Serious People (10 page)

Then Robert’s laughter stopped and he looked squarely at Billy. “Take over! You haven’t got what it takes,” he said defiantly. “You’re just the guys people bring in to get someone killed, or roughed up, and the truth is; you’re not even good for that. You didn’t even have the good sense to collect on time!”

Billy stared back dumbfounded.

“Everyone knows; you got a shittie job, get the Blake brothers. They'll do anything…” Payne continued.

“Yeah,” Billy said, his eyes darkening.

“Their mum was a wrinkly old whore; every kid has a different Jon for a dad…!” Payne continued, oblivious to any pain.

“Just give us the number of the Mexicans, and we’ll make it quick,” John said, desperate for Payne to stop.

“Well we’ll see about that. The next knife wound is going to be in your bollocks,” Billy said, now shaking with anger.

“Really? Well, I hope you’ve brought a bigger knife then that, you cunt!” Payne snarled back.

“Do you think we need to show him again Nick?” Billy said, his eyes as dark as John had ever seen them.

Nick nodded like a lapdog. John felt a sudden urge again to step in. “We need him to give us the number Billy, there will be nothing left of him if you do anymore.”

“Sometimes I wonder if your heart is really in this John,” Billy said, looking at John with enough venom to carry his words as a threat.

John tried to keep his cool. “No. One of us needs to keep a cool head about things or all our hard work will be for nothing.”

Nick looked at John with an evil grin on his face, while Billy tried to decide if he agreed with his brother’s words or not. John felt his whole body start to shake and hoped it didn’t show. The standoff between the brothers was broken by a croaky laugh coming from Payne.

The brothers turned to look at the bloody mess that was the crime boss’s body; Billy was visibly shocked by Payne’s continuing laughter. It almost now sounded like a cackle.

“What the fuck,” Billy spluttered. “What is still so fucking funny?”

“I’m just looking at the three of you,” Payne said, gasping for air.

“What?” Billy almost screamed back.

“This is exactly why a prostitute, shouldn't have their Jon's babies!” Payne said, starting his breathless cackle again.

John could see Billy stiffen in anger. His hands started to clench into fists.

“And you know the funniest fucking thing?” Payne said, his face now serious.

“Billy remember; we need him alive,” John said, knowing the futility of his words.

Billy looked so angry he could barely speak.

Payne slowly lifted his arm and pointed it towards John, “His name’s fucking John!”

Billy launched himself at Payne, delivering blow after blow. It was sickening. John had to look away from the crunching as Billy’s fist repeatedly connected with Payne’s nose.

“Get out!” Billy turned to look at John and Nick. “Both of ya! Get the fuck out of here! I’ll finish this, you wait out there. Make sure no other wankers turn up, while I’m doing him!”

John looked at Billy’s eyes; they raged as black as the night. This was not a time to argue. Even Nick, with his sadistic love of violence, was quickly leaving the room. As John followed Nick out of the window through which they had recently entered he could hear Payne suddenly plead.

“Wait, wait. I have something… something to say…”

The great Robert Payne was broken; but if Payne thought he could get anything out of Billy when he was in one of his psychotic rages he’d be sadly mistaken.

John had seen that look in Billy’s eyes many times before and knew that he would have barely have heard Payne’s words. The great gangster was about to die. All John could think about was getting himself and his brothers the fuck out of there as soon as possible. Maybe Robert Payne’s murder had become the only way out of this situation.

Charlie looked at his wife, still connected to the host of machines trying to restore her health. He couldn’t believe that it was all those months ago that he and Jackie had been sat in the consultant’s office being told the words that had crushed his world in one sentence. Though, here she was still fighting.

“You should get yourself off for a while, Mr O’Neil.” O’Neil turned to see a young male nurse, walking in with a clipboard. “Seriously, she’s in safe hands, and you’ll be no good to her in your present state.” The nurse smiled nervously, when he noticed Charlie’s stern face. “No offence.”

Charlie sat up in his seat, “I don’t like to leave her; what if she wakes?”

“Mr O’Neil, your wife will be asleep for a good five or six hours on the medication she’s just been given,” The nurse said, recording numbers from the machines next to Jackie.

