Mile End Road, Thursday evening and back to the Crescent for his second fight of the week. A special request from his new promoters. All the old faces were there. Up in the gallery were his vociferous fans from the streets. They were the ones who couldn’t afford the shilling or two bob seats, but supported him each time he turned out. Second row down, the bookies and the fight fans stood shoulder to shoulder swapping tales and anecdotes, giving it the big ‘un. Talking about boxers like they were prize horses: “He ain’t got the legs,” or “Got to keep his left up or he’ll become a cropper,” or “If he gets a second wind after round three, he’d knock the bloke’s block off.” It was par for the course. And, naturally, in the front row were the toffs. Out for the evening to see a “bit of a scrap”. All dolled up to the nines, puffing away on huge cigars and some of them in top hat and tails.
The arc lights came on and cut through the tobacco smog. When Billy stepped through the ropes the audience were up on their feet as one, shouting and cheering him on. He was the local boy done good. The name of Billy Griggs was found on the lips of most men when it came to talking about sport down the pub. A boy wonder at sixteen and by all accounts could be a great fighter, as good as Jack Dempsey. An exaggeration or not, a lot of people put their week’s wages on him. There were doubters, naturally. He wasn’t a top-liner, hadn’t gone the whole fifteen rounds but his promoters had confidence in him. His normal wage was four pounds a fight, which made him the top wage-earner at home but to cap this his promoters were happy to give him a fiver for this match. At this rate, Griggs thought to himself, he could go on forever.
Round two: Griggs got his first professional black eye when he dropped his guard and walked into a straight right jab.
“You gotta get yer distance right,” his second, Tommy Martin said out of the corner of his mouth. “Get yer shoulder behind that right of yourn. Now get out there and give him somefink to fink about.”
Round three and Griggs’ legs were getting wobbly.
“Yer fightin’ like a bleedin’ tart! Wassamatter wiv yer?” Martin was working furiously on a cut above Griggs’s right eye. “You don’t start smackin’ him, you’re outta here in the next round.”
Griggs nodded, and as usual, said nothing.
Tommy Martin was right. A big haymaker of a right hand landed in Griggs’s face that sent him down for the count. And the toffs in the front row got what they came for.
Blood.
You don’t expect to see a young girl’s good looks marred by a line of blood across her throat.
Abraham Shapiro stood in his back yard dressed only in his long johns and looked at the five or six rats huddled together around the back door. There was another odour mixing with perspiration and ageing cat crap that wasn’t normally present. Shapiro shrugged his shoulders and shooed the rats away but they were contemptuous to his actions.
“Gai in drerd arein!” Shapiro yelled at the vermin. He knew that once they got into the sweatshop and began to make nests in the bolts of cloth or scraps, he’d have the Devil’s own work getting rid of them so hell was about the right place for them. Mice he could put up with, rats he didn’t want. He grabbed the yard broom and attacked the vermin.
“Seven o’clock and already this worry,” he muttered.
This was his morning ritual: Up before the family, go into the yard and open up the sweatshop and put on the lights. Then inspect the three treadle machines, checking the cotton threads and belts, that the bolts of cloth were ready to hand and that the basters’ bench was clear. He hated it when the workers came in at eight o’clock and had any excuse to delay in getting the day started. What did they think he was paying them for?
Being short and overweight didn’t help him any, sweat came easy and rolled down his face. Once he beat the rats away he leaned back against the door and put his bare foot into something sticky and wet. He looked down at the source and his mouth dropped into a perfect O. He shot the bolts and pulled the door open.
At first he thought it was a tramp. The head was resting against the door and fell back when he opened it. It was a young woman. She still held her purse in her right hand, her clothing was intact but a bloody pool had haloed her head like an obscene caricature of a saint’s corona.
“Oi, gevald!”
