Howard Linskey: The Drop

‘I’m not s’posed to say. It’s… ’

‘Don’t be a total cunt.’ I was deliberately talking down to him, like he was being a complete wanker for holding out on me like this, which he was. I only had a short drive to convince him he could safely let me know what had happened. ‘I’m not going to let on, am I?’

It was a bit of a risk talking to a man like Finney like that and he gave me a look. We both knew he could have ripped my head off my body without even breaking sweat. He was a huge guy with a barrelled chest and fists like mell hammers. His face was marked with the scars from a thousand fights, all of which I am willing to bet he won. Put it this way, I have never heard of anybody beating Finney, not once, not in the illegal, bare-knuckle boxing bouts where he came to Bobby Mahoney’s attention in the first place, not inside, when he got his ten stretch, commuted to six, and certainly not on the streets. Nobody has ever taken down Finney on the streets. He is the firm’s main muscle and I take him anywhere where there might be even a hint of trouble. People soon stop giving me jip when he walks in.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched the road ahead. Then finally he quietly told me, ‘It’s the Drop.’

‘Yeah, you said,’ I replied irritably and while I was racking my brains wondering what could possibly have gone wrong, he added, ‘It didn’t happen.’ And I am not afraid to tell you that, right then, the blood in my veins ran to ice.

Bobby Mahoney has meetings in lots of different places. He has to; in the back rooms of the pubs he owns, or the spa he has a stake in, or down at the Cauldron, the first club he had before he went on to control an empire. It’s safer that way and makes it hard for the local plod or SOCA to get anything on tape. We sweep every location twice a week obviously, we’re no mugs – and Bobby Mahoney isn’t some John Gotti figure, shooting his mouth off all over Tyneside until they get enough to put him away for life. He doesn’t piss about does Bobby and it’s part of my job to make sure he never takes chances.

I’m not too surprised when Finney tells me we are meeting at the Cauldron. It’s a sort of home from home for Bobby and I suspect he views it sentimentally, like some huge retailer who returns to his first corner shop every now and then to recall the good old days when he had nothing but naked ambition. Well, that and, in Bobby’s case, the proceeds from the robbery of an armoured car which his fledgling crew turned over back in 1973. They stormed in with stocking masks over their faces and sawn-off shotguns, which they brandished under the noses of the unarmed security guards. Those guys were paid a pittance and were hardly going to act the hero.

That’s how you got started in those days. You’d take out a wages van to secure the funds to start you off. It was the first step on the ladder. Nowadays if we need to be more liquid we talk to venture capitalists. It’s a funny old world.

No one but a complete numpty would take out a security van these days. There’s nothing like as much cash about for one thing, everybody gets their salary through BACS transfer and the wage packet stuffed with tenners is a distant memory. Police intelligence is a lot sharper as well, gangs get spotted early, their members put under round-the-clock surveillance and, if they do make a move, they get taken out by police marksmen with itchy trigger fingers, who all think they’re Al Pacino in Heat .

We watched one botched armed robbery unfolding on Sky News a few weeks back, at least the aftermath of it. The cops weren’t content with arresting the dumb shits, who hadn’t realised things had changed since the days of Regan and Carter and a gruff shout of ‘you’re nicked son’. As soon as they pulled a handgun on the security guard they were dropped, calm as you like, by snipers they never even saw, leaving passers by to catch images of their bodies on mobile phone cameras, so they could sell the grainy footage to the 24-hour news channels. It seems we are all journalists these days. Everybody knows you can get a few bob for footage of blood on the walls of your local building society.

Bobby watched it all with interest before pronouncing, ‘aye, things have definitely changed since my day,’ before taking a sip of his whiskey and adding, ‘course, we weren’t fucking amateurs.’

Back in Bobby’s younger days, the proceeds from one or two vans would set you up with a controlling stake in a club and enough readies to invest in slot machines, stolen booze or fags and old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness whoring. As Bobby told me, ‘men have needed women since time began but it’s still illegal thank God – and long may that continue, or they’d be offering you one when you went for your groceries at Tescos,’ and he mimicked the sing-song voice of some simple-minded checkout girl, “That’s ninety quid sir. Oh, got your loyalty card have you? I see you’ve enough points on there for one fuck, two blow jobs and a tit-wank. Would you like them now while the wife gets your petrol?” and he’d laughed, “do you think they wouldn’t do it if they could” They sell everything from TVs to insurance and you can buy a vibrator on every high street these days. Where would we be if they really let retailers sell sex, eh? I’ve made more money out of massage than I have out of armed robbery. It just takes a bit longer, one hand job at a time.’

Finney and I were back in the city way too soon. It was the start of an October weekend and people were out and about, forgetting their cares for a few hours in the pubs and clubs of the Bigg Market and the Quayside; dozens of lasses done up to the nines and lairy lads out on the prowl looking for their one-night-Juliet. The bridges on the Quayside were all lit up, so the evening’s revellers could tell which direction they were staggering.

I’d been thinking about Bobby’s violent start in life for a reason. He was still a hard bastard. If he felt aggrieved, he was not afraid to use some of that famous ruthlessness on any man, even one of his trusted lieutenants. I was worrying quite a lot about that in fact, because this time the trusted lieutenant was me. I am not as used to violence as the other guys in his crew. They’ve all been around a lot longer and they’ve had to scrap their way into his outfit. They all got their hands dirty at one point or another, but me? I’m a lot younger and I’m strictly white-collar, an ideas man. I have made Bobby Mahoney a lot of money over the years and he always made sure I got my slice but none of that matters now. The Drop didn’t happen and frankly, I admit it, I am shitting myself.

‘Not a fucking word to Bobby, you hear me Davey?’ cautioned Finney, ‘no matter what he says.’

My name is David Blake but most of the firm still call me Davey, even though I grew out of it years ago.

‘I said, didn’t I?’

We parked outside the dirty, red-brick, windowless façade of the Cauldron, a stone’s throw from China Town and a goal kick from St James Park. It was Friday night, just after traditional pub kicking-out time and the punters were already massing outside to get into the Cauldron. It’s not our coolest spot but it’s cheap and has a pretty loyal following. They were queuing two or three deep; teenage girls dressed in skirts so tiny they looked like they were fashioned from their grandad’s hankies. Their tight shirts were buttoned or tied just far enough up the middle to leave an acre of bare, white-fleshed cleavage spilling out over the fabric. Christ, I thought, they must be freezing. Then I realised how old that made me sound. The young don’t notice the cold. I remembered my poor, late ma saying the same thing to me every time I left the house without a coat on. ‘You’ll catch your death one day, you will.’