Charlie didn’t like male nurses. There was something wrong with them in his mind. If they were any good, why weren’t they doctors? He couldn’t help but view them as failed doctors; ones that just weren’t up to the standard. He wondered if while they were at university half way through their studies they had been given an exam that they must pass. Those that failed were ushered into another room to start their nursing career.

“Are you sure?” Charlie replied.

“Yes,” the nurse smiled back. “Get yourself off and have a shower or something.”

That riled him—he just couldn’t help it. If those reassuring words had been spoken by some motherly type of nurse he’d have more than accepted them. He’d probably have apologised and got the hell out of there. But a guy—a fucking guy—telling him he needed a fucking shower?

“Sorry, what did you just say?”

“Go home, put your feet up for a bit. Your wife needs you to be strong so she can be strong too. With the best will in the world you can’t do that if you’re dead on your feet.”

He wanted a reason to snap back at the male nurse. He yearned for the opportunity to let out some of his frustration, a chance to lose his temper, slug the little bastard. God damn, just the thought of it made him feel a bit better. But he knew that he couldn’t. The guy was right; he was dead on his feet.

“If Jackie, wakes up I’ll call you,” The nurse smiled.

Charlie got to his feet for the first time in hours. “You will call me if she wakes or anything?”

“Of course we will,” The nurse said, almost shooing O’Neil out the room.

Charlie started to walk towards the exit. His whole body felt gripped by anxiety; every muscle seemed to be as tight as a fist. All he had wanted to hear since he got in the bloody place was some calming words. “Don’t worry Mr O’Neil, it’s nothing, there’s no need for us to keep your wife in.” But there had been nothing like this at all. Instead there had been quite the opposite. Concerned faces; people rushing to get new equipment. And all he wanted were those words.

The fresh air hit him like a cold shower as he let the wind flow over him, energising his body at every stroke. As he looked for his car his chest suddenly felt tight—or had it felt tight this whole time? Was he having a heart attack? This would be just his luck. Jackie wrapped in wires and machines trying to get better. All she needed was to keep strong; and he was going to have a heart attack.

But another strong gust of wind hit his face, which seemed to knock the negative thoughts out of his mind. This was just stress. One of the doctors early on had given him a pamphlet about it; it was quite normal. Your body does mental things when it’s under stress. He was fine.

Keep it together Charlie.

He needed something to occupy his mind, to take his mind off this stupid shit. Robert. He could see Robert; there was always business to talk about. The more he thought about it the more sense it made. He had better pop into Robert’s on the way home, he thought, feeling his body already starting to re-energise. They needed to sort out that collection shit.

In a matter of moments, a focussed Charlie was speeding along the A4 in his Jaguar Eagle Speedster; it was one of the many guilty pleasures in his life. It has cost him almost seven hundred grand and was worth every penny. The car was a modern reworking of the classic E-Type. It was hand built; with the looks of a car from the sixties, but an engine that could make mincemeat of most modern cars on the road.

The roar of the four point seven litre engine helped to clear his mind of any pain. He put his foot down harder. The car was working as a form of medicine to his mind and body as he headed towards Robert’s house.

Charlie concentrated on his speedometer—it was nearing ninety. If the old bill were anywhere in sight, he was done for, but he didn’t care. He knew people like him don’t get pulled for things like this. Anyway, even if they did fuck with him, he knew people in the plod, people that were desperate to do him a favour. Most people saw the Police as a bunch of chumps who lived like angels, operating by every rule of the land. He had met few of those people in his time. But Charlie had a much more realistic view of the police. In his opinion they ranged from the ones who liked the money, to the cowards who hid behind their warrant cards and even to the hero worshippers. They were all there—all human—all corruptible.

If he were pulled now, he’d put every note in his wallet on the fact he’d be pulling back onto the road with nothing more than a quick talking to. He was a more consistent law than anything that walked around all dressed in blue. He policed the streets in a far more consistent way than they ever could. He was a fucking God out on the streets. No fucking copper would dare come near him. Fucking speeding ticket—not a chance plod.

His mind was starting to clear, when his phone rang, abruptly interrupting his love for his accelerator. A shudder went down his back as he pressed his hands-free button, “Yeah, hello.”

“Mr O’Neil, we need you back in the hospital. There have been some developments.” It was the voice of the young nurse he had spoken to in the hospital.

His body tightened, everything around him seemed to stop, his chest was heavy. But he put all this to the back of his mind. Charlie put the phone down and abruptly turned his steering wheel around.

