Authors: George McCartney
'By the way, Danny, did you manage to sell that iPhone back to the owner, like I told you?'
‘Well there’s bad news and good news, da,’ said Fazzo with a smirk.
‘Stop fucking around and answer me,’ growled Duff senior.
‘Okay, sorry. The bad news is that I only got three hundred for the iPhone.’
‘And what’s the good news?’
‘Producing the phone from the back pocket of his jeans with a flourish, Fazzo said,
‘dah dah
… the good news is I’ve still got it. The first name on that contact list you gave me was some stupid bitch called Annie and, when I phoned her, she insisted on haggling over the price. That really pissed me off big time so, when I got to the bus station for the handover, I took the dough and then shoved her on her arse and legged it with the iPhone. Jody was waiting outside on his bike and we were gone before she knew what was happening. It was dead simple and, before you ask, we had our helmets on and Jody had false plates on the bike. So, no worries. Good idea, eh?’
‘It was, but I’ve got a much better idea, Danny. You keep the iPhone and I’ll take the three hundred.’
‘But da … that’s no fair.’
‘No buts, short arse. Hand over the money … now.’
Fazzo did as instructed and shuffled off to his room, cursing angrily under his breath.
Although a relatively small time player, in terms of the Glasgow drug scene, Tommy Duff had ambitious, some would say delusional, expansion plans and was always on the lookout for ways in which he could apply modern business methods to benefit his modest criminal enterprise. To this end he was an avid listener to
The Bottom Line
, on BBC Radio 4, where prominent business men and women regularly share pearls of wisdom for the benefit of lesser mortals. However, on this particular day, sitting in his home office staring at the screen of his laptop with a worried frown, Tommy had more pressing matters on his mind.
'We've got a problem, Danny,' he shouted. 'You need to come here right now and see this.'
Bouncing back into the small room, his son looked expectantly over his father’s shoulder and said, 'great da, is it some good porn?'
'No, it's a spreadsheet, you idiot. Take a look at it and tell me what you see.'
'Dunno. It's just a mess of stupid numbers and stuff,' said Danny, quickly confirming that spreadsheet analysis was not really his thing.
Glaring at his son, Duff senior counted to ten and then continued, 'what the stupid numbers say is that we've not been selling nearly enough hash in the last two quarters. And see this graph here? It clearly shows there's a definite downward trend in our income stream. All our overheads are the same as before, but our bottom line is getting squeezed hard. You'd think that with the economy picking up, and people having a bit more cash in their pockets, our sales figures would be picking up as well. But they're not, Danny. You're in charge of the retail division and this situation isn't sustainable. Something has to be done about it.'
Anticipating harsh words and possibly a slap, Danny quickly replied, 'I suppose I could get out ma bed a wee bit earlier and work a bit later at night as well, if that would help, da.'
'Yeah, but it's not as simple as that. It's all about supply and demand. Like if there's too much milk being produced, then the price goes down. That's how the world economy works, son. If there's if there's too much of anything on the market, then the price comes down. You understand?'
'Not really, no.'
'Okay, let me put it this way … too much is bad, right? Our core business is the supply of illegal drugs, so ideally what we want is a slight under supply of product in the market place, because that keeps demand for drugs high. And so, as night follows day, if demand for illegal drugs is high, what else must be high? Come on, work with me here, Danny.'
'The punters?'
'Yes, of course the fucking punters get high, that's the whole point, dip stick. But what else?'
'Aw right, you mean prices. Sorry da.'
'Give that man a great big spliff, but for fuck's sake don't light it yet. Because if demand is kept high, then prices will stay high. Getting that balance just right is the key to long-term success in any business. So, in this competitive retail landscape, the question is, how do we keep demand
and
prices high?'
'Dunno,' said Fazzo, rapidly losing the will to live.
'How can I make this really, really simple for you? Okay, what does the big Tesco supermarket up the road do, if they want you to buy more Weetabix?'
'It disnae matter what they do, I don't like Weetabix. It's like eating fuckin' soggy chipboard.'
'Okay, let me put it this way, how do the shops try and get you to buy more of anything?'
'Aw right … ah get it. You mean like special offers?'
'That's right. We have to give our customers an incentive to buy their hash from us, instead of from the competition.'
'So, like, does that mean we’ll have to start giving the punters Clubcard points along with their dope, and maybe some money off a tank of petrol as well?'
'Not quite, son. We need a two-pronged strategy tailored to our individual circumstances.'
'What?'
'Sorry, first we’ll reduce prices in the short term, to stimulate demand and claw back our lost market share. Second, we need to try and choke off some of the over-supply caused by all of the bloody amateurs, who are growing weed at home and then selling what they don't use. In case you don’t know, a lot of them have a nice little business going. They start out small with two or three cannabis plants, growing for their own consumption. Then they find out that it's simple to grow the stuff and it's not much more difficult to gear things up to twenty or thirty plants, producing significant quantities of good quality weed. Then they can make serious cash selling to friends. And I'm pretty sure
that's
what's caused our problems over the last six months, because the amateur home growers are having a serious impact on our business.'
