The Guv'nor (10 page)

All our faces were as long as donkey's dangelers and Fred kept moaning over and over again, ‘They said he was on his own … they said he was on his own. No family, no dog, not even a fucking budgie. They swore it.' I don't know who ‘they' were, but they deserved straightening – what a cock-up.

We were just pulling out of St Leonard's, heading for the London Road, when Fred said, ‘Pull up at that off-licence and I'll get some fags and some crisps.' In he went and we sat there talking about him while he was gone. Then he came out and he opened the door, shouting, ‘Go, go, go,' like that geezer in
The Sweeney
. Our driver, who knew Brands Hatch racetrack like the back of his hand, which was why he was on the job, took off like a rocket – never even asked why. We were in a Triumph Stag, a tasty motor in those days, and it went like the clappers. When us in the back scraped ourselves off the rear window, I said, ‘Don't tell me, Fred, you didn't pay for the fags.' He gave a fucking great laugh and said, ‘No, I never, and I creamed the place while I was there.' As he said that he flung a load of notes over the back into our laps.

Jesus Christ. We were doing 100 mph up this road, that silly old prat was laughing his head off, and we were covered in pound notes. I said, ‘Fred, you've done a wrong ‘un.' He looked round and said, ‘What's up, Len?' I shoved his hat over his eyes and said: ‘You forgot the crisps.'

We cut the money up and got a hundred and forty quid each. I had to mark Fred's card, though. I put him straight. ‘Fred, you are a lovely man, but that stunt you pulled back there could've got us a ten stretch and all for fucking pennies. If there's a next time, do me a favour and leave me out, there's a pal.'

If you were working in the early Seventies you might think that was a nice little earner for a day's driving about, especially as most blokes didn't take that home in a fortnight. But work it out – if we'd been nicked our wages would've added up to something like thirty pence a week while we were away.

I never told Val what I was up to that day. She'd stopped asking how I was bringing the housekeeping in. She knew but she didn't want me to spell it out.

One of the same blokes on that job got in touch a bit later. He said, ‘Lenny, we've nicked a load of penguins and we need a hand to shift them.'

I said, ‘Leave it out, what do I know about animals.'

He said, ‘No, the chocolate kind.'

‘Just joking, why don't you bring them round then. I love them. I'll eat the lot.'

‘Lenny, pal,' he said, ‘even you couldn't manage this lot. Meet me in the Green Man.'

So him, his brother and me all shot down to Hertfordshire where he had the stuff hidden up in a barn on this famous actor's property. He's dead now but I'll leave his name out because his kids are all in the film game. This barn was like an aircraft hangar, and inside was the biggest container lorry I have ever seen in my life. It must have been a hundred feet long and it was packed solid with boxes and boxes of these biscuits. What we had got to do was transfer that load into two other lorries and deliver them to a big café on the A10.

We set to. At first, we were laughing and fucking about and talking about what we'd spend the money on. But hours after, when I had eaten two boxes of those bastards, I was feeling a bit unwell, and it looked like we hadn't started yet. I said to my mate, ‘I wish the law would hurry up and give us a raid because I'm absolutely bolloxed.' We didn't finish until early next morning and I don't remember the delivery. I went out like a light as soon as we pulled away from the farm. Cash was on the nail and we cut up eight grand between us. Well worth the graft. Next time you read about a little tickle like that, think about the poor sods who've sweated their cobs off – it's not all roses.

One night I was getting dressed to go out on a job with some of the chaps. I pulled on a black roll-neck and all of a sudden I couldn't breathe. My face went bright red and I said to Val, ‘'Ere, babe, this jumper don't half seem tight.'

She gave me one of her looks. ‘I ain't surprised, Len, you got your head through the fucking sleeve.' It was a good job she told me, or I might have choked to death before I got to work.

I was in The Fox in Kingsland Road one day when Fred Morris, a well-known bloke in the demolition game, gave me a pull. He said, ‘Business is good, but I'm getting loads of aggravation from plastic gangsters trying it on. ‘Specially this wanker, with a new East London name behind him, that wants his bricks and stuff for fuck-all, or else.'

I said, ‘Don't worry, Fred, if you see me right I'll sort it. When's he due?' He told me he thought the geezer was going to show the next morning. I said, ‘I'll be there.'

