The Guv'nor (21 page)

I had put on about three stone since he saw me last, so he went a bit pale. ‘No, mate, no, I don't want to fight you, and that was a joke about you being a nutter.'

I knew it was, I was just getting him going.

‘I'm a bit down on my luck, Len. I was wondering if you could fix me up with a bit of work.'

I thought, ‘Fuck me, another one having a problem making a living.' But if somebody's polite, I don't mind looking out for them, so I got him fixed up with a job on the door.

Everything was lovely for a bit. There wasn't much aggro and the little bit there was he handled nicely. No punch-ups, just diplomatic. Like all the places I look after, on Saturday nights I like to have the door covered two-handed. So on one particular night I had Danny with another doorman called Basil. He's a fella who had been
minding for about 15 years and knew the game. I was upstairs and I had just got myself a nice lemonade and a coffee, when I got a call that there was trouble at the door. I had just got down to the door in time to see my two blokes get plunged by this pair of drunken slags. Down they went and these drunks are standing over them waving knives about.

I did one with a right and the other with a left, and they were both spark out. I didn't hurt them any more because I was concerned about Danny and Basil lying there bleeding. I picked the knives up and dropped them in the bin, went over to Danny and pulled his shirt up. He was cut right across the stomach. He said, ‘Am I going to die, Len?'

‘No, mate,' I said, ‘you'll do. Ambulance will be here in a minute.' I went over to Basil. He's holding his stomach and he's crying and there's blood pouring through his fingers. I said, ‘Straighten yourself up, you mug … fucking crying. Macalindon's cut worse than you and he hasn't said a word. Be a man and stop showing yourself up.'

Then Old Bill arrived at the same time as the ambulance, and the four of them were carted off. I told them I didn't see anything. All I knew was that these two slags were causing a disturbance so I knocked them out. I didn't see the stabbing so I didn't know if they had done it or not. They asked me to give evidence but I said, ‘No. I've done my job without you, so you fucking well do yours and leave me out of it.'

Basil and Macalindon pulled through all right and spent a bit of time in hospital. The other two were nicked for GBH and I was asked to go to court. Five times they came round my house but I fucked them off every time. In the end, I told them if they didn't pack it in I'd get myself a brief because they were harassing me, and anyway even if I had seen anything I wouldn't go to court – that's not my game.

So they left it out and went to court without me. I don't blame Macalindon for getting up and pointing the finger because he's a straight guy. What choked me was when Basil gave evidence that got the two blokes four years each. What's the difference? I'll tell you. Basil ducks and dives, he knows the score and he's been on the other side long enough to know you don't help Old Bill. It doesn't matter that he got a little stripe across the belly, he's still a grass. He knows we've got ways of dealing with our own who step out of line.

I don't see Macalindon any more, he's better off sticking to the
straight world. As for Basil, he knows better than to show his grassing face near me. I don't want him around – he makes me sick.

An old guy I had become friends with through Alex Steen asked me to visit him at his home in Canterbury to discuss a proposition. He didn't have to ask me twice because I had bundles of respect for him, so the next day I jumped into the motor and drove down to see him.

He met me at the door of his great big house. He was wearing a dressing gown and looked like your grandad. But this 70-year-old Italian–American was a semi-retired Mafia Don. Or if you don't want to shout the words out a ‘Man of respect'. If you saw him out walking you'd want to help him across the road, and the little slags who are growing up today would probably shove him off the pavement. They wouldn't have a clue who he was or what he could have done to them by snapping his fingers.

We went in, had a bit of lunch, and then he dug out the brandy and cigars. This old geezer knew how to live. ‘Lenny, my friend,' he said, ‘I was talking to one of the family in New York; he rings me every week to keep me in touch. After business, we spoke of boxing and I told him in this country we have the toughest street fighter I have even seen. No one is a match for this Lenny McLean.'

I said, ‘Now that's a lovely gee, but you didn't ask me down here to tell me that, I know.'

