The Guv'nor (19 page)

He said, ‘I've been waiting to get a statement off you.'

‘You're going to have a long wait, then, pal. I don't talk to you people. I'm saying nothing so you might as well bugger off.'

He said, ‘Suit yourself, but I'll be back.' He came back three days later and I had to sign a form saying, ‘Mr McLean does not wish any enquiries to be made into the firearms incident at the Barbican Club.'

In the meantime, McCarthy come up to Bart's with his arms full of fruit and stuff like that. ‘Sorry you got shot, Len,' he said.

‘Don't worry, Den, goes with the job. What I'm going to do is discharge myself at the end of the week and I'll be back on the door Monday. Good news or what?'

He shifted uneasily in his seat, so I guessed something was on his mind. ‘Actually, Lenny, we're going to let you go. The police have said that if you stay on the door, they won't renew the club licence when it comes due. They said the reason is nobody's going to settle grudges with you unless they're tooled up. That means a lot of gunplay. Somebody's going to get killed and the law won't have it – so we can't keep you on.'

‘Well, Dennis my old pal, that's tough because I ain't fucking going. You come here with a bag of apples and tell me to piss off after what I've done for you. I sorted all your agg, and now the fireworks are going off you can't wait to pull the plug on my pension. Forget it.'

I thought he went off with the hump, but he came back the next day, dropped an envelope on the bed and said, ‘Five large there, Len … shall we call it severance pay?'

I said, ‘That'll do me, lovely. Mind how you go, Dennis. Be lucky.' Fucking wanker. He showed his true colours when he locked the door behind me at the first sign of trouble. I was well out of it. I put the word out but never got a whisper about who'd shot me. It could have been any one of 500 people. I'd hurt a lot of blokes with my hands, and had been involved in some heavy stuff, so it was anybody's guess which particular one had got the hump with me.

A pal of mine, Donny Adams, got in touch. He'd done a lot of bird in his time, and was very useful as a bare-knuckle fighter in his younger days. He said, ‘How's the bum, Len?'

‘Lovely, Don, healed nicely and I'm back in the game.'

‘Good stuff,' he said. ‘I've got something to put to you. There's this little boy over Canning Town, he's about three years old. If he don't get a brain operation in America very soon he's going to die, so I'm trying to raise some money.'

‘Poor little sod, put me down for a monkey.'

‘No, Len,' he said, ‘it'd be better if you'd have an all-in
bare-knuckle
fight for him. Nobody else could pull the punters in like you could. What do you think?'

‘Smashing idea, as long as the kid gets every penny. I'll fight anybody – go ahead and set it up.'

Donny and a few others did the business. They got a tasty geezer from South London to take me on and tickets were selling really well. It all had to be done on the Q.T. because time was running out for the kid. There wasn't even enough time to have a newspaper campaign – he needed big money, quick.

His mum rang me up and she cried on the telephone while she was thanking me. ‘It's a wonderful thing you're doing. I hope you don't get hurt, though.'

I said, ‘Listen, I can win, lose, or break my hands. I promise you I ain't going to lose and if I bust something, a couple of weeks and it's mended. But your baby will live the rest of his life, and he'll look back and I hope he will think about us chaps that saved his life.'

A week before the fight some grassing bastard phoned the law and gave them all the details and it had to be cancelled. We pleaded with the police to turn a blind eye but they wouldn't budge. All the money had to go back and the baby died. The bastard who grassed us up might as well have gone round and stuck a knife in that little boy because they murdered him anyway.

That would have been the first fight I'd taken up since I was shot, so what with the word going round that I was back on the cobbles, I got a bid from a fighter by the name of Brian Bradshaw, a scrap dealer. He was a bit handy with his fists and liked to call himself the ‘Mad Gypsy'. He'd got himself backed by some well-known ‘names' so the purse was well into five figures. Not that I gave a bollocks. Money was nice, but if somebody challenges me I'll knock them down for £20 or £20,000.

