Serious People (18 page)

Moronic punks plus loads of booze, this equalled a ruck, Mickey thought as he looked down at his bag.

“I wonder if there were any A and R guys out there tonight?” the man with the t-shirt asked.

“If there were, they’d be gagging to sign us, literally gagging!” Safety-Pin Ear replied.

“You’re right man, fucking gagging to sign us!” Mohican agreed.

“Intelligent bunch this. I think we go for the intellectual argument on this occasion,” Mickey said, turning back to Fame.

Fame shrugged and leant next to Mickey, to peer around the door.

“We’re so in the zone right now. I think I’d fucking rip someone’s head off if they tried to break us up right now!” the t-shirted man shouted out.

“I think that’s our cue,” Fame said, nodding at Mickey.

Mickey thought about a plan if it all kicked off. Punks in his opinion could be mental, this could get very messy. He picked up his bag, unzipped it slightly, and nodded to the other two men before leading them into the dressing room. The punks all looked startled as the three men walked into their dressing room. They clearly weren’t used to people daring to disturb their after show drinks. All three punks’ drunk faces turned into glares that illustrated their readiness for a scrap.

Suddenly Mohican’s face broke into a disbelieving smile as he recognised the familiar sight of Fame.

“Hello Mo,” Fame said to Mohican.

“Max—fucking—Fame,” Mohican replied.

“I knew it, you’re here to sign us,” the t-shirted punk cried out, in ecstasy.

“No,” Fame replied.

Mickey dropped his bag; he knew exactly the motion needed to grab one of the utensils inside quickly if necessary.

“So what fucking brings you down here then?” Mohican said.

“I’m re-forming Wild n’ Weird,” Fame said.

Fame paused, deliberately not continuing the sentence, to allow time to gage Mohican’s interest. Mickey couldn’t help but be impressed by this display of influencing; he was feeding the punk a bit, testing his appetite.

“Oh fuck off! Get the fuck out of here! Mohican’s not interested in that shit!” the t-shirted punk shouted with venom.

Mickey was calm. He knew this was coming. He looked at Fame to assess if he needed to jump into the situation to rebalance it. But, to his surprise, all he saw was calm on the agent’s face. He must have been well used to this kind of show of angry aggression by a musician and understood his position of power he had over them.

Impressive, but slightly dangerous, when dealing with unhinged punk rockers.

“Mohican?” Fame asked.

“Fuck Yeah! Let’s fucking do it,” Mohican said, downing more whisky.
At this, the t-shirted punk jumped up and reached in front of Mohican in a defensive pose, as if to separate the lead singer from the unwelcome visitors. Mickey still didn’t move.
Stay calm let it play out.

“What? I’m not letting you bitches walk out of here with Mohican!” Safety-Pin Ear spat.

Mickey now stepped forward. He knew these were alcohol and drug fuelled idiots but he was not used to this kind of lack of respect and there was only so much of it that he could take.

“Know your audience little man and sit down!” Mickey said, firmly.

The t-shirted punk looked at Mickey. Seeming to sense impending doom, he quickly sat back down. Mickey had control.

“So what’s the plan Max?” Mohican asked, offering Fame his hand to shake.

Fame shook the singer’s hand and gave him a winning smile, Mickey could tell that Fame was used to closing deals like this, as might be expected from his name. This technique was more than familiar to him.

“I can explain it all in the car.” Fame put his hand on Mohican’s shoulder and manoeuvred him out of the room.

The punk with the safety pins in his ears stood up, teary eyed. “Mohican, are you really leaving us?”

Mohican turned back. “Sorry mate, yes.”

“But why? Things were going so well,” the punk questioned, clearly distraught.

“Because—simply —we are shit. Every song we have ever performed sounded shit,” Mohican said.

The two other punks looked mortified; there was no chance now of this kicking off.

Within ten minutes, Fame had hustled Mohican into the back of a taxi and told him to get himself cleaned up. Despite the punk’s drunken state it was abundantly clear there was an appetite for re-joining a band that had far greater chances of success.

Fame turned to Mickey and Seamus, with his arms out stretched. “How good am I?” he said emphatically. “In one day, we have almost half the band back together.”

