Skinheads were smoking puff like there was no tomorrow and so were the middle-class white boys. It was becoming the drug of choice for a whole generation. Together with the new seventies music scene and the opening up of so many clubs all over the Smoke and the Home Counties, speed was also an earner. Pills were still going strong, but the preference was for the white powder.
1976 was the year of the snort with punks desperate to stay up all night, the rude boys wanting the blues that lasted for days on end and the casuals with their Depeche Mode and asymmetric haircuts. Selling speed was like printing money and that was why they changed flops every few months; no reason to ask for trouble. By five in the morning they would have about eighty grand in the room with them and that was a temptation to anyone, let alone the people they dealt with on a daily basis.
This flop was new and they had made a point of making it habitable. Hence the TV and the comfortable sofa. It was a large property in Clapham and it was rented out by the room. The place stank of goat meat and sweat and there were people in and out at all hours of the day and night which was a bonus as far as they were concerned. It was owned through a holding company that had its annual AGM in Jamaica. By the time the tax man finally worked out who actually owned the place they would be retired and living in Montego Bay.
All in all, it was a good flop and it was also worth a few bob from the rents. It was full of black men and white girls, it always had music blaring and, in that respect, it was no different to any other house in the street.
They felt safe there and so they only had two guns with them, both ex-army-issue pistols. One was a thirty-eight and the other was a forty-five, which was enough firepower to do real damage, yet small enough to tuck into a waistband and hide from prying eyes. But they weren't too bothered about security, in fact they were overconfident. Outside, in a Ford Zodiac, sat three Rastas who had not yet embraced the beautiful meaning of their religion. They would shoot their own mothers if they tried to have any of them over.
They had also clocked Dennis Williams and his little crew when they had driven by not ten minutes before. Dennis had looked them over as if they were so much shit on his shoes and the Rastas had taken it; give the boys a false sense of security, that was their motto. Anyone who listened to music that had words like Ballroom Blitz in it, deserved all they got. The Rastas had guns and machetes and they were ready for anything the white boys had to offer them. In fact, they were looking forward to a real straightener, it would sort out the men from the white boys once and for all.
Dennis was rocking. He had been drinking steadily all day and he was up for a fight. The Rastas in the car earlier had really given him the taste for a violent confrontation; it was only his baby brother, Ricky, driving them to the pub that had stopped anything from occurring.
'Calm down, for fuck's sake.'
Ricky was a little hard nut, not as big as his brothers, but he had a quick wit and an even quicker temper. But he was also sensible enough to know that Dave would have their balls for breakfast if anything happened without his express say-so or knowledge. Dave was still sucking Brodie's cock and as much as that annoyed him, Dave was still the driving force of the family and Ricky respected that.
He knew that Dave was trying to stop this going off. But even he was beginning to see why the others were getting the serious ache. The blacks were fucking all over the place and, no matter how much the Williams boys were told they had missed their chance, it was fucking out of order that they were practically paupers in the grand scheme of things.
Ricky had just got his latest bird in the club and he needed some spondoolies to weigh her out for the new arrival. It was therefore a matter of grave importance to him that he was skinter than a striking miner. By the time he pulled up outside the Beckton speiler they ran, Ricky was already spoiling for the fight he had prevented.
It took him, Bernie and Dave five minutes to get Dennis inside, on account of the fact that there were three girls outside with schoolie written all over them, wearing skirts shorter than a traffic warden's attention span.
'Come on darlings, show us your tits.'
The girls were scandalised and thrilled at the same time but they were also relieved when the other men finally dragged Dennis into the pub.
The brothers made their way to the back room, acknowledging people as they went. Dave looked around him as he half-carried, half-dragged Dennis to safety. The place was packed as always, and most of the clientele were mates or associates. He knew that not much money would go over the bar; they had made a big fuck up on the Grand Opening night when they had let people have a drink on the house. It was expected now, they could never ask for payment and they were finding it hard to make ends meet. Even robbing the Cash and Carry was out of the question because they were supposed to be above all that petty fucking shit.
He only hoped that his meeting with Patrick later on in the evening would bring about a solution to their problems. They had spunked money up the wall left, right and centre and now there was hardly any left. They worked for Patrick Brodie and no matter how much his brothers tried to talk him into retaliation, Dave had to remember that Patrick Brodie was a bad man to fuck with. Maybe he should come clean, tell him the truth of their situation; it was no shame to lose your money where the grass was concerned. Lily Law were always in the running to get to it first and it was a chance everyone took: you weighed out knowing you would either make a real profit on your investment or lose the fucking lot. This was not, after all, legitimate business. Still, they had lost more than most and it was embarrassing to have to go to the man they depended on for their daily bread and admit that they had fucked up so phenomenally. Like Spider and his cronies, Pat was coining it in; they were like the Keystone Cops in comparison, and it was this that was causing all the bad feeling.
They were amateurs and any kudos they possessed was because Patrick Brodie was their ganger. It had been a harsh lesson for them and, as usual, he now had to try to sort it all out without any help from his brothers whatsoever.
Dennis was sitting slumped in the chair by the doorway, Bernie next to him, and little Ricky had brought them all drinks from the bar. As they sat and chatted, Dennis finally sobered up enough to make relative sense; he was still off his face but the pills he had been given by Ricky seemed to be doing the job. He was now speeding out of his nut, the blue ones he had necked were making him dry-mouthed and paranoid, not a good idea for Dennis at any time. He was a violent man by nature, and with alcohol and narcotics in his system, he was not easily controllable.
As they waited for the others to arrive, Dennis heard the loud voice of their cousin, Vincent Williams. Vince and Dennis had been rivals since boys; of a similar build and with strikingly similar looks, they had been natural antagonists.
Now Vince was buying into the doll business with Brodie and Spider, the relationship had soured even more. Dennis saw him as a traitor. He couldn't see that it suited Vince to make a few quid with guaranteed protection, he just saw his cousin raking it in and, worse than that, spending it wisely. There was a family joke that Vince was so tight even the Queen came to the opening of his wallet, but that was not really the case. Vince wasn't tight, he was simply a shrewdie. He didn't countenance hangers-on and he saw no reason to spend money unless it was to make more money. Dave and the others loved him but Dennis had always had a problem with him and the feeling was, unfortunately, mutual.