Serious People (8 page)

Robert Payne’s house was on one of the most sought-after streets on the outskirts of west London. There only were six houses on a road that had space for well over ten four bedroom detached. This was what being a name got you.

“We should be in one of these,” Billy said, while the brothers looked at Payne’s house.

The brothers were parked a few houses down from Payne’s mansion in Billy’s transit van. John had bought the van for Billy after he was released from his last spell inside. The idea, John had said, was to help him turn over a new leaf—as a painter and decorator—but the career was short-lived. The van was now the only evidence that the four-week career had ever existed.

John was simple minded like that; he had no spirit, he was weak. Billy wondered if he hated him; it was something he was very uneasy about. Family was meant to mean everything. You’re meant to do anything for your brothers. But Billy had never been sure about John. He always questioned him. One day he’d put a knife to John’s throat and slice it—not the whole way—just enough to let the blood gush. He’d even thought about what he would say. “There you go brother; now you can really leave us.”

It brought a smile to his face just thinking about this and the relief it would bring. No more dead weight to carry.

“Yeah, I could see myself sipping a nice cool beer on the veranda next to the pool,” John said. “It’d be lovely, wouldn’t it. Barbeques every night; that would be the way to live.”

“Yes mate,” Billy nodded.

He hated it when John did that; when he said things like that it made Billy start to think that maybe he wasn’t that bad. It fucked with his head. It pissed him off, ’cause he had to keep his head straight, know what needed to be done. That’s all that mattered in the next few moments.

Billy took in the full view of the mock Tudor mansion. It was something only a successful merchant banker or lottery winner could possess. Probably had a pool out back. It was such a large gaff, after all. It was a given. It had protection, of course, enclosed by a high wall and a large electric gate.

“This is what life’s all about,” Billy said surprised by his brother’s comments. “This is what being a proper name gets ya.”

This was all that mattered to Billy, being a name. All the other shit would be nice. Sure, he’d like to be driving a motor like a Porsche or something, but being
a name.
That’s what counted. Walk into a boozer and watch people acknowledge him, and fear him, careful not to say anything to him, just in case he took offence. He had a name already, of course. He knew what people already said about him and his brothers; well apart from that weak one John. They’re all a bunch of psychos that would fucking slit your throat if you fucked with them. He nodded to his reflection in the van’s wing mirror; you’re fucking right, he thought to himself.

“There’s more to life than this Billy,” John said. “Being happy is the most important thing.”

“Fucking queer!” Billy laughed, and Nick started giggling in a childish manner.

Part of Billy was pleased he didn’t have his knife with him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold himself back; but another part of him wished that he did.

“What’s the plan again?” John asked.

“We go persuade Payne to make a meet with us and the Mexicans,” Billy said.

“You make it sound easy,” John replied, trying to smile.

“You’ve got to remember. Payne is probably desperate for someone to step up and help drive the business forward, O’Neil has been like deadweight around in his neck recently,” Billy said, focused on the gates to Payne’s mansion. “And anyways, we can be very persuasive and Nick’s knife can be equally fucking sharp.” Billy smiled at his brother Nick.

“I reckon we can talk him round,” John replied.

Weak cunt. He counted to ten—this is what the nonce doctor from the slammer had told him to do. He’d learned a surprising amount from that little cunt. If it weren’t for him, he’d probably still be banged up.

“I think you’re ill Billy,” the faggot doctor had said.

“I feel fine thank you,” Billy had replied with a grin.

“I think you have been through a lot from a young age and these things affect people. I don’t think prison is the right place for you Billy,” the fag continued.

“Well I’m all fucking ears,” Billy replied. “Now I thought you were going ask me for a blow job, you gay cunt. But if you think me being ill or something can get me out, then yes mate. I’m fucking ill as shit.”

“I think, there are times you don’t feel completely in control of your thoughts. Violent urges will suddenly enter you mind from no where…”

Billy zoned out after this. There was only so much shit he could take in. But, fair play to the queer, Billy was out in a matter of months. With a bottle of pills to take and regular meetings with his counsellor to attend.

But Billy was too smart for that quack. He only went to one of those stupid counselling sessions; he mugged that doctor right off. And as for those pills, fuck that. Now Uncle Roy, on the other hand, had seemed to bloody love them. Had them in his Weetabix almost every day; course he didn’t know nothing about it mind.

Stupid old cunt, Billy laughed.

“You alright?” John asked.

