The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) (10 page)

“You’re joking. Is he hurt bad?”

“Eh?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll be right there.”

Harry hung up and looked grimly at Elaine. “Sorry, darling, My mate’s in a spot of bother.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, this is serious ag. I’ve gotta fly. Make it up to you tonight?”

“You better.”

He kissed her, and squeezed her right breast. “You know I will.” Harry flicked her piercing.

“I got clamped in Soho yesterday,” he said.

“Did yer?”

“Yeah, thirty-five quid a nipple.”

“You daft sod.”

Harry grinned and walked back down to his car.

Harry Tyler could hardly make himself heard above the throng. He had never seen the Ned Kelly so packed. The UB40 boys were in spending a week’s thieving money and talking about how Millwall would “defn’ly” reach the play-offs this year, and how in four years they’d be in the Champions’ League, and how Charlton were sure to be relegated again, just like last time. Harry managed to wave to Lesley as he finally reached Peter Miller at the bar. Unusually, Miller insisted on getting a round in from a cheerful black barmaid called Sonia.

“What was all that about?” Pete asked.

“What?”

“On the phone.”

“Oh, that …” Harry tapped his nose. “Woman trouble.”

“Not …” Pete nodded in Lesley’s direction. “Nah, the other one, but keep it schtum.”

Pete gave him a one-of-the-boys slap. “You dirty dog.”

Harry noticed Miller’s eyes were unusually bleary. “You all right, Pete? You look like you just tried to take yer contact lenses out ten minutes after you already had done.”

“No, just had a late one playing cards. I’m well flush.”

Harry looked around discreetly. The queue to the Taylor brothers’ travelling pharmacy counter was as long as the line in the bogs snorting their wares. Over in the corner, the Baker boys were ruling the roost. They had a little firm of “real people” wrapped round them. Heavy-looking fuckers.

“So what’s the coup?” Harry asked eventually.

“I told you, three new birds, all highly recommended,” Peter shouted. “Wanna get nearer the action?”

Harry nodded and Miller led him towards the small stage. As they moved, Harry noticed four faces roll in, well dressed and well happy. They looked like they’d had a touch, a big touch. They made straight for the Bakers. Pyro Joey was off his stool first, throwing open his huge bear arms to greet them. Big smiles, big hugs. Now Johnny Too was on his feet, shaking hands and laughing. Harry hoped the covert camera outside was getting all this. It was like roll-call day for villains.

The doors flew open again and in strolled Stevie Adams and his five brothers. These were a South London family, no relation to the North London crime clan.

“Steve Adams,” Miller whispered hoarsely. “Brother Derek got out the boob this morning. This is gonna be one fuck of a Friday.”

The middle brother, Peter, went straight over to Greg Saunders and put down two
£
50 notes for two grams of Charlie. The atmosphere in the pub was more like a Saturday night in Ibiza than a lunchtime in South London. DJ Sal cranked up the music. His name was Salih, but everyone called him Sal or Sally. As he was a raving iron, Sally suited him best. He was deep in conversation with Steve Baker. “Those two boys must really love this drum and bass shit,” observed Peter.

Harry noted the obsessive way Steve was tidying his hair in the wall mirror. Uncle Joey had “sorted” his £30 hairstyle by way of a friendly greeting and he didn’t look too happy about it.

A big lump in a dinner jacket walked on to the stage and motioned for Sal to turn down the music so he could introduce the girls.

“Look,” shouted Gary McCourt. “They’ve sent their cunt out first.”

The big man flushed, but didn’t answer back. He knew where he was.

“Can you hear me at the back?” he said hesitantly.

“Yes,” shouted Johnny Too. “But I don’t mind changing places with someone who can’t.”

The whole bar roared at that one, even the wannabe compère. A standard heckler-squashing one-liner shot through his mind, but he decided against using it. These blokes wouldn’t be up for a battle of wits. Say the wrong thing and they’d just stab you.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, finally. “Let’s hear it for the ladies.”

