The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) Read online

  Harry walked back over to Peter Miller who gave him a round of applause. The lovely Princess Monique was dancing now, and Antonella was doing the rounds with her jug. “I’ll give you a miss,” she said to Harry. “I only use Charmin Ultra.” And everyone laughed again.

  Monique leapt off the stage topless and strolled through the crowd with a predatory look, searching for someone to join her on stage. These Millwall boys would have taken on the Turkish army after three pints, but the sight of one little stripper clutching a bottle of baby oil had turned the Lions into mice. They didn’t know Johnny Too had already “wedged her on” – he’d paid her to seek out Derek Adams, straight from prison, who hadn’t had a shag for six months.

  The crowd loved it. Derek’s strides were already round his ankles as all three girls grabbed at his genitals. Within minutes his oily white body was horizontal on stage as all three women straddled him. He must have stayed erect for all of 33 seconds.

  By the end of the afternoon, Miller had invited Harry on to the periphery of the Baker crowd. Easy does it, Harry thought. Nice and slow.

  Pyro Joey was on explosive form. “Oi, Gal,” he shouted to Gary McCourt. “Is that right you tipped the black tart a snide score for a gobble.”

  “No, Joe, no,” McCourt replied. “It was two snide tenners.”

  The men boozed and bantered for an hour or two more, then there was talk of going “up West”, maybe to the Met bar. Harry, who had been drinking quietly, told Miller he was off home, but as he drained his pint Johnny Too gave him a tug. “Where you from, Harry?”

  “Other side, mate. Stratford.”

  “Who are the faces down there?”

  “Who I know?” Harry replied cautiously. “Dave Turner, Vinnie Riordan, Micky Shaw, Ozzer O.”

  “How’s Ozzer?”

  “Banged up. He caught two with Eric Randall. You know ’em?”

  “Yeah, course I do. That Turner’s a cunt.”

  “I only know him through business.”

  “Beer?”

  “No, ta, I’m making a bid. That Princess Monique put me bang in the mood for a bunk-up.”

  “All right, mate. Laters.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Oh, and Harry.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nice move with the bog roll.”

  Harry winked and made his way to the bar. Dougie The Dog watched him call Lesley over, say his goodbyes and kiss her cheek. Then he saw him catch Peter Miller’s eye and nod towards the door.

  Outside the pub, Miller looked worried. “I saw Johnny had a word. You OK?”

  “Yeah. Is he on my case or something?”

  “Nah, you know how it is, just being cautious. Slobberin’ Ron told him he got the Scotch from you and he was asking who you were. I got a pull last night.”

  “So why didn’t you mark my fucking card, then?”

  “Calm down, H. No worries. Johnny likes a percentage of everything. He asked about you cos he can see pound notes around you, y’know the way psychics can see auras. You’re ducking and diving. You’re one of us…”

  Miller’s voice trailed off as Dougie The Dog emerged from the pub and stood alongside them. Peter nodded at him and finished his sentence. “Johnny said he liked the cut of yer jib.”

  “Yeah?” said Dougie with a snarl. “Well, I don’t know who the fuck you are.”

  “He’s all right, Doug,” protested Miller. “He’s with me.”

  “I was talking to the organ grinder, not the fucking monkey,” snapped Doug. “Who are yer, Harry?”

  “Nobody special,” Harry said calmly. “I’m just a trader.”

  “Yeah, well, what are you doing sniffing round Lesley? Are you aboard it?”

  “Leave her out of this,” replied Harry. There was iron in his voice now. Gary McCourt, who had followed them out, went back into the pub.

  “Or what, ya mug?” said Doug. His hand moved to his right trouser pocket, producing something. What? Harry saw the flash of a switch-blade. Here we go, he thought.

  Gary McCourt burst back through the doors with Slobberin’ Ron.

  “What’s going on?” said Ron.

  “I just don’t know who this fuckin’ geezer is,” retorted Dougie.

  “He’s as good as gold,” said Ron, positioning himself between the Dog and Tyler.

  “Who’s referencing him besides pisspot Pete?”

  “I am,” answered Ron. “He’s a friend of ours.” He emphasised the last word deliberately.

  “And I am,” said McCourt.

