confused, he couldn’t work out what was going on here. But he was smart. That was one of the reasons I still liked Wibble. He had a bit of brains, he had potential if he learnt how to use it properly. I was prepared to take some time with Wibble. He looked at the odds and decided that he hadn’t got much choice but to play along with me for now, see where this was going. Like I said, the smart move.

  ‘I’m OK,’ he said at last, ‘few lumps and bumps but I’ve had worse.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So what’s this all about then Damage?’ he asked. He had balls as well which I liked. Ambushed, chained up in a cellar and surrounded by enemies and what did he do? He tries to give me a hard time. Defiance. Class. Good stuff. ‘Why’ve you knocked Dazza off like this? You know that’s what you’ve done don’t you? And with these bastards of all people?’

  There was a growl from behind me but I put my hand up to stop it.

  ‘And don’t give me this shit about letting me go. You know you can’t do that. As soon as Dazza finds out what you’ve done he’ll have you.’

  I just shrugged and smiled at him. I wanted to talk to him. I needed to so as to give the guys what they needed. But I also wanted them to hear this. I hadn’t told them yet and they needed to know the whole story.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Just like he had Tiny done. Just like he had Billy done too,’ I said, over his rising tide of objections. ‘Just like he had Gyppo, oh but I forget, you wouldn’t have known Gyppo would you? Dazza croaked him before your time didn’t he?’

  �
��What the fuck are you talking about?’ he seemed genuinely puzzled, ‘The fucking Duckies killed Billy, everyone knows that. And Butcher killed Tiny, and Dazza had him taken out for it.’

  You had to hand it to Dazza. He really knew how to work things sometimes.

  ‘No you’re wrong.’

  ‘What d’ya mean I’m wrong?’

  ‘You’re wrong about just about everything, about Tiny, about Billy, about Butcher and about Dazza. You see, you and the other guys just don’t really know what Dazza has got going on, you just don’t see what he’s doing.’

  ‘And you do I suppose?’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘So what do you know then that I don’t?’

  ‘Well, for a start I know that The Rebels didn’t kill Billy. Butcher did.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘And he did it on Dazza’s instructions because Dazza was worried that Billy would grass him up. He had Butcher plant a bomb made of plastic explosives Dazza got out of Russia and set it off with a mobile phone call while driving a black BMW that Dazza had hired.’

  ‘How the fuck d’you expect me to believe any of that bullshit?’

  ‘Take it from me. Believe me or not. I just know that that’s the way it went down.’

  ‘And Tiny?’

  ‘Tiny was murdered. The cops pulled me in on that one. Tried to pin it on me.’

  ‘Yeah I know all that. But Butcher did it, we know that too, he made him o/d. And then Dazza took him out for it.’

  ‘Butcher, on his own? Think about it fer Chrissakes, how’s Butcher gonna do that to Tiny on his own? Butcher did it alright I grant you. But only after someone else held him down and some fucker knelt on his chest stuffing barbs and vodka down his throat. And whose crew d’ya think that was? Who could do a thing like that?’

  ‘Butcher, like I said.’

  ‘Yeah Butcher, OK, but why?’

  ‘Like Dazza said, he had a beef.’

  ‘Maybe. But quite a convenient beef for Dazza don’cha think? Taking out The Legion’s old P, the one guy that we might all have rallied round if there was going to be any challenge for Dazza’s spot at the top of the tree? The ex Legion guys would have outnumbered the original Brethren charter members don’t forget, so which of the two would have had the most loyal backers?’

  Wibble had obviously never thought about any of this. It always amazed me how people could go round not noticing what was so obviously just in front of their noses. I guess some people just don’t get it, just can’t see things and how they work.

  ‘But Dazza sorted Butcher for that!’ Wibble protested.

  ‘Yeah sure he did.’ They were all about ready I thought. ‘Listen Wibble, can I tell you a story?’

  He just looked at me blankly.

  ‘OK, have you ever heard of a guy called Cesare Borgia?’

  Wibble shook his head but his eyes never left me. He was probably wondering what the hell I was going on about now?

  ‘It’s a good one,’ I said, ‘might remind you of something. So if we’re all sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’

  So I told him, and the waiting listeners behind me, the story I’d told Sharon the other night. The story of Cesare Borgia and Remirro de Orco. Of doing the dirty and then taking the fall. They weren’t daft guys. They might not have been able to see it before, but by the time I’d finished they sure got the point of the story.

  ‘But that just can’t be right,’ protested Wibble, ‘Dazza and Butcher were good mates weren’t they? Dazza wouldn’t set him up like that?’

  Even as he spoke I could hear the doubt creeping into his voice.

  ‘But don’t you see? That’s just it,’ I overrode him, ‘that’s why Dazza could set him up.

  ‘Butcher thought he and Dazza were mates, that’s why he was prepared to take chances for him. But this isn’t just friendship anymore is it Wibble? It’s business. And in serious business, at the end of the day friendships are expendable aren’t they?

  ‘When it got to the point where Dazza needed a scapegoat, Butcher was perfect. After all, no one’s going to think that Dazza would deliberately sacrifice his closest mate and ally would they?’

