Читать книгу Shadows: The gripping new crime thriller from the #1 bestseller - Paul Finch - Страница 12

He might have entered the criminal world relatively late in life, but Joe Lazenby had soon come to recognise this as a benefit rather than a drawback. It obviously helped that he didn’t have a rap sheet, and it helped enormously that after years of normality, he didn’t look like a criminal.

Whatever people said about the monsters in our society mingling easily and comfortably with the rest of us, that only really applied to the successful ones. As far as Joe Lazenby was concerned, some shaven-headed moron decked in cheap bling and wearing tattoos on his face and neck wasn’t even going to enter a street-corner boozer without the punters edging away from him, so his chances of getting close to someone it was actually worth robbing or conning were beyond zero. Not that Lazenby went in for primitive tricks like robbing or conning, but in complete contrast to those tattooed, knuckle-dragging apes, he still regarded his ‘ordinary joe’ appearance as his best asset.

In fact, that was the street name he used: ‘Ordinary Joe’.

He’d chosen it, himself, and almost unbelievably, it had caught on. Even so, as he sat here in the genteel environs of Hogarth’s Cocktail Lounge, working through his daily accounts, no one would ever know what he was really up to. They’d just see a guy in his mid-thirties, slightly stout of build, average height, with curly brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, a wedding ring on one hand, a none-too-expensive Nautica watch on the other, wearing black horn-rims and a three-piece suit, sipping Perrier water as he tapped away on a laptop; clearly an averagely successful businessman wrapping up the day’s work with a few final, essential adjustments before winding his thankful way home – no doubt to a semi in the suburbs, where his pretty wife and two-and-a-half nerdy children awaited him.

It helped, of course, that most of the clientele at Hogarth’s were cut from exactly that cloth, though mainly that was down to the time and place – late afternoon on a Tuesday, and Pearlman Road in the very centre of Crowley, where, for the most part, it was office and retail staff now disgorging from the workplaces close by.

Outside, the mid-October dusk was falling quickly, and with it the temperature. But Hogarth’s prided itself on providing a warm, snug environment. The mullioned windows were shaded with velvet, the lamplight low-key, the various loungers and armchairs of the deepest, most comfortable variety. The music playing was easy jazz, while the real fire crackling in the grate threw cosy orange-gold patterns across the hardwood floors. There was no actual bar service in here; all drinks were supplied by waitresses, who would attend your seating bay or booth or coffee table, in response to the ornate Edwardian bell-pushes located nearby.

It wasn’t too busy at present. No one would really expect it to be, but that suited Lazenby. He might be confident of his anonymity, but it was still easier to relax when people weren’t constantly edging past your table, perhaps throwing covert glances at your laptop screen. There were perhaps six other patrons in Hogarth’s at present, all dotted around, either alone or in couples, those together chatting quietly over drinks, the others reading evening papers, or, like him, fiddling around with electronic devices.

Either way, it left plenty of spare places all over the wine bar’s comfy interior.

Which is why it was so annoying to Lazenby when another guy in a suit, someone he didn’t know from Adam, suddenly inserted himself into the same booth and sat down on the other side of the coffee table, on top of which he nonchalantly plonked a large G&T.

Lazenby tried not to look at him, but couldn’t help stealing a couple of irritable glances.

The guy was in his mid-fifties and sharp-suited, with an average build, lean features and silver-grey hair razored into a crew cut.

Lazenby didn’t like his personal space being invaded for no reason, but for the sake of appearances – he was Ordinary Joe, after all – he didn’t make an issue of it, merely nodded when the newcomer’s dark eyes flitted towards him, and continued working at his accounts.

‘You picked the wrong place to try and get some work done, I’d say,’ the guy commented.

Lazenby didn’t at first realise that he was being addressed. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘Noisy bar.’

It wasn’t an especially noisy bar – not at this time of day.

‘Didn’t notice,’ Lazenby replied, pointedly not looking up.

‘Hard to concentrate.’

The air hissed between Lazenby’s clenched teeth as he finally met the newcomer with his best blank-eyed stare. Ordinary Joe might value his average appearance and air of affability, but he was also a Scouser. He originated from Childwall, which wasn’t a poor part of Liverpool, but nevertheless, in archetypical Merseysider fashion, he didn’t take well to being hassled.

‘Especially when people keep talking to me,’ he said, ‘and only politeness is preventing me telling them straight that I’m not interested.’

He went back to his laptop, pink-cheeked, but reasonably confident that the unexpected show of no-frills hostility would have done the trick. It couldn’t be very often that tired, bored business guys encountered a straight-talking response like that in Hogarth’s.

‘You a polite guy, then?’ the stranger said. ‘Perhaps they should call you “Joey the Gent” rather than “Ordinary Joe”?’

Lazenby glanced up at him again, this time shocked.

The guy took a sip of his G&T, unfazed by the turn in the conversation. ‘But hang on, I don’t suppose that would work. “Joey the Gent” sounds like “Jimmy the Gent” … and wasn’t he some kind of gangster? That would never do, would it?’