I was up Freddie Hill's gym doing a bit of training, nothing too heavy, just toning myself up. There was a kid there doing a bit as well. When we put fights on he'd be on the undercard. I'd be top of the bill, and all the rest made up the numbers to give the punters a warm up. This kid, Billy Quinn, asked me to give him a few rounds sparring because he didn't have a partner. I said, ‘No problem. What I'll do, ‘cos you're such a weedy little bastard, is I'll put on 18 ounce gloves, then I won't hurt you. I'll just fiddle about.'

So off we go and he stuck a few on me. I got him moving about
but I'm holding back because it's only a spar. After a bit I said, ‘Billy, look, I'm going to have to slip a few in – let you know I'm here, or you might as well be on the bag.'

He said, ‘All right, Len, away you go.'

I let him play around a bit more, and then I've given him two up the derby and he went over like a sack of shit. He jumped up all red in the face and shouted, ‘That's out of order, you big c**t.'

I said, ‘Hold on a minute … I'm doing this for your benefit. You're too slow and you ain't fit.'

He was well narked. ‘We're supposed to be sparring and you've took a liberty, so fuck off.' Then he climbed out the ring and went into the showers.

I took my gloves off and followed him in. I got him by the throat and pinned him up against the shower, his feet swinging off the floor. ‘Listen, you mug, don't you ever swear at me in front of people. I oughta kill you stone dead.'

‘All right … All right … All right. I'm sorry,' he spluttered. I left it at that, we got dressed, and no more was said.

A week later I was upstairs at home. The kids were out and Val was down the Roman Road market doing a bit of shopping. The front door bell went and I shouted down, ‘It ain't locked, come on in.' As I said that I went to the top of the stairs and looked down. The door opened and Billy Quinn stepped in. ‘Hello, Bill,' I said, ‘how you doing?'

He stuck his hand inside his coat, pulled out a gun and fired straight at me. Bang. Bang. One past my head, one in the stairs. I flung myself to one side and he shouted, ‘Think you're tough? Well fuck you!' and he let three more go. He missed me again but murdered the banister. I dived down the stairs, grabbed a short baseball bat I kept behind the door, and went after him, but he was away. Now my nut's ticking over. Has this slag got the hump over a little tap up the derby, or is he working for some firm who want me out of the way? First the Barbican, now this.

At least I know this one. When I find him, he's in dead trouble. I went everywhere looking for him. I put the feelers out but nobody had seen him. He'd done a runner.

One afternoon I was sitting at the traffic lights in my car down Hackney way, and there was a tap on the window. I looked up and this fat old geezer, Stevie Pearce, was waving his arms about. I leaned over, opened the door, and he said, ‘Len, I know who shot you down the Barbican.'

I just said, ‘Get in,' then I pulled through the lights and parked up. He gave me a name. I said, ‘You sure? I know the name but he's with so and so and they're good people.' I won't talk about who these people are because this firm's still active.

Stevie said, ‘Straight up, Lenny, I got a good whisper, it's definitely down to him.' So I bunged him a tenner and tore off.

I cruised round a bit making enquiries eventually ending up in the Feathers. Looking looking through the window, I can see the slag on his own in the corner. I got hold of him and dragged him into the toilets before he knew what was happening. ‘Right, you c**t, before I tear your face off I want to know what's behind you digging me out with a shooter?' He was shaking like a leaf

‘Gimme a minute … gimme a minute, please. Who told you it was me?'

I said, ‘Fella by the name of Pearce.'

‘Jesus Christ, Len, he's pulling a stroke, honest. What's happened, I've lent him three grand with good heart because he was in trouble. Now he wants you to sort me out so he don't have to pay it back. He knows what you're like so he thinks he's got me squared off.'

What could I say? I bought him a drink, we shook hands, and I went to find Stevie. I found him. I hope he's still praying to God every day that Lenny McLean isn't a liberty taker. I told him, ‘If you wasn't 64 years old I would break every bone in your body.'

He's whining like a pup. ‘Sorry, Len, I was desperate.'

‘Sorry … fucking sorry. You nearly got a bloke seriously hurt, or worse, so you could rump him. I never want to set eyes on you again. Cross the road if you see me coming, or get out the pub when I walk in, because you're the biggest slag I've ever come across. You're worse than that bloke that shot me in the back.' He was white as a ghost and lost two stone in sweat. ‘And, oh yeah, while I'm at it, I'll have that tenner back.'

