1981: Made in Yorkshire, #6

Warning

This book will contain large numbers of colloquialisms, phrases, and sayings that apparently make no sense at all. I assure you, I’m not utterly insane. That’s really how some of us speak in Yorkshire.

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Find out what happens to Richard Warren as soon as you can in James Farner’s Made in Yorkshire series.

Prologue

It’s not looking good, is it? Scotty Weston observed the smoking remains of one of his sex shops.

Ken Timmons hopped from one foot to the next as he tried to come up with a suitable explanation for yet another calamity.

I’m starting to think this is a message for me to retire. Back in the sixties, we didn’t have half as many problems as we do now, and back then, people did want to take us out of the game, said Scotty.

This is an unavoidable situation, said Ken.

Scotty lit a cigar and kicked one of the Danish pornography videos that hadn’t been scorched by the flames. It skittered across the ash and laid to rest near a gutted door frame, where bits of black paint hung from the remaining structure like sleeping tentacles.

Mr. Weston, may I suggest a different course of action?

May as well. We’ve already lost everything in Brixton in less than a week.

Well, Mr. Weston, I suggest we cut back on our operations for now. Perhaps it would be best if we pull back across the river, where it’s safer. Just...just until things calm down again.

Scotty whipped around and blew a puff of smoke into the lawyer’s glasses. Pull back?

It’s up to you, of course. It was only a suggestion.

He turned away and began pacing through the shop again. Idly touching a finger to where the counter had once been, he chewed the end of the cigar. Brixton was a bust. The race riots of April 1981 had led to hundreds of black youths spreading throughout the community in an orgy of vandalism and looting. It was the only way for the downtrodden of London to stick two fingers up at Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative government.

Brixton used to be such a lovely place, said Scotty. The punters came from miles around to buy from us. Even with me in prison, I made more money than I ever had before. The seventies were such a good decade for us. Suppose it’s like the rest of the country, isn’t it? Profits are falling and all we have to look forward to is a royal wedding. Isn’t it marvellous?

Ken gave him a weak smile, but dropped it upon not receiving anything in return. The clubs remain in our control –

For now, they do. The shops aren’t a problem. We can have a sex shop back up and running within a week. The clubs are harder because they’re our public fronts. We lose them and it could take us years to recover, if we ever do. No, we’ve got problems, said Scotty. "I remember growing up in London when I was a kid. People had a certain respect then.

Operation Countryman continues to proceed –

I know Operation Countryman is going as before. I’ve got my fingers on what’s going on. My eyes haven’t closed since I got out of the nick. No, I know what’s going on. All my old mates are getting nervous. They’re starting to think their days are numbered. It’s harder to talk to them, and they’re wanting more money than before to keep their mouths shut. You know all about that.

Ken did know all about that. He’d been getting nothing but angry rebukes from Scotty since he’d been released from Pentonville. He was the firm’s lawyer and had to deal with all the fallout from the Metropolitan Police’s desire to clamp down on the local gangsters. It wasn’t Scotty being singled out by Operation Countryman. Everyone was feeling it, and he worried the hammer would fall soon. Ken was doing everything he could to make sure he didn’t become the anvil. All it took was the wrong police detective to lose his job and the whole empire would come crashing down.

I want this place picked clean by tomorrow. If there’s anything incriminating in here, the bobbies will be all over it. The last thing we want is to give them any other excuse to start getting on at us.

I’ve already started, Mr. Weston. The boys should be here soon.

Scotty raised his eyebrows and offered Ken a cigar when he heard a vehicle pull up outside the stricken sex shop. Ken accepted it with shaky fingers as three men in suits of light and dark grey got out of the van and walked past them into what had been the backroom. Despite their grizzled appearances, they were experts at clearing up after attacks by local gangsters. This time, they were cleaning up after members of the general public.

How long are they going to be?

An hour, possibly two hours. I, we, considered the shops to pose a considerable risk, so we made sure to move anything valuable out of them and into the clubs on a daily basis. We felt they would be safer there.

Good, you’ve thought this through. I’m glad you’re my legal team and not that old bastard I had before you. What was his name again?

Clarkson, Mr. Weston.

Scotty clicked his fingers and waved the cigar in front of his face. Clarkson. Good old Clarkson. We had him for years. He was still around when my father retired. Shame we had to chuck him in the river in the end.

Ken remembered only too well the business with Clarkson. He’d had to pull a considerable number of strings to make sure the headless body couldn’t be identified as that of the organisation’s former legal counsel. The truth was, the head was still buried in his back garden. Any day now, he expected the Met to crash through his door.

What should we do about the staff? said Ken.

Scotty had already sauntered off to act as taskmaster to the men in the backroom. They were combing through a pile of fire-damaged drawers, making sure nothing had escaped the flames. One of them put his foot through a stack of what looked like old folders. They crumbled into dust immediately.