He looked concerned and Billy liked that. Fair play, son, you’ve got a good heart, Billy thought to himself.

Billy was ready. Despite what he’d said to John this visit wasn’t going to end well for Robert Payne. If they managed to get something out of him about the Mexicans, then that would be a bonus. But this was an opportunity that Billy couldn’t miss. Best way of becoming a name, is by killing a name. Billy put his hand on the door handle and took a deep breath. This was a momentous occasion for Billy Blake, and he was ready. He was fucking well ready.

Before Billy could release the door a white Range Rover pulled up and all he could hear was loud dance music.

The brothers didn’t speak. All of them were transfixed on the Range Rover and the person who would come out of it.

It was John who broke the silence. “So who’s the Elvis impersonator?”

Mickey the Bag stepped out the car, carrying his infamous sports bag, shortly followed by the giant of man who had been driving. They said a few words to each other then walked towards the gates to Payne’s house.

“Brother, if he heard you taking the piss he’d fucking kill you,” Billy snapped.

“Easy Billy, no need to get so agro,” his older brother replied.

“It’s Mickey the Bag, you twat!” Billy said.

“That’s Mickey the Bag! I’ve heard of him so many times but this first time I’ve actually seen him.”

Yeah that’s ’cause you’re barely ever with us you wanker, Billy thought, as he watched Mickey and the giant walk through the gates.

“Do you think he just carries that bag around with him. Just to give himself some kind of rep?” John asked, looking at the man with bag with contempt. “You know play up to the name and all.”

“Are you a complete fucking twat?” Billy said, shaking his head. “Have you never heard the story of Mickey the Bag?” Billy said, sounding surprised.

“Well, of course, I know he takes that bag around with him everywhere he goes, and he’s got a real hard man reputation,” John replied, sparking a mocking laugh from Nick.

John stared back at Nick, who gave him a look that clearly stopped John thinking of saying anything back to his brother. Nick was the youngest brother, but he’d had John in his back pocket all his adult life.

“This is a good thing,” Billy said, looking at his brother. “We get to see if Payne is in or not. If these guys go in… then when they’re gone, we’ll make our entrance.”

“So what’s the story?” John asked Billy, who stared blankly back at him obviously forgetting his brothers question. “What’s Mickey the Bag’s story?”

Billy sat back in his seat. “Ah right yeah, I might as well give you some kind of education, while we wait. I heard it a few years back, in Wandsworth. It goes back years ago though, to about 1990 or something. O’Neil and Payne were just starting to grow their little empire. There was this boss in East London somewhere, name of Peszki. I think he was a yid or Polish or something.”

“I think that’s Polish,” John said.

“Sorry, fucking Gandhi. You want me to tell this story or what?”

“Sorry Billy, I didn’t…”

“Well, whatever, it’s not important. This guy was a real pain in the arse to them, and they decided one day to put him out of business for good. So they sent Mickey around there with some boys, and they closed him down. Killed everyone, dumped them all in the Thames,” Billy said, looking at John for a reaction.

“Sounds brutal,” John replied.

“Don’t be a fag all your life, John,” Billy said, stopping for a moment to stare at his elder brother. “Anyways, as it turned out, they didn’t get everyone. Peszki’s two sons weren’t there. Afterwards they went back to their dad’s factory and found no one but some blood and shit. The sons didn’t have to do too much digging though to find out about Mickey Dunne—’course he weren’t called Mickey the Bag back then understand? And they weren’t very happy about it… didn’t see the funny side… some little crew come down and mug them off like that. Blob their old man and all.” 

“So what did they do?” John asked quickly.

“Well, Mickey and his wife had just had a little baby, and he really doted on it. You know, spent every evening in. He’d gone soft. Though, this one night, with it being such a successful day with bringing Peszki down and all, he was down at the Irish club, you know with Payne and O’Neil celebrating. But meantimes the Peszkis… they got some big guns, went round Mickey’s, kicked the door in and shot the place up proper.” Billy said, mimicking firing an automatic rifle.

“What happened to Mickey’s family?” John asked.

“Mickey got back—pretty late I guess—and the place was all shot up. He found his wife first. She was still alive, just, and then he saw their baby. Apparently, it had been shot up so much that there was barely anything left,” Billy said with a dark smile.

John look sickened. Nick smiled and nodded his head as if keen for the story to continue.

“OK, so Mickey was pissed. He’d already done his homework on the Peszkis and he knew where the brothers lived. So, after his wife left in an ambulance, he headed straight there.”

