The Fighter

by Robert White

  She smiled and nodded.

  “Good,” I said. “Look, we can’t ignore this, but we can’t let it stop us either. We always knew that there would be a chance the cops would start sniffing around at some point, let’s just be switched on regarding any surveillance, just keep up your usual routines and report anything you feel warrants it. Entry and exit to our little palace here will be via the back yard. The front door and windows will be screwed shut by end of play today. Now, I realise the place needs a clean… “

  “Understatement of the year,” muttered Sellers. “They’ve left us a really nice big present in the bog upstairs.”

  “I’ll deal with that,” said Des. “I’m a dab hand with a pair of marigolds and a bottle of bleach.”

  I nodded. “Good. I’ll bring weapons and ancillary kit over from the lock up this afternoon and I’ve ordered four cots to go upstairs.”

  “One bedroom for the girls and one for the boys, I take it?” asked Sellers.

  I nodded.

  “Of course. But on a more serious note, this is a team job. Obviously, we need to work separately today, as we need cars, kit, food and to make this place secure and liveable, but from tonight, if it’s possible, we all work together. If there is a meet planned, we all go. If we have downtime, we all have it.”

  “What about Sean? Is he on board?” asked Des.

  “We’re meeting him later in the Flat Iron, in Salford,” I said.

  “Sounds cosy,” said Sellers.

  “Cosy, my arse,” said Des finding his pipe. “Ye need to wipe yer feet on the way out of that boozer.”

  “Bit like this place,” added Lauren.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Okay, I’m going to meet Simon and get the SP on our target, Arti Jonas. Lauren, you and Sellers find us two vehicles, a small van and a 4 x 4, cheap and disposable. We’ll RV back here at,” I checked my Rolex. “1700hrs.”

  * * *

  The girls called a cab and went off in search of our motors. I stood in the small back yard watching Des smoke.

  “What d’ya think of that wee keepsake Larry left for Lauren?” asked the Scot.

  I pulled the napkin from my pocket and read the script once again. “Could just have been a tantrum,” I said.

  Des didn’t look too sure. “Is that what you really think, pal?”

  I scratched my head. “No way of knowing for certain. If he’s lost the plot, we’ll just have to watch our backs a bit closer than usual.

  “Sounds like we have a damn sight more enemies than friends right now,” said Des, tapping out his pipe. “The cops, Al-Mufti, the buyer and half the population of Longsight could be on our case before we know it.”

  I looked my only friend in the face. “Going to be fun then, ain’t it?”

  * * *

  I left the Scot scrubbing away at anything he could lay his hands on and went off to meet our pet technology expert, Simon or Egghead to his friends. I didn’t think I could face another visit to his mother’s house, home to half the feline population of East Lancashire, so I’d agreed to meet him in the Thirsty Scholar, the nearest bar to our lockup, which would be my second port of call.

  I arrived at the pub to find the landlord, Martin the Mod, presiding over a totally empty venue. He gave me a slightly wary look as he poured my Evian.

  “Friends not with you today?” he asked.

  I looked about the deserted bar. “Obviously not, Martin.”

  He looked relieved. “That Jock mate of yours, looks a right handful,” he said. “Especially once he gets on the Jamesons. I heard he used to be in the SAS.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that, Martin,” I said quietly. “But I do know what he does now.”

  “What’s that?” asked The Mod.

  “He minds his own fucking business,” I said.

  That sent Martin scuttling into the back to prepare the daily vegan menu. I could hear him muttering away to himself as he clattered about in the kitchen. I sat and waited impatiently for Simon.

  Ten minutes late, Egghead barrelled into the bar, red faced and flustered. He had a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. In one hand he held a train ticket, and in the other, what looked suspiciously like a pork pie.

  He stood in front of me breathing hard.

  “Tell you what, Mr Fuller, them trains are not for the faint hearted. I get nervous when I go outside, see? All them people crammed into one place; well, it doesn’t do for me if you know what I mean? I see all sorts of evil goings on in my line of work, Mr Fuller, and it makes me very anxious when I’m forced to sit next to someone who looks like a Taliban fighter and he’s carrying a rucksack.”