Shapiro staggered back, shot a hand across his mouth and gulped back the threatening vomit. It was hard not to look at the gaping wound: sickening but fascinating at the same time. He’d seen dead bodies before but none that had been murdered. He guessed she was eighteen or twenty years old and had no wedding ring on her finger. Her hair was thick and tawny, cut like a boy’s, swept back from her forehead. Her eyebrows had been plucked to a thin line and penciled over, and a deep purple lipstick had been applied. Far too much for his liking. And her clothes. Now he turned a professional eye over her attire. The sleeveless knee-length chiffon dress was shapeless, the boat shape neckline was edged with red and white plastic beads. The stitching was poor and amateurish. Shapiro noticed that she wasn’t wearing stockings and had no doubt she wore a lace bandeau bra lined with net to stop her breasts moving around. A cheap attempt at sophistication. This boyish look was all the rage with the young women. To Abraham Shapiro, she was a nishtikeit, a nobody but a gentile. And clearly dead.
“Picture this: that yid, Bert Ambrose and his Orchestra givin’ it all they’ve got at the Embassy Club on Old Bond Street. An’ Jimmy here, coming through the tables with two tarts on his arm. Suddenly one of ’em trips and goes arse over tit! She ends up on all fours with her arse sticking up in the air. Jimmy looks down at her and without thinkin’ says, ‘At least I can park me bike somewhere tonight!’”
The five men sitting around the table burst out in raucous laughter in unison. One spitting out a mouthful of bitter rather than choking. It wasn’t a very funny anecdote but when Kruger made a joke, you laughed.
“You dozy git, Tiny,” Kruger said. “Can’t you hold your drink nowadays?”
“Sorry, Krug. Got me by surprise, that did.” Tiny wiped the back of his hand across mouth.
“Dozy git.” Kruger repeated quietly. He sat back in his seat and adjusted the trilby on his head.
Tiny said, “What tune was they playing?”
“What?”
“Ambrose. What tune was he playing?”
“Fucked if I know, Tiny. A bleedin’ foxtrot for all I care.” Kruger was bemused by his muscle man’s interest.
Kruger was the first to stop laughing. He let the others carry on, watching them, each man with his own story. Jimmy Gilbert, all bones and sinew, was the best pick pocket for miles around. Tiny Miller, actually six feet five and known to everyone as a gentle giant, providing you didn’t get on the wrong side of him. Danny Marks, could speak German and a bit of Yiddish and the quickest brain for figures. And lastly, Lenny Procter, the shortest of the bunch but made up for it by being the most vicious of the gang. All Kruger’s men through and through.
They had all been born in the same street. And been friends since childhood. They played on the same side for street football and cricket matches. Went to the same school and all left at the same time. The Millers and the Procters lived in the same house whilst Jimmy Gilbert lived two doors down from Kruger. At the age of seven they formed their own gang, The Black Hand Gang of Shandy Street, getting the idea of the name out of The Wizard. They terrorized the local kids, stealing their sweets and comics if they were foolish enough to flash them around. By the time they were in their mid-teens they didn’t mind the odd scrap or two. The highlight of the weekend was when they went down to Whitechapel and hung around the top of Thrawl Street waiting to have a dig at the Jews from the tenements. That was where Kruger got in a bit of practice with a cut-throat razor he’d stolen from his Dad’s barber shop. And six months in borstal. When he got out, his role as leader went unopposed.
They had all served in the same regiment and saw action in Salonika and Mesopotamia, dodging bullets and malaria. Like so many men returning fro
m war, they came back to a changed Mile End. Physically unaffected by the war, they had seen enemy action and survived the odiousness of life at the front. Returning home to face unemployment and more hardship was not on their agenda so they took to a little light thieving. At first it was just a little housebreaking in a more affluent area, or perhaps a factory or warehouse needing to be relieved of their goods. Soon they were moving up in the world.
Billy Griggs walked between the billiard tables of the Grove Club, keeping his head down. A couple of people recognized him and called out hello, but he didn’t look up or acknowledge them. Did they know what he was here for?
Any other time he’d be happy to accept their compliments, the friendly slap across his back and the show boating of mock punches thrown at him and he would smile and give them a big grin. Not tonight. Tonight he felt like shit. Didn’t it ever occur to them, he thought, that he wanted to end it all?
