Little Criminals (9 page)

There were lots of others who saw Jo-Jo as a mentor, but only Frankie Crowe had stood with Jo-Jo Mackendrick in the front room of this house, just over ten years earlier, when death came crashing through the window. Not yet out of his teens, Frankie was rooted to the floor, white-faced. Jo-Jo scrambled to a desk drawer and came back in a hurry with two handguns, one of which he held out to Frankie.

A hard man from Blanchardstown, figuring there was a short cut to writing off the debt he owed Jo-Jo, had sent two assholes over Jo-Jo’s garden wall with shotguns. After the front window was blown in, Jo-Jo and Frankie stood shoulder to shoulder, blazing away, while the dark figures in the garden crouched in the bushes and fired one more volley before their nerve broke and they legged it. The trouble ended a few days later, when Jo-Jo sent a crew to Blanchardstown and the hard man had his debt cancelled in the most permanent way possible.

The events of that evening made Frankie more than just another crew member, which was why he now felt confident that Jo-Jo would look tolerantly on any new direction he wished to take. Jo-Jo was old stock, came up the hard way, one of the pioneers. Maybe a bit laid-back these days, maybe a bit out of touch with the younger scene, but Frankie knew he was a fair man.

‘Frankie! Frankie Crowe!’ The fragile, high-pitched voice came from behind him. Crowe turned and saw Jo-Jo’s mother coming through the kitchen doorway. Pearl Mackendrick, once a legend of inner-city Dublin, the hard-nosed widow-woman, a pitiless moneylender. Now she was celebrated as the proud mother of two of the most feared gangsters on the Northside. Her ancient face seemed too slender for all the wrinkles it had to accommodate.

‘Pearl, you’re looking great!’

Her smile broadened.

Pearl was in her mid-eighties. Hair dyed a discreet blonde, fingernails an imprudent scarlet. The Ralph Lauren blouse and skirt, a trophy of her annual shopping trip to Harrods, hung a little too freely on her thin frame.

‘It must be a year, Frankie! No, I tell a lie, it was Christmas, and that’s an age.’

‘Pearl, you’re looking younger every time I see you. Must be all the toyboys keep you fit and healthy.’

She laughed obligingly and as they embraced he was surrounded by the sweet perfume with which Pearl drenched herself each morning as soon as she rose. Obnoxious as it was, it was an improvement on the carbolic smell Frankie remembered from his teenage days, hanging around the Mackendrick house, carrying messages for Jo-Jo and Lar. Even back then he’d figured there was no future in freelance knocking-off, the real money was in the organised outfits that were coming together. Pearl was a permanent presence through the years when Frankie served his apprenticeship with the Mackendrick brothers. Her husband, an anonymous little mouse of a man, his purpose in life served by providing Pearl with sons, drank himself to death before the boys were out of their teens.

‘How’s the little one? She’s only gorgeous!’

‘She’s thriving, Pearl, thriving.’

‘You’ll have to bring her round to see me. Listen, did they offer you a cup of tea?’

‘Thanks, but not this time, Pearl. Business. Your young fella’s expecting me. Sure, I’ll look in and say hello before I go.’

Pearl put her hand on his arm. ‘I mean it, love, bring the little one round here some afternoon next week. It’s great to have the youngsters around. It’s like I’m soaking up a bit of their energy, God bless them.’

‘I will, Pearl, she’d love to see you.’

As Pearl moved slowly towards the stairs, her arms folded, her slippers making a slapping sound on the marble, Christy came to the door of the kitchen and crooked a finger. He led Frankie through the kitchen and out the French windows, into the back garden. About thirty feet away, Jo-Jo Mackendrick was slouched in a chair beside a wooden garden table, phone at his ear. He wore black shorts and a dazzling white FCUK top. There was a glass of white wine on the table, beside a hardback book – a John Grisham – open and face down.