What should we do about the staff, Mr. Weston?

Eh? The staff for what?

The shops.

Scotty withdrew from looking over his team’s shoulders and guided Ken back onto the former shop floor. We’ll have to look at what else we can do with them. We can get rid of some of the local mugs behind the counters. They don’t know enough to cry to the police, and they don’t have any real skills we need.

What about the managers?

How many of them do we have?

About four, said Ken.

Four? I thought we had more. I don’t think I’ve seen any of them in a while. Let’s see if I can remember who they are.  We’ve got Ganson, Holden, and the Warren brothers? Scotty counted them off on his fingers.

Almost, Mr. Weston. We have Hansen, Holden, Carlisle, and Richard Warren.

Richard Warren? Didn’t he have a brother of some sort?

He did. Peter Warren. If you remember, Peter brought Richard to you a few years ago about finding work and you gave him a job.

Scotty chewed on the end of the cigar, waggling it in the air as he moved it around his mouth.

Peter left us some time ago, due to being unsuitable for the role.

Unsuitable for the role? said Scotty. What’s that supposed to mean?

Ken shrugged. I don’t really remember. It was Tristan who told me he’d left us. I didn’t think anything of it. We already had more than enough managers for the clubs and the shops. He hasn’t talked to anyone about us, so we let him go without looking into why he didn’t want to work for us anymore.

The Warren brothers. Close, were they?

Very. They lived together in Mayfair for a long time. Richard was in prison with you. He helped our mutual friend Lavender escape and fly to South America.

In truth, Ken had only met Richard once in Scotty’s cell at Pentonville. He’d seemed quite an angry young man, but calculating. The Richard he’d known had an idea of what he was doing. Most of the information he had on him came through some early meetings with Peter. Richard had looked promising to start with, but he’d started to enjoy the luxuries of crime too much. The work he used to put in had dried up, and getting him to do the most basic of tasks was a struggle. But he wasn’t going to let Scotty know that. It would mean too much unnecessary death, and more work for him trying to keep the firm’s associates out of prison.

We don’t need to worry, then. Young Peter knows if he ever tried to do anything to hurt us his brother would pay for it. If he doesn’t talk, then let’s hope he enjoys the rest of his life in peace.

What would you like me to do with them? said Ken.

Sack them. All four. We don’t need them. I’ve decided we’re getting out of the sex shops and over into the clubs. We’ll use them to fence the drugs. It’s an easy sell. The clubs are our best bet if we’re going to survive. Last thing we need is to have any coppers finding out about the shops, as well.

Excellent. I’ll send the messages as soon as I get back.

Scotty nodded. No more slips. We cut back. We trim the fat. We make more and survive.

Ken nodded his head slightly and picked up his briefcase from the corner of the room. Dusting off the soot that had stained the bottom of it, he wondered whether trimming the fat meant his time was running out, as well.

Chapter One

Richard Warren stood in a shallow doorway as sheets of rain hit London. He wasn’t alone. Ronan, an Irishman from Dublin, huddled against him. His rucksack and rolled-up camp bed took up most of the space. Richard avoided telling him he smelled like he’d slept in a pile of rubbish. The truth was he probably had slept in a pile of rubbish.

Does nothing but rain these days, said Richard.

Better get used to it.  We’ve had it all year. Still, you probably haven’t noticed whilst you’ve been sleeping in your fancy house down Mayfair.

Nah, probably haven’t noticed any of it. Still, what does it matter? None of that now, is there?

If it helps, a paddy I met outside a caff said it was going to get hot this summer, when the royal wedding’s on. Least that’s something to look forward to, said Ronan.

Great, I get to watch two ponces pretending like they’re still stuck in the last century. That’s not going to get me another job, is it?

You been looking for a job then?

Course I have. Not going to get anything round here. The country’s laying off people every day. Most of the country will be on the old rock and roll before long. Don’t know how the dole office is going to cope with all us lot on the streets.

Ronan shrugged. Something will turn up eventually. It always does. Can’t say whether it’ll be good or bad. Did I tell you I was once a plumber?

You did.

Richard knew he was a plumber because Ronan would reminisce of nothing else. Whenever he felt nostalgic, he would speak about how he owned his own business south of the river. All his clientele paid him cash in hand, so there was never any need to worry about tax. With the troubles raging on in Ireland with the Irish Republican Army (IRA), he’d been pushed out of the market through supply and demand. By 1981, he had lived rough for three years without any hope of a job.

You’ll find something, laddie. You’ve got all the skills. I’m only a plumber. A few weeks and you’ll be back doing something again.

Skills in running sex shops and collecting money for the local gangsters. Can’t put that on an application form. And I did three years in Pentonville. It isn’t really what people are looking for when they want to take someone on, said Richard.

