Paul Finch - Stolen

And so it went, the Chairman listing and describing each and every one of their underperformances. In the end, only Frank McCracken’s department’s monthly returns were more or less in alignment, August showing a reduction on the previous month of less than half a per cent, though even that, to Bill Pentecost, was less than tolerable.

‘Of course,’ he said, resuming a calmer tone, ‘these are our net earnings, are they not? They’re not gross . ’

There were visible stirrings of discomfort. Suddenly, they all knew what he was driving at, and it was exactly what Frank McCracken had feared.

The Crew was born of bloodshed. Back in those distant days of the twentieth century, numerous criminal firms had dotted the post-industrial wilderness that was Northwest England, each with its own territory, each with its own speciality, though they’d shared many overlapping interests, which for decades meant they’d existed in a state of semi-permanent warfare, ensuring that no one was earning to their full potential. The Crew had been the remedy, Wild Bill Pentecost, whose stronghold at the time was in East and South Manchester, and whose field was loan-sharking and general racketeering, eventually luring the bosses of his rival firms into a new kind of unity which promised peace and prosperity for all. Many of those original men still sat in the room, equal partners in the overarching enterprise that was the Crew, deferring only to their acknowledged Chairman, their various departments still reflecting the particular expertise they’d each brought to the table.

But all along Pentecost had known that he couldn’t expect this rapacious band to work solely for him, each week feeding the entirety of their ill-gotten gains into central funds via an elaborate money-laundering operation, from which they would all be paid an equal monthly share. That would have been totally unacceptable because it would have been unfair. Toni Zambala, for example, outsold all the others, while at the other end of the scale Benny B added nothing to company cashflow, a discrepancy exacerbated by the fact that his role as Head of Security was largely nominal these days, most of the underbosses preferring to resolve security issues themselves. McCracken alone had at least as many bent coppers, solicitors, local government officials and journalists on his payroll as Benny did, while Lennie and Toni held both the region’s major cities in thrall to their innumerable dealers, street gangs and general-purpose thugs. Benny B couldn’t be underestimated, of course. Having spent much of his time recruiting mercenaries and other ex-military personnel, he could put a considerable force of well-trained killers into the field – but still, he didn’t produce anything. Appreciating the dangers of this imbalance, Pentecost had authorised at an early stage what he called ‘the skim’, which allowed each underboss to keep 25 per cent of each week’s earnings. It remained dirty, of course, and it didn’t always amount to a massive sum, but it allowed his individual captains to pay additional staff, soldiers, runners, lookouts and the like, and to lavish a little extra wealth on themselves from time to time. It kept them happy, and encouraged them to work their people ever harder, because the larger each department’s official income, the larger its skim.

Little wonder it was now regarded as a sacrosanct perk.

But of course, what a man could make, he could also unmake.

‘Alas, we may have to pick up some of this slack ourselves,’ Pentecost said, walking around the room with that slow, heavy tread of his. ‘So … as a temporary measure, I propose that we cut the skim from twenty-five per cent to fifteen.’

There were audible murmurs of discontent. Chair legs scraped, narrowed eyes exchanged surly glances.

‘It’s a proposal at present,’ Pentecost added, no tension in his voice. ‘But I want you to consider it very seriously, gentlemen. These are difficult times, as we’ve already discussed. Even now, it may not seem necessary that we prepare a war-chest, but wars often happen when you’re least expecting them.’

‘Yo, Bill,’ Merryweather protested, ‘if you’re talking about cancelling the skim …’

‘I’m not talking about cancelling it, I’m talking about trimming it.’

‘A ten per cent cut is some trim,’ Toni Zambala pointed out.

‘Slashing it then. Never fear, there’ll be something left.’

More mutters of irritation.

‘Gentlemen, you surprise me.’ Pentecost strolled back to his own end of the table. ‘Are we not the ruling elite? Do you seriously expect the burden of these losses to fall elsewhere when we ourselves –’ he tossed the paperwork down the table ‘– are directly responsible for them?’

‘If there are losses across the board, Bill,’ Al Reed ventured, ‘couldn’t it just be the effect of austerity?’

‘Austerity is something that impacts on the ordinary,’ Pentecost replied. ‘On those who lack the means and the will to resist it. We are immune to austerity, because we are the extraordinary.’

‘Don’t we get to vote on this?’ Trueman wondered.

Pentecost met him eye-to-eye. This was the potential crisis point. Trueman’s body-language suggested they had not okayed this beforehand. That would be typical Wild Bill these days. Increasingly, he reacted to developments in kneejerk fashion. Previously, he would never have made a potentially controversial move without discussing it with his number two first. It would have been difficult for any of them to tackle Wild Bill on his own, but to tackle him and Lennie Trueman together would be suicide.

Billy Boy is riding his luck , McCracken thought.

But perhaps, on further consideration, Trueman, a cooler head who saw the bigger picture quickly, had decided that the very least they could do in these trying circumstances was put business before pleasure. So, though he remained taut, he awaited his Chairman’s response politely.

‘Of course,’ Pentecost said, walking again. ‘We’re all equals in here.’ He paused at the other end of the table. ‘Any objectors raise their right hands.’

He swept them with his gaze as they each struggled with the matter.

One by one, with many a truculent stare directed downward, they folded their hands on the table in front of them, until it was unanimous.

‘I think the motion is carried,’ Pentecost said. ‘Which concludes our business for today.’

The meeting didn’t break up as amicably as usual.

The Chairman saw them out in his usual fashion, accompanying them into the penthouse lobby, where Benny B and his men restored their guns to them.

Pentecost spoke fake fond words as they departed. But when he went back into the boardroom, he found that they hadn’t all left. Frank McCracken stood by the main window, taking in its panoramic view of the city.

‘Still here, Frank?’ Pentecost approached. ‘I thought after that pep talk, we’d all consider we had rather a lot of business to attend to.’

‘Just wondering if I could have a little private chat?’ McCracken replied. ‘For old times’ sake, if nothing else.’

Pentecost mulled it over. ‘Suppose I can spare a minute for one of my oldest muckers.’

‘If a minute’s all I’ve got, I’ll get straight to it,’ McCracken said. ‘I wonder if you’d consider reversing that decision about slashing the skim?’

Pentecost looked sad. ‘How disappointingly predictable of you.’

‘Bill, come on …’ McCracken allowed a conspiratorial note to creep into his voice. ‘Look, these guys are on your side. Since you put the Crew together, they’ve never made as much dosh. Okay, they have to pay three quarters of it into central funds, but they’re well rewarded for that, plus they recognise it’s working. That’s why they’re happy to go along with it.’