King's Cross Kid (19 page)

The whole of the criminal fraternity from King’s Cross right up to the Angel held its breath waiting for the next instalment, while the police kept their distance.

What the mob from the Angel had done to the Sabinis and their property, and the fact that there had been no retaliation, did not go unnoticed by the Somers Town lot. The girls in Bernard Street, where the female brawl had kicked it all off, got word to me via the fish and chip shop owner that two of the Sabinis’ ponces, ‘latinos’ as they called them, had been done over and that the invading new girls had gone for good. The Somers Town lot who ran these dozen or so girls in Bernard Street had taken over where the Angel mob had left off and the Sabinis could do nothing about it: not enough troops on the ground to cover their ambitions, that’s what it amounted to.

Peace reigned once again.

The Sabinis had one more try to establish their rule on King’s Cross turf. They had the café done up again and installed a couple of their seasoned warriors to run it. It didn’t work. Roscoe and Billy were approached because it was known that I was with Rozzie and I had access to the Hoxton Mob. The Somers Town mob wanted the Hoxton Boys to force the Sabinis out of the Battle Bridge restaurant so that the whole matter could be sorted out and brought to an end without too much bloodshed.

All I had to do was have a little chat with the Hoxton lads in Dean Street, where they hung out, explain the problem, then pass the answers back to Billy who would pass them on to the bruisers in Somers Town. Roscoe wanted to know if I needed any backup with the Hoxton lot: ‘Best on me own, Roz, they don’t know you.’

The following afternoon I went to Dean Street, to the den where the Hoxton wide boys hung out. I wasn’t worried because I wasn’t a threat and I was hoping to meet up with my old cronie Bernie Legget, a Hoxton Mob member who had earned his spurs in gangland by going down for eighteen months even though he was completely innocent. He could have grassed and saved himself but he chose to do the time. By so doing he raised himself up several notches in the esteem of the gang. Bernie was ‘in’ and Bernie was a mate of mine.

The notorious Hoxton Mob controlled the central London and West End crime scene, protection rackets, prostitution, illegal betting, the lot, as well as which they received dues from a lot of kerbside second-hand car dealers. In return the gang offered immunity from the competition and any other villain who wanted to poach the work. This was the way all the big gangs, including the Sabinis, operated. They also had a lot of the fuzz in their pockets, bunging them nice little – and sometimes not so little – handouts.

The exterior of the small nightclub which the Hoxton boys used as their office was hidden from view by a scruffy builder’s hoarding which also hid the steps that led down to the club.

The interior of the club was like all the illegal drinking and gambling dens that had sprung up all over Soho area – dark, plush and smoky. They were very profitable for the gangs that ran them. These gangs always knew if they were going to be raided and when the police arrived all that happened was that a few of the heavies were carted off and given a fine which the gang would pay. That was it: justice done and everyone satisfied.

First it turned out that my old mate Bernie was still residing at His Majesty’s pleasure but would be out in a couple of months. I was in trouble: I didn’t know anyone there. Then one of the lads looked up from a card school: ‘Watcha, Vic, haven’t seen you around for a bit.’ That’s it, I’ve made contact. The lad who remembered me took me into a small room where a clutch of villains were discussing some future escapade. ‘What’s your business, mate?’ I told them about the girls who were planted in Bernard Street and Argyle Square and about the lads smashing up the Sabinis’ restaurant. ‘Yeah, but we know all about that caper. What you ’ere for and what’s your role in all this?’

I’m starting to feel uneasy but I press on and explain that I’m only the messenger. Tell them that the request is for them to tread on the Sabinis’ toes for a couple of weeks while the lads at the Cross and up the Angel sort things out and put paid to the territorial ambitions of the spaghetti eaters. Then one of the gang puts a pint of Whitbread’s Best in front of me and I know that the danger is over. While I’m supping up the pint the rest of the group argue the points for and against the proposed alliance.

Eventually they come up with an answer. ‘OK, we’ll tread on their toes, as you put it, we’ll keep them occupied, but the hard stuff is your lot’s affair and tell them they’re lucky. We know that some of you are in deep with the Yids.’ With that ultimatum I knew that I’d done what I’d come for, so it was off as quick as I could out of this den of violence and iniquity. Once up on level ground I took a couple of deep breaths and made my way back to the more civilised world of Ron’s café. The gangs would sort it out among themselves. No more bother for us four mates.