  “And by the looks of things this afternoon so is your Uncle Johnny,” Miller added.

  “Yeah, well,” said Doug. “We’ll see.”

  And he backed into the pub, jabbed the air with his finger as he pointed at Harry Tyler sing-shouting, “Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?”

  Harry shook his head. “Thanks, guys,” he said. “Is he always like that?”

  “It’s just the Charlie talking,” said McCourt.

  “Take no fucking notice,” Slobberin’ Ron chimed in. “That is one monkey bastard. And the tragedy is, Johnny Too don’t know it.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THREE MONKEY

  BASTARDS

  Steven Richards looked out of the window of his flat on the fourth floor of the Oxo building, admiring the feisty grey splendour of the Thames in the hot August sun. A gaff this splendid ought to cost a grand a month, but Steven paid just under a fifth of that because this luxury apartment belonged to the council. Amazing what strings you could pull when your uncle was Johnny Too.

  Steven watched the office muppets steaming over Blackfriar’s Bridge like worker ants and shook his head. Mugs. He was never going to work for anyone but himself. What was it Paul Weller had sung? No corporations for the new wave sons …. He heard footsteps behind him and felt arms circle his belly and squeeze before the hands dropped down and grabbed at his groin, gently squeezing the tip of his cock until it started to harden.

  “How’s yer head?” Sally asked. Steven turned around and kissed him. “How about giving us some?” he smiled. They’d been in Leicester Square last night for the premier of Snatch and as Sally dropped to his knees and took Steven’s cock in his mouth it was Brad Pitt they were both dreaming of. Steven took less than a minute to come.

  “You going to return the favour?” Sally asked.

  “I’ll have to owe you one,” Steven replied. “I’m seeing Johnny this morning for breakfast, remember. And I’m late, darling.”

  “Can I come along?”

  “Don’t be daft, Sal. Besides, you’d hate it. You know Johnny, he was born with a greasy spoon in his mouth. It’ll be fry-ups all round, not a croissant in sight.”

  Steven often wondered how Johnny Too would take the revelation of his sexuality. Pyro Joe and the boys would ostracise him, he was sure, but not Johnny. Steven was convinced his bright, cunning uncle would be able to cope with a homosexual nephew. He’d probably use him to get into the gay porn market.

  By sheer coincidence, Johnny was discussing celebrity “bandits” with Marco the chef as Steven arrived ten minutes later in Mario’s, an Italian cafe just round the corner from Waterloo station.

  “Ah, Steve, just the boy,” Johnny said. “Marco here tells me he was reading an article that said that Jeremy Spake cunt was married. I had him down as a shirtlifter, what do you reckon?”

  “I wouldn’t know, John. He’s camp but who in their right mind would fancy that, man or woman?”

  “What about Dale Winton?”

  “Gay!” shouted Marco. “Gay as a French horn.”

  Steven smiled. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “Maybe he helps ’em out when they’re busy.”

  Johnny laughed. “I don’t mind ’em,” he said. “Proper poofs are all right. That Lily Savage is a funny fucker. It’s cunts like Peter Tatchell I can’t stand.”

  “I make you right, Unk,” said Steven.

  Johnny caught his eye and winked. Does he know? Steven t
hought. Should I let on? No, sod it, change the subject.

  “Any chance of a boiled egg, Marco?”

  “Sure, boy. You want soldiers to dip?”

  “And there we are back with Dale Winton,” Steven replied.

  All three men laughed. Johnny Too drained his cuppa. “So what was Snatch like?” he asked.

  “Great direction,” Steven said.

  “But?”

  “Cardboard characters, lightweight plot, and Brad Pitt’s Oirish accent is a joke. But it was fun, y’know?”

  “So not exactly Goodfellas?”

  “Not in the same ballpark. Not even close.”

  “And Mike Reid, what’s he like in it?”

  “Like Frank Butcher with added swearing. I kept expecting to see Peggy snapping at his ankles.”

  Johnny laughed. “Will you fuckin’ turn it in,” he said, in a reasonable Reid rasp. “I bet his ears look a fucking treat on the big screen, the fucking size of ’em on telly.”

  “They was like satellite dishes,” Steven affirmed.