  He took a large bite of his pie and waved the remnants at me. “Pork knocker, the Old Crone buys ‘em from Bury market. First class.”

  I sniffed and did my best not to laugh.

  “Firstly, Simon, not everyone of Asian extraction who sports a beard, is a member of the Taliban, and secondly, the landlord here will not take kindly to you eating your own food in his establishment, particularly as he’s a vegan.”

  Simon took on the look of someone who’d just opened a year old carton of milk and sniffed it for good measure.

  “Vegan? You’ve got to watch them fuckers, Mr Fuller.” He lowered his voice. “They don’t even eat eggs. Can you imagine that? I mean, I couldn’t envisage life without double egg, chips and beans for tea, eh? What about you, Mr Fuller?”

  Martin had heard the commotion caused by Simon’s entrance, and walked cautiously over to our spot.

  The Landlord’s eyes were glued to Egghead’s half-eaten pie. He pointed a bony finger at it, eyes wide. I didn’t think anyone could look so offended.

  “I’m sorry,” he announced haughtily. “But I’ll have to ask you to refrain from eating… that, in my bar.”

  Simon was not on the same page. A tech genius, with an IQ off the scale, he was the man you wanted when you needed to hack into the Kremlin’s mainframe, however, social skills were not on his list of priorities. He pushed the offending pie into his coat pocket and jutted his chin in Martin’s direction.

  “You one of them stuck up vegans, then?” he said.

  “I am a vegan,” said Martin, equally ready for a verbal conflict.

  “Thought so,” said Simon. “You look pasty. You could do with an egg or three. Get some colour in them cheeks.”

  Martin stood, hands on hips. He gave me a sharp glance as if this was all my fault, then laid into Simon. “Listen… you ignoramus,” he began. “Veganism is more than just a diet. It’s a philosophy that rejects the commodity status of animals. Vegans do not eat eggs because their production requires the exploitation of female chickens.”

  Simon’s voice went up an octave. He had, of course been brought up on a farm. From a young age, animals, the production of milk, eggs and meat, had been his family’s livelihood.

  “How the fuck can you exploit a chicken? A bird will lay eggs whether people eat them or not, you bloody idiot. And, for your information, a chicken is always female, and a cockerel is the male, sometimes referred to simply as, the cock… just like you.”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” said Martin, pointing at the door.

  Simon pulled his pork pie from his pocket and stuffed it all in his mouth in one go. He chewed slowly, crumbs of pastry dropping down his chin, his face inches from Martin’s.

  I’d seen enough.

  “Right,” I barked. “When you two girls have quite finished.”

  I grabbed Simon by his collar and marched him out into the sunshine.

  Sitting on an outside table, I waited until my guest had finished chewing the remnants of his beloved pie.

  Once he’d swallowed, I asked, “Are we okay now, Simon?”

  “Folks like that get my goat,” he said, wiping his mouth with the bac
k of his hand.

  “I can see that, but do you think it might be possible that we can get on with the business I mentioned to you on the phone, rather than arguing with the locals about the rights and wrongs of commercial food production?”

  “Sorry, Mr Fuller,” he said. “Is there another boozer you fancy? I could go a good pint. A nice ale will wash that pie down just grand.”

  At that, we walked under the arch, where just twenty yards along the cobbles nestled, The Salisbury. It was a traditional pub in every way, lots of real ale, pickled eggs, even more pies and cheery staff. At first, I couldn’t recall why we didn’t use it more often. It wasn’t until Simon and I sidled up to the bar that I remembered. Every other drinker looked like an extra from Spinal Tap.

  Feeling ever so slightly overdressed, I ordered our drinks and found a quiet corner.

  Thankfully, Simon had calmed down and slurped quietly on his pint before opening his laptop bag, firing up his machine and connecting it to a small portable printer.

  When he was happy all was functioning correctly, he turned to me.

  “Now, I’ve done all the searches you asked for, Mr Fuller, and I have to say, that you appear to rub shoulders with some very nasty individuals. This Arti Jonas chap is a right one.”