'So do we need to take some of them out as an example to the rest?' said Fazzo, suddenly showing interest.
Ignoring his son's bloodthirsty instincts, Tommy continued, 'there was an interesting bit on the radio about it at the weekend. They reckon that there are up to half a million people in the UK growing cannabis at home. Even some established gangs are switching from dealing hard drugs to cannabis, because of the more lenient jail sentences if they get caught. In some areas they know they won't be jailed, if they're caught growing fewer than ten plants in a single house. That doesn't sound much but, even if you've only got nine plants, that's still enough to make around forty grand a year, which is pretty good money.'
Fazzo yawned and scratched his balls, then started to surreptitiously check his text messages, as his father continued. 'It's incredible, because they reckon 80 per cent of the weed smoked in the UK is now produced here. I support that trend one hundred per cent, by the way. Buy British every time, I say.'
'So what's the plan, da?'
'Patience, I'm not finished yet. Look at it this way, if you're hard up and can't get a decent job, well you can maybe still scrape together three hundred quid to buy a hydroponics starter kit. That includes a tent for growing, a heating light and some kind of basic ventilation system. Then do a quick Google search for a cannabis seeds supplier, and that's all it takes. Everything you need will be couriered to your door in a couple of days and, bingo, you're in business. It makes sense for a lot of people.'
Fazzo finished checking his phone and then began enthusiastically picking the upper cavities of his nose, until a stern look from his father forced him to sit still and pay attention.
'Of course, you have to be careful. The nosy neighbours usually don't miss much and, if they see any blacked-out windows with condensation constantly running down inside, or notice a peculiar sweet smell hanging around in the street, then you're in trouble. If they've nothing better to do, the police sometimes drive around at night with thermal imaging cameras, trying to spot houses with a higher than normal heat signature. Although most of these problems can be overcome, if you keep the operation small scale and use the loft space.'
'Sneaky bastards. So that's how the polis find the weed growers, but how will
we
do it?'
'Good question. We’ll find them by using cutting edge technology, son. I've just ordered one of the latest drones off eBay, for fifteen hundred quid. This little baby here on the screen has an HD camera, with full thermal imaging capability and can fly up to five hundred feet, then stay in the air for twenty minutes on a fully charged battery. The controller is exactly the same kind of gizmo you use for your Xbox, and the drone can beam pictures straight back to a smartphone or laptop. I've often wondered what I was going to do with you, Danny, but this is your opportunity to shine. All the thousands of hours you've spent in your bedroom, playing stupid computer games, haven't been wasted after all, because you're going to be my chief drone pilot. Any questions?'
'Yeah, that's great. But wait a minute … these drone things don’t have x-ray vision, do they? I mean ye can’t see through roofs, so how does that help us?'
'Good question. If it's winter and there's been a hard frost, or snow, we just fly the drone around the scheme looking for houses where all the frost has been melted off the roof. Unless loads of insulation is used on the underside of the roof timbers, there's nowhere to hide from a drone. So, if it's as cold as a witch’s tit outside and the roof is clear, then there must be a lot of heat being generated inside the loft. To me that's like a big flashing neon sign hanging above the front door, saying cannabis is grown in here. The rest of the year we’ll simply fly with the thermal imaging camera permanently switched on, looking for hot spots that show up as bright red. They shouldn't be hard to spot, Danny, but remember it isn't just houses that we're on the lookout for. Growers could be using garden sheds, garages, empty shops or any kind of outhouse as well. Doesn't matter, it's the same deal.'
'Okay, what happens after I find them?’
'Right, that's where the low-tech, old-school bit comes in. I go round to see the grower, with a couple of the boys, to have a wee chat about how they see their future career development prospects. I'm a reasonable man as you know, Danny, and if they agree to get with the programme, I'm prepared to offer them a fair price for all the weed they can grow. In addition, I'm offering our full protection and customer support.'
'Yeah, but what if they don’t want our protection?'
'Well it's their choice. But that wouldn't be a smart move, at all.'
'Great … is that when I go round with ma crew and give them a good doin'?'
'No. That's the beauty of my plan, because
we
don't need to resort to violence. Because, like any concerned citizen, I can simply pick up the phone, dial the Crimestoppers number and report anyone who is involved in the production and sale of illegal drugs to the public. From what I've read, if you've only got two or three plants for your own use, then it's not a big deal for the cops and you might get off with a warning. But if you're growing thirty or more plants, that's a whole different ball game. Then you're looking at a big fine, or maybe even some jail time for a repeat offender. At the very least the cops will take away all of the plants and equipment, so a major hassle and expense. I think most of them will see sense and sign up.'
'That is
so
cool, da. If they don't sign up, you'll grass them up. Get it,
grass
them up?' said Danny with a snigger.
'Aye, very good. But the thing is, we win either way. The growers either agree to hand over their crop of weed, or the cops will pay good money for guaranteed information on the people who are growing locally. Then all they need to do is turn up to a list of addresses we give them, kick the doors in, and it's all there for them on a plate. A slam dunk drug bust. So the cops look good without breaking sweat, the lazy bastards.'
