Duffy (15 page)

‘And the third thing is this, Mr
Duffy.’
Duffy looked up, startled at the sound of his real name. He felt his shoulders move and his sphincter contract in a sudden wave of fear. Georgiou chuckled. ‘Ah, I’m glad that worked. I do so enjoy surprises. The third thing is this.’ Martoff flipped open the file and read from it. ‘“Duffy. Nicholas, usually Nick. West Central, 1972-5. Average to good arrest record – took in Leverty for a bit, also Spiro, though didn’t get a conviction, and Docherty as well. Known to refuse Christmas presents, various kinds tried. Last case – stabbing incident in Bateman Street. Pushy on that one. Dealt with, May 1975. Homosexual, though known to go with women as well. Engaged to W.P.C. Carol Lucas, broken off.” My condolences.’ Martoff fished in the file and threw a photograph at Duffy. ‘Not a very good likeness, is it?’ The photo fell to the floor. Duffy bent down and glanced at it as he picked it up. When he looked back at Martoff he found himself staring into a Polaroid camera with a flash attachment. A bulb went off in his face.

‘This one, I think, will make our file much more up to date.’

Martoff put the camera down on his desk and came round to the front of it. He sat with one buttock on the edge and looked long at Duffy.

‘Two final points. The first is that, though I am not a philosopher, I am sometimes tempted by philosophical formulations. And the one which seems to me most suitable for the current situation I would formulate like this: Knowledge is Power. Remember that, Mr Duffy.’ He leaned back over his desk and tapped Duffy’s file.

‘And the second point, which really follows on from the first point, is this. I am not given to making threats, so you must not interpret my next remark as a threat: it is simply an instruction, a clear, unequivocal instruction, and to make it clearer still I will put it in coppers’ slang for you. Get off my patch. Do you understand? You will not return to my area of business operations ever again. You will not upset my employees or trespass on my property or walk the pavements which
I
own ever again.’

‘What if I do?’ asked Duffy.

Martoff leaned closer to him; the brown eyes stared expressionlessly out of the sallow face.

‘Suck it and see, Mr Duffy, suck it and see.’

7

D
UFFY WAS THOROUGHLY FRISKED
by Georgiou and sent off back through the Double Blue. They wouldn’t let him go down the front steps, wherever they were. As he said goodbye to Martoff, Duffy took a quick, final look round the large green room. In particular, he noticed the wiring high up on the wall above the door from which Martoff had emerged: wiring which led to a little square box painted cream to melt into the background. In the carpeted passage, Duffy stopped to look at a print, and glanced back at the door leading to the green room: nothing there, as far as he could see.

As he headed off down the stairs, Georgiou said to him, ‘Hope Jeggo isn’t waiting in the pisser for you,’ and chuckled.

Duffy rather hoped so too. He had far too much on his mind to have to bother with clobbering Jeggo as well. Not that it’d be much trouble. If you gave Jeggo a knife and told him to kill an old lady, he’d probably grip the cutter by the blade and beat her to death with the handle.

He made his way home oblivious of the light crush of mid-afternoon tube passengers. He was thinking about Big Eddy Martoff. What an inappropriate name it now seemed to him. It was the name of some lunkhead whose hairline came down to his eyebrows and whose hands brushed his shoelaces. Whereas the reality was a person who talked like a member of an Any Questions panel. ‘Our team tonight,’ Duffy murmured to himself, ‘consists of Norman St John Stevas, Richard Marsh, Isobel Barnett, and a newcomer, the London businessman, Big Eddy Martoff.’ The name was all wrong: but then maybe it was one of his jokes. He clearly prided himself on his sense of humour.

What Martoff had revealed of himself to Duffy was more than a bit scary. A second-generation Malty, streetwise from his cradle, then sent to some minor English public school to be taught the robber-baron ethics of the British businessman: it wasn’t a pretty combination. He was naturally smart, enjoyed his power, and looked forward to enjoying it for a long time more. And he wanted his power to continue so that he could enjoy other things as well: the clothes, the room, both spoke of a man who enjoyed his wealth. That again was the sign of a second-generation villain. The first generation, they’re often stuck with the memory of having nothing, so they stay very tight-arsed, very mean: they’re the sort of villains who never give donations on flag days and probably keep their money under the bed because they don’t trust banks. The second generation always know more about the potentialities of money, are much keener on using the institutions of the legit world to their own advantage. First-generation villains think of themselves as outlaws, outsiders, sometimes even suffer guilt about their social status. Second-generation villains think of themselves as businessmen, protecting and building up inherited capital. Some of them have accountants.