  ‘No one but you.’

  ‘No one but me and my dirty little mind.’

  There was silence in the cellar. I knew I had won.

  ‘You’re going to stop here now with these guys. They’re gonna keep you here and secure for a few days but otherwise you’ll be OK.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s becoming a mad dog, Wibble,’ I said, standing up, ‘he’s taking down good guys, guys who were our brothers, and he’s got to be stopped.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked, looking up at me.

  ‘Simple. I’m going to stop him.’

  As I turned to go Gut and Popeye were facing me with the two hulking strikers off to one side. ‘These the guys who are gonna be guarding him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘They know what to do?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t worry about it. We’ll look after him.’

  ‘That’s what worries me. They’ll do what we agreed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well I’m gonna tell ’em anyway.’

  Popeye just shrugged impassively.

  ‘OK,’ I said to the two guards directly, who stiffened up as I spoke, ‘look after him, he’s good people. I don’t want him touched, you understand? He’s a full patch Brethren and you’re strikers and you’re gonna treat him with respect, you understand me? If you want to keep your gonads, you keep him here but you keep your hands off him and you keep him fed and watered? Got it?’

  They looked at me, and glanced across at Popeye in confusion as I continued to stare at them.

  ‘I said have you got it?’

  From beside me I heard Popeye’s voice. ‘It’s OK lads. Do what he says.’

  ‘OK,’ the larger of them said, ‘Whatever you say Boss.’ I just didn’t know which of us he was saying it to.

  Back upstairs in the kitchen and with the door to the cellar safely barred I turned to Gut and Popeye who had followed me up.

  ‘So, if he ever speaks to Dazza again he’ll have to tell him about this to save his own skin right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And if he does, I’m a dead man. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So now do you believe me?’

  They looked thoughtful and glanced at each other. And then Gut said, ‘Well yeah, I guess so.’

  ‘Great,’ I said with evident relief, ‘so now can we cut the crap and get on with doing what we need to do?’

  ‘OK, so tell us, what’s really going on here and what are you up to?’

  So I explained to them what Dazza was up to.

  The first drop had just been a test drop. Of guns coming out of Eastern Europe to check that the systems would work and to give Dazza the firepower to protect himself it he needed it. But then the main stuff would be starting, of Charlie, in large quantities, coming via Portugal. That was what Dazza was really about. Setting up a route for large scale Charlie imports.

  Using Portugal was clever. Spain with its traditional and long established trading links to the Spanish speaking parts of South and Central America had always been the main entry route into Europe for Charlie. Some came in using mules but the really big stuff, the major shipments came across the seas from Columbia, often off loaded offshore onto smaller boats that could scoot in at speed to land the stuff all up and down the coast or sometimes take it into Morocco where things were even easier, and it could then slip across the Straights.

  The only problem was that as a result, Customs were now hot on Spain, where a load of weed used to come through from Morocco as well.

  But Portugal had never had the same links, so it hadn’t been used as a transit point. But you had to ask yourself, how difficult would shipping stuff from Columbia to say Brazil be? And from there, or even straight from Columbia, to Portugal would be as easy as hit
ting Spain, so it was a natural when you thought about it, while with its long coastline, it would be easy to land stuff.

  ‘What did Billy say the plane look like? asked Popeye. I gave him Billy’s description.

  ‘Sounds like an Antonov at a guess,’ he said, ‘that would be Russian.’

  ‘That makes sense, I suppose. The gear I found was all Ruski stuff as was Dazza’s contact. He said something about his guys used to drop for the spetsnaz.’

  ‘Well that’ll be the crew then. They’ll know what they’re doing for sure.’

  ‘You see, that’s why he needed us and what we had. It was the space he was after. That it’s empty is an advantage not a drag. He needed somewhere that he could pull this off and he sure as hell couldn’t do it in town so that’s why he made the land grab.

  ‘And it’s a great method. The air charter’s all legitimate.’ I knew, I booked and paid for some of the flights through the dummy companies I’d set up for Dazza. ‘Stuff out of Portugal landing at Glasgow, and of course by the time it lands, the plane’s completely clean, there’s nothing for the plod to find on board.’

  Popeye nodded and said ‘LAPES. Came across it when I was in the forces.13 You’d be amazed the sort of shit you can drop with the right kit and have it land safely. It’s an awesome sight to see.’

  ‘He really is a clever fucking bastard isn’t he?’

  ‘But how’s he going to shift that much product? The local markets couldn’t take it that’s for sure.

  But I already knew the answers to that.

  He’d already set up his distribution method, he was sending the stuff by post. It was easy, cheap, and difficult for the plod to try and track.

  All his customers had to do was rent places, flats for six months, a house, even a PO Box. Just so long as Dazza had the address he could just post the gear there. All the customer had to do was send someone in every so often when a package was expected and wait for the postie to come by with it, and then disappear again. Simple, but brilliant, like most of Dazza’s ideas. Flats would be favourite I guessed, they were cheap to rent, no one would notice people coming in and out and you could keep a few on the go to ring the changes, never using the same one more than a couple of times max. How were the cops ever going to clock on to the stuff arriving?