  “Never met the guy,” I said.

  “Really?” said Simon. “Well, might I suggest that you avoid this gentleman if at all possible?”

  “Thanks for the advice, Simon. However, I seem to recall that I am paying you handsomely for your hacking services and not advice on my wellbeing.”

  Simon shrugged, rubbed his palms together and began tapping away.

  “As you wish, Mr Fuller… so Arti Jonas, real name Alajos Nagy, born in Budapest, Hungary. Lived with his mother and two siblings in Magdolna Street, Klinikak, a very poor and dangerous area of the city. Left his homeland in 2004 when Hungary became part of the EU and travelled here to Manchester.”

  “Looking for work, I presume?”

  “Hmm,” said, Simon. “We’ll get to that. He did work several manual labour jobs in and around Salford, but it didn’t take him long to become embroiled in the city’s drug trade. He was first arrested early 2005 for possession of an offensive weapon, wounding with intent and drugs offences. His co-accused was another Hungarian male, Gage Molnár, who now uses the name, Tony Jacket. The pair were taxing another dealer, who lost an eye and suffered several stab wounds during the assault. The case never made it to court as the victim couldn’t be traced.”

  “Dead?”

  “As a Dodo, I reckon,” said Simon. “Anyway, Jonas and Jacket then appear to have formed their own little gang in and around the Longsight area and quickly established themselves as medium weight cocaine providers. Neither have since been arrested, but there is plenty of intel to suggest that they are rising stars when it comes to Manchester’s preferred narcotic. Neither the cops nor Interpol have a current address for either male, but trolling their social media platforms, I would suggest that they still live in the Levenshulme or Burnage area of the city.”

  “Any pictures?” I asked.

  Simon pressed some more keys and moments later his printer whirred and clicked before spitting out the first sheet of A4. He took a quick glance to ensure it was the right shot.

  “This is the Jonas mush, taken straight from his Facebook page.”

  The guy reminded me of the big meathead that spat in my face back on the boat in Ireland. He had a vast square ugly mug, tall forehead, piercing blue eyes and thin lips. In the shot, he was making his hard man face, and held a Hungarian made Vörös-Danuvia Pistol, or the VD-01 in his right fist. It was a bizarre looking semi auto having a cylindrical magazine situated underneath the barrel. A rare beast of a weapon, only 150 or so were ever manufactured, with production ending in 1998; but, with a 33 round capacity, it was a very handy and accurate little gun. However, its presence in the shot did make me wonder just how stupid you had to be to announce to the cops that you were in possession on an illegal firearm.

  “And the second guy?” I asked.

  There was further whirring from the machine, and seconds later I held the picture of Arti’s right hand man. He looked to be of similar height and build, same large features and deep set light eyes, but, Tony Jacket as he liked to call himself, had a real nasty look about him. The lights looked on, but there was nobody home. That said, at least he wasn’t waving a piece around.

  “So they only have one arrest each? No convictions?”

  “Ah,” said Simon holding a solitary finger in the air. “Not quite. You see this mush Jonas, or to be more accurate, and use his real name, Nagy, served three years back in his home country for the indecent assault of a seven year old girl.”

  “So he’s on the sex offenders register?”

  “Nope,” said Simon picking up his pint. “It would seem that the Hungarian authorities did not share this snippet of information with either Interpol or the British cops.”

  I let out a low whistle. “I’ll bet he keeps that little dirty secret from the good residents of Levenshulme.”

  Simon nodded disapprovingly. “He wouldn’t last two minutes, Mr Fuller, fancy gun or not. They’d have his balls in a basket.”

  I agreed. Sean Ryan would of course know how to get hold of this pair, no doubt, but just in case our pet cocaine sniffer got cold feet, it was always wise to have a backup plan.

  “And you say, you don’t know where to find these two?”

  “If it helps, Mr Fuller, Jonas checks himself in at Murphy’s Sports Bar on Stockport Road, quite a lot.”

  I slid two grand in cash across the table and Simon smiled broadly.

  “Always a pleasure to do business with you, sir.”