No more came of my enquiries so I put it all out of my head and got ready to take on Bradshaw. By now I'd heard he was a nasty bit of work, but then I think he'd have to go some to get anywhere near as nasty as I could be.

The fight was held in a pub over in Eltham, the Yorkshire Grey. It was a big place, so we squeezed plenty of punters in – about 1,000 of them were there looking for blood. I didn't like being over the south side much, so all I wanted to do was put him away quick, pick up the wedge, and get home – no hanging about.

Reg Parker the promoter had put on a good do – TV cameras, the
lot. I was in my corner sizing up this gypsy character and thinking, ‘Five seconds and I'm putting this glove right through your ribs.' Nearly ready for the off, we centre ring, touch gloves, and I can't believe it, this arsehole has nutted me. We had agreed on a straightener and straight off he's given me the nut.

I stepped back, shook the steam out of my eyes, and went for him like a fucking raving lunatic. I smashed him twice in the head and he went down. I got him by the hair, lifted his head up, and smashed it again. Punch after punch I drove into him as he was laying there, then in went the boot – in the face, neck, body, head, I drove my foot in as hard as I could and as he sprawled on his back I stamped on his chest and, to finish him, on the head. He took a liberty fighting dirty. Now he'd paid the price. From what I heard afterwards, I must have been in front of the telly with my Horlicks before he regained consciousness. Forty-five minutes he lay in the dressing room out cold. I'd broken his ribs, jaw and cheek-bones, and he had concussion. It was a month before he came out of hospital. I didn't sympathise one bit – he knew the score.

Of course, there were ructions in the media. They said I was evil, an animal and a lunatic. Fuck ‘em. The police checked out the video to see if they could do me, but they couldn't. The firm who owned the pub gave the manager a load of grief – it all came to nothing though. It was wonderful publicity for me. Good or bad, it doesn't matter – if your name's up there, it's worth money.

Our little scrap was shown on the television programme
Today
showing the horrors of unlicensed boxing. Mugs. Why can't they understand that nobody gets forced into the ring at the point of a gun? All of us know the score. The best of it is that half of those people saying how shocking it all is are the ones who come to watch.

Out of the blue, I got a phonecall and this very polite voice said, ‘Lenny McLean?'

I said, ‘Yes, speaking, who is that?' I can turn on the old plum when I want to.

The voice said, ‘This is Frankie Fraser. I've just watched your fight with the gypsy – great fight, very, very violent. I've got to say you're a bit of a spiteful bastard.'

That made me laugh. Coming from Frankie Fraser that's like the pot calling the kettle black, because there's no one as spiteful as he used to be.

The man has been a legend for many, many years, going all the
way back to Spotty and Hill. From when he was about 14, he managed to get himself put behind the door on and off for something like 30 years plus. One occasion was when he got a seven with my uncle Bob Warren for doing Jack Spot. Another was when I was at Borstal when he got a ten with the Richardsons. He never spent one easy day in prison. He hated the system and the system hated him because it couldn't control him. If he wanted to chin a screw he did it, never stopping to think about the consequences. It didn't matter who it was, if they upset Frankie they copped it. Once, back in the Fifties, he planted one on the prison governor for being, as Frank put it, ‘bang out of order'. For that he was sentenced to 20 strokes from the cat-o'-nine tails.

We were talking about the old days once and he said, ‘Len, you wouldn't believe that flogging lark, it was like something out of the Dark Ages. If you was to treat a dog like that you'd have got locked up. What they done was to strap your wrists and ankles to this big wooden frame that had a big square of leather stretched over it. There was a slit in the leather and one of the screws would shove your head through so you couldn't look behind and see who was striping you. It'd go all quiet for a bit, then the governor would say, “Stroke one,” and there'd be this sort of whistling whoosh, then,
bosh
, the bollocks was knocked right out of you as them nine strips of knotted rope cut across your back. If that whip caught you low on the back it drove every drop of air out of you and there was just time to catch a bit of breath before,
bosh
, it started again. By the time they flung you back in the cell, the blood was running out the bottom of your trousers.'