Jo-Jo finished his conversation and waved at Frankie to come over. Christy stood by the French windows, arms folded, in sight but out of hearing. In his mid-fifties, balding, with a slight paunch, Jo-Jo still had the build of the construction labourer he once was. He’d had an extension built on to the side of the house, a gym where he did half an hour each morning on the bike, reading the
Irish Times
and the sports pages of the
Mirror
, and three mornings a week he followed the bike with half an hour on the weights. His three sons were grown up, two of them with kids of their own. Since his wife had died of breast cancer five years ago he’d lived alone here with his mother, wintering in the Caribbean but always spending Christmas week at home, holding open house for his friends and their families. Jo-Jo retained overall control of the business, while his older brother Lar handled most of the day-to-day concerns – what Jo-Jo called ‘operational matters’. The core businesses were cigarette smuggling, protection and three brothels. The firm also took what Jo-Jo referred to as ‘royalties’ from a number of operations managed by others, such as diesel laundering and credit-card fraud. A car-ringing scam had recently closed down due to police attention. The Mackendricks still sponsored the occasional armed robbery, but Jo-Jo preferred the steady income from what he thought of as the wholesale and service sectors. Although the brothers had provided finance for occasional heroin and cocaine imports, they decided early on to avoid the hassle of direct involvement in drug distribution. Wholesale was safer, leave the retailing to the hobbits. Three small, legitimate building companies, unconnected and working in different parts of the city, were used for laundering money.

‘Your mother’s looking well, Jo-Jo.’

‘She’s terrific. New hip, had the veins done. She’s off the smokes and her blood pressure’s like a teenager’s. Doc says she’s so healthy we’ll have to shoot her.’

‘Old trouper.’

‘That she is. Sit down, Frankie.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Might as well get a bit of sun while it’s still here. Poxy summer.’ Crowe sat down and waited while Jo-Jo took a sip of wine.

‘See the missus at all?’ Jo-Jo said.

‘When I see the kid, once, twice a week. Otherwise, that whole thing’s dead.’

‘Fine-looking woman. Shame the way that went.’ He picked up the wine glass and took another sip. The obligatory personal chit-chat was over. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

‘Thanks for seeing me like this. I mean, I know it’s short notice, but I’ve been setting up a major piece of action. So, I thought I’d better run it past you. Out of respect.’

‘That’s decent of you.’

Fuck you, too, Jo-Jo. You could make it easy, wave it through, instead of which I have to make like I’m asking for a favour
.

‘You know I’ve been marking time since I split with Waters and Cox? Little jobs, nothing special.’

‘You and Martin Paxton.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And?’

‘We’ve been working on something a bit more ambitious.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s a kidnap. Guy’s got a private bank.’

‘A snatch?’

‘I know exactly what—’

‘Frankie, no one does kidnaps any more. Too fucking—’

The edge of a cliff.
Please, Jo-Jo, don’t bring me here
.

‘Jo-Jo, the kind of money there’s around these days—’

‘Jesus, Frankie.’ Jo-Jo began ticking things off on his fingers. ‘One – you can’t make a thing like that pay unless you take someone who’s really loaded. Two – this country, anyone loaded the chances are they’re connected. Three – someone gets snatched, and all the things the cops don’t have the time to do, they suddenly have the time to do. Four – every tout in the country goes on a premium rate. You know what that means for people like me.’

Don’t do this, Jo-Jo
.

‘I’ve earned the right, Jo-Jo, you know that.’

Jo-Jo stood up. He walked a few steps, turned and pointed a finger at Frankie.

‘You do a post office or a credit union,’ the finger jabbing, ‘a bank job if you can handle it, fair enough, you’re taking care of your overheads.’ Frankie had seen this done to others – the swagger, the finger, the casual and unconscious display of contempt – but he’d never felt it. ‘Something as big as this – and a banker, Jesus – it brings the cops down on top of everyone. If they nick you, they’ll connect it to me.’

‘They know I haven’t been working for you since I got out, Jo-Jo, they know that.’

‘Maybe they do. And maybe they make a connection anyway, or invent one. Very tempting for the bluebottles, to connect me to something like that. So, I end up being dragged into something I don’t control. And that’s not on.’

Crowe just sat there, resisting the urge to look away from Jo-Jo’s unwavering stare. There was saliva in his mouth and he wanted to swallow, but Jo-Jo would see that and read it as a sign of weakness.