He patted my knee. ‘Hold on, Lenny, there's more. My friend said that the family have a champion by the name of John McCormack, who is also unbeatable, so we talked some more and now I want you to go to New York and show him he is very wrong, but only if you agree.'

‘Agree?' I said. ‘Give me the address! I've never turned down a fight in my life.'

‘I knew you would say that. Everything is arranged, even your purse, which in sterling will give you about £14,000, plus expenses, of course.'

‘Good stuff,' I said, ‘and what are you getting out of it?'

He just tapped the side of his nose. ‘What I get is what I get,' and he laughed.

On the way out, just as I was getting in the motor, he called over, ‘Lenny, should you lose, look for a horse's head in your bed.' He had a sense of humour.

‘The horse is safe,' I said, gave him a wave, and drove off thinking about America.

A week later, we were on our way. I took a pal of mine, but I'll leave his name out because he's a high flier in the straight world now, and his clients might get a bit fidgety finding out who he's mixed with in the past. Some geezer with my name printed on a piece of card met us at Kennedy Airport and took us to a motor that I swear was as long as our street at home – it was like three joined together. We were dropped off at the Plaza, and this place even had a carpet outside. Red carpet all the way up the steps and there's an old fella hoovering away for all he's worth. In we went and everything was laid on – posh suite each, everything on the family slate – the business.

The guys we were dealing with picked us up that night and took us out for a meal. Waiters were flapping all over the place, treating us like royalty. I couldn't help wondering what my mates back in the East End would think if they could see me now. We had a nice meal, sorted the business, and arranged for a pick up the next day for the fight.

These guys run most of the business in New York. Forget the Mayor, forget the police. I'm putting away a two-pound steak with four men who are looked up to by everyone in the city. Funny though – no dark glasses, no menace. Just four businessmen. Pretend you don't see the Rolex watches, $5,000 suits and handmade shoes, and these blokes could be your own.

The next morning, my pal and me shot down to Central Park so I could have a little warm up. This was Saturday, which meant that all the gates were shut to traffic and only pedestrians were let in. And they make the most of it. I've only ever been used to Victoria Park in the East End. This place is two miles long and a mile wide, and as far as you can see it's packed with skateboarders, joggers, roller-skaters, groups doing aerobics, all working their bollocks off to get fit. I fell in behind this old girl who had to be 85, wearing a pink leotard and going like the clappers. I couldn't keep up with her. Either she was very fit or I was fucked before I even started.

Come the afternoon, I'd had a bit of a nap and was ready for the Irishman. The same motor picked us up, stretch limos they call them, and we were driven out to a big warehouse on the other side of the Bronx. It was a bit like Notting Hill, but bigger. Same faces going by, though.

The warehouse had a big sign on the front saying Bottles & Rags. I didn't see any rags, but there were millions of bottles on pallets stretching for miles. The doors were locked behind us and
the driver led us to an area right in the middle where all the others were waiting.

Who said McCormack was an Irishman? He was as black as the ace of spades. Big bastard, 6ft 8in, 24 stone, give or take a pound. He was stamping up and down and punching one clenched fist into the open palm of the other, over and over again. Our mates with the suits are there and they had some hired help to do the running about. The suits know what they are, so they were quiet, polite, and behave like gentlemen. But the help, because they're fuck all, were dressed up like spivs and gangsters and look like extras from
The Godfather
. There was one light bulb above our heads and most of the help were wearing sunglasses. The one doing the Cagney impersonation checked me over to see if I was clean. It was like being in the nick. I thought, ‘Any minute now he's going to feel round my nuts and I'll down him, gun or no gun.' I could see he was carrying from the bulge in his jacket. He didn't though, and the fight was on.

I tucked my head down, flew at McCormack, and drove him back against a concrete pillar with a flurry of tight punches. As he backed up I swung one to his forehead, cracking his head against the post. If he hadn't grabbed hold of me I think he would have gone down, because for a second his eyes rolled up.

