Faces (59 page)

‘So, what’s been happening?’

Louie shrugged, overly casual, which meant he had a juicy little bit of gossip he felt was only worth imparting after he had talked shite for half an hour beforehand. But Danny Boy didn’t mind, he knew how to play the game. It was one of his nicer traits, he had always thought. His ability to listen to crap with an interested expression and a devilish smile. He knew Louie was lonely, so he didn’t mind indulging him.

‘Have you heard about the Williamses, over in Dulwich?’

Danny shook his head in bafflement.

Louie smirked the contented smirk of a schoolboy who has just won all the marbles off his mates. ‘They were robbed, and I mean
robbed
. Not the bookies, but the actual offices at the back. You know, where all the real betting goes on, and where they orchestrate the money-laundering operation.’

Danny was scowling now. Whoever had done that dastardly deed had not mentioned it to him, and that meant they owed him a percentage. Though, in fairness, he would not have given it the go-ahead anyway. The Williamses were old mates, they did a lot of deals together and it suddenly occurred to him that they would automatically assume that he was in on it. That was why he had not heard a dicky bird about it. He was supposed to get a drink off anything that occurred in the Smoke. Off everything.

‘When was this then?’

Louie caught on then, and said slowly, ‘Fuck me, Danny Boy, you should have been consulted. It was a serious fucking wedge, over a quarter of a million gone, and no fucking insurance either. They ain’t a bank. It happened yesterday afternoon. Just after the morning rush hour; it was well planned and very well executed. They went in quick, balaclavas and shotguns, and they knew where everything was. It was definitely planned with someone in the know. How else could they have known that they kept emergency money in the back of the fireplace? Even I didn’t know that. It had a few loose bricks and they went straight for it by all accounts. Fucking scum, robbing your own. I mean, what the fuck is that all about?’

Danny shook his head in disbelief. ‘What a fucking liberty. I better shoot round there and offer me condolences, I hope they don’t think I gave the nod for it to go off.’

Louie shrugged and refilled their glasses. ‘What you have to do now, Danny Boy, is find out who the culprits are, that’s your job ain’t it? If you let this one go people will think you’re an easy mark.’

Danny nodded but he was troubled. No one in their right mind would go after the Williamses, they were hard fucks, big Irish-Jamaicans with lovely teeth and exceptionally bad tempers. He was annoyed now, in case they thought he might have been in on the deal, but he had heard nothing about it and he would have thought one of the workers might have heard a whisper. Well, whoever it was had better fucking start planning a long holiday. Because, when he got his hands on them, they would be lucky if they ever walked again.

‘So, what’s the big news then?’

Louie looked into his face and Danny Boy saw the worry etched there.

‘Come on, is everything all right with you, mate?’

Louie shook his head and said dramatically, ‘The Farhis are out and about again.’

Danny Boy laughed in bewilderment, and asked politely, ‘Who the fuck are the Farhis?’

Louie poured them both another drink and said seriously, ‘The Farhis, Danny Boy, are most people’s worst nightmare.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Eli Williams was a big man and even Danny Boy, who was a big lad himself, admitted to that as a fact of life. It was rare for anyone to tower over him and those who did, he did not have a problem with. Danny Boy knew he was too fucking mental to worry about stupid things like that. Anyway, he liked Eli, he always had, and they were of a size. Eli was a kindred spirit in many respects. They had always had a good rapport. It was why they worked so well together, they had been friends since their teens, they had also been partners in a lot of skulduggery that neither of them would want made public.

Eli had a huge head of thick hair, dreadlocked and wild, and he was also very smooth-skinned; he had high cheekbones, which gave him a sculptured look, the Bob Marley guise that he played on for the white girls. He also had the soft chocolate colouring that all the women went mad for, black and white. Eli was an equal opportunity loverman; as long as they were fit, good-looking and of the horizontal persuasion, they were all right with him. He loved his main girl and his kids, but he lived in a world where strange was everywhere, and he was a man who would pursue it with total dedication. He was sex on legs for the majority of the female population and he knew that and, like any man worth his salt, he used it for his own ends.