All three women came out of the small dressing room and on to the stage. Their routine was to dance one number together, clothed, and then take turns for the serious stripping. Whoever wasn’t performing would go through the crowd with a pint pot collecting notes and coins. If the audience were generous and there was no sniff of a police presence, they would usually pick a man out, lead him on stage, undress him and felate him. For exceptionally good audiences they would close the show with a three-way mutual masturbation playlet, using mini vibrators and girl-on-girl urination. Today would go down in Ned Kelly folklore as Pissing Sister Friday.

As the first stripper, Antonella, got to work, the second, a black beauty from Ghana who called herself Princess Monique, was working her way round the crowd with her pint pot. Most of the punters seemed to be slipping in 30p and some lip, but over by the Bakers notes were already coming out.

Dougie The Dog was in his element. Chomping on a meat pie, he slung 50p in Monique’s pot and leered, “I’ll make it a quid when I’ve seen your gash, bet you’ve got a cunning stunt to show us.”

The words came out with tasteful pieces of half-eaten pie. Somehow Monique kept her smile in place and moved on.

Antonella performed mechanically. She looked like she was daydreaming about doing her ironing, thought Harry. As she finished, Sally was on the mike asking for a big round of applause for “AN-TON-E-LLA”. The crowd erupted. The stripper smiled for the first time that day. Dougie stood forward and shouted “Who hit you between the legs with an axe?”

When she glared at him, he said, “Nah, you’re all right, luv. You don’t sweat much for a pig.” Then Doug collapsed in hysterics.

Dark-haired Miranda followed Antonella on to the stage. Dancing to Shabba’s “Mr Loverman”, she performed a neat, sexually charged routine which culminated with her lying on her back with her legs akimbo, her panties stretched between her two big toes until disaster struck, the elastic went and the pink lace pants shot through the air and landed in Peter Miller’s face. Miller, who had moved as close to the real faces as he could, picked them up off the floor and sniffed them to huge cheers all round.

“Take ’em home and have a shuffle with ’em,” shouted Gary McCourt. But Dougie The Dog had other ideas. He grabbed them to wear over his head, then noticed the small skid-mark at the rear. “Fucking hell,” said Dougie. “She’s shit herself. She must have heard about the size of my dick.”

This had Johnny Too, Pyro Joe and their company crying into their beer. Dougie took a sniff, pulled a face and threw them back on to the stage. Unperturbed, Miranda slipped them back on and came out with her jug. Harry Tyler immediately shot off towards the gents.

“Don’t worry, you tight sod,” shouted Johnny Too. “We’ll put in for you.”

As Miranda reached the Bakers, she held out her pint glass and smiled. With precision timing, Harry appeared alongside her and said, “Here y’go, darling, something for yer pot.” He reached into his jacket and produced a toilet roll which he squeezed up and wedged in the glass. The Baker clan erupted, Derek Adams looked like he was going to piss himself with laughter. Even Miranda smiled. The only person who didn’t look impressed was Dougie The Dog.

Harry walked back over to Peter Miller who gave him a round of applause. The lovely Princess Monique was dancing now, and Antonella was doing the rounds with her jug. “I’ll give you a miss,” she said to Harry. “I only use Charmin Ultra.” And everyone laughed again.

Monique leapt off the stage topless and strolled through the crowd with a predatory look, searching for someone to join her on stage. These Millwall boys would have taken on the Turkish army after three pints, but the sight of one little stripper clutching a bottle of baby oil had turned the Lions into mice. They didn’t know Johnny Too had already “wedged her on” – he’d paid her to seek out Derek Adams, straight from prison, who hadn’t had a shag for six months.

The crowd loved it. Derek’s strides were already round his ankles as all three girls grabbed at his genitals. Within minutes his oily white body was horizontal on stage as all three women straddled him. He must have stayed erect for all of 33 seconds.

By the end of the afternoon, Miller had invited Harry on to the periphery of the Baker crowd. Easy does it, Harry thought. Nice and slow.

Pyro Joey was on explosive form. “Oi, Gal,” he shouted to Gary McCourt. “Is that right you tipped the black tart a snide score for a gobble.”