One Saturday the four of us decided to visit the new Palais de Danse at Finsbury. Roscoe and Sammy were keen to eye up the latest talent. Billy was starry-eyed over a new piece of skirt he had discovered and said he would have to drag her along with us. None of us wanted our evening spoilt by the tantrums of the other sex but in deference to Billy we agreed she could tag along so long as he kept her under control. Our casual dismissal of the female treasure he now considered to be his property got Billy’s juices up but in the end, and muttering to himself, he agreed to ‘Keep ’er in ’and’.

So three of us turned up at the Finsbury Park Palais. In no time at all, Roz, who’s done up like a prize turkey, is skating around the highly polished floor with the local talent in tow, one at a time, of course. Sammy and me slipped off to the bar where we started supping up and keeping our ears open for the latest news: who’s done a handy turn, who’s gone down for a session, and, more importantly, what’s coming next. The main topic of conversation was the fate of the Sabinis. Billy finally put in an appearance with his bit of skirt and was whisked straight on to the floor before he could so much as say hello to his three mates. Sammy shook his head in despair: ‘There yer are, Vic, that’s Billy’s lot, ’e’s ’ad it.’ I had to agree. A year ago there would have been about six, seven or eight of us at these Saturday evening dos; now we were down to four. If this Elsie got her way with poor Billy then we’d be reduced to three. The world was falling apart.

The Finsbury Park Palais de Danse was almost opposite the posh new Astoria Cinema. This area from the Nag’s Head to Finsbury Park was outside our manor and was an area noted for its hard nuts. We had no friends in this place and suddenly all hell broke loose. Billy’s rolling on the floor having been put there by a bruiser who is defending his girl from an onslaught from Billy’s bit of skirt. It turned out that Elsie had objected to the other girl getting a bit too close to her Billy. The home-side girl had retaliated with some help from her friends. We dashed over to help Billy, and as we had no allies to help us it finished up with the four of us getting a real going over from the greater force of the local layabouts. Only Roscoe got away without a scratch. That was the last time we paid a visit to that Palais de Danse. After that, Billy and his girl were thicker than ever.

35

Talking Family

The next bit of trouble to come my way happened when I was woken from my afternoon nap by the sound of my sister Emmy crying. Mum was talking to her in the front room (I was sleeping in the kitchen). I heard Mum ask Emmy: ‘Did they do anything to you?’ ‘They were touching me all over’, and then another burst of tears.

‘What’s happening, Mum?’ I asked. ‘It’s those boys in Herbrand Street, they been messing about with Emmy and her friend.’ By this time I’ve got my coat on and I’m on my way to see if I can round up Roscoe and a couple of our mates. I got to his front door which, as usual, was open to the world, being one of those front doors which was short of a hinge. ‘Roscoe, I’ve got a problem.’ I told him the story. ‘You know as well as me that if I show my face single-’anded round in Herbrand Street I’m on to a loser. As long as I’ve got some backing I can sort it out.’ ‘Gi’us a second, Vic, be right wiv yer. Two of us should be enough, I fink.’

My mate Roscoe looked the business. He never seemed to do any work and yet he’d got the latest gear in overcoats. This one came nearly down to his ankles and the shoulders were padded, making him look much broader than he really was. So we took a short stroll to Herbrand Street. This street was situated less than a hundred yards from Woburn Place; it was on the real outer borders of the devils den that lay on the eastern side of Judd Street. The young tearaway who’d been molesting my Emmy lived with his mum and dad and his big brother in rooms in the Peabody Buildings that occupied a long stretch of the street. I also knew that the little sod’s older brother, a real hard nut, had just come out of Brixton. This didn’t worry us; if things got nasty, so be it.

We made our way across the dismal courtyard, past playing kids, and headed for the block where I knew that the Robinson family lived.

I bangs on the door, Roscoe hangs back in the shadows, the mother opens the door and I tell her that I’d like a word with her husband. She goes back in and her place is taken by the dad of the family. I tell him who I am and why I’m here and I would like to have a quiet word with the boy.