“The work’s not done, until they’re all on stage in front of Mrs. O’Neil, playing her favourite tunes, Fame. So no celebrations are due yet,” Mickey said, enjoying putting out Fame’s fire.

“So who’s next Max? Are we off to another gig tomorrow?” Seamus asked, with far too much excitement in his voice for Mickey’s liking.

“Tomorrow we need to take a different tack, due to our significant time constraints. I think we need to split up,” Fame said.

“What? No we’re all staying together,” Mickey replied.

“No, you two will need to go up to Manchester and get the drummer, Dave Crossbones,” Fame said, with a matter of fact tone.

“Manchester? And what will you be doing?” Mickey said, now angry.

“I will be investigating where the lead guitarist has got to,” Fame replied.

“Can you not do that on the way to Manchester?” Mickey scowled.

“No, I haven’t heard anything from Neil in over ten years and he had a bit of a drugs problem. It may be easier to find the lost ark than Neil Nails. So I’m going to have to go through every contact I have to find what hole he’s crawled into,” Fame replied. 

Mickey was annoyed. He didn’t know if Fame was trying to trick him and actually just wanted to get out of a day of travel, to and from Manchester. Though, at the same time, admittedly there was a time aspect to this task and the entire band must be together by Thursday at the latest. Mickey boiled with frustration; somehow he had lost control of this scheme and Fame had taken the reigns. Had he underestimated Fame or was he just getting paranoid? His only other option was either to send Seamus up to Manchester on his own to get the drummer, which he knew wouldn’t work. Mickey had already made up his mind that Seamus was not designed for any kind of role that required any kind of thinking. The other option was to leave Seamus with Fame, to make sure he was spending his time wisely and not just avoiding the trip. Mickey knew though, if Fame was just planning an easy day for himself, he was more than clever enough to manipulate Seamus.

Fuck it.

“Fine,” Mickey answered.

“Right, excellent,” Fame said, walking towards a red Ferrari, which was badly parked, between two parking spaces. “I’ll be in touch with you two tomorrow at some point, I suppose.”

Fame gave them both a wave and sped off. Mickey was having the distinct feeling he’d just been screwed.

“That’s a cool car. That guy’s a real legend isn’t he?” Seamus said, not hiding his admiration for Fame.

“Seamus, you are here to learn from me. You need to be watching me at all times, looking at how I act in different situations, so you can understand things better,” Mickey said walking back towards Seamus’ car.

“I do Mickey. I do. I was just saying I think Fame is a cool guy,” Seamus continued, not sensing Mickey’s irritation.

“Have you not been seeing how Fame has been like putty in my hand? How I’ve been controlling all his decisions and at that same time always letting him think he’s in command?" Mickey said, wishing he completely believed this himself.

“Well yeah sure but…” Seamus began.

“Jesus!” Mickey shouted, frustrated.

“But it was Max’s idea that we go to Manchester?” Seamus said, getting in his car, now looking confused.

“Or was it?” Mickey replied, trying to sound mysterious.

Seamus looked even more confused. Mickey assessed the face of the troubled Seamus and thought, for a moment, feared even, that he might be losing his apprentice’s mind to a better influencer. He was going to have to up his game with Mr. Fame. And, if he was fucking him, he’d rip the little weasel in half.

Billy sat by the side of the road, watching Nick laugh as he chased the early rising pigeons that had dared to land onto the road nearby. The alcoholic haze he had enjoyed for the last few hours had started to lift and it was being quickly replaced by a dull thumping headache. Billy didn’t mind the pain though, he liked it. Pain helps you think.

John had to die.

Billy was sick to death of carrying his snivelling older brother around; he had been a weight around his neck for almost his whole life. And now—now it was too much to bear. He had watched John creep out the club earlier that night; it had been no later than eight thirty. What time is that! He was the one that had suggested they go out celebrating and he hadn’t even stayed into the evening proper!

Billy had felt so positive a matter of hours ago; the three Blake brothers hitting the town, with things to celebrate, a real thing to celebrate. He had even contemplated telling John about his whole detailed plan, to let him understand the real reason he had to celebrate. But now, now he was pleased he hadn’t. Now he understood—John had to go. Billy had too much happening in his brain at the moment… so much to deal with… so many little tasks that needed handling and one of them wasn’t going to be John.
John had to be switched off.