Next morning, I tucked myself in the caravan they used as an office and I sat drinking coffee, having a smoke and keeping an eye on the gates.

A tipper lorry pulled in and this big fella jumped down, all boots and no fucking brains. I watched him as he went over to Fred. They started arguing and Fred got poked in the chest by this mug's finger. They came over to the caravan and Fred said to him, ‘My partner wants a word.'

As he put one foot on the metal steps I've chinned him. Down he went like a bag of shit. But I picked him up and did him again; four of them and he's unconscious. Once I start I don't stop. He had blood coming out of his ears and nose, and his forehead was split open. I was going to give him some more but Fred grabbed my shirt and pulled me back. ‘Enough, Len, enough, don't kill him.' So to get rid of some steam, I picked up a lump of concrete and flung it through the windscreen of his lorry. We brought him round, slung him in the back of the tipper, and parked him two streets away. Never saw him again.

There was a big notice at the front of the compound saying ‘Beware of Guard Dogs'. Some prat painted out guard dogs and wrote in ‘Lenny'. Gave us all a laugh.

Fred squared me up nicely for that bit of business. Then he come up with, ‘How about a hundred notes a week to keep an eye on the place?'

‘Lovely,' I said. So I was on a retainer. A few hard nuts tried it on, but I soon saw them off. Word must have got around and it went nice and quiet. That started Fred thinking he was throwing his money
away, so my £100 suddenly becomes £50. I didn't draw up every week. I used to let it run up, so when I was expecting to pick up 600 notes, I got 300. No problem, I kept my mouth shut. I had a quick think. Do I belt him or box clever? I went for the last one.

A couple of days before, I'd stuck my nose in one of his warehouses and clocked about six ton of copper. Once he rumped me, that made my mind up. So I phoned up a pal of mine who was in the scrap game, Ronnie Norris, and told him to bring his big lorry and meet me at the yard. He knew where to go because a while before I'd got him some sub-contract work for Fred cutting up miles of double-skinned pipes all lagged with asbestos. I'll tell you more about that in a bit.

We cut the padlock off the gates and drove in. We did the same in the warehouse, backed in and loaded up. It was two o'clock and they started work at six-thirty, so we sweated our nuts off. We got away just before six, parked up in Ron's yard, and I went home to bed. At half-eight, there was a bang on the door. It was Fred with two foremen.

I said, ‘What the fuck do you want? You've got me out of bed.'

He was doing his nut. ‘What do I want? You've nicked all my gear.'

It wasn't obvious, was it? I was still black from all that copper that I hadn't had the strength to wash off. So I said, ‘OK, Fred, you're right. I have nicked all your gear and I'm keeping it, so piss off.'

He's pleading now. ‘It's got to go back.'

I'm getting wound up. ‘I've told you, fuck off. You've taken the piss out of me with the wages and, anyway, me and Ron worked all night and it was bloody hard work. So you can fight me or you can call the law.' Give him his due, Fred was one of your own. The law was out of the question and he wasn't going to take me on. I noticed the two foremen had moved down to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Len, please take it back and I'll sort it.'

‘Sort it now,' I said. So he pulled out a wedge of notes as thick as a Bible, peeled off a grand, and said, ‘What a fucking liberty. I'm buying my own stuff back.'

We never fell out and I've done favours since, but only when he's in desperate shit. He doesn't seem to like me going near the yard, though.

I cut up the wedge with Ronnie and he did better out of it than me because I was already owed £300 from Fred. It was only money, though, and if I knew then what was to happen I'd have given him the lot.

A couple of years later, when I was making a name fighting, I got a call from his wife Pat. She said, ‘Lenny, Ron's bad in hospital and he wants to see you.' I shot up there straight away and when I saw him I could hardly talk for a bit because that big man had turned into a seven-stone skeleton. His eyes filled up when he saw me.

‘Len, mate, I'm done for, I'm dying.'

I said, ‘Shut up, you'll be up and about in a couple of weeks,' and I squared up to him. He clenched up his bony fingers into a fist and tried his best to shape up to me, but he couldn't even raise his arms.