As expected, I’m told to ‘F–– off’, then the father is joined by the big brother. At the same time Roscoe steps forward. Roscoe, with his big bent Jewish conk, was no small boy and in this new coat of his he looked enormous. Roscoe’s appearance on the dark landing cooled the situation. ‘You tell your kid to behave himself?,?’ I said to the father, completely ignoring the brother, ‘because if my little sister tells me that he’s been messing about again I’ll tan ’is arse so that ’e won’t sit down for a week. I’m talking family here, you understand that?’ The father hesitated but finally agreed that I was protecting my sister and understood that it was family. ‘I’ll tell ’im.’ ‘That’s it, then, I’m satisfied,’ I said and me and Roscoe walked back down the stairs, only to be followed by the big brother and a mate of his who had been attracted by the noise of the small altercation. It was obvious that this bruiser meant business. I glanced at Roscoe who just shrugged his shoulders. Then, suddenly, as we went out through the door the big brother stepped right in front of me. Instantly I swung a right to his gut and followed up with a left which landed smack between his eyes. Bull’s-eye: the brother went down like a sack of coal, not out but quite incapable of taking any further interest in our departure. I bent down and whispered in the lad’s ear: ‘Family, mate, you ought to know the drill’, and off we went back out into Herbrand Street. ‘Blimey, Vic, why didn’t you hit that bloke up at the gym like that?’ ‘I’ve been lugging hundredweight sacks of spuds all day since then, and, anyway, like the man said, he should learn to keep ’is guard up.’ I thanked Roscoe and went to tell Emmy that I didn’t think she would be troubled by the Robinson boy again, but, if she was, she must let me know. Then I went back into the kitchen to get my few hours kip before another day at the Garden.

Dear little Emmy had been causing me some grief, telling Mum that me and my girl Peggy wasn’t in love any more. Mum said to me, ‘I’m not surprised, knocking about with all those layabouts from Sidmouth Street. Every one of them will end up in prison. What nice girl would want to be seen dead with the likes of you lot?’ In vain I pleaded the good points of the lads who I called my mates. It cut no ice with Mum. Then I tried another tack.

‘Mum, why do I want to waste my time walking around with girls? Somehow I’ve got to earn a fortune so as you ain’t got to keep slaving. And I got to keep an eye on Emmy. I ain’t got no time for other women.’ Mum’s riposte to this was: ‘What’s the matter with you, Victor? You’re getting on for eighteen. Don’t you feel it’s time to find yourself a nice girl, start saving up and things like that? You’re getting a real big boy now, you carn’t stay here with me and Emmy much longer, surely you realise that?’ Then I said, ‘I do think about these things but I ain’t going to cart a girl around just for the sake of it.’ I went on in the same vein. I wanted to tell her that if I did ever get married and have kids I wouldn’t do what my father had done, but I stopped short of that, knowing full well it would bring back memories and hurt her.

36

Trouble in the Garden

Probably the most exciting event in the opening months of 1937 was the great flood. It was estimated that the Thames rose thirteen feet above its normal maximum. The Market almost came to a standstill. The produce continued to be delivered by the railways and was piling up in the streets all around the Garden and halfway up Drury Lane, causing utter chaos. This state of affairs went on for about a week before the authorities finally cleared the debris and the trade started moving freely again. The whole Embankment was under water from Lambeth to the Tower and beyond.

The Sabinis made one last bid for power with an American-style attempt to muscle in on a protection racket involving the smaller fruit firms that had premises to the south of the Garden. Four Sabini brothers arrived in London from New York and were living with the other members of the family in Millman Street which became their headquarters. It seemed that a small group of the gang had threatened serious violence to any of the stallholders who refused to pay up, whereupon they had been set on by a group of porters with their sack hooks. The rumour was that two members of the Sabinis ended up in potato sacks and were dropped in the river, never to be seen again.

Traders on the north side of the Garden didn’t know what had happened until the law started coming around with pictures of various individuals, and asking if anyone had set eyes on them in the last week. Of course nobody would let on, even if they had.