He got back to the hospital in half the time it had taken him to drive the distance he had covered at the time he got the call. He ran down the corridor from the entrance towards his wife’s room, almost not noticing the young nurse trying to hail him down.

“Mr O’Neil, relax, Jackie’s fine,” the nurse said, grabbing hold of him to stop him.

“But the phone call…” Charlie stammered.

“We were worried about a reaction she had while she was sleeping. But we were wrong—she’s still stable,” the nurse replied.

Charlie fought to get his breath back. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry but you said to phone you if there was any change,” the nurse said. “And we…”

Charlie held up his hand to stop him continuing. “Sorry it’s fine. I was just worried. Thank you for calling me.”

“She’s still stable.”

Those were the only words that circulated around his head. That was all that counted; nothing else mattered. These were the type of words he’d wanted to hear hours ago—for the first time in hours a feeing of calm spread through his body.

He felt tired; he suddenly felt extremely tired. He needed to get home to get some sleep. Jackie was fine for the moment. Robert and the business could wait. Jackie needed him to rest now; she needed him to be strong again.

Charlie strode towards the door. He needed to get home to bed.

Mickey looked around at the framed photographs that covered the walls in Max Fame’s office; he recognised an attempt at influencing simple minds when he saw one. Max Fame had set the pictures up with one intention; to show he was a somebody. He wanted people to know he was a man with connections, that he knew famous people, that he knew dangerous men. Mickey smiled; Max Frame would soon be in the company of a like-minded individual, somebody who appreciated the art of influencing.

People who came into contact with Mickey would invariably view him as
serious people
, as someone who couldn’t be crossed. He was Charlie O’Neil’s enforcer, and therefore arguably nothing more than an over grown school yard bully. But Mickey saw his role simply; he was an influencer.

Over Mickey’s years of working within the O’Neil organisation, years that had demanded constant interaction with people who were on their guard with him, or sometimes just plain desperate, he had slowly come to understand the need to effectively influence people’s minds. So, he had learned the basic arts of psychology. He knew that understanding a person’s needs and motivations was the key to changing their way of thinking. Sure, he always had the old fashioned physical approach to fall back on; but Mickey knew this was a short-term angle at best. The best way to influence people was by cultivating good relationships and making people do what he wanted them to because they actually thought it was best for them. This was the true art of influencing.

Mickey continued to smile as he looked around the room. The clever bastard! Sit some twat in this room, and within ten minutes they’d be in awe of Max Fame, become putty in his hands. Pictures of Max Fame with pop stars, celebrities, and even politicians at charity events, surrounded him. There could be no doubt that anyone sat in this waiting room would have been led to believe that Max Fame was a powerful man, with powerful friends. Surely cutting a deal with him would represent the only sure route to success! And this would no doubt help Fame in negotiating his fees.

Most people who sat in Max Fame’s waiting area would already likely be highly nervous about the meeting. They would be rehearsing everything that they had planned to say to the showbiz manager so as to come across in the best way. Highly susceptible and way out of their comfort zones, easily exposed to some less than subtle influencing. Mickey would have doffed the hat he was wearing to Fame, as his equal in the sphere of influencing, had it not been for exposing his blue hair underneath it. 

“This is well impressive!” Seamus said, looking at all the pictures.

Simpletons are always the first to be taken in, Mickey thought. “If you think so.”

“Well, look at all the pics Mick. I mean this guy has met everyone,” Seamus added with considerable awe in his voice.

Mickey couldn’t help but be annoyed at the ease with which his apprentice had been taken in by Fame’s trap. “Do you not think that these pictures are here for a reason?” Mickey was adopting his coaching approach again.

“He obviously wants to show them off. There’s one with Kylie up there,” Seamus replied, pointing to a picture of Fame with the Australian pop star. It was deliberately placed in the centre of all the pictures, so no one could miss it. “I’d give her one!”

Nicely done Fame, Mickey thought, as he noticed there were three or four key pictures placed between the others to provide the ultimate effect. The one that impressed Mickey most of all was a picture with Tony Blair, which was twice as big as all the others and decorated by a particularly expensive wooden frame. “There’s one with him and Blair.”

“Yeah, wasn’t he the landlord at the Hare and Hound?” Seamus puzzled.