Building up: that was what Duffy was worrying about now. How far did Eddy’s ambitions go? He’d appeared to be completely candid with Duffy, and yet he hadn’t really told him anything. He was obviously intending to take out McKechnie completely: not just squeeze, but take out completely. Duffy could have guessed that, probably: you didn’t open up with a high level of violence unless you were interested in going all the way.

But what about a bigger move? Eddy certainly had the ambition for it, and he certainly had the nerve. He probably had the resources too, in case he had to hire a few out-of-town mercenaries. He’d said that his style of business was to take things slowly; but maybe that was just sales-talk. The most important thing about making a move is being sure of the exact strength of the opposition, and calculating how likely it is that getting active will make that opposition gang up against you.

But hadn’t Eddy answered this point? ‘Knowledge is power,’ he’d said. It was the sort of phoney generalisation Duffy had heard often enough before from villains who fancied themselves, but maybe this time it had a more specific application. Maybe Martoff really did know things. When he’d opened the manila folder and started to read, Duffy had thought it was just a flash trick. One call to a friendly copper or a medium-sized Christmas box to a station filing-clerk and he could have had all that. The folder was just to make it look professional, to make Duffy report back to McKechnie that Eddy knew everything about everybody and that he should just give in, pay up, and move out.

But what if that wasn’t the object? What if it had all been an ordinary part of what Eddy constantly referred to as ‘business’. After all, he’d known that Duffy was Duffy, so he must have had him spotted at some time. And whose file did it read like – a copper’s or a villain’s? When it came to the bit about the stabbing incident, Martoff had read out something like ‘Pushy on this’, and then shortly afterwards ‘Dealt with’. That didn’t sound like a copper’s file. And if it were Martoff’s own file, when had it been compiled? At the time of the stabbing? Presumably so, because the photograph was an old one. So how up to date did the file come? Did Martoff know, for instance, that Duffy was Duffy of Duffy Security? Not that he’d need a complex intelligence system to work it out: a glance at the Yellow Pages would do.

And another thing which the file – and the comment ‘Dealt with’ – meant was that Martoff was admitting that it was he who had fitted Duffy up. ‘Pushy on this’, ‘Dealt with’ and ‘Homosexual’ all added up in Duffy’s mind to the Caramel Club and the door being booted in and ‘Excuse me, sir, but how old is your friend?’ and the fist in the kidneys and the whispered hatred of ‘Fucking bent
queer
copper’. So Eddy didn’t care if Duffy knew he’d framed him. And having told him in so many words that he’d fitted him up, he then told him to keep off his streets. That showed a lot of confidence. And it left only one question in Duffy’s mind about how the Caramel Club incident came to happen: who’d talked on him at West Central? Who’d been the link telling Martoff how to work the frame?

When Duffy got home he telephoned McKechnie.

‘Not good news, I’m afraid.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve been talking to our friend Salvatore.’

‘Talking
to him? Who is he?’

‘He’s called Martoff. Big Eddy Martoff. An important member of the local business community, at least if we take his word for it. Has a finger in just about everything by the looks of it.’

‘And?’

‘And, Mr McKechnie, I’m afraid that what he wants is quite simply everything you’ve got. It’s not just protec. It’s the whole way, I’m afraid. He wants your office, your two warehouses, in fact everything you’ve got.’

‘And I suppose he thinks I’m just going to hand it all over, does he?’

‘I’m afraid that’s exactly what he thinks, Mr McKechnie.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Well, from what he says, he will impose a rather severe penalty on you.’ It was odd how Duffy found himself almost talking like Martoff.

‘So what do we do?’

‘What do
we
do, Mr McKechnie? I think it’s more a question of what do you do? I’m only an employee of yours.’ Duffy had decided to stonewall the conversation as much as possible; he’d let McKechnie stew for a bit.

‘Well then, what would you advise?’

‘There seem to be only three possibilities. You can hand over, you can try the police again, or you can look around for some powerful friends. Those are the normal courses of action. Of course…’

‘Yes?’ said McKechnie hopefully.

