Guns Of Brixton (38 page)

    'Sure,'
said Tubbs. 'You're not wrong. But a man can dream can't he?'

    Mark
nodded and went off to order another round.

    'You
got a motor, Tubbs?' asked Mark Farrow, upon his return.

    'An
old banger. Vauxhall Astra. You can't afford much on my wages.'

    'Not
like some,' said Eddie.

    Mark
ignored him. 'You can get a new one if you do the job,' he said to Tubbs.
'Unless you blow it all on "the islands".'

    'Might
never come back,' said Tubbs. 'Open a fried chicken restaurant on the beach and
spend my days drinking rum and chasing women.'

    'You'll
have to lose a bit of weight,' said Eddie. 'Otherwise you'll never catch them.'

    The
big man rocked with laughter again. 'You can come too, man,' he said to Eddie.
'Swim every morning.in the sea before we open up.'

    'Nice
idea,' interrupted Mark. 'But we've got business to discuss here first.'

    His
two old friends hushed up and listened.

    'There's
a bloke called Beretta up on the Ashworthy estate. You remember it?'

    They
both nodded.

    'He
deals dope and whores from what I've heard, and last week him and his two main
men went in and killed some business associates of Uncle John. And by the way,
had it off with a pile of charlie. Now, apparently they've been hassling the
old firm for months, after a bit of trouble over some money owed. It's time
they were sorted. There's a lot of aggro floating around and it has to end.'
'And we're going to do it?' said Eddie.

    'Let
the man finish,' said Tubbs, visions of blue seas and white sands still
floating around inside his head.

    'It'll
be fine,' Mark reassured them. 'They think Uncle John is finished, running
scared. He's not well.'

    'What's
the matter with him?' asked Tubbs.

    'Cancer.
Terminal.'

    'So
what's he worried about then?' asked Eddie. 'He'll soon be out of it, won't
he?'

    'Thanks
for your sympathy, Ed,' said Mark.

    'Sorry.
But you know what I mean.'

    'And
you know Uncle John,' said Mark. 'He never gives in.'

    'What
started the aggro?' asked Tubbs. 'As I remember, everyone had their own patch,
stayed out of each other's way and rubbed along pretty well.'

    'Times
change,' said Mark. 'And three other people got dead a while back.'

    'Friends
of Beretta, was it?'

    Mark
nodded. 'An unfortunate overreaction from some geezers from Kent employed by
Uncle John.'

    'And
this mob got the hump about it.'

    'That's
about it.'

    'And
we've got to sort it.'

    Mark
nodded again.

    'For
ten grand.'

    'That's
the deal. But I've had another idea.'

    'What?'
asked Tubbs.

    'If
we can get the dope back, I'll up the ante.'

    'How
much?' asked Eddie.

    'Depends
on how much is left. I reckon you two can cop for a third between you.'

    'And
it was worth how much?' asked Tubbs.

    'Three
hundred thousand.'

    Eddie
whistled between his teeth.

    'Sounds
OK,' said Tubbs. 'But if they've got rid or we can't find it, we get ten grand
each, right?'

    Another
nod from Mark.

    'No,'
said Tubbs. 'Let's make it twenty.'. 'You don't want much, do you?'

    'Man,
it's risky. These guys are stone killers, right?'

    'Right,'
said Mark.

    'And
they might have other friends?'

    'Almost
certainly.'

    'So
twenty sounds about right. Eddie?'

    It
was Eddie's turn to nod.

    'I
dunno,' said Mark. But he knew he'd agree in time, he just didn't want to seem
like a pushover.

    'Take
it or leave it,' said Tubbs, echoing Linda's words the previous day.

    'And
you'll do what needs to be done?' said Mark.

    Tubbs
nodded.

    'Eddie?'
said Mark.

    Eddie
Dawes looked at Tubbs and grinned, and suddenly Dizzy was back in the room,
conjured up from some far off place where he'd lain dormant for years. 'And we
fuck off after, Tubbs, you and me?'

    'That's
the plan, my man,' said Tubbs. 'Just think about it. Cheap rum, cheap spliff
and cheap women. We'll be kings.'

    Eddie
Dawes looked at Mark. 'OK,' he said. 'Fuck this country. Fuck this winter.
Let's do it, eh?'

    'Great,'
said Mark.

    'So
what's the plan?' asked Tubbs.

    'Simple,'
said Mark. 'You, my friend go down to Brixton and make like you've got a lot of
dough and are in the market for a big buy. We find out where they've got the
dope and get it back, taking no prisoners. We organise a buy and fuck them up.'

    'Then
I'm going to need some flash,' said Tubbs. 'My Vauxhall Astra ain't exactly
some big drug buyer's car of choice.'

    
'We
need Andy,' said Eddie.

    'Yeah,'
agreed Tubbs. 'He'd get me a fucking Roller, no danger.' 'I'll organise
something,' said Mark. 'Don't worry.' 'And my flash cash?'

    'There's
no problem there either,' said Mark. 'Sounds good,' said Tubbs. 'Eddie,' said
Mark.

    'Man,
for that sort of loot I'll do anything.'

    'Don't
forget they might've got rid of the gear already,' warned Mark. 'Don't be
getting your hopes up too high. And these geezers are dangerous. Really
dangerous. Uncle John's got twenty-four hour a day security.'