“No. He was the prime minister. One of the most powerful men in the country,” Mickey said bemused. Coaching Seamus was clearly going to be a challenge.

“Sorry Mick, I’m not really into politics. But I tell you what there’s one there with Barbara Windsor,” Seamus said, clearly impressed.

Mickey inwardly shook his head; there was no hope for this man. He began to wonder whether the younger man’s stupidity was a sad symptom of his previous career as a boxer or just a gift from God.

A young woman walked into the waiting area. Mickey recognised her, as the lady who had sat them down in the waiting room twenty minutes ago with the assurance that Mr. Fame would be just a minute. He remembered this particularly clearly because this had been much more than a minute ago by now.

“Mr. Fame will see you now,” the woman said, with a fake smile. It was a smile that was no doubt offered to all the poor people who had endured a spell in the well-decorated waiting room.

“Thanks. Minutes do last a long time in this office, don’t they?” Mickey replied with a glare.

The woman exhibited her fake smile again. “This way please.”

Mickey and Seamus followed her down a small corridor that was, again, adorned with tactically positioned photos. One in particular caught Mickey’s eye; it was Fame flanked by Charlie O’Neil and Robert Payne. Mickey smiled; the unquestionable lure of powerful men, serious people. The average man would have no idea as to who the two men either side of Fame were. But if they did, they were likely to be the type of unscrupulous dangerous people that this photo may work on. A photograph such as this might make them think twice about going in heavy on a man like Fame.

You are a clever man, Max Fame. I am already beginning not to like you.
  Mickey was deep in thought as he was shown into Fame’s office.

Mickey looked at the man sitting behind the desk; he looked just like he did in the photos. This either meant that he kept the photos constantly up to date, or that he was careful not to adjust his image too much so as not to devalue it.

Fame was a pot bellied man, dressed in a well-fitted suit, the type of suit that says you’ve spent money on it. He wore a ludicrous looking wig. Was the guy trying to look like Elton John? Or an Elton John who had borrowed Jon Bon Jovi’s hair do.

The man’s weakness was evidently his ego. Mickey started to revaluate the photos that decorated every area of the building, including Fame’s office. Maybe this was not just some kind of influencing trap. This was a just successful man who was caught up in his own ego, unashamedly showing off his famous friends like trophies.

Mickey had thought this man an equal. He was not. He was just another stupid cunt.

Max Fame was aged in his early fifties, though he must have a had a bit of work done—his face looking like it had come straight out of
Madame Tussauds
. The hair from his ridiculous wig was pulled back into a small ponytail. The man got up and offered his hand to Mickey. “Good morning, gentlemen. Max Fame.”

Mickey took his hand and gave it a strong shake, “Not your real name, I assume?”

Fame bristled, “And you are Mr.…?"

“This is Seamus.” Mickey sat down in one of the chairs facing Fame’s desk and turned to Seamus. “Sit down Seamus.”

He’d chosen to ignore Fame’s request for his own name. Mickey’s name, he was aware, meant something in life; and something in life always has to be earned.

“Yes, please have a seat,” Fame said, trying to hide the irritation at Micky’s rudeness. Mickey had taken a seat well before it was offered. “I understand you’re two of Mr. O’Neil and Mr. Payne’s boys?”

Oh nice, out the preparation area and into the dragon’s lair.

“I am one of Mr O’Neil’s and Mr Payne’s associates,” Mickey replied.

“Associate? That’s a strange word isn’t it? It conjures up thoughts of estate agents, don’t you think? You two don’t look like estate agents,” said Fame.

“Would you like a definition?” Mickey said, with a deliberate snarl.

“Oh please,” Fame replied, ignoring the snarl. “I do love definitions. My job is largely taken up by being the one asked for them, after all.”

“Strange, and there’s you sat there, ill defined.” Mickey smiled.

“Sometimes the very definition of someone is what others think or what you allow them to be,” Fame replied.

“I’d say that’s perception more than definition, Mr Fame,” Mickey said.

“I think to a purposeful individual, both can be manufactured.”

Mickey was annoyed; he couldn’t think of a clever retort to respond to Max Fame this time; he felt like giving him a slap for pure insolence. What annoyed him even more was that Fame knew he’d won their verbal trade off. He was moving his gaze away from Mickey to Seamus, as if looking for a new toy to play with.