He stopped at the back of the club where the billiard tables gave way to a small dance floor area that had wooden tables and chairs placed to one side. The wall mounted gas mantles hissed and spluttered, spreading a ghostly yellow glow. A small bar ran along the side wall; all mirrors, glasses and bottles. Trying to capture the enthusiasm of an American drinking club but failing miserably as only an East End dive could. Leaning against the bar were a couple of men dressed like bookies, hands tucked into their waistcoats, drinking beer with young women who were smoking and drinking outrageous looking cocktails. His instructions were to go to the very back of the dance floor and see the man on the door.
He told him that he’d come on Kruger’s request and the door was opened for him. Griggs entered the backroom where the gang operated from.
Kruger was sitting at the table wearing a three-piece lounge suit in herringbone tweed, the soft white shirt was the open collar type with a bold red neckerchief around his throat. He wore a half-sovereign ring that shined in the glare of the overhead light. His trilby was pushed back on his head so no shadows were cast over his face. Around him the laughter was dying.
Kruger asked, “You know how much a boxer earns a year?”
From the back of the room, Griggs said, “You askin’ me, Kruger?”
“No, I’m askin’ Lloyd fuckin’ George! Course I’m askin’ you.”
Griggs removed his cloth cap and rolled it between his hands and looked over at Kruger. “Don’t know about others but I reckon I earn two hundred quid.”
“You worth that much?” Tiny whistled. He leaned across the table, holding his hands together as if in prayer, resting them by stacks of neatly bundled five-pound notes as if protecting them from Griggs.
“Really?” It was Jimmy. “That much?”
“A tart earns more than that in four months,” added Lenny.
You should know, thought Griggs, you run enough of ’em. But he kept his mouth shut.
“A couple of hundred for a sixteen-year-old. Ain’t bad. Ain’t bad at all.” Kruger pushed his chair back and stood up. Like Jimmy Gilbert he was thin, but unlike Jimmy he was all muscle beneath his dapper suit. A light stubble decorated his lower face and a thin roll up stuck out the corner of his mouth. His nose was bulbous and broken blood capillaries spidered the surface.
“I’m doin’ all right, Kruger.” He tugged at the striped muffler around his neck.
“Got yerself a nice shiner there, Billy boy. Nose is a bit bust up as well. You done well.”
Griggs nodded.
Outside, on Globe Road, the rain began to fall. A sudden autumn shower that would help keep the stench down, and keep the rats off the streets.
Kruger stood in front of Griggs and gave him a light slap on the cheek. The boxer didn’t flinch.
He said, “Let’s see if I can’t help the pain.”
He pulled out a wad of notes from his inside pocket and thrust them into Griggs’s hand.
“Hundred and fifty quid. Not bad goin’ for fifteen minutes’ work.”
Griggs looked down at the money, then at the man.
“I think – I don’t want to . . .”
He thought of all the people he had let down. Men who had lost their week’s wages when they betted on him. They were the ones who had to explain to their wives that there was no money that week. How many doorsteps could a woman wash and polish for a pair of kippers just to keep body and soul together? He was frightened to tell his Mum what happened, knowing that she would disown him. He felt dirty. And used.
“What’s the matter?” Kruger asked. “Before you open your trap, be smart. So you took a dive, so what? You pocket nearly a year’s wage an’ I make a bit as well. It was a business deal an’ it worked out for both of us. Now do yourself a favour, put the gelt in yer pocket, turn around an’ walk out of here.”
“I only want to be a boxer.”
“I know that.”
“I want to fight properly. Nuffin’ fixed.”
“Oh, right.” Kruger put his hands on Griggs’s shoulders. “When I say you drop in the third,” he said. “You drop.”
Griggs nodded.
“You’re a hungry young man an’ so am I. I’m yer promoter now so don’t piss me off. That way you get to stay a boxer, understand?”
Again Griggs nodded.
“An’ yer mum keeps her kneecaps.”