Play it cool, take it easy. Whatever happens, leave on good terms. This job is going ahead, even if we have to take whatever shit Jo-Jo hands out afterwards
.

‘It would never come to that, Jo-Jo. I’ve a right to step up.’

‘We all find our own level, Frankie.’

Jo-Jo sat down. He took another sip of wine.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘people do what they have to do to live the life they want to live. I understand that. But there comes a time.’

He looked impatient, as though everything had been said, time was ticking, he had a book to get back to. His feet tapped rapidly to the rhythm of music only he could hear. When he spoke, his words came in the tone of a man resigned to taking his responsibilities seriously.

‘You start off, Frankie, you want to do everything there is to do, ten times over. Women, drink, gambling, travel, go everywhere, do everything. That stage of your life, you have dreams, you have ambitions. When you’re young you believe you can do it, whatever it is, and that’s right and proper.’ He held up a finger. ‘You get to a certain age, Frankie, you have to know what you can do well. You have to live within that.’

Jo-Jo gestured at the garden around him. ‘That’s where I am, these days. No dreams, Frankie. No fucking about. I make sure I’m not a problem for anyone else. I do what I’m good at. Money, advice, connections. A dozen businesses in this town would’ve gone down the toilet if I hadn’t helped out, and most of them I don’t take nearly as much as I’m entitled. I read my books, listen to my music. Old friends come visit. I take Ma to a restaurant, make a fuss over the grandkids. I keep an eye on the business. And the last thing I want is someone I like turning into a problem I don’t need.’ The finger again, one emphatic poke. ‘You’re old enough now, Frankie, to be thinking about what you’re good at, what matters to you.’

He shook his head. ‘Stay dreaming too long, you become an embarrassment. I’m sorry, Frankie.’

Jo-Jo picked up his glass of wine.

Crowe said, ‘This isn’t fair.’

‘I know that, but it’s the way it is.’

Crowe didn’t want to sound desperate, but it was all he could think of. He said what he didn’t want to say, what had always been unspoken.

‘You owe me, Jo-Jo. When your back was to the wall—’

‘I know, Frankie, and I’m grateful. You’re twenty-four carat. That doesn’t make me blind.’ He put down his wine, leaned forward, his palms on his knees, and spoke quietly. ‘You need direction. You’re a weapon, Frankie. And a weapon – a weapon is something to be pointed. Guided. Directed.’

‘Used.’

Jo-Jo stared for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No need to get snotty. We all find our own level. What you do, it’s a good living. You want to step up, good people like you and Martin – there’s always a place on my crew.’

Once a moocher
.

Frankie kept an even tone. ‘I’m putting this thing together. And if that’s a problem for you—’

‘Go.’

Jo-Jo picked up his book.

‘I don’t need your fucking blessing, Jo-Jo.’

‘Go!’

‘I just need you to stay out of the way.’

Jo-Jo closed the book again, and put it down on his lap.

‘Go!’

His eyes narrowed, his lips peeled back from his teeth. ‘Fuck. Off. Frankie.’

Over at the French windows, Christy moved forward a couple of steps. He had his right hand behind his back, under his loose shirt. Jo-Jo lifted a hand, gesturing to Christy to stay back.

‘Frankie’s going,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you, Frankie?’

Crowe swallowed. ‘I’m sorry I lost my temper. Really, Jo-Jo. No offence. I apologise. Can we talk about this again?’

Jo-Jo seemed to consider this. He nodded.

‘Of course we can. Give it a year or so, we’ll talk.’

A year or so
.

‘OK, then. Listen, no hard feelings.’ Crowe despised his own instinctive urge to mend fences.

‘Of course not,’ Jo-Jo said, and his cold tone made a lie of his casual words. ‘Come see me, we’ll talk. For now, Frankie, I think it’s best if we give ourselves time.’ As Crowe stood up, Jo-Jo began flicking through the Grisham, looking for his page.

In the kitchen, Crowe asked Christy for a glass of water. He sipped from it, drew deep breaths, trying to calm the nerves that were stretching the muscles around his mouth.