“No, Joe, no,” McCourt replied. “It was two snide tenners.”

The men boozed and bantered for an hour or two more, then there was talk of going “up West”, maybe to the Met bar. Harry, who had been drinking quietly, told Miller he was off home, but as he drained his pint Johnny Too gave him a tug. “Where you from, Harry?”

“Other side, mate. Stratford.”

“Who are the faces down there?”

“Who I know?” Harry replied cautiously. “Dave Turner, Vinnie Riordan, Micky Shaw, Ozzer O.”

“How’s Ozzer?”

“Banged up. He caught two with Eric Randall. You know ’em?”

“Yeah, course I do. That Turner’s a cunt.”

“I only know him through business.”

“Beer?”

“No, ta, I’m making a bid. That Princess Monique put me bang in the mood for a bunk-up.”

“All right, mate. Laters.”

“Cheers.”

“Oh, and Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“Nice move with the bog roll.”

Harry winked and made his way to the bar. Dougie The Dog watched him call Lesley over, say his goodbyes and kiss her cheek. Then he saw him catch Peter Miller’s eye and nod towards the door.

Outside the pub, Miller looked worried. “I saw Johnny had a word. You OK?”

“Yeah. Is he on my case or something?”

“Nah, you know how it is, just being cautious. Slobberin’ Ron told him he got the Scotch from you and he was asking who you were. I got a pull last night.”

“So why didn’t you mark my fucking card, then?”

“Calm down, H. No worries. Johnny likes a percentage of everything. He asked about you cos he can see pound notes around you, y’know the way psychics can see auras. You’re ducking and diving. You’re one of us…”

Miller’s voice trailed off as Dougie The Dog emerged from the pub and stood alongside them. Peter nodded at him and finished his sentence. “Johnny said he liked the cut of yer jib.”

“Yeah?” said Dougie with a snarl. “Well, I don’t know who the fuck you are.”

“He’s all right, Doug,” protested Miller. “He’s with me.”

“I was talking to the organ grinder, not the fucking monkey,” snapped Doug. “Who are yer, Harry?”

“Nobody special,” Harry said calmly. “I’m just a trader.”

“Yeah, well, what are you doing sniffing round Lesley? Are you aboard it?”

“Leave her out of this,” replied Harry. There was iron in his voice now. Gary McCourt, who had followed them out, went back into the pub.

“Or what, ya mug?” said Doug. His hand moved to his right trouser pocket, producing something. What? Harry saw the flash of a switch-blade. Here we go, he thought.

Gary McCourt burst back through the doors with Slobberin’ Ron.

“What’s going on?” said Ron.

“I just don’t know who this fuckin’ geezer is,” retorted Dougie.

“He’s as good as gold,” said Ron, positioning himself between the Dog and Tyler.

“Who’s referencing him besides pisspot Pete?”

“I am,” answered Ron. “He’s a friend of ours.” He emphasised the last word deliberately.

“And I am,” said McCourt.

“And by the looks of things this afternoon so is your Uncle Johnny,” Miller added.

“Yeah, well,” said Doug. “We’ll see.”

And he backed into the pub, jabbed the air with his finger as he pointed at Harry Tyler sing-shouting, “Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?”

Harry shook his head. “Thanks, guys,” he said. “Is he always like that?”

“It’s just the Charlie talking,” said McCourt.

“Take no fucking notice,” Slobberin’ Ron chimed in. “That is one monkey bastard. And the tragedy is, Johnny Too don’t know it.”

S
teven Richards looked out of the window of his flat on the fourth floor of the Oxo building, admiring the feisty grey splendour of the Thames in the hot August sun. A gaff this splendid ought to cost a grand a month, but Steven paid just under a fifth of that because this luxury apartment belonged to the council. Amazing what strings you could pull when your uncle was Johnny Too.

Steven watched the office muppets steaming over Blackfriar’s Bridge like worker ants and shook his head. Mugs. He was never going to work for anyone but himself. What was it Paul Weller had sung? No corporations for the new wave sons …. He heard footsteps behind him and felt arms circle his belly and squeeze before the hands dropped down and grabbed at his groin, gently squeezing the tip of his cock until it started to harden.