‘Who are you?’ Lazenby asked, instinctively closing his laptop to protect the information it contained.

‘Me? Oh, I’m no one important enough to have a cool nickname.’

‘You a cop?’

The man smiled to himself. ‘I’m guessing they call you Ordinary Joe because you look and act like an everyday Charlie. Perhaps we should call you that, instead: “Everyday Charlie”.’

‘I could ring my solicitor right now,’ Lazenby said, talking tough, though in truth his hair was prickling because he didn’t know if he could; he had no clue how much the law might have on him. ‘This is harassment.’

‘Be my guest,’ the guy said. ‘Ring him.’

‘I’ll see you around, officer.’ Lazenby did his best to look relaxed as he lifted his briefcase, slid his laptop into it, and clicked it closed. ‘Come back when you’ve actually got something.’

He stood up.

‘You know harassment’s hard to prove,’ the man said. ‘I should know … me and my associates have made that call a few times. Never got anywhere with it.’

Lazenby was about to leave the table, when these words sank in.

He turned back, regarding the newcomer with careful deliberation, before sitting down again.

‘You’re the Crew, aren’t you?’ he ventured.

The man looked nonplussed as he sipped more gin. ‘The Crew? Never heard of them.’

One second ago, Lazenby had been stiff and numb; his spine had gone cold – internally he’d been reeling with shock that the law had so unexpectedly caught up with him. He’d tried to brazen it out, praying that whoever this interloper was he was merely on a fishing trip. Now he felt only relief, though there was no guarantee he was on safe ground yet.

‘Look …’ he said warily, ‘we don’t need to have a problem here. I’m more than willing to do a deal.’

The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps it should be “Co-operative Charlie”?’

‘I know what this is about. I’ve got somewhere you can’t. I’m selling all over suburban Manchester. Middle-class districts which you have no access to. I’m also in with the white-collar crowd in the commercial area. And believe it or not, they gobble the stuff like it’s free.’

‘Oh, I believe you.’

‘But it isn’t free.’ Lazenby leaned forward confidentially. ‘And I’m making good money without setting a single foot on the mean streets.’

This was an unashamed boast, and maybe that wasn’t always advisable where the Crew were concerned. They weren’t the Northwest’s premier crime faction for nothing; internally, Lazenby’s nerves were jangling. But it suddenly seemed important to him, if he was going to deal with these guys on an equal basis, to underline the fact that he was a real player who had something valuable to trade.

‘Yeah. Everyday Charlie and his gentlefolk customer base.’ The newcomer’s tone wasn’t quite derisory; he sounded vaguely interested. ‘I’ve seen it actually, and I am impressed. Ice cream vans, pharmaceutical deliveries, driving instructors … touch of genius, all that. Great cover.’

‘Look, I’ll be blunt with you,’ Lazenby said. ‘For two reasons. Firstly, because I’m a straight player. I always believe in saying it how it is. That’s how I’ve got where I am today, and I’ve no regrets about it. Secondly, because I figure you guys are smart enough to know what side your bread’s buttered on.’ He lowered his voice even more, increasingly confident of his position. ‘You can’t get into the leafy parts of town. But I’m already there. So why don’t we hook up? I don’t have to move my own product solely. I can move yours too. I’ll open a completely new market for you. But the terms have got to be favourable.’

The stranger mulled this over. ‘Like you say, straight to the point. Least that’ll make things easier.’

Lazenby made an expansive gesture. ‘That’s how I roll.’

‘What’s your annual turnover, just out of interest?’

‘Well, in the last nine months alone, I’m …’ Lazenby checked himself. It couldn’t be wise revealing too much about his operation. But then again, if he wanted to win their trust and at the same time impress on them that he’d be a serious asset … ‘In the last nine months, I’m two hundred-thousand net.’

‘And you’ll be looking at … what?’ the stranger said. ‘Ten per cent?’

‘Erm, no.’ Lazenby had to chuckle. ‘I like to earn in a way that’s commensurate with the risk I’m taking. I’ll take twenty-five, and that’s being generous. That’s out of respect for your status.’

‘Twenty-five eh?’ The stranger pondered this.

‘And of course, it depends on the quality of the product you’re pushing. I mean, I deal with discerning people. They smell chalk or talcum powder, it’ll be no more dice from them and no more dice from me.’

‘Everyday Charlie and his discerning customer-base, eh? I’ll have to bear that in mind.’

Lazenby glanced over his shoulder before leaning even closer. ‘What do you say? I was hoping to meet you guys anyway, at some point, so we could square this very deal.’

The man eyed him, for the first time closely; it was slightly disconcerting – there was steel in that gaze. ‘You want in, basically?’

‘Sure I do.’

‘Into what, though?’

‘The Crew. What else are we talking about?’

‘There’s no such thing as the Crew. Least, I’ve never heard of them.’

