The place was still open when we got there and fairly busy for a Monday, late evening, but there was no one on the door and that was more than a bit strange. I told a barman to fetch Vince and we waited for him to make an appearance. I clocked Finney looking up at the big screen where they were showing videos on MTV.
‘Look at that preening prat.’ He didn’t bother to disguise his disgust. I looked over to see what had offended him.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked.
‘What’s wrong with him? To start with his shorts are at half mast. How can he walk in them? I’ve not seen shorts like that since Stanley Fucking Matthews. He’s got a dog lead round his neck and a plaster on his face. What’s he done? Cut himself shaving? There’s bum fluff on his lip and he’s wearing a hat I wouldn’t have on at the beach. Who is he? He’s a disgrace.’
‘That’s Nelly.’ I told him.
‘Nelly? For fuck’s sake,’ he snorted, ‘I used to have an Aunt Nelly,’ he jabbed a sausage-sized finger at the screen, ‘and she was probably harder than him.’
She probably was, if she was related to Finney.
When Vince showed up I asked him, ‘why is there no one on the door?’ in reply he simply jerked his head to one side to indicate we should follow and took us behind the scenes to the little office with the CCTV monitors in it. ‘You need to see this,’ he said, pushing a button to play a scene he had obviously set up for us.
We watched in silence as a grainy black and white image appeared. We got a bird’s eye view of the lobby between the bar and the club. There was, as always, one of our girls standing behind the counter waiting to take the entrance money. Nearby, in front of her counter, stood the huge, hulking figure of Benny Evans and one of his lads, looking like a couple of sentries on guard duty. They had on the regulation uniform, black shoes and trousers, white shirt, black leather jackets. They were all bloody enormous guys on our doors but they needed to be, to deal with the tanked up specimens we were serving.
The image on the screen kept changing, flashing back and forth between the door of the bar where, sure enough, two more of our lads were standing right where they should have been, and the lobby of the club.
‘So far, so normal,’ said Vince.
‘Just what are you showing us here?’ I asked but before he could answer the scene outside the bar changed. It all happened so fast. There was a blur of movement as two big, heavy-set guys with shaven heads literally ran into view and went straight for our doormen. Our two guys were caught by surprise but they were used to dealing with dirty fighters. It made no difference to the outcome though, as blow after blow rained down on them. It took them all of their guts and strength just to stay on their feet, let alone fight back. Before they dropped, and they did drop, two other blokes – the same types, big buggers with close-cropped heads – went flying between them and on into the bar. You could just make out some frightened punters in the background stepping out of their way.
They disappeared from view but came back into it straight away, as soon as the screen changed to the scene in the lobby by the club doors. Nobody had raised the alarm with Benny and his man. It had all happened too fast for that. The two new guys went straight for Benny and his bloke and the scene repeated itself. It was a carbon copy of the fight outside, with the addition of Kathy, our poor cash-desk girl, ducking under the counter and, though we didn’t have the benefit of volume, more than likely screaming her head off in the process. Our lads were well surprised but at first they held firm. Fat lot of good it did them. Their only reward was a serious pummelling. When they finally fell to the ground, the shaven heads waded in with their boots, and as soon as all four lads were out cold, the shaven heads turned on their toes and marched off. The whole thing took less than two minutes. It was amazing. If it had not been our lads on the receiving end I’d have probably been seriously impressed.
‘Fuck me,’ said Finney, ‘where did those twats come from?’
‘No idea,’ said Vince, ‘it happened just like you saw. They came in, they decked all four of our lads and gave them a proper kicking, then they left, didn’t take a thing, didn’t say a word, just did what they came here to do and went. Our boys are all in hospital. I sent Kathy with them. That’s why there’s no one on the door.
‘I’ll make a call,’ I told him, ‘get you someone down here. I doubt they’ll come back again tonight but in case they do… ’
‘What good will it do?’ He asked me. ‘I’m not being funny but you saw that… ’
‘We’ll make sure the next lot have baseball bats,’ said Finney.
‘Fuck that,’ I told him, ‘I want them armed. Those guys weren’t just a bunch of arm-chancers or local lads with a grudge. Someone was sending us a message.’
‘Yeah, probably best to be tooled up after this,’ Finney conceded.
‘Have you ever seen Benny Evans take a beating like that?’ I asked him.
He shook his head, ‘I’ve never even seen him take a beating.’ He banged his fist down on the desk, ‘I don’t care how hard they are, I’ll fucking murder them. All of them, personally,’
‘Give me that tape,’ I ordered.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Vince
‘Show it to Bobby.’
‘He’ll have someone’s eyes for this,’ said Finney.
I took the tape up to Bobby’s house. It was a big mansion style building in Gosforth. The posh-end as he liked to call it. He’d come a long way since he was a youngster. The house lay behind two massive wrought iron gates.
Bobby poured us both a drink, ‘you can come through, Sarah’s at her mate’s house.’ Sarah Mahoney was the one person who could wrap Bobby round her little finger. She was twenty years old, had gone off to college a year early and was now graduated, back home and living with the old man again. Her graduation picture held pride of place on his mantelpiece. She was still beautiful, even in that ridiculous get-up they make you wear when you pick up your certificate. I think Bobby was delighted she was home and he was in no hurry to move her out. His missus had been dead nearly ten years now and he’d shown no interest in replacing her. He had women when he wanted them of course, but nothing permanent. Like every dad I’ve ever met, he thought his girl was the most special thing on the planet. Bobby would have done anything for his daughter, anything.
He watched the tape silently then asked me, ‘what the fuck does this mean?’
‘I think someone is testing us, sending us a message. They are trying to say they can take over whenever they like.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
‘I know but I think that’s what they are telling us.’
He thought about this for a moment, ‘Who has got the balls to come after us like that?’
‘What about Anderson? There was that row in Ibiza.’
‘Nah, he wasn’t too happy about it but he’s got too much on his plate for this. His accountant’s not as slippery as ours. Now he’s got ARA all over him ‘cos he can’t explain how he’s got the house, the cars and all the bling with no visible means of support.’
ARA was the Assets Recovery Agency, tasked under the Proceeds of Crime Act with confiscating the ill-gotten gains of career criminals. Sensible people always had legitimate businesses to demonstrate where their income came from, which is why Bobby owned pubs, clubs, restaurants, a catering company, a property agency, even a couple of newsagents, anything with legitimate turnover that we could use to launder cash.
‘Didn’t he have anything legit?’
Bobby shook his head, ‘stupid bastard was still signing on in Toxteth.’
‘That is sticking two fingers up at the man,’ I said, ‘queuing up at the dole office with your Rolex and a wodge of drug money in your back pocket.’
‘He’ll need benefits by the time they’ve finished with him. They filmed him secretly for one of those uncovered, fly-on-the-wall documentaries,’ and he shook his head, ‘I tell you, if that Macintyre bloke came near me looking to make a name for himself I’d stick him in the boot of his own car, lock it and push it into the Tyne, I really would.’
‘I know you would. How about our friends in Glasgow?’ I offered, ‘the Gladwells?’
Bobby thought for a moment, ‘too old, maybe ten years ago but not now. We’ve had our scrapes me and Arthur Gladwell but we always sorted them in the end. Imagine the stress of being the Top Boy in Glasgow for that long.’
‘There’s a lot of competition.’
‘They’re fucking psychos up there. Remember, it was us that built the wall, to keep those buggers out.’
