Two Faced. Garry Bushell
Disclaimer
The views and sexual mores of the fictional character Harry Tyler do not necessarily reflect those of the author.
August 22, 1986. A hot and lazy Friday; Chris de Burgh’s ‘The Lady In Red’ oozed out of the radio like musical slime for only the seventh time that morning, but Ronnie Clavin wasn’t listening. His head buried in the Sun, Ronnie was lost in a private fantasy involving Suzanne Mizzi’s breasts and the back seat of the Ford Sierra he was planning to crush as soon as he’d finished his bacon roll. When the big man came in, Ronnie looked up. He had to. He hadn’t heard him arrive but Goliath was blocking out the light. He must have been six-foot-five and so wide he’d had to turn sideways to fit through the door of Ron’s ramshackle office. Ronnie’s young assistant tensed. He was used to the constant stream of underworld faces at Ronnie’s scrapyard, from shadowy ne’er-do-wells – the ducking, diving plankton – to sharks whose sharp suits had been paid for in buckets of blood, bird and battered boat races. But he had never seen anyone as physically awesome as this dishevelled man mountain.
The newcomer was a Hell’s Angel. His arms were huge, like inflated truck tyres, and so heavily tattooed it was impossible to make out a single square inch of unmolested flesh. He wore dirty denims and a stained Motörhead T-shirt under a sleeveless leather jacket. An iron cross dangled beneath the ‘Cut Here’ inscription around his neck, which was noticeably wider than his ears.
The Angel’s face was scarred and weather-beaten; his nose was broken, his features Cro-Magnon. The beard could have been on loan from Hagar the Horrible.
This had to mean trouble.
‘You dirty no-good cowson,’ Ronnie snarled with menace. He rose swiftly and stepped over his sleeping mutt to face the barbarian intruder. His assistant’s hand shot down to the monkey wrench at his feet.
‘Potman!’ Ronnie exclaimed, grinning widely. ‘Oo loves ya, baby?’
The two men embraced.
‘You ain’t got no prettier, Ronald,’ the Angel rasped.
‘Is Noodles not with you today, son?’
‘No, mate,’ Potman replied. ‘It was such a nice day, Mummy let me catch the bus here on me tod.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ said a smaller, frowning rat-faced man in US army surplus clothing as he stepped out from behind his colossal companion and shook Ronnie’s hand. He was as thin as fuse wire and just as resilient.
‘Delighted to press flesh as always, Ronaldo,’ the rodent-like Noodles said, the wrinkles momentarily leaving his brow. ‘And who’s this?’
He poked a silver-ringed, fag-stained finger at Ronnie’s sidekick.
The younger man stood up and proffered a hand. ‘I was going to introduce meself,’ he said with a grin. ‘But yer boyfriend looks like the jealous type.’
For a moment there was silence. The assistant’s smile began to freeze. Had he misjudged the situation? A strong hand settled on his shoulder. ‘This is Harry,’ said Ronnie, almost gleaming with paternal pride. ‘Harry Tyler. He’s one of yer own.’
Potman grabbed Harry in a headlock and pulled him close. ‘You’ll do, Harry,’ he said, shaking with laughter. ‘You’ve got some balls, son.’
Harry grinned. He didn’t know the half of it.
‘Right H, put the kettle on,’ Ronnie commanded. ‘No, on second thoughts sling us over the Scotch, there’s a good chap.’
‘How’s the missus, Ron?’ asked Potman.
‘Not good,’ replied Ronnie. ‘She’s got hormonal problems’ – he waited a beat – ‘I can’t stop the whore moaning.’
‘They’re all the fucking same, mate,’ Potman grunted.
‘Ain’t that the truth? Here, did I tell you about the funny old magic dressing table that my old woman’s bought? Yeah, she picked it up from a flea market over in Greenwich and it keeps giving her winners. Marlene stands in front of it of a morning, she reads out a race meeting and the table jumps up and down. If it jumps five times, she backs the Number Five nag and they keep coming in. Well, the other day, she’s out and I ask the table how much dosh she’s got tucked away. Stone me, that table jumps up and down twenty thousand times. So I says: how did she get that much? And with that the legs fall open and the drawers shoot off.’
The others roared as Ronnie poured.
‘As amusifying as ever,’ said Noodles in his endearingly mangled deadpan way. ‘But I must stop you for a moment, friend. This isn’t just a social visit.’
‘No,’ growled Potman. ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem.’
There was a squeal of tyres outside as a car jerked to a halt. Potman gazed through the office window. ‘And from the look of it, so have you, son.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Ronnie.
‘Well, put it this way, it’s a fair bet to say they ain’t the Fun Boy Three.’
They left the office to face the three heavy-set men who had climbed out of the showroom-new, royal blue Daimler Sovereign 4.2.
‘The Nelsons,’ said Ronnie under his breath.
‘Who?’ whispered Harry, playing dumb – he knew the names and reputations of the North London crime family through the underworld grapevine. They weren’t First Division, but they were right up there at the top of Division Two fighting for promotion. Old Man Nelson himself, known as Buck, was ten feet away from him. He wore a Chester Barrie suit, Gucci shoes and a Cartier watch; and he was flanked by two of his six sons – David and Georgie, both bull-necked and shaven-headed. The real bastard, Nicky, must have taken the day off for knuckle-dragging practice.
‘Get in the car, Ronnie,’ Buck commanded. ‘We’ve got business to settle.’
‘Fuck that,’ said Ronnie, who turned and began to desperately clamber away over a mountain of scrap.
David and Georgie Nelson started to follow him. Potman blocked their way. Georgie pulled a cosh out of his suit jacket; Noodles produced a .45 from his army greens.
‘Checkmate,’ he said, taking a puff of the Jamaican