“He had a gun?” John asked.

“No, no, Mickey don’t do guns. He’s got the stupid old school shit going on. He’s a name, he don’t need no shooter, he thinks people who carry shooters are no better than fags. Anyways, let me finish the fucking story, will ya?” Billy said, glaring at John, who nodded back by way of an apology. “So, he got to their place and just by chance they had left their garage door wide open. So Mickey, who probably right now is thinking, shit maybe I should have brought something, strolls right in there and eyed a toolbox just sat there in the middle of the garage and he had an idea. He decided to take a few choice things out… hammer, screwdriver, gardening sheers you name it. Then, while he’s probably mulling over in his mind which one is best to take to fuck them all right up, he notices the bag in the corner and thinks. Fuck that, why don’t I stick them all in the bag, then I got a choice of what to use. The story goes that, when he burst in, the brothers were watching TV, having a few beers. But lying on the floor next to them were those AK-47s, just lying there you know. It didn’t take too much grey matter to work out that those were obviously what they’d used to do his family. So, on seeing this, Mickey goes mad and wades into them both with their own garden tools!” Billy laughed, and Nick started to laugh. “It must have been fucking hysterical!”

“What happened to his wife?” John asked.

“I don’t fucking know. And who fucking cares about that?” Billy said, giving his brother a disgusted look once again.

“I just wondered,” John said defensively.

“You are a fucking strange one. I tell you this great gangster story, and you want to know how the wife is. Shit man, you are fucking gay. Sometimes I wonder how we’re even related,” Billy said.

Billy’s mind started to drift back to the knife. Once again, he was wishing that he had it with him. One, two, three, four…

Mickey and Seamus sat on Payne’s white leather sofa, in the lounge that Payne always used for entertaining. Payne had two lounges in his house, one of which was very much a den for watching the football or his favourite movies.  And generally to appreciate his bachelor life. But the entertaining lounge was different. It was laid out like a millionaire’s showroom, with every mod-con you could think of, and a few that your average civilian couldn’t. Robert’s favourite part about it, though, was the CCTV. It delivered a grainy black and white image which, to anyone glancing at it, it appeared unimpressive. But Robert had spent the money on the system parts that he knew really counted—the latest in covert cameras, straight off the CIA’s shelf (in this case literally straight off their shelves). They were needle sized and practically impossible to see; this was matched by covert microphones placed all over the room. The room was the perfect trap. It had cost thousands to put the system together but—for a man that prides himself on risk mitigation—it was the perfect investment.

It was an investment that had been realised financially many times over, through the many business meetings that had been held in the entertaining lounge. Let his business guests relax like kings while they waited for Payne to join them, while he has them under observation. The only downside of the system was that it prevented him from having the exterior CCTV cameras. This was a major annoyance to Robert, as it significantly reduced the level of security he had in his home. But in was a necessary economy that—as a prudent person—he had to make to counter balance the expense of his entertaining lounge trap. In any case, Payne had persuaded himself that any person entering a house that was covered in CCTV cameras would be come on their guard. Whereas a home with no cameras puts people at ease. A home with no cameras put criminal people, in particular, at ease. And anyway, who the hell would break into Robert Payne’s house?

Payne watched Mickey and Seamus sat inside his trap. He smiled as Seamus walked around, gazing open mouthed at the expensive paintings that surrounded them, matched with the range of audacious furniture set on marble flooring. There was a white grand piano in one corner of the room and a well filled bar opposite. Naturally, another nice benefit of his system was he could fully take in his visitors’ impressions of his home, which was never bad for the ego. And Payne did like his ego.

“Sit down Seamus, show some respect,” Mickey said, glaring at his assistant, who reluctantly returned to the sofa. “You’re in a boss’ house. Only move when I say you can and that goes for talking too."

Payne walked into the lounge. “Morning gentlemen.”

“Morning Robert,” Mickey said, getting up to shake Robert’s hand.

Robert stopped for a moment. Mickey Dunne’s hair was bright blue. “Mick, why’s your fucking hair blue?”

“He dyed it last night,” Seamus explained.

“What?” Mickey said, confused.

Robert pointed at the large mirror above the sofa. “Mickey—your hair’s bright blue.”

It was quite clear from Mickey’s reaction this was news to him as looked into the mirror and once more put his hands through his electric blue hair—in disbelief.

“Fucking hell!”

Robert picked out a bottle of orange juice from under his bar and started to pour himself a drink. “I take it, that wasn’t the colour you were going for?”