  “Yeah? It’s a wonder he never got done for receiving, then. Have you seen how thick they are? You know when you’re a kid and yer mum says ‘Keep playing up and I’ll give you a thick ear’? He must have been a proper little fucker to end up with lugs like that.”

  Both men laughed. Steven liked being around Johnny Too. He was class. Steven wouldn’t have a word said against Joey by anyone, but he could never relax with his brutish uncle the way he could with Johnny. It was all down to brains at the end of the day. Joey was staunch but thick as shit. John was sussed and sorted, real street smart. He was asking Steven about cybercrime and e-commerce as early as 1997. Granted the Bakers had never seriously progressed the idea – a bit of dope from the Dam and the legit e-florists was as far as they’d gone. But the fact that Johnny was on to the Net so early had impressed Steven. Now he had to convince Johnny to give him a bit of seed money to play around with on his latest project, a gruesome video game called Mobster which gave the player the opportunity to wipe out rival gangsters and emerge as New York’s criminal kingpin. Johnny listened intently and at the end of Steven’s spiel he said just two words: “How much?”

  Even Steven was surprised. He had anticipated having to reel off figures for sales of Front magazine and videos of Lock Stock. But Johnny didn’t need telling about plastic gangster chic. It pissed him off to see middle-class boys like Guy Ritchie coining it in, although he didn’t mind the likes of Dave Courtney working a flanker. Steven’s idea made perfect business sense.

  “Five grand would do,” Steven said hesitantly. “Just to get the graphics sorted out and that.”

  “No problem, drop by the Ned this afternoon. Cash OK?”

  “Christ, yeah. Thanks, Uncle John.”

  “Ain’t nothing to do with thanks,” John said, getting to his feet. “It’s a fucking investment, innit?” He kissed Steven’s head, tossed a £20 note at Marco and started walking.

  “See ya,” he shouted.

  “God bless you, Johnny Too,” said Marco. “You come back soon, OK.”

  Moments earlier, a little under two miles away, Harry Tyler had sauntered into a bijou cafe just a cosh’s throw from the Ned where Slobberin’ Ron Sullivan was tucking into a fry-up breakfast. The meal should have been advertised as a cardiac arrest special: three eggs, chips, fried bread, spaghetti hoops, bacon and two sausages.

  “What?” joked Harry. “No black pudding?”

  “No,” Ron smiled, “me guts were a bit iffy this morning so I thought I’d give it a miss. Must have been a bad cockle I ate last night.”

  “Nuffin to do with the eighteen pints, of course!”

  The two men laughed. On the surface this meeting was accidental. In fact, Harry had planned it to ascertain if Dougie The Dog’s peculiar behaviour had harmed the operation in any way.

  “What was all that about last night, then?” Harry asked.

  “Forget about it,” said Ron through a mouthful of sausage. “I was like that after me first purple heart. The bloke’s a prick, but he’s family so we suffer him.”

  Harry nodded silently. He was transfixed by the older man’s eating habits. Slobberin’ Ron was digging into his breakfast with the relentless efficiency of a JCB. Drops of sweat were forming on his temples as he shovelled the remains of his fry-up into his salivating gob. The waitress, who looked like the missing link between Pauline Fowler and something recognisably human, appeared at the table.

  “What can I get you, gorgeous?” she asked Harry.

  “I ain’t got no appetite this morning, darling,” he replied. “Just give us a coffee.”

  “He takes his coffee like he takes his women,” Slobberin’ Ron leered.

  “Yeah, one big-titted coffee, please, love,” Harry smiled. “Nah, I’ll take it strong and black, ta. Unless you can run to caffeine in a syringe.”

  The waitress looked at him blankly and turned away. Ron took a huge slurp out of his tea. “No,” he went on. “Don’t worry about Dougie, mate. The way I hear it he’s not right in the head. Way I ’ear it, he was knocking off this dirty sort from down Peckham way and Dougie keeps banging on about wanting to try it up the aris. Anyway the way I ’ear it, one day she has enough of it. She gets him spread-eagled on the bed, all tied up to the bed post with belts an’ things, then she whacks a dildo on, KY Jelly and wallop, she gives ’IM one!”

  “No!” said Harry, struggling to keep a straight face.