Lazenby sat back exasperated. ‘Listen mate …’ He knew he shouldn’t do it, but he couldn’t really control the snap in his voice. He needed to advise them that he was serious about his business. ‘There’s something you need to know. I’m not Mickey Mouse, all right …’

‘No, you’re Everyday Charlie.’

Frustrated that they were still playing this silly game, Lazenby grabbed his briefcase. ‘When you find out who the Crew are, and more importantly, where they are, let’s talk again.’

‘I’ve got another deal for you,’ the man said.

Lazenby stayed in his seat. ‘I can do twenty per cent, but that’s got to be it. That’s as far down as I’ll go.’

‘Let’s stop talking figures, and focus on responsibilities.’

Lazenby shrugged.

‘Because, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.’ The man took another sip of G&T – in ludicrously genteel fashion; he even raised his little finger. ‘You see … I don’t have any product for you to sell. That’s not my line at all.’

‘So why are we having this conversation?’

‘We’re having this conversation because, like I say, I think you seem like a decent, straight-to-the-point kind of fella, and in addition, you’ve got this ingenuity thing going on. You’re someone who deserves a bit of a heads-up.’

‘To what?’

‘Well, not to how much you’re going to earn.’ The guy treated Lazenby to that steely gaze again, now coupled with a wire-thin smile. ‘But to how much it’s going to cost you.’

‘Ahhh …’ It was several moments before Lazenby was able to work enough saliva into his mouth to reply properly. ‘You’re a tax collector, is that it?’

‘No.’ Though the man’s smile broadened, it still didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’m the tax collector.’

‘You’re Frank McCracken.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Don’t they call you “the Shakedown”?’

To a degree, Lazenby was honoured, and not a little proud of himself, to have attracted the personal attention, not just of a senior lieutenant in the Crew, but the lieutenant whose main purpose it was to get the syndicate its cut from all those criminal enterprises in the Northwest of England that weren’t actually their own. But he couldn’t deny that he was unnerved too; his hands now shook, their palms moist. The approach had been gentlemanly enough, but Lazenby wasn’t deceived. He’d heard some bone-chilling tales.

‘So, let me see,’ he said, biting down on his fear – this was only going to end one way, so the best he could do now was try to affect some kind of damage limitation. ‘I’ve got to source my own product, pay the advance on it, arrange importation, storage, security, distribution, delivery … with no input from you whatsoever, and you still get paid? Is that correct?’

The man who had to be Frank McCracken sat back. ‘You make it sound like you don’t win.’

‘It depends how much.’

McCracken made a show of thinking this through – for about two seconds. ‘I reckon sixty/forty’s a fair split, to be honest.’

‘Sixty/forty?’ It could have been worse, Lazenby supposed.

‘In our favour, of course.’

‘In your favour …?’

‘You sound doubtful, which I suppose is understandable.’ McCracken thought it through, again. ‘So, let’s make it seventy/thirty. Until we get to know each other better. Oh, and we’ll take our first payment from the two hundred-thou you’ve pulled in so far this year.’

‘This … this …’ Lazenby struggled to suppress his helpless rage. ‘This always the way you do business?’

‘Not at all. We’d normally be having this conversation out back. But out of respect for your status, I thought we’d do it differently today.’

‘And I suppose if I say “no”, those gloves will come off, will they?’

McCracken shrugged. ‘No rush for that. But anything can happen.’

‘I could’ve been a good friend to you.’

‘You still will be, I’m sure.’

‘You reckon?’

‘You live off Mulberry Crescent, don’t you? Nice part of Crowley, that.’

Lazenby didn’t suppose he should be surprised that they knew where he lived. He said nothing, however, neither confirming nor denying it.

‘Not as nice as Carrwood in Altrincham, mind you,’ the gangster added. ‘Or Bromley Cross in Bolton, or Worsley in Salford, or Ellesmere Park, or Hale, or Timperley …’

Neither, Lazenby supposed, should he be surprised that they knew his main sales areas.

‘Nice places,’ McCracken mused. ‘Tree-lined streets, green lawns at the front of every house, couple of cars on each drive.’ Suddenly, there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Be a real shame if things changed. You know, if the yobbos turned up … and the crackheads, and the gangbangers, and the boy-racers. Looking to party every night up and down those quiet streets. The residents would call the fuzz of course. Probably again and again. I mean, they’re not used to that kind of disorderly conduct. But is that really what you want, Joe?’

‘And let me guess … if I pay my taxes, none of that happens?’

McCracken finished his drink and stood up. ‘There are no guarantees in this line of work. But if I was you, I’d hedge my bets. I mean, you may be a refined kind of guy, you may live in a detached house and mix with culturally correct people, but I reckon you’re a gambler too. I’m sure you know a safe option when you see one.’

He edged around the table, to leave.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Lazenby said.

‘No, you won’t.’ McCracken backed towards the cocktail lounge door, still smiling. ‘You’re not that stupid.’