Ronan nodded and continued puffing on a cigarette he’d found in the gutter, which he called a dog end. It only made the oppressive atmosphere worse. The rain kept pelting the ground, making the water bounce like blocks of ice exploding against the concrete.

You got your pardon from prison, didn’t you? Ronan struck a match to relight the discarded cigarette.

Aye, I got my pardon. You’re right there, but when they ask what I was doing for three years, they don’t want to know. Can’t really say I was on a foreign holiday, can I?

Why not?

They want references for it. Most of them know I’m lying straight away. Couldn’t even get a job humping boxes around these days.

Something will turn up.

Luck of the Irish, eh? said Richard.

Ronan scoffed. Something like that.

They continued waiting in the doorway for the rain to hold off. The owners had abandoned the shop behind them years ago. Richard remembered it well, because it was one of Scotty Weston’s old second-hand shops he’d used to stash drugs in. When it had closed down in 1978, nobody bothered to redeem its sullied reputation.

How much you got left? said Ronan from his new position sitting on his sleeping roll.

Richard rummaged in his pockets and withdrew a selection of coins. Two pounds thirty-two. Enough for a few pints and that’s it.

Don’t spend it on all that. You don’t want to get your head in a bottle. Might as well be admitting defeat, then. I only have the odd drink, and I’m Irish. If you still think something’s going to come up, use the money on food or something you can use.

He sighed and dropped the coins back in his pockets. Suppose you’re right. Drink has never done me any good. I always end up doing something thick when I have too much.

Richard involuntarily touched the bridge of his nose. There were no signs of it now, but nine years previously he’d had it broken in Newcastle after running into two nasty police officers. The doctor, Dr. Ranjid, had managed to snap it back together again before it started to heal. It had taken him four years to chance getting that drunk again.

Where’s the rest of your stuff anyway? said Ronan. You’ve not got anything with you.

Had to sell the lot of it, didn’t I? Got rid of it all a couple of days ago. Was desperate.

Did you get a lot for it?

What, for a few second-hand suits? Not really. The guy behind the counter knew I needed the money, so he wouldn’t give me a good price. Had no choice but to sell the lot. Got nothing left but this suit now.

Richard looked down at the soiled black suit. It already begun to display signs of wear. The white shirt was beginning to lose its colour, and the tie might as well have been a strip of fabric he’d pulled off the street.

You won’t last long in that. Look, it’s already starting to come apart at the bottom. Ronan tugged at the bottom of his frayed trousers.

He withdrew his leg, but he knew it was true. The material wouldn’t do much good outside in the elements.

You’ll need some better clothes than that. Get yourself a pair of jeans. They last for years before they come apart. I’ve been wearing these for almost six months.

They smell like you’ve been wearing them for six months, as well, said Richard.

Better get used to the smell, lad. You’re going to be smelling a lot more of it before this is over.

Richard swung about on his heel and swept out into the drizzle that continued to fall. He didn’t care if he got wet—anything to stay away from Ronan’s depressing predictions. The Irishman had a remarkable ability to carry the optimism of the 1920s American Dream, only to drift back into the cynicism of 1980s Britain within seconds. He sometimes thought he did it on purpose.

Where you going now, lad? Ronan ran up behind him, still trying to swing his sleeping roll across his back.

It doesn’t matter.

You’re going to need mates if you’re going to get on around here. Ronan struggled to keep up with Richard’s long strides.

Shove off, will you.

Oi. Ronan grabbed hold of his arm and spun him around. You listen to me, Sonny Jim. I don’t know much, but I know what it’s like out here. Don’t snap at me because I’m telling you how it all works. I’m much older than you and I’ve played this game before. If you want me to go away, I will.

Richard’s lip quivered, as his speech hovered between firing off an insult and keeping quiet. Come on, then.

He struck out again towards a second-hand jeweller’s shop he knew of around the corner. Richard had seen more than enough local crooks working for Scotty who sold their takings in here. He never thought he’d be the one selling something here.

You wait outside, said Richard, under the faded green and gold sign of Rockstein’s Jewellery Co.

Will do. Make sure you get a good price. We’ll need to stock up on supplies for you. You’re not starting with anything.

He opened the door into the dusty old second-hand shop. As always, there was nobody browsing the shelves. Most of the rings and watches were fakeries, and everyone in the area knew it. Only stupid American tourists looking for something to take to their wives would spend money here.

Oi, Rockstein, are you in there?

I’m here. What’s it to you? said a salt-and-pepper-haired man who came out of the backroom chewing on a wad of tobacco. Richard Warren, is it?

You know me, then?

I’ve heard of you. Working for Scotty, aren’t you?

Used to. Not anymore, said Richard.

Really, what happened there?

"None of your business, that’s what. I need to get rid of a few things, and I want your best price for them. Don’t give me the same crappy rates you do to