    'So
why don't they get the dope back?' asked Tubbs. 'His security, I mean.'

    'They're
legit,' said Mark. 'They're bodyguards, not fucking assassins.'

    'But
we are,' said Tubbs. 'Remember, Eddie?'

    'I'll
never forget it.'

    'And
you'll do it again?'

    'Just
once more.'

    'And
then we'll be set for life,' said Tubbs.

    Eddie
grinned, and Mark could see the boy he used to be.

    It
had been a year before Mark vanished and the boys were full on rogues and
vagabonds. Mark was with Linda, but the others preferred to play the field.
Mark liked having a steady woman. It made him feel older and more responsible.
He had to take a fair amount of piss taking from the others, but he was the
boss and if it got out of hand, he soon sorted them. The 80s were almost over.
The age of excess had peaked and fallen back, the pastel-coloured clothes had
been replaced by darker, more sombre colours, but the boys were still up for
whatever larks could be found. Mark was a busy man. Apart from working for John
Jenner, he supplemented his income with money from the many and varied tricks
the boys got up to. He was on coke, big style. Coke and booze and love.

    That
was what kept him going and he thought the good times would never end. There
was still the problem of his mother and Bobby Thomas. But he tried to ignore
that as much as possible. Every night was a party and every day was grafting,
but he had a beautiful woman, a wardrobe full of clothes, money in the bank,
and his BMW parked out front for all to admire.

    Life
was sweet, but it was about to turn sour.

    The
boys were ambitious in their villainy. Andy Styles was a renowned car thief
and, with help from Dev at the breaker's yard and the garage he ran in Heme
Hill, he was ringing motors like a trooper. The rest were flogging drugs the
length and breadth of south London. By then, John Jenner had moved out of that
market, not really understanding the changing tastes and styles of the younger
generation, so Mark and his boys had taken over. Jenner meanwhile was huge in
the protection racket, taking money from what seemed like most of the pubs,
clubs and restaurants from Greenwich to Twickenham. Later, of course, he went
back into dope, but for the moment he was happy to see Mark doing well, as long
as there was a cut in it for him. It was all working out nicely. But of course,
there was always someone ready to put his oar in and spoil a sweet operation.

    At
that time, the particular someone was a young black man called Neville Lloyd.
Neville lived at various addresses from the Elephant and Castle through
Camberwell, all the way down to South Norwood. The boy was a bit of a beast
with women, and had girlfriends stashed away all over the place. Most had
children by him, all boys. Rumour was, he wanted to start a football team. He
revelled in his reputation as a 'babyfather'. And, despite the fact that his
women knew there were others in the frame, they were desperately loyal to
Neville, running errands, taking messages and letting him stay with them
whenever he felt the need. Another rumour was that he had identical wardrobes
in all the girls' flats so that it didn't matter where he was on any given
night, because he could discard one designer suit and leave in top nick the
next morning. Aside from his sexual prowess, Neville liked to think of himself
as a bit of a style king.

    He
also had a chain of boys on bicycles and motor scooters running around the
estates and up and down to pubs and clubs, delivering all sorts with huge
bricks of mobile phones stuck up their jumpers, ready to take orders and
collect from one of Neville's safe houses where the drugs were stashed.

    Mark
had no argument when Neville was flogging weed. As far as he was concerned,
weed was the black man's natural stock in trade. And if he moved a little smack
or cocaine on the side to his regulars, no problems. But suddenly, as club
culture took off in a big way, the demand shifted to ecstasy. E's were the next
big thing, and at anything up to £25 a hit, were extremely lucrative. The Old
Bill really didn't know what was going on. All these kids stoned out of their
minds on bottled water didn't make any sense to them. But it made sense to
Mark. Perfect sense. And when he linked up with a couple of geeky college
students from Sussex called Paul and Dennis, who were producing thousands of
the pretty little pills in all the colours of the rainbow and decorating them
with cutout logos of comic characters, they knew their time had come.

    Business
was booming. Until, that is, the day Elvis came in with a handful of their
pills and a black eye. Dennis was in tow, looking like he'd lost a quid and
found a twopenny piece.

    'What's
the problem?' asked Mark.

    'These
fucking well are,' said Elvis, throwing a handful of pills on to Mark's desk.
'They're fucking rubbish.'

    'What?'
said Mark. 'Show.'

    The
pills looked OK to him, but Dennis shook his head. 'Not ours,' he said.

    'What?'
said Mark again. 'What do you mean?'

    'We
got one analysed,' said Dennis. 'Mostly chalk with a tiny bit of speed.'

    'And
you made these?'

    'Do
me a favour, Mark,' said Dennis. 'We wouldn't let rubbish like this out of the
door.'

    'So?'
said Mark.

    'So
someone's bootlegging our product,' said Elvis. 'And there's more than a few
pissed-off punters out there. Two of them caught up with me

    last
night and I got this. He stuck his face over Mark's desk and pointed to his
swollen eye.

    'Shit,'
said Mark.

    'Shit's
right,' said Elvis. 'I had a right ruck. They wanted to rip my head off. Lucky
Tubbs was with me.'

    Mark sat
back and looked at Dennis. 'There's no chance that Paul's been at it?'

    'Christ
no,' said Dennis. 'Paul's even more of a perfectionist than me. He just wants
to love up the whole world.'