They hadn’t even downed their first pint, before John had tried to get in his ear. “Now was the time to go, this was the point to go straight, before they all ended up on a concrete slab,” the worthless wretch had said. What the fuck did he know? He didn’t even know the plan and he thought
he
could just advise his more intelligent brother. He’d wanted to claw out John’s eyes when he’d been saying his weak words; he wasn’t a Blake, not a real Blake.

Billy Blake was going to be a name now; he’d be the guy in O’Neil’s shoes before long and he could not tolerate any sign of weakness, a weakness like John.

“Nick,” Billy said.

Nick turned from chasing the pigeons, to look at his brother. He was like a trained pitbull; no weakness at all, just strength, brutal strength.

“Have you got your knife?”

Nick grinned and pulled up his top, to show the large knife tucked into the jeans. It was a miracle none of the doormen they’d walked past that night hadn’t frisked him and discovered the weapon. I guess bouncers aren’t as stupid as the look, Billy thought smiling.

“That knife’s going into our brother’s stomach, so keep it sharp.”

Nick looked back at Billy for a moment and smiled, before returning to chasing the pigeons that had built up again behind him.

Mickey carefully closed the front door behind him. Dawn never minded him coming home late; it was an accepted part of who Mickey was and it was something Dawn had bought into long ago.

In the early days, Mickey had told her to think of it as if he worked at a restaurant and this euphemism seemed to stick over the years. On the nights when he had been especially delayed, he’d tell Dawn how the kitchens had been filthy. So they’d had to pull an all-nighter. Or that the pot wash had broken down.

Dawn had once said that she’d have to come down, to try some of the food at the place he spent his long nights at. But Mickey replied that she would hate the food there. She’d laughed at his response, which was a big relief; he had worried it would lead into a long conversation about how he should get out of his particular line of work. Mickey was lucky; most women wouldn’t understand a life like this.

He stood in his hallway for a moment, sucking in the air, reenergising from the lovely feeling of being back home, then automatically glanced down at his bag. A feeling of cold went through his body; it always did whenever he looked at his bag on the floor of his home. What his mind saw on the floor was not his bag but his baby—his dead beautiful baby.

There were not many times he thought about that day; normally, it would only enter his mind at moments like this when it was otherwise empty.  The smallest link could then drag him back to that day—the day. His bag went everywhere with him, he couldn’t let it go; sometimes it was just the thing that would prevent him from losing control of a situation; and other times it was his baby.

Mickey sighed. It was fucked up; he knew he shouldn’t think like he did. Dawn had tried to take him to counselling with her countless times in the first few months, but he’d never gone with her. He didn’t want to do anything that might take any of his memories away of the three of them together. He looked down at ‘Alfie’ and unlocked a metal cabinet next to the front door, which looked oddly out of place in the comfortably decorated hallway. He placed his bag inside, checking the door was firmly shut before locking it. 

Once ‘Alfie’ had been safely locked away, Mickey felt himself relax; he never felt the day was done until his bag was stored.

“Is that you Hun?” Dawn shouted from the lounge.

“Yeah, that kitchen was bloody awful tonight; I hope there’s some cold ones in the fridge,” Mickey shouted.

Dawn took a moment to answer. “Charlie popped round to say hello. He’s in here with me.”

Mickey looked at his watch. It was gone one am—this was not a normal. His heart rate increased and he looked back at the cabinet. Charlie would only be here if something was wrong.

In reality, it was fairly rare to see Charlie O’Neil round Mickey’s house at all. If Dawn had said that it was Robert, even at this late hour, then it wouldn’t have been a total surprise. Mickey and Robert had more than their fair share of late-night drinks together; but the same could not be said of Charlie. He was the boss, and late night visits weren’t something he did.

It was never spoken that Charlie was the boss. It wasn’t like he gave Robert orders; though at the same time, Charlie had the power. Charlie could walk into any place and he’d receive respect. Robert, on the other hand, would have to be with Charlie, to get the same. It might have been that he was smaller, not really with any kind of frame on him. Robert didn’t look like he’d be able to mix it up.