“How’s yer head?” Sally asked. Steven turned around and kissed him. “How about giving us some?” he smiled. They’d been in Leicester Square last night for the premier of
Snatch
and as Sally dropped to his knees and took Steven’s cock in his mouth it was Brad Pitt they were both dreaming of. Steven took less than a minute to come.

“You going to return the favour?” Sally asked.

“I’ll have to owe you one,” Steven replied. “I’m seeing Johnny this morning for breakfast, remember. And I’m late, darling.”

“Can I come along?”

“Don’t be daft, Sal. Besides, you’d hate it. You know Johnny, he was born with a greasy spoon in his mouth. It’ll be fry-ups all round, not a croissant in sight.”

Steven often wondered how Johnny Too would take the revelation of his sexuality. Pyro Joe and the boys would ostracise him, he was sure, but not Johnny. Steven was convinced his bright, cunning uncle would be able to cope with a homosexual nephew. He’d probably use him to get into the gay porn market.

By sheer coincidence, Johnny was discussing celebrity “bandits” with Marco the chef as Steven arrived ten minutes later in Mario’s, an Italian cafe just round the corner from Waterloo station.

“Ah, Steve, just the boy,” Johnny said. “Marco here tells me he was reading an article that said that Jeremy Spake cunt was married. I had him down as a shirtlifter, what do you reckon?”

“I wouldn’t know, John. He’s camp but who in their right mind would fancy that, man or woman?”

“What about Dale Winton?”

“Gay!” shouted Marco. “Gay as a French horn.”

Steven smiled. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “Maybe he helps ’em out when they’re busy.”

Johnny laughed. “I don’t mind ’em,” he said. “Proper poofs are all right. That Lily Savage is a funny fucker. It’s cunts like Peter Tatchell I can’t stand.”

“I make you right, Unk,” said Steven.

Johnny caught his eye and winked. Does he know? Steven thought. Should I let on? No, sod it, change the subject.

“Any chance of a boiled egg, Marco?”

“Sure, boy. You want soldiers to dip?”

“And there we are back with Dale Winton,” Steven replied.

All three men laughed. Johnny Too drained his cuppa. “So what was
Snatch
like?” he asked.

“Great direction,” Steven said.

“But?”

“Cardboard characters, lightweight plot, and Brad Pitt’s Oirish accent is a joke. But it was fun, y’know?”

“So not exactly
Goodfellas
?”

“Not in the same ballpark. Not even close.”

“And Mike Reid, what’s he like in it?”

“Like Frank Butcher with added swearing. I kept expecting to see Peggy snapping at his ankles.”

Johnny laughed. “Will you fuckin’ turn it in,” he said, in a reasonable Reid rasp. “I bet his ears look a fucking treat on the big screen, the fucking size of ’em on telly.”

“They was like satellite dishes,” Steven affirmed.

“Yeah? It’s a wonder he never got done for receiving, then. Have you seen how thick they are? You know when you’re a kid and yer mum says ‘Keep playing up and I’ll give you a thick ear’? He must have been a proper little fucker to end up with lugs like that.”

Both men laughed. Steven liked being around Johnny Too. He was class. Steven wouldn’t have a word said against Joey by anyone, but he could never relax with his brutish uncle the way he could with Johnny. It was all down to brains at the end of the day. Joey was staunch but thick as shit. John was sussed and sorted, real street smart. He was asking Steven about cybercrime and e-commerce as early as 1997. Granted the Bakers had never seriously progressed the idea – a bit of dope from the Dam and the legit e-florists was as far as they’d gone. But the fact that Johnny was on to the Net so early had impressed Steven. Now he had to convince Johnny to give him a bit of seed money to play around with on his latest project, a gruesome video game called
Mobster
which gave the player the opportunity to wipe out rival gangsters and emerge as New York’s criminal kingpin. Johnny listened intently and at the end of Steven’s spiel he said just two words: “How much?”