'Right, so we put the growers who won't co-operate out of business
and
get paid by the cops for doing it. Pure genius dad.'
'I thought so, son,' said Tommy modestly. 'I've looked at it from almost every angle, but I've come to the conclusion that there's almost no downside, if we switch to this business model.'
'Last question, da. You know how you said before that I was to be the chief drone pilot?'
'Yeah, what about it?'
'Does that mean I'll get a fancy uniform and a hat? And will I be able to shag loads of hot air stewardesses?'
'Only in your dreams, son.'
That night Fazzo went to bed stone cold sober and, as a result, slept fitfully. But when he got up at half-past seven the next morning, the pay-off was that his head was clear and his mouth, for the first time since he’d left primary school, didn't taste like the bottom of a parrot's cage. His father was suitably impressed by this bright-eyed, bushy-tailed early start and had even nodded and said, 'morning son' instead of delivering the usual tirade of abuse. He'd then gone on to outline his bold vision of the future for the Duff criminal empire.
'Trust me, this is a big day for the Duff family,' said Tommy. 'We're absolute pioneers on this one, son. Right at the cutting edge of technology and miles ahead of the pack, due to a combination of strategic thinking and forward planning. Think about it, this time next year we could be gearing up to make hash deliveries to every scheme in Glasgow, using a fleet of drones just like this one. It's obvious, isn't it? If Amazon is considering going down this route, why not Tommy Duff? As my right-hand man, you’ll be heavily involved in organising drone deliveries and managing retails sales, so you'll need to clean up your act and get your head round multitasking.'
This was, to say the least, a major challenge for Fazzo because, up until that point in his life, even doing one thing at a time without messing up had proved almost impossible. It followed that multitasking of any kind wasn't really his forte. Unless, that is, you consider chugging from a bottle of Buckfast, while sharing a joint, or talking dirty on a sex chat line while having a leisurely wank, as multitasking.
The high-tech quadcopter drone had just been delivered by courier and Fazzo was itching to get his hands on the device and put it through its paces, out in the back garden. However, his father, Tommy, insisted that everything was to be done properly. He thoroughly read the instruction booklet, put the small lithium polymer battery pack on charge and then carefully assembled the high-tech device, so that he could fully brief his son before the first test flight. This, he decreed, would take place in the nearby public park, where there was sufficient open space for a rookie drone pilot to learn the ropes in safety.
'Okay, now pin back your lugs and pay attention. Reading between the lines in the instruction manual, the company claims that almost any idiot who regularly plays computer games can fly this little baby. I'm going to test that bold claim to the limit by handing it over to
you
for our first test flight. Remember I've spent a grand and a half on this thing, including spare parts and a couple of extra batteries, so be careful with it, right? Keep it down low to start with and don't go showing off, or trying any kind of daft shit, until you get the hang of it. Oh, and for fuck's sake, don't fly it out over the pond in the park, okay?'
'Yeah, no worries da,’ said Fazzo confidently. I've just watched a YouTube video that shows how it's done. The controller looks exactly the same as the one for my Xbox, so it should be a total doddle. Trust me, I can handle this baby with ma eyes shut.'
'Aye,
that's
what I'm worrying about. Look there's absolutely no pressure on you, son. But remember, if you do something stupid and come back here without the drone, I will chop you up into little bits and feed you to the fuckin' dog. Understood?'
'Yes, da. Got it,' said Fazzo, with a nervous sidelong glance at Tyson, the pit bull, which licked its lips and fixed him with a cold unblinking stare.
'Oh, and remember to phone me as soon as you've got it flying and I'll come straight over to the park for a quick demo.'
'Roger and out,' said Fazzo, slipping seamlessly into drone pilot mode. However, just as was about to leave home for the park, he checked his mobile and was horrified to see that the battery was nearly dead. He cursed to himself, dreading the thought of telling his father that the test flight would have to be postponed. Then he remembered the stolen iPhone, lying on the bedside table in his room. It had been switched off for several days, so the battery should still be good. He'd actually been scared to use the phone, after all of his father’s dire warnings about Apple’s new inbuilt security measures. Attempts to sell it locally for a decent price had, so far, proved unsuccessful. So all things considered the windfall iPhone had been a major disappointment, and what
really
pissed Fazzo off was his father hoovering up the three hundred pounds he'd stolen from the blonde bitch at the bus station. But, assuming the device still hadn't been remotely disabled by the owner, it might actually prove to be of some use after all. What harm would it do to switch it on for ten minutes in the middle of a park, for the drone trial? Anyway, it was common knowledge that the Glasgow cops couldn't be arsed investigating mobile phone crime. So no worries Fazzo, go for it.
He had a definite spring in his step as made his way towards the park, with Tyson trailing watchfully several yards behind. For the first time in his life, he'd taken one his father's lectures to heart and, even if he was being denied a cool pilot's uniform, he was super excited by the idea of being in charge of the family’s drone operations. He resolved to do better and, specifically, to sell more hash and generally clean up his act. Easy to say, but much harder to put into practice, with the many and varied illicit pleasures of the Gargummock scheme available to a young man with money in his pocket.