“What do you think Seamus? You look like a bright young man. Perception and definition—one and the same ploy?” Fame asked, now firmly focussed on Mickey’s imbecilic assistant.

Seamus looked back for a moment, trying to fathom a clever response. Dear God, Mickey thought.

“Well, they both have ‘tion at the end, so I reckon you could be right.”

“I see,” Fame sneered.

“I heard about Mrs. O’Neil, it's terrible news…” Fame said, trying to feign sympathy.

“You owe Mr. O’Neil a lot of money, Mr. Fame,” Mickey said in an unthreatening tone.

It was about time he took charge of this exchange. He knew at the heart of success in the art of influencing was the need to retain a cool mind and not be afraid to change gear.

“With all due respect, all due respect Mr.… err,” Fame stopped momentarily; seeming to hope that Mickey would now fill in the gap of his name. “It’s a small loan in relation to the size of my business. Look around, money oozes form my walls. I’m sure Mr. O’Neil and Mr. Payne…” he added with confidence.

“Can I ask you a question, Mr Fame?” Mickey said, still not displaying any emotion or even a threatening tone. But he deliberately cut the showbiz manager short.

“Sure, but lets hurry this up please...”

“Do you know who the fuck I am?”

“No, I did ask…” Fame replied.

“I’m the guy who collects for Charlie and Robert, collects when it’s important. Most people get just one of the boys sent round. But some people—lets call them the special cases—they get me.”

Fame moved uncomfortably in his seat. Mickey hid his delight—when turning a screw there was no time for a smile.

“Special case?” the confidence was gone from Fame’s voice.

“Calm down, Mr. Fame. Have faith in the size of your business, look at those walls, watch them ooze.” Mickey said, inwardly smiling. He always took pleasure in making people swallow their own egos. “Try to put to the back of your mind the temperature of the Thames. I mean, if we were to put you in there, you wouldn’t need to worry about the cold. You’d be dead by then.”

“Jesus Christ!” Fame said, almost wailing.

“Mr O’Neil is a very understanding man; I mean, sure you’ve pissed him off…”

“Pissed… Pissed him off!”

“He’s prepared to offer you an exchange for his money, just in case—despite the size of your business—you weren’t able to get your hands on a bit of cash.”

Fame tried unsuccessfully to muster a confident smile. “What would that be? I’m suddenly very confused, what are we talking about Mister… I mean…”

“Just Mickey. Mickey Dunne.”

“Mickey Dunne?” The blood seemed to be draining from Fame’s well-manicured face.

Mickey followed the showbiz manager’s stare; it seemed to rest on Mickey’s bag. Mickey now allowed himself a small trace of a smile. Max Fame knew who he was; a man with a love for dangerous people would know who Mickey Dunne was.

“Jesus Christ, you’re Mickey the Bag!”

“Now, if you really knew me, you’d know I hate someone calling me by that name. And generally I’d happily
snap someone’s neck
that I heard calling me that.”

Fame’s hand instantly went to his collar. This was not the subtlest influencing job Mickey had ever carried out; but there was no question who was in control in this room.

“Mr. O’Neil is throwing a party for his wife and would like one of your acts to perform there,” Mickey said coolly. “Do you think we could have a drink? I'm parched.”

Fame tried to smile, “Of course, coffee?”

“That would be lovely,” Mickey said, enjoying his control.

“Have you got any Redbull?” Seamus asked unashamedly.

Fame smiled and picked up his phone, asking his assistant to deliver the order. Mickey smiled at Seamus, while Fame passed on the details, hoping the younger man was learning from his actions. He was an influencer and a coach.

Seamus smiled back oblivious. “He’s a good host isn’t he?”

Mickey couldn’t hide the pain in his face that Seamus’ display of stupidity gave him. The art of control, that Mickey had been demonstrating to his young apprentice, was lost on him.

The PA hurried in with a collection of drinks on a tray, passing those ordered to Mickey and Seamus.

Seamus took his Redbull. “That was quick Mr. Fame, thank you very much. I meant to say, do you really know Kylie?”

Fame looked at Seamus and smiled as he weighed up the weaker part of the partnership that sat in front of him. “We have been known to have the odd cup of tea together.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell Mick, this guy is a proper someone,” Seamus said, eyes wide with undiluted adoration.