The Family Firm

Chapter 5

The warehouse was on the Dagenham Dock, once prominent dockland and a productive East End port, now paved over and fitted into an industrial park and petrol depot. Archy's Bunch had a number of these warehouses, which served a number of functions; safe-houses, storage, and few of them were even bonded for the liquor jobs. This one in particular was as inconspicuous as the rest and was to hold a meeting between the Bunch and a group of northerners run out of Manchester by a man named Mickey McElroy.

Mickey, like his boys, was a tough bastard. An Irish immigrant fresh off the mainland, he was the newest big thing and had taken Manchester by storm. He was known for being ruthless, especially for a man only 5'4. People liked to call him the Irish Diamond, the joke being that all his classic Irish temper had condensed and hardened into a tough little fucker.

Archy had heard of his violence and wasn't afraid of him. In fact he thought the little punk was stupid and excessive. He himself never used violence unless he had to; in his opinion, violence without reason was the sign of a weak man.

Now, that wasn't to say he wasn't capable of it himself; he hadn't become the King for no bloody reason. But he preferred to think things through before blindly swinging in like a fucking gorilla.

Fred, one of his best lads, was the perfect balance. He was exceedingly violent when necessary, but when necessary. He was a fast thinker, quick on his feet, and when he made a decision, he didn't look back.

The best part about him—and what Archy supposed made him the scariest—was how blindingly good he was with people. He was a man's man, and a ladies' man too; always knew how to make you come around no matter what the argument. If he wanted something, he bloody well got it, and at the end of the day he'd end up making you think he was doing you a favour over the whole fucking thing.

And good for Archy the bastard was loyal, God bless him, or he'd have his work cut out for him. Even though he didn't find him a real threat to his occupation, Fred was capable of some real damage and the last thing he wanted, especially nearing sixty years of age and well on his way out of the business, was to be on the wrong end of it.

Mickey was sat ahead of the Bunch—Archy at the head, Fred at his boss' side, and a number of other villains in black leather in various parts of the room—and puffing away at his Mayfair cigarette, squinting his dark, rat-like eyes through the smoke. He had a group of thugs with him, all thoroughly searched and carefully scrutinized before they were allowed entrance.

'So,' he began, clicking his tongue. 'You've got a big operation here, and I want in on it. You understand me, mate?'

His casual air irritated Archy, but for the sake of business, he'd reassured himself mentally to put on a face. Unfortunately, he was shite at poker for a reason and his disgust shown plain as the day itself, engraved into his features like the age-worn lines on his face. The charming was what he had Fred there for.

The man in question spoke up first, gesturing towards Mickey with the fat cigar he had between his ring-adorned fingers. 'We control the drugs, the liquor, the whores... Clubs, pubs, and rubs, I like to say.' This made Mickey laugh, but Fred continued. 'So why the fuck would we want another man in on the operation? Don't make any bloody sense, does it.'

He wasn't saying no, however. In fact the Bunch wanted a leg in Mickey's game just as much as he wanted in on theirs. The trick was to get a better advantage than the other guy, to make sure they were taking more than they were giving. The hard part was making Mickey feel like it was the other way around, but Freddie was a conniving bastard and knew precisely what he was doing.

'Well,' began the Irishman, leaning forward. 'We would be making a mutual connection, would we not? If I could have a piece of London, you could take a slice out of Manchester. The north and the south, working together, aye?'

Archy shifted more comfortably in his seat, which groaned heavily beneath his hefty weight. 'We wouldn't wanna step on each other's toes, would we Mick?'

Mickey could tell when he was being insulted, but he was smiling. His smile, like Freddie's, was almost never genuine. 'You know, in the face of aggression, I've learnt to embrace my adversary. When I emigrated to England, I realised all too quickly that the prejudice remains strong, perhaps even stronger than that of the Indians or the blacks. But I embraced it.'

The tension hung thickly in the air like an uncomfortable humidity, and Mickey then turned to Freddie. 'You're Irish, are you not?'

Freddie hadn't moved from his position, lips loosely fitted around the cigar he was puffing on periodically. 'Traveller.'

Suddenly, Mickey nodded knowledgeably, pointing his finger a few times. 'Aye, with that hair there was no mistake. You understand perhaps even better than I do that the Irish need to stick together.'

Freddie had an air of impassiveness to him, but he was thinking. To Archy, Mickey was certainly a cunt, and while Fred thought he was a cocky little bastard, he still saw potential. He was clearly educated, could have probably been a nine-to-fiver had he not been brought up the way they all had. There was little chance for people like them in the world. It never mattered how smart you were, only where you came from, and Freddie himself was working class, through and through. He was intuitive and good with his hands, but these were skills he used in the underbelly of East End. It was the only way he'd ever earn any real bread and he knew Mickey could relate. They were both proudly Irish and it was because of this perhaps that Freddie felt something of a connection to him. They had a mutual understanding of each other, and as they caught each other's gazes, they both knew it.

'All right,' began Freddie simply in his usual cockney baritone, exhaling a long plume of smoke from his crooked teeth. 'Listen. We wouldn't want either of us stepping on each other's turf. But, we'd be willing to make some sort of agreement. We have the best coke in England, undisputed. We have our own chemists, and we control every route in London that ain't watered-down, fluffed-up shite. Because of this, we have the right buyers. The big timers, the rich and the wealthy. Our sales ain't in coke-head junkies. We sell a better quality product to better quality people. We could come to some sort of arrangement between us. You pay us for a better product, you sell to the right people and earn more profit, and we each stay in our own boundaries.'

Archy was looking at him then. He let the man take charge whenever he pleased because, being his right hand man, Archy trusted his judgement. But right then he was wondering if he was being cunted off. In any case, if this blew up in their faces Archy would make sure it was Freddie who took the damage.

But Freddie, like always, knew what he was doing. He was single-handedly re-routing Manchester's cocaine distribution from one source; their own. As one of their most profitable businesses, they would make a fucking killing, and Mickey would earn a decent wedge too, as long as he took the bait. He would think he was getting a good cut, a good deal, and Archy's Bunch would be getting away with murder. They would have Manchester by the fucking balls and no one would be any the wiser. Once they controlled the coke, they could control anything they wanted.

Freddie could see the look of satisfaction take over Mickey's features, and felt his own power rise acutely in his chest. As they all shook hands, Fred was more than certain that soon enough, London –and maybe all of England—would be in his hands. He was single-handedly building their empire and he would be damned if he was going to let Archy take all the bloody credit.

Archy's reign was over. Time for a new king.