  “Yeah! And it gets better. Apparently he’s liked it and wants it every fucking night. Well, I’m not saying he’s a closet, but well, makes you think, dunnit? Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

  “I never mind if people smoke, Ron,” said Harry. “Especially when they’re good company. I only mind when people tell people they can’t smoke, especially in them bars up town. OK, there’s some places where the smoker should exercise discretion, like, maybe a cancer ward or at the business end of a petrol tanker. But a fucking pub? Grow up.”

  “A man after me own heart,” Ron said. “Dougie won’t give you any more grief, H. I’ll have a word with Johnny.”

  “No, don’t,” said Harry. “I appreciate it, but don’t make it bigger than it is, mate. I’m not around tonight. I’m fucking off to Amsterdam to see a man about some horses. By the time I get back he’ll have found some other poor bastard to persecute.”

  “Amsterdam?”

  “Yeah, so me phone’s off till tomorrow night. All right?”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do with all them dirty birds.”

  “That don’t rule much out then,” Harry smiled. He downed his coffee and bunged two quid on the table.

  “Not taking Lesley, then?”

  “Nah, don’t wanna spoil her.”

  “You’re sweet on her, though.”

  “She is a double lovely girl, Ron.”

  “I know, mate, but take care. You’re south of the river now, H, and round here even Cupid carries a cosh.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, mate.”

  “OK, H. See ya.”

  “Yeah, laters.”

  Harry waited until he was back in the car before he allowed himself the sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to Amsterdam at all. That was just a cover story to give himself a nice night with Kara and Courtney Rose. Before that he would drive to Brentwood to make his notes and be debriefed. But first he would nip back to the flat and give Elaine a quick portion. It would have been rude not to.

  Johnny Too strolled down to Waterloo embankment, lit a cigar and stared at the Thames. He did his most creative thinking by water. Uppermost on his mind was the challenge of going legit. He hadn’t told Joey yet, but his plan was to channel the whole Baker operation into straight businesses by the end of 2002. They would still be taking their cut from the drug trade, but not directly. Johnny’s dream was to turn the Firm into a small-scale version of the Mafia with nothing to connect the top dogs with the street-slime. His decision was partly selfish, partly pragmatic. Cri
me in London was changing yet again. The Yardies were upping the stakes. And although he had no problem with his black counterparts, their violence and expansion was certain to have consequences for the Bakers. The police were turning a blind eye to black crime for political reasons, but there would come a point when the Yardies would provoke a clampdown.

  Besides, who wanted to spend the rest of their life looking over their shoulder? If pressed, Johnny Too would hold his hands up and admit he was a man of violence. He had never backed down from a ruck in his life, never forgiven a slight, real or imagined. But his success had given him a taste for the good life. There was a world beyond SE1 and he wanted in. Money gave you the key, far more than reputation alone ever could, and clean money made him invincible. But how to get it? The Bakers were making fortunes from drugs. In Johnny’s own words they were “making more money than a whore with two cunts”. He and Joey’s matching holiday villas in Marbella had been financed entirely from cocaine and ecstasy profits. The flow was so sweet it was a hard fix to kick. Granted, their pubs were thriving, but much of the trade was drug related. The e-florists was nicely in profit, but it wasn’t turning over enough to sustain him in the style to which he wanted to become accustomed. The mini-cab company would have been clean if he didn’t use the drivers to deliver packets of Charlie. He had tried to diversify his crime base, but increasingly circumstances pushed him back to drugs and knocked-off hooch as other areas of criminal expansion were frustratingly closed off to him. The Old Bill were hammering the counterfeit video games racket, with council trading standards officers hard on their tail.

  Snide clothing? That was suffering with lorry-load after lorryload being seized as soon as it hit the street markets. The snide perfume trade had all but run aground, and mortgage fraud was being worked to death by the Africans.

  Johnny had considered investing in a movie. He had even met up with the actor Ray Winstone in the Phoenix Apollo restaurant in Stratford for a thoroughly pleasant evening. Trouble was, he’d missed the boat on gangster flicks, and if he had got seriously involved who would have run the rest of the Baker operation? Steven was the only one with the brains but he was still too young to be giving the orders. Johnny had to work with what he had, and what he had were the Three Stooges…