Even Steven was surprised. He had anticipated having to reel off figures for sales of
Front
magazine and videos of
Lock Stock.
But Johnny didn’t need telling about plastic gangster chic. It pissed him off to see middle-class boys like Guy Ritchie coining it in, although he didn’t mind the likes of Dave Courtney working a flanker. Steven’s idea made perfect business sense.

“Five grand would do,” Steven said hesitantly. “Just to get the graphics sorted out and that.”

“No problem, drop by the Ned this afternoon. Cash OK?”

“Christ, yeah. Thanks, Uncle John.”

“Ain’t nothing to do with thanks,” John said, getting to his feet. “It’s a fucking investment, innit?” He kissed Steven’s head, tossed a £20 note at Marco and started walking.

“See ya,” he shouted.

“God bless you, Johnny Too,” said Marco. “You come back soon, OK.”

Moments earlier, a little under two miles away, Harry Tyler had sauntered into a bijou cafe just a cosh’s throw from the Ned where Slobberin’ Ron Sullivan was tucking into a fry-up breakfast. The meal should have been advertised as a cardiac arrest special: three eggs, chips, fried bread, spaghetti hoops, bacon and two sausages.

“What?” joked Harry. “No black pudding?”

“No,” Ron smiled, “me guts were a bit iffy this morning so I thought I’d give it a miss. Must have been a bad cockle I ate last night.”

“Nuffin to do with the eighteen pints, of course!”

The two men laughed. On the surface this meeting was accidental. In fact, Harry had planned it to ascertain if Dougie The Dog’s peculiar behaviour had harmed the operation in any way.

“What was all that about last night, then?” Harry asked.

“Forget about it,” said Ron through a mouthful of sausage. “I was like that after me first purple heart. The bloke’s a prick, but he’s family so we suffer him.”

Harry nodded silently. He was transfixed by the older man’s eating habits. Slobberin’ Ron was digging into his breakfast with the relentless efficiency of a JCB. Drops of sweat were forming on his temples as he shovelled the remains of his fry-up into his salivating gob. The waitress, who looked like the missing link between Pauline Fowler and something recognisably human, appeared at the table.

“What can I get you, gorgeous?” she asked Harry.

“I ain’t got no appetite this morning, darling,” he replied. “Just give us a coffee.”

“He takes his coffee like he takes his women,” Slobberin’ Ron leered.

“Yeah, one big-titted coffee, please, love,” Harry smiled. “Nah, I’ll take it strong and black, ta. Unless you can run to caffeine in a syringe.”

The waitress looked at him blankly and turned away. Ron took a huge slurp out of his tea. “No,” he went on. “Don’t worry about Dougie, mate. The way I hear it he’s not right in the head. Way I ’ear it, he was knocking off this dirty sort from down Peckham way and Dougie keeps banging on about wanting to try it up the aris. Anyway the way I ’ear it, one day she has enough of it. She gets him spread-eagled on the bed, all tied up to the bed post with belts an’ things, then she whacks a dildo on, KY Jelly and wallop, she gives ’IM one!”

“No!” said Harry, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Yeah! And it gets better. Apparently he’s liked it and wants it every fucking night. Well, I’m not saying he’s a closet, but well, makes you think, dunnit? Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“I never mind if people smoke, Ron,” said Harry. “Especially when they’re good company. I only mind when people tell people they can’t smoke, especially in them bars up town. OK, there’s some places where the smoker should exercise discretion, like, maybe a cancer ward or at the business end of a petrol tanker. But a fucking pub? Grow up.”

“A man after me own heart,” Ron said. “Dougie won’t give you any more grief, H. I’ll have a word with Johnny.”

“No, don’t,” said Harry. “I appreciate it, but don’t make it bigger than it is, mate. I’m not around tonight. I’m fucking off to Amsterdam to see a man about some horses. By the time I get back he’ll have found some other poor bastard to persecute.”

“Amsterdam?”

“Yeah, so me phone’s off till tomorrow night. All right?”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do with all them dirty birds.”

“That don’t rule much out then,” Harry smiled. He downed his coffee and bunged two quid on the table.

“Not taking Lesley, then?”