Also, Charlie was slightly aloof to the rest of the boys. He had few words. You could tell when he was in a good mood and you could tell when he wasn’t—and when he wasn’t even Mickey gave him a wide berth. Robert though, had time for people. He was clever. He liked to understand those who surrounded him. He was the one that got Mickey into reading; recommended some books.

“You need to grow your mind Mick, not your biceps,” Robert had said. “That’s what will make you truly dangerous.”

Charlie wasn’t one for books, just like he wasn’t one for words. Indeed, he’d only say a handful of words to anyone in the firm directly. Most of the things Charlie said came via Robert;
Charlie would like you to do this for him or Charlie needs this thing doing.
It was rare even for Mickey to get his instructions direct from Charlie.

Mickey assumed he counted among Charlie’s friends, even if he never really held down many conversations at length with him. Charlie’s relative silence certainly didn’t affect Mickey’s feelings for the man; he was his boss and his mate, he would walk through fire for him. He was also the reason why Mickey was in this business, he was the leader, a bloody legend and the only man in the world that Mickey would never question a decision of.

After the incident with the Poles, Mickey had gone into hiding. Charlie had been insistent about it. Mickey had heard the news first from Robert and he’d tried to argue he was needed here, in London. How were things going to run without him? But then, Charlie came round; and Mickey and Dawn were packed off to Costa Brava for six months, simple as that, no argument. They were taken to Heathrow, with a suitcase full of money and firm instructions not to make contact with anyone connected to the firm until Robert contacted them.

It had been tough; they had been dark days for Mickey and Dawn, days that were best forgotten. It was only when they got back that Mickey found out what Charlie had done to finish the business with the Poles. Of course, the head of the London part of their business was already dead and so too was any family left in the city. But they still had a large contingent in Poland, and there were a load of vicious people over there, chomping at the bit to get over to London for some vengeance. 

The same day that Mickey and Dawn had got on their plane to Spain, Charlie and two other trusted associates had got onto a boat for Poland, to finish this business for good.

Charlie and his little crew killed everyone attached to the Peskzi crime family, starting in Peszki’s home town of Lodz. Then, when Charlie found out they had links to a neo-Nazi skinhead group based in Warsaw, the three men travelled there too. He left the Polish gangsters with a simple message. You don’t fuck with Charlie O’Neil or his firm.

The newspaper reports recorded how a bomb went off in the early hours of one Sunday morning in the centre of Lodz, killing twelve men in a snooker club that had links to organised crime. The reporter did not mention that these twelve men had been dead before the bomb was planted.

The Neo-Nazi’s were not so lucky to be killed in the blast. O’Neil had discovered that it was they who had supplied the automatic weapons to the Peszki’s in London. And so they too were added to Charlie’s list. The ringleaders were one by one bundled into the back of an unmarked white van, which stalked the streets of Warsaw for days. Finally, all the seven gang leaders were dumped on the floor of a deserted warehouse. They were tied up and placed on chairs in a circle facing each other.

Despite being secured to the chairs, they had been left ungagged. At first, the gang leaders had seen this as a foolish mistake by the crazy English men. They took their opportunity to tell O’Neil about the type of retribution that he and his three men could expect for their stupid short-sighted actions.

The Polish Nazis looked bemused by the mad Englishmen, as O’Neil just sat calmly in the middle of the circle listening. It took them some time but they eventually talked themselves out of words. There’s only so long you can shout insults at somebody, with nothing coming back.

When O’Neil was happy that they’d all said their piece, he stood up. Whilst he’d been sat there listening to the threats he’d been working out who was the most senior boss. It hadn’t taken much to figure it out, with the little micro gestures made towards him, and the way he spoke the least but gave the biggest threats.

“You’re the boss aren’t you,” O’Neil said. “You’re in charge.”

The Polak Neo-Nazi didn’t say anything. And what came next some people think was just legend more than truth, but Mickey knew Charlie and knew it was real. O’Neil walked over to the Polak boss and gave him a powerful right hook to the jaw.

The skinhead responded with a bloody grin, which was not the smartest move, because now the punches really started. They went on for twenty minutes. Charlie kept punching until there was a horrible cracking sound of the man’s jaw breaking. Who knows at what point the Polish gangster died; but there sure wasn’t much left of face by the end.