Mickey was still looking into the mirror. “Shit,” he said, trying to check his hair for any remains of his usual dark greying tint. “Seamus! Why didn’t you tell me I’ve been walking around with blue hair?”

“You said you had that colour when you were younger?” Seamus shrugged.

“What the…” Mickey said, exasperated. “
This
is what you’ve left me with, Robert. Seamus, do I need to tell you when you have to use your brain?”

“That’s a bit harsh Mick,” Seamus said, looking quite hurt

“That is a bit harsh Mick. Take a seat,” Robert said, sitting down in an armchair opposite the sofa and putting his feet up on a coffee table.

Mickey took one final look at his hair, shook his head and sat down. He looked across at Robert and caught sight of a passport on the coffee table. “Are you planning a trip?”

Robert nodded and picked up his passport. “There’s a big fight out in Vegas this weekend,” he explained. “I've got ringside tickets. I’ll probably fly out Saturday morning. I could get another ticket if you fancy it?”

“Thanks, I don’t think so. Dawn wants me to do the gardening this weekend,” Mickey grimaced.

“Life of a married man,” Robert laughed.

Seamus started to laugh as well. Mickey turned to him “I don’t know why you’re fucking laughing; you’ll be giving me a hand.”

Seamus stopped laughing, and was going to argue that he shouldn’t need to help with Mickey’s garden—but quickly seemed to think better of it. Robert loved this about Mickey; he was an old fashioned enforcer, and it was clear that he’d already won the respect of the former boxer and squaddie.

Mickey was far more intelligent than people would think when they looked at him, and he always took a common sense approach. No silly risks. Robert liked to think that he’s learned this from him; but this was a little unfair and was probably another example of how Dunne could get under estimated. He looked like an Irish Joe Pesci and, what with the infamous bag reputation, he was feared. Even the fucking Mexicans were terrified of him; they called him ‘Tommy’, following the Pesci theme from the movie Goodfellas. Mickey had no idea what they were talking about though and would always just say something like, “why don’t those greasy mugs ever get my name right?”

Fucking hilarious.

“I mean, another time Robert,” Mickey said.

“Well, if you finish it early…?”

“Thanks Robert,” Mickey replied.

“No issues with the collections then?” Robert asked, drinking his juice.

“No, nothing worth talking about. I haven’t bothered catching up with those Blake pricks yet. But I left a message with Zebbie for them,” Mickey said with a smile.

“Good, Zebbie’s a good guy. I’m pleased you didn’t go in heavy on him,” Robert said, now walking back to the bar. “Right, I have a new thing for you to look into,” he added, getting out a bottle of vodka.

“Of course Robert, what are we looking at?” Mickey said, joining Robert at the bar.

Robert poured Mickey a shot and passed it to him. “Have you heard of a band called Wild n’ Weird?”

Mickey downed the shot. “No,” he said, turning to Seamus for an answer.

“No, never heard of them,” Seamus agreed. He seemed to be wondering if he should join Mickey and Robert at the bar or not, but decided to stay on the sofa.

“As you know, we’re arranging a big birthday bash for Jackie on Friday, and it turns out that they were her favourite band way back when,” Robert explained, talking mainly to Mickey. “And Charlie would like them to come down and play a few tunes.”

“So what do you need from us?” Mickey asked.

“Well, by chance, their manager’s into us for a bit of money—a slight gambling problem. So we’ll just give him an exchange proposition,” Robert said thoughtfully.

Mickey smiled. “A private show, for a clearing of the books?”

“I don’t know about a clearing of the books; but certainly a bit more sympathy for his problems,” Robert agreed.

“So who is this guy?” Mickey asked.

“Max Fame,” Robert said, reaching for a Filofax under the bar.

“Max Fame, you’ve got to be kidding. What type of prick has a name like that?” Mickey said, trying to catch a glance of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, to further evaluate the state of his hair.

“A prick in show business,” Robert said, taking a card out of the Filofax. “Here’s where you can find him.” He passed the card to Mickey.

“I suppose I’ve always wanted to get into show business.” Mickey said, looking at the card.

“Trust me, I wouldn’t. There’s no money in it,” Robert said ruefully.

Seamus stood up and walked towards the bar. “Mickey you could always just try out for the X Factor?”

Mickey stared back at Robert; no words needed to be spoken. If Robert and Mickey had been alone he might have offered an apology to Mickey for sticking the cunt with him.