  Once Simon had finished his beer, he packed up his kit, stuffed his cash in his bag and was off to take on his next train journey.

  I sat in the bar for a while, had a ginger ale and studied the two pictures he had printed for me. I knew where Murphy’s Sports Bar was. It wasn’t far from the spot where I had been arrested by Larry Simpson’s Serious and Organised Crime Unit. The same day Lauren had been taken by a New IRA Active Support Unit, consisting of Ewan Mark Findley, Kristy McDonald, and that delightful pillar of the community, Dougie McGinnis.

  Murphy’s sat in the area that used to be controlled by a Somalian called Maxi Touré. Between our little crew and Larry Simpson’s SOCU, he was no longer in charge. It never took too long to fill a void in the drug world, and no doubt, the Hungarian boys had identified that gap in the market. Funny eh? That’s exactly what we were about to do. Create that hole and fill the void.

  Thirty minutes after Simon’s departure, I stood in our lockup.

  Now, I knew that the girls would come good with a small van and maybe something Land Rover size, but if you were a drug dealer with a few quid, you needed something with a bit of flash too, so I decided my 1988 Porsche 944 Turbo S could have a run out. I’d won the car in a game of cards not long after I’d made the trip north to Manchester. Finished in stone grey metallic with black leather trim, it was a cracking little motor. Not only that, unlike the Aston, at twenty grand, just two days wages, I wouldn’t be crying in my soup if she got trashed.

  With the Porker burbling away on idle, I loaded two suitcases with kit, starting with weapons and ammunition. For handguns, I chose all 9mm. First, was my personal weapon, the Sig Sauer 1911 Fastback. Then, I checked in Lauren’s kit bag and found her preferred silver Colt SLP with pearl inlay grip. It had just a six-round mag, but she’d always put the little gun to good use, so in it went, along with her much loved ASP expandable baton. Sellers’ own Rohrbaugh R9 Stealth Elite went in the case as I knew she loved the gun. Des could hit a gnats arse from a hundred yards with just about anything, but I knew he preferred the old school BAP, so that’s exactly what he got.

  For some extra firepower, I threw in two H&K MP
7A1 machine pistols with suppressors, extended magazines and Elcan reflex sights. The weapon only fires its own bespoke ammunition and I’d been fortunate enough to acquire a very special job lot from the remaining members of the Makris family. VBR of Belgium produces a 4.6×30mm two-part controlled fragmenting round that increases the size of the wound cavity and doubles the chance of hitting a vital organ. Very nasty stuff indeed.

  I dropped in eight boxes.

  In the second case went four sets of covert body armour, shortwave personal comms, a set of NV binos and my trusty lock picking kit. The 944 sat down on its axels with all the extra weight, but as I negotiated the city centre, windows down, and Ray Bans on, I felt ready for anything.

  I arrived back at Longden Road to find the whole team in attendance. The house smelled of disinfectant, but Des had done a great job and at least you felt like you could sit down without catching something nasty. He’d also built the four cots, so we had a place to sleep. Lauren and Victoria had spent just over four grand on two vehicles. A twelve year old Land Rover Discovery, fitted with a very thirsty but quick 3.9-litre Rover V8 and a six year old Ford Transit, sign written as a local builder’s van… perfect.

  With less than two hours before we had our meet with Sean Ryan, we had just enough time to go through the weapons and ancillary kit and grab a sandwich. We all sat in silence, and between bites of tuna mayo on brown, loaded magazines and checked and re-checked our weapon’s moving parts.

  Finally, we were done and I lay out the two pictures and antecedence of Arti Jonas and Tony Jacket on the kitchen table.

  “So this is who Sean buys from?” asked Lauren.

  “Actually, they are one rung up from his usual supplier,” said Des. “The wee boy made the mistake of getting a little too big fer his boots and is in debt to these two, to the tune of five large. Estelle came to me and asked we sort his problem, lend him the cash, like.”

  “And you gave him another option,” said Sellers.

  “Aye,” said the Scot, making for the kettle. “We want him to get us in close to this pair so we can make our presence felt.”