Then the other boys started on five of the other leaders, not quite with them same finesse as Charlie, but using the butts of their guns for added effect. Within about fifteen minutes, there was only one Polish leader left; he had probably pissed himself by this point.

O’Neil approached the final man. He had deliberately chosen the one that spoke the best English, and who had by chance made the most explicit threats—the one who said he would hunt O’Neil down like the dog that he was. 

The man must have thought he was going to get it worse than anyone. Tears were streaming down his face—he was begging for his life. O’Neil stood over him and told him to stop crying and be pleased; he was going to let him live.

“No one runs guns through London, no more, without my approval. Do you understand?”

The skinhead nodded.

“Do you know why you’re gonna agree to that?”

“Because…” The skinhead said, between tears. “I have seen what you’re capable of and I won’f f…”

“Nah, that ain’t it,” Charlie said, wagging his finger at the man. “You’re going to do it ’cause I’ve got your kids.”

The skinhead’s eyes widened.

“I’m going to put them into a boarding school in London—they’re going to have a great education. You should be thanking me really. But if something goes wrong, if I even smell some commie guns in London that I don’t know about—well someone will walk into that school and…”

“Whatever you want! Please!” the skinhead screamed.

Mickey wasn’t sure if this was how Charlie got his nickname, The Devil. But it definitely played its part in it. There was nothing he wouldn’t do. Mickey didn’t like to think of Charlie as evil, and Charlie certainly loved his Jackie deeply. But Mickey could see why some people thought he deserved his nickname.

When Mickey had first heard about what happened in Poland, he had still been in the midst of pain from the loss of their baby and took little pleasure from it. Though he did manage a smile the following year, when Scotland Yard celebrated the capital’s reduction in gun crime.

Charlie O’Neil was a legend—the number one in London—and Mickey would walk through fire for him.

Mickey walked into the lounge and saw Charlie O’Neil on the sofa, being offered an array of biscuits on a tray by Dawn. Forever the hostess, Mickey smiled.

“I’m sorry I dropped by so late Mickey,” O’Neil said, in an uncharacteristically apologetic manner.

Dawn smiled and left the room, she knew not to be around for business talk.

Mickey was so taken aback by the comment, that he was unsure how to respond. It was only then that he noticed how different the man in front of him looked. It had been weeks since he’d seen him. He knew Jackie had been taken into the hospital a few days before and that Charlie had spent most of his days and nights by her bedside. But that wasn’t an explanation that could account for the image sat in front of him. The man must have lost a stone in weight, his eyes looked heavy with dark rings hung underneath them, and a beard had grown over a face that Mickey had never seen so much as a five o'clock shadow on before.

“I must look like shit?” Charlie said, watching Mickey’s face.

“No,” Mickey said, realising he was staring and shrugged. “It's just been a while you know. You’re looking good; I like the beard. It looks very err Spartan.”

O’Neil smiled. “You’re a good man Mickey Dunne.”

Mickey felt slightly more comfortable and sat down.

“How’s it going with Seamus?” O’Neil asked.

“I dunno,” Mickey sighed. “He will scare people, for sure, but I’m just not sure what else.” 

“You know Robert,” O’Neil nodded as if he was expecting the response. “He'll pick up any stray from that bloody boxing club. He told me that this guy could have gone on to be a British champion before he lost his license.”

“I wouldn’t doubt his talent in the ring,” Mickey replied honestly. “What I would say though is that you don’t want this kid in a role where he has to use his mind too much.”

O’Neil laughed and Mickey relaxed some more. He was still unsure what brought the boss around here, and that he wasn’t in a rush to get to the point could mean it was something serious.

“The band is on track though, I’ll have them on stage for Jackie,” Mickey said, wondering about whether to mention his irritation with Max Fame. “There have been no issues with it really,” he added, choosing to overlook his issue with the arrogant celebrity agent.

“What do you think of Max Fame?” O’Neil asked.

“I think the fella’s a real prick,” Mickey answered.

“I took over a large debt of his a few years ago; I thought it would become an interesting investment,” Charlie said.

“Big money?” Mickey asked, hoping it was.

He'd be happier knowing the man was in heavy debt. He might even look after his case personally going forward.