By midnight Kruger had had enough so he left the others to finish their drinks. He walked onto the dance floor and saw her straight away. She was standing alone at the bar using her reflection in the bar mirror to put on her lipstick.
How far are these women going to go? Kruger wondered.
She saw his reflection in the mirror. He was standing next to her, both hands on the counter and a grin on his face.
“What’s the joke?” she said.
“Ain’t one.”
“Well?” She flicked her hair back with one hand.
“Well what?”
“You gonna stand there all night, or what?”
The rain was still hammering the streets when they stopped outside his house. He opened the door and took her by the elbow leading her through.
“That you, Krug?” A woman’s voice called out.
“Fuck!”
A moment later a woman wearing a thin cotton night gown appeared at the top of the scullery stairs. She was small and even in the gaslight she had a pretty face crowned in black sleep-tossed hair. Kruger went towards her but her eyes were on the other woman.
“What’s happenin’?” she asked.
“I bought a visitor home,” he replied.
The woman put her hands on her head and grabbed fistsful of hair, twisting and tearing.
“No. Not again, Kruger. You promised. You promised!”
“Don’t get yourself worked up, girl.”
She was shaking her head. “No. You said . . .”
“Don’t fuckin’ go on!” Kruger raised his voice.
“Get that bitch out of our house. Now! I mean it, Krug. What gutter did you find her in?”
Kruger’s face reddened and his nostrils flared.
“No one. No one speaks to me like that!”
“For Chrissake, I’m your wife!”
The young girl in the doorway gasped.
“Forget to tell you that bit, did he?”
“You’ll do as you’re fuckin’ told!” Kruger shouted and took a step closer to his wife.
The war had been ended three months when he came calling for her one day. He was dressed in a wool suit and was wearing two tone shoes. They had been courting a little while before he went off to war and all the while he was away she missed him. She gradually realised that she was in love. Mary McCarthy was in love. Then he did something amazing. He said that they were going to get married.
“C’mon girl, we gettin’ wed’.” Was what he said.
They lied about their age and where they lived, and on the wedding certificate put down that their fathers were deceased. Kruger told her it would be all right, he’d sort it out with them later. Tiny Miller and his si
ster, Eileen, were the witnesses. Later, a drink in The Fountain and that was it. That was five years ago. Five years: a four-year-old daughter named Ada, one miscarriage and their month-old son, Charlie, dead in her arms one morning.
Now this again. My God, she thought, not again. Never again.
Mary sprang at Kruger, arms outstretched, fingernails ready to take out his eyes. But he was ready for her and simply twisted his body out of her reach. At the same time he pulled out his razor and flicked it open. Mary’s momentum carried her past him and then came an unexpected stinging sensation across the whole of her back.
The girl screamed. The screech echoed in the street. She stood there and watched, not lifting a hand to help.
The blood flowed down Mary’s back, tracing her spine and soaking into her nightgown. She turned. Now the tears came. She looked at Kruger.
There was a faint smudge of blood on the razor’s edge.
Mary whispered something too low to be heard. Kruger ignored the pleading in her eyes and caught her by the wrist and spun her around.
She pulled against him, fighting him.
“You want more?” He waved the razor under her chin. “Go on, give me a reason.”
“Krug, don’t,” she said. “Kruger!” She was screaming now. Screaming at him to stop. She looked at the girl in the party dress for help, but she looked away.
He pressed the blade against the soft fold of her throat. Not hard enough to draw blood but enough to let her know that at any time he could. She smelt the stale odour of alcohol and tobacco on his breath. He gritted his teeth and pushed her away from him. Mary’s legs weakened but she didn’t buckle.
“’ere, take yer coat an’ piss off!”
Kruger shoved Mary’s coat into her hands, then bodily threw her out into the street. Once the door was closed against Mary’s cries the silence in the confined passageway was eerie. Kruger waited a second to catch his breath and to see if the commotion woke his brother and his family upstairs. But no – nothing. He slipped the razor back into his jacket pocket before taking the girl by the elbow and leading her into his bedroom.
The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits (Mammoth Books) Page 15