I gave my nose a good blow, sat him up, and cuddled him. And I thought to myself, ‘Please, God, I hope it wasn't that asbestos job that done in his lungs with cancer.'

I said, ‘I want you ringside when I fight Roy Shaw, and when I've beat him I'm taking you out for a steak dinner. Fatten you up a bit.'

He stroked my hand, he didn't have the strength to pat it, and he said, ‘You'll murder Shaw, Len, but don't bank on the steak dinner.'

A week before I took on Roy Shaw, he died in his sleep. He was 45. My Val loved him, and he was a great pal. God bless you, Ronnie. We still miss you.

After about two minutes I've done all the money from the scrap copper and I'm looking around for something to fill the pot up again. I don't know where money went in those days, though you've got to remember that when somebody tells you they've picked up a grand here, two grand there, for a few hours' work, that might have been the first tickle for a month. Anyway, I've blown my bit of dough, Val wants a new coat, and the kids are looking for new shoes again.

I was in the Widows, a little drinker in Bethnal Green just behind the Blind Beggar, when a couple of Rastas walked in. All hair, woolly hats about two foot high, beads, the lot. They had a quick word with the governor, then they looked round at me. I gave them a bit of a growl in case they were thinking of starting something, but they came over anyway. We got all that ‘Hey, man, how they hanging?' crap out of the way and the biggest one said, ‘Some people we know need a minder for a few hours and the word is you're a very tough man with your fists.'

‘You look big enough to do your own heavy stuff,' I said.

He gave a shrug. ‘I agree, man, but I don't do that sort of work. I'm in business, I do other kinds of things.'

I was polite but I told them I was too busy what with this and that, so they let it go. Don't get me wrong – I'm no racist, in fact loads of my pals are black fellas and they're as good as gold, but there was
something funny about these two. Couldn't put my finger on it, but when I get a gut feeling, I go with it.

Don't forget, when I get offers to work, it's on the other side of the fence. It's not decorate a couple of rooms, bang a few nails in, or taxi someone to the airport. It's something heavy with a fair bit of aggravation. So I never, ever take chances.

As I said, I turned them down and forgot all about it. I could have done with the work, but you can't be too careful. A couple of days later, I was in a different pub when this pikey-looking geezer introduced himself, threw up a couple of names, and offered me a bit of work. These pikeys aren't proper gypsies, though they like to think they are, but most of them are straight enough to deal with so I didn't get a sense that it might be a bit iffy. There was no reason why I should – I got these offers all the time. He seemed sound enough, what with the names and everything, so I heard him out. Three grand in cash if I watch his backside while he does a deal with a little South London firm to buy a load of bearer bonds. Straightforward, so we set it up for the coming Friday.

The meet was to be near the Dartford Tunnel, well out of the way of any nosey bastards. It's different now, what with the motorway and bridge, but then it was like a trip out into the country, and the waste ground where we were going to meet is now built over with a shopping centre on about five acres.

I met this pikey, Bill, not far from where we were going, got in his motor, drove the rest of the way, and parked up. Twenty minutes later a big Ford Executive pulled in and flashed its lights. Out we got. Bill was holding a bag of money. ‘Hold back a bit,' he says, ‘but if you see it looks a bit iffy, get in quick, and put them down.' Getting out of the other motor were two blokes, the same set up as us, one doing the deal and one minding. Usual stuff.

Bill handed over his parcel and as he put his hand up for the other package – flash, bang, and he's gone down. As I jumped forward and grabbed the gun before it was pulled round on me, the other bloke jumped in the motor and started it up. I only managed to get one belt in before the geezer I took the gun from scrambled up from the ground, dived in the car, and it took off.

I flung the gun at the motor and ran over to Bill. He was screaming and crying and holding his side. Now I was raving mad. I didn't give a bollocks about the deal, it was nothing to do with me, but this slag had nearly got me killed. I got hold of him and dived down his pockets.

He had a wallet stuffed with notes, so I took the lot. I gave him the choice; fill me in on what had just gone down or stay there and bleed to death. It turned out he was fronting for the Rastas and it was a drugs deal, not bearer bonds. I'd guessed as much – I had taken on a straightforward minding job with good heart and this shit's gone down. I never can tell what I'm getting into.