He was a very conservative dresser though, and he smoked grass constantly, like other people smoked Marlboros. He was permanently stoned, but he could still add up a column of figures in seconds. He was a maths whiz-kid and, in another life, he would have gone to a good grammar school and then an even better university, where he would have been fêted for his mathematical acumen. Like a lot of gifted children, he had been overlooked because of his address and his attitude. He had, therefore, used his natural gift to work out the price of drugs. An eighth, a quarter and, eventually, a kilo. With the bets as well, he was onto a good earn.

Eli could work out anything that involved numbers. He was, as one Old Bill had remarked many years before, one smart fuck. Dreads or no dreads, he was an enigma to them. He should have been looked after, should have been revered for his intelligence, and given the opportunity to nurture it, use it for the common good. Instead, he had gone to the local comprehensive where his fierce intellect had frightened his teachers, who saw mainstream education as the way forward for children who had already been written off. His intelligence made them feel inadequate, so they tried their hardest to suppress it. Until he was left, sitting all alone, and bored out of his brains, waiting for his classmates to finally catch up with him. Which, of course, was never going to happen. So he became another one of the forgotten. One of the comprehensive school’s dirty secrets. The really clever kids who never quite made the grade because of their backgrounds and environments. Who eventually used their talents in a criminal capacity, knowing in their hearts they were worth more than a job in a warehouse, but who were also unable to utilise their brainpower for the common good.

Eli was also, as far as Danny Boy was concerned, a really nice bloke, and Danny Boy was offended that he might have believed, even for one second, that
he
could have been involved in the robbery in some way. Though, in reality, he
might
have given it the green light. He knew Eli understood that as well as he did because, in their world, without his say-so, the robbery could not, and should not, have gone ahead. He would never have countenanced something like that. Something that would have gone against his friend’s interests. It would have caused bad feeling for everyone involved, and made any kind of peace-offering untenable, as had just been proved.

So, now they both had a grudge against the thieving fuckers, and they both wanted to find them, sooner rather than later. It was unbelievable to them both that someone had the fucking balls to go after them in the first place. Especially knowing that Danny Boy was going to want to know their names, addresses and telephone numbers at some point, if for no other reason than the phenomenal piss-take, a piss-take Danny Boy was taking personally now. Was taking so fucking personally that he had put a fucking price on the fuckers’ heads. A price that was guaranteed to get whoever was responsible’s own fucking grannies on the blower for a grass up.

Danny had been dismissive at first, then, fucked off with it all, he had felt the urge to express his personal irritation at the circumstances, offering a large reward for any information. He was angry once more at the sheer audacity of the people involved. At their complete and utter disregard for him and his standing in their community. He had what was generally referred to as the right hump about it.

Danny poked his forefinger into Eli’s face, saying with suppressed anger, ‘Look, Eli, believe this, mate,
someone
will give them up; they fucking won’t get away with this for long. Anyone with a few quid in their bin will be suspect now. Think about it; anyone flashing an irregular wedge about, or who is in the possession of any kind of unexplained money, will fucking be interrogated as if they were Irish terrorists having a quiet drink in a Birmingham pub. And, let’s face it they are jailed whether they’re guilty or not. Guildford Four, Birmingham Six. Ring any fucking bells? So, don’t let’s get too fucking maudlin, eh? This will be solved quicker than a crossword clue in the
Sun
. So why don’t you just fucking relax yourself and stop annoying me.’

Eli shrugged. Then he said, with a passion that Danny Boy could understand, because he would have been the same if he had been in his position, ‘Because I want them, Danny Boy. Me little daughter was on me lap, man, she’s three years old, and they put the fucking gun in me face.
In me face
. Like I’m nothing. I want them personally like, along with me brothers, who want a bit of them as well. This is about blood. About respect. About not taking the fucking piss.’