I was being crushed by his massive arms and I couldn't move. Down came his head to nut me senseless, but I got mine in first and did his nose. He let go of me and I got four rib-breakers into him, then jumped back and kicked him as hard as I could in the balls. He was wearing a codpiece so it didn't have the effect it should. Rattled him though. The atmosphere was like a fight I had at a fairground over in Leytonstone, dead quiet – it was all too serious for a bit of cheering.

We broke apart and weighed each other up.

With a big lump on his forehead and suffering a good bit of pain from his ribs and nuts he looks beaten, but he's not. Whoop – look out, he came at me like a fucking bull. I side-stepped, clenched both fists together and smashed him in the kidneys.

My belt and his own momentum carried him into the hired help and I was right behind him, knocking them all over the place. He fell on to his hands and as he got up I kicked him full in the face, rolled him over, and kicked him again. I won't give him a second, I want to destroy that black face. He's trying to fight back but it's all reflex. I don't think he can even see me.

Six punches to the jaw, cheek and forehead finished him. Blood was pouring from his nose and torn lips and dripping on to the stone
floor and making a little pool beside his head. Hard luck, son, but you would've done the same to me, that's the name of the game.

Funny really, I've just smashed the family's best and you'd think there would be a bit of a fuss but there was no reaction at all. The suits handed over a briefcase with the money, wished us all the best, and were gone. They never even looked at their man laying flat on the deck, bleeding and still spark out.

Twenty minutes later, me and my pal are back in the hotel and my hands have come up like balloons – both busted again. I said, ‘I think we'd better get out of here. The bosses seem good stuff but some of their boys were looking a bit cross-eyed, and they might just take it into their heads to get the money back.'

We slipped out, grabbed a taxi and took off for Kennedy Airport. Seven hours we hid in the place until our flight was called. I stuck out amongst the punters like a sore dick. My face was bruised and my hands were cut and broken, so I got some funny looks, especially from security. But nobody put themselves out to front me up so there was no trouble, and we got back to London without any problems. I squared my pal with a few grand, got my hands plastered up, and went home.

I gave Val the money and went upstairs to lay on the bed. When she brought me up a cup of tea and counted the money, she was crying. ‘Oh, Len, I wish you'd give up fighting, the strain's doing my head in.'

I gave her a kiss and a cuddle and said, ‘Doll, it's a hard game but it don't half beat cleaning windows. I'd have to wash and polish Crystal Palace twice to earn the sort of money I've just picked up.'

I was dozing on the bed and I could hear the kids downstairs saying, ‘Daddy's been fighting again.' They're just like Val, take it all in their stride.

When I was training down at Freddie Hill's gym a few years before there was a skinny little kid, John, who used to come in and spar about with us. I suppose he was about 16 then, dark haired, a nice kid. Nothing of him, but game as a bagel. We never used to hit him, just played around, but he took it all dead serious and would steam into a fighter three times his size. It didn't make much of an impression but it shows you what he was made of. I took a liking to him and when he went to fights all over the place, I'd let him walk into the arena with me, or front him up with all the big villains who were about, and he loved it.

Time went on and he grew up into a good-looking bloke. What with his bit of boxing, training and looking after his body, he got into modelling. One thing led to another and he got webbed up with five other lads and they formed a group of posers called Excalibur, in the same game as the American Chippendales. They went down a bomb with the ladies, who couldn't get enough of them. So John was on the way up. Soon afterwards, he was all over the newspapers as page seven fella of the year and flying high mixing with all the right people.

Of course, being page seven he was working with those lovely page three girls and whenever I saw him around with some little darling on his arm, I'd think, ‘Lenny, you got yourself into the wrong game.' So he dated bundles of these models until eventually he met Dee Wells and she was special, in a class of her own. She was gorgeous to look at, had a lovely personality, and was like the girl next door. Well, not like any girl that ever lived next door to me, but you know what I mean. She was the sort you could take home to Mum, down to earth, a proper home girl, and on top of all that she idolised him. Don't some blokes have all the luck?