“Nah, don’t wanna spoil her.”

“You’re sweet on her, though.”

“She is a double lovely girl, Ron.”

“I know, mate, but take care. You’re south of the river now, H, and round here even Cupid carries a cosh.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, mate.”

“OK, H. See ya.”

“Yeah, laters.”

Harry waited until he was back in the car before he allowed himself the sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to Amsterdam at all. That was just a cover story to give himself a nice night with Kara and Courtney Rose. Before that he would drive to Brentwood to make his notes and be debriefed. But first he would nip back to the flat and give Elaine a quick portion. It would have been rude not to.

Johnny Too strolled down to Waterloo embankment, lit a cigar and stared at the Thames. He did his most creative thinking by water. Uppermost on his mind was the challenge of going legit. He hadn’t told Joey yet, but his plan was to channel the whole Baker operation into straight businesses by the end of 2002. They would still be taking their cut from the drug trade, but not directly. Johnny’s dream was to turn the Firm into a small-scale version of the Mafia with nothing to connect the top dogs with the street-slime. His decision was partly selfish, partly pragmatic. Crime in London was changing yet again. The Yardies were upping the stakes. And although he had no problem with his black counterparts, their violence and expansion was certain to have consequences for the Bakers. The police were turning a blind eye to black crime for political reasons, but there would come a point when the Yardies would provoke a clampdown.

Besides, who wanted to spend the rest of their life looking over their shoulder? If pressed, Johnny Too would hold his hands up and admit he was a man of violence. He had never backed down from a ruck in his life, never forgiven a slight, real or imagined. But his success had given him a taste for the good life. There was a world beyond SE1 and he wanted in. Money gave you the key, far more than reputation alone ever could, and clean money made him invincible. But how to get it? The Bakers were making fortunes from drugs. In Johnny’s own words they were “making more money than a whore with two cunts”. He and Joey’s matching holiday villas in Marbella had been financed entirely from cocaine and ecstasy profits. The flow was so sweet it was a hard fix to kick. Granted, their pubs were thriving, but much of the trade was drug related. The e-florists was nicely in profit, but it wasn’t turning over enough to sustain him in the style to which he wanted to become accustomed. The mini-cab company would have been clean if he didn’t use the drivers to deliver packets of Charlie. He had tried to diversify his crime base, but increasingly circumstances pushed him back to drugs and knocked-off hooch as other areas of criminal expansion were frustratingly closed off to him. The Old Bill were hammering the counterfeit video games racket, with council trading standards officers hard on their tail.

Snide clothing? That was suffering with
lorry-load
after lorryload being seized as soon as it hit the street markets. The snide perfume trade had all but run aground, and mortgage fraud was being worked to death by the Africans.

Johnny had considered investing in a movie. He had even met up with the actor Ray Winstone in the Phoenix Apollo restaurant in Stratford for a thoroughly pleasant evening. Trouble was, he’d missed the boat on gangster flicks, and if he had got seriously involved who would have run the rest of the Baker operation? Steven was the only one with the brains but he was still too young to be giving the orders. Johnny had to work with what he had, and what he had were the Three Stooges…

At that moment Pyro Joe and Rhino were pulling up outside Dougie The Dog’s council flat. Their mission this fine autumn morning was to drive over to the Mile End Road in East London – West Ham territory! – to negotiate a price on a large, quality parcel of snide Thomas Burberry and YSL tops. It was a test of initiative for the trio who were the firm’s main physical enforcers, Johnny Too’s trusted lieutenants.

Dougie groaned as he got in the Merc, a half-eaten bacon sandwich in his hand. He rubbed his groin as he slumped in the back seat.

“Fucked this bird last night,” he said. “Very fucking posh she was. I think she’s given me lobsters.”

“Don’t your missus ever get the hump with you fucking other birds?” Pyro Joe asked.

“Why should she?” Doug replied. “I’m fucking her as well.”

All three men laughed. In the front seat, Rhino was reading the
Daily Star
.

“Did you see this in the paper?” he said. “Mike Fitzgerald is dead.”