Danny nodded in agreement and with exasperation, his voice conveying his own anger at the situation to his friend, ‘Even I can see that, Eli, I ain’t fucking
stupid
. That’s a given, that’s fair enough.’

He smiled then, his evil, roguish smile that had helped him on to this road of criminal enterprise. ‘But one thing though, Eli, I’d like to be there when you confront them. I want to hear what they have to say for themselves.’

Eli grinned, displaying his perfect teeth for the first time since they had met up. ‘You can cheer me on, Danny Boy. Cheer me on.’

Danny nodded silently, whilst racking his brains, trying to work out who the fuck would have the front to do something so utterly cuntish. Whoever they were, they had to be on fucking drugs. Pilled up to the eyebrows. It stood to reason. No one with an IQ above thirty would even attempt something so foolish.

Danny Boy was intrigued, as much as he was annoyed about it all, he still wanted to know who it was. Why they felt they could mug him off with impunity.

‘Could you tell if they were black or white?’

Eli shrugged expressively. ‘I couldn’t tell that, Danny, they had ballys on and gloves. They didn’t say one fucking word, just gestured with their guns.’

Danny nodded again, and rethought his earlier scenarios. They had planned it well, whoever they were, they were obviously professionals. They were evidently known about town, otherwise they would not have been so astute, so quiet, and there had not been one fucking word spoken from any of them so they either had voices that were known, or they had accents that could help them cancel out other suspects. That was freaky. There was nothing at all to go on, nothing to even give them a clue of any sort.

But Danny also knew that there were only a few people who would be brave enough to take him on,
let alone
the Williams brothers as well. He was already in the driving seat, had been for a while. He could sit this out. He was willing to do that, just so he could finger the fucker for himself. But he knew that he had to be seen to be as involved in this latest debacle as the Williamses were. He needed to be the one to sort it out. He wanted to, he just didn’t want the added pressure. And all his usual contacts had come up with nothing. Sweet FA. It was a mystery all right, Agatha Christie would be hard-pushed to make any fucking sense of this latest shite, but he would get to the bottom of it if it was the last thing he did on this earth.

Whoever had thought that robbing the Williams brothers was a viable option had to be in dire need of psychiatric treatment. They had to be nuts. Even he knew that they were nice, respectable men who paid their dues and did their level-best to keep their grudges off of the pavement. Out of the public eye. That was a sensible way of living, especially as so many people in their world felt the urge to take their petty grievances out on to the world stage. He did not see himself in this of course. He saw the others, who had to prove a point in public, as making a foolish move, unless you were the main player like himself. The little fishes, he believed, always had to prove how hard they were, showing off to people who saw their actions as nothing more than a good story, something to talk about in the pub or, if it was a particularly gruesome murder, as something to tell their grandchildren. Their actions were then used though as something to give the
Filth
a handle on them. When all it gave
them
was a fucking reason for the Filth to get warrants out against them, to hassle them
legally
. Therefore all the other people they might be mixing with, or working for, were put under the same spotlight. It was a fucking mug’s game; he knew
he
could murder anyone in full view of the general public, and he also knew they wouldn’t say a dicky bird. Mind you, one of his minders or any of his lesser minions couldn’t get away with something like that. Once they brought that kind of interest down on them all from Old Bill they were on their fucking own.

The Williamses were like him in that respect; they would never shit on their own doorstep. Any violence they might indulge in was done in the comfort and privacy of their own premises, in a decent and acceptable manner. Every now and then a public hammering might be orchestrated, but only when the crime warranted it. When an example might be needed. Even then, it would only be on turf that was classed as safe; in front of people who might talk about it, discuss it, but only to other people in their circle. This was a melon scratcher all right. Whoever had planned this was either on a death wish, or so sure of themselves they didn’t think that anyone would dare to question their actions. He was inclined to go with the latter, well, more fool them. The Williams boys were not the type of people to suffer fools gladly, and neither was he, for that matter, and that was who these ponces really needed to be worrying about.