‘You could always hire somebody to kill Martoff. People in your situation have done that before. But I should advise you it’s strictly against the law.’

‘I’ll get back to you, Duffy.’

‘Any time, Mr McKechnie.’

That evening, as Duffy was finishing up a tin of cannelloni, he had an unexpected visitor. A face from the past gave him an uneasy wink from the doorstep.

‘Long time no see, Duffy.’

‘Well, well, well, this is a surprise. Not the television licence again, is it? It just keeps slipping my mind, officer, I’m afraid. I’ll do it tomorrow, I promise.’

‘Inviting me in?’

Duffy paused, considered, looked Shaw up and down, wondered what he’d do if he simply shut the door in his face.

‘Of course.’ Duffy watched him as he came in. Same small, worried, foxy face; the hair a bit greyer now, the suit a little shinier at the elbows, but essentially the same Shaw. He’d never worked directly with him, but knew his reputation: diligent, tended to fret away at a case, largely honest. They always said he was a bit of a puritan. He’d been at West Central almost as long as Sullivan, and yet he was supposed to be still quite shocked by some of the more routine trades of the Golden Mile. Duffy fixed them both some Nescafé and asked,

‘How’s business?’

‘Oh, mustn’t grumble, you know. Always a lively turnover. Try to keep on top of it.’

‘I’m sure you do. How’s the old patch?’

‘Oh, much the same, much the same.’

‘Good.’ Or bad, for that matter. Shaw was acting as if he’d come for a mortgage or something. Duffy eased him along.

‘West Central needing an alarm system?’

‘What? Oh, no, haha.’

‘So what can I do for you?’

‘Well, it’s a bit awkward, Duffy, but I’ll come to the point. Er, I’m here in a strictly unofficial capacity, you understand.’

‘No, I don’t as a matter of fact. I never understood it when I used to say it. Now I’m an ordinary member of the public, maybe I can ask you to explain.’

‘Look, Duffy, there’s no point in getting clever. I know you’re clever, you know you’re clever, so let’s leave it at that.’ He paused. He looked worried. Eventually he spoke. ‘I can say it in two words, Duffy, Lay off.’

‘Will you repeat them?’

‘Lay off.’

‘Who’s paying you, Shaw? I ask it in a purely unofficial capacity, of course. Who’s got your pisser in his pocket?’

‘I’ll ignore that remark. Lay off, Duffy, and go back to your burglar alarms. You’re in over your head and you don’t even know it. Just collect your week’s wages and stay away. Trip over something and hurt your foot. Plead industrial injury. You don’t want to work for McKechnie. You don’t want to go nosing about after Martoff.’

‘Leave it to the professionals, eh?’

‘And you don’t want to start treading on corns at West Central, either.’

‘You know, Shaw, I didn’t like that red tie much. I really didn’t think it suited you. A bit too flash. Not your style at all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The red tie for the café window. I mean, it’s gangster stuff, isn’t it? All that turning up only two minutes before the drop and having a table reserved for you – it’s really not your style, Shaw, not your style at all.’

‘We’re not talking about style.’

‘O.K., let’s talk about something else. It wasn’t a very conscientious job on your part, I didn’t think. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you managed to hang around long enough for the pick-up, did you, Shaw? Another engagement, no doubt. Pressing business, I’ll bet. Skipping off down the street almost before my client’s back was turned. Where were you off to – collect your ten per cent?’

‘Watch it, Duffy.’ Shaw’s trouble was, he wasn’t good at sounding menacing. He just sounded worried.

‘I’m making a strictly unofficial suggestion, of course. But I’m afraid my client wasn’t very happy about your performance, Mr Shaw. And he wasn’t very happy either about the lies he got told when he phoned Sullivan for a report. “Ran off into Regent Street and caught a cab”, or something like that. If you’d stayed around for a couple of minutes longer, you’d have set eyes on the pick-up merchant and realised that the only way
he
could get a cab to stop for him would be by lying down in the road in front of it. So how much of the three-fifty has come your way and Sullivan’s?’

‘Duffy,’ said Shaw quietly, almost sadly, ‘you don’t know the half of it.’

‘I’ve used that line before as well and I never understood what it meant. I just used it when I didn’t know what to say next.’