The Charity Committee 2013

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I pulled away in my motor, leaving Delroy standing with

his prick in his hands, and me with a few hundred grand in the
boot, knowing I had to act fast before the shit hit the fan, and
that there were still some loose ends that needed to be tied up.
Over the previous years I had consolidated mine and
Longshanks' Soho properties into various offshore shell companies,
run through a mind-boggling web of fake front-men, bent briefs and
hookey accountants. There were also numerous freeholds we owned
around the Canning Town area, which although didn't bring in much
in the way of revenue, had long-term investment potential.
I had made up my mind that I could afford to swallow the
East End stuff and leave it to Longshanks but considered Soho to
be mine. There were also some other bits and pieces in Brighton
that needed attention, before I got on a plane and fucked off to
America, in order to get my shattered nut back to some semblance
of normality.
Luckily I had been prudent enough to keep my Brighton
bolt-hole quiet to all but a close few pals, so I gunned my motor
towards the coast with my head buzzing like a hornets nest. First
thing I suspected was that I probably wouldn't make it past the
cash-sniffing drug dogs at Heathrow or US Customs carrying a
suitcase full of shit-stinky crooked dough, so I belled celebrity
Soho tailor, Mark 'Powelly' Powell, who had in the previous month
laundered a hundred grand for me and Longshanks through his WestEnd shop. Powelly had been gifted fifteen grand on top for the bit
Copyright Horace Silver 2013. All rights reserved
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of graft and was just waiting for the say-so on what to do next.
When he answered the blower I told him to ask no questions but to
go straight down to the American Express building on Regent Street
and purchase a hundred grand's worth of US Dollar travellers
cheques via their express pick up system.
I then drove down to a storage warehouse just off the A23
near Haywards Heath and rented a small unit, pulled out about ten
grand in cash from the drug fuck, stashed the balance in the unit,
then fucked off down to Brighton, where I packed a small suitcase
full of clobber, pulled three different passports from my wall
safe, donated all my furniture and spare clobber to another pal,
then fucked off up to London, where I booked into a hotel just
down by Picadilly Circus.
I reckoned it would be a day before Longshanks got proper
on my trail but I wasn't sure because I didn't know what Delroy's
story would have been once he went back to him empty-handed and
without me. I also double-guessed Longshanks may have tortured him
or even topped him, and to be truthful at the time I couldn't have
given a rat's arse but I still knew I had to work quickly. Later
that afternoon I hooked up with Powelly while also getting a
message out to a man called Gary Oxley to meet me straightaway.
Gary 'Little Tich' Oxley had been my right-hand man in
Soho for a few years. When I first met him in the early eighties,
he weren't much more than a heavily-tattooed former football thug
with a taste for stabbing rival fans up their sphincters with
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garlic-dipped knives, and also pulling his strides down and waving
his bollocks about when pissed. And even though I knew you
couldn't polish a turd I tried to help him get his act together.
As I worked my way up Soho's criminal ladder I gave Little
Tich the job of collecting rents and debts and generally minding
off the gaffs me and different Soho firms took over. He did a
pretty good job with only the occasional tug for slashing donuts
across their mooeys when there was no need for violence.
I also had to sort him out on the sartorial front as at
that time he was strolling about in sheepskin jackets and sporting
a crafty comb-over on the barnet front. After pointing out to him
that the second-hand south London car dealer look weren't cutting
it in the West End, I sent him to the barbers for a number one
shave, after which I took him round to Powelly's tailor shop,
where he had
a little box-suit knocked up, complete with bum-
freezer jacket and a pork pie hat. Now the only problem was he
was a dead-ringer for Alexi Sayle, but it was a step in the right
direction and gave us a chance to shout at him 'Ullo, John! Gotta
New Motor' which used to give him the right fucking zig.
Little Tich had often pulled me to one side through the
years saying he wanted to be made a partner. His chance had
arrived. We met up in the bar of the hotel where I was staying,
and over a bottle of bubbly I told him that not only was I sick of
Longshanks' pointless violence and paranoia but that he'd also
fucked me over with a large amount of dough in order to buy the
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Essex mansion he was now living in. I then offered Little Tich an
equal share of all Soho revenues, telling him all he had to do was
keep a low profile when I fucked off to America for a while, carry
on collecting the rents until the storm blew over, and wait until
Longshanks turned his greedy jaundiced eyes back to the skanky
shithole of Canning Town, where he first crawled out of.
Little Tich almost bit my hand off, telling me he would
recruit his brother Fat Andy, along with some of his old pals who
used to graft with old time London gangster Joey Pyle, a former
associate of the Kray Twins. Satisfied with Little Tich's
affirmation of loyalty I took him to my West End lock up which
held all the paperwork for the Soho properties and some others
besides. After further briefing him fully and instructing him
clearly not to go on any meets whatsoever with Longshanks, I met
up with Powelly and together we went to the American Express
building, where I picked up the US dollar travellers cheques,
signed them and stuffed them into a money belt.
I then booked a first class ticket on an early morning
flight to San Francisco and waited until it got dark before
driving back down to Brighton. Once there I destroyed a small
nightclub belonging to me and Longshanks that sat right on
Brighton beach itself. Then I went to another building we owned in
another part of the same town which contained a Hardcore porn
cinema on the ground floor and a knocking shop upstairs. I then
fucked that building up as well, along with another couple of
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buildings before having it on my toes to a five star hotel next to
Heathrow, where I booked a room and proceeded to get fucking
hammered while toasting the first steps of a new journey.
After a first class Virgin Atlantic flight I breezed
through US Customs with no problems, although I had to fight hard
to keep myself together, what with all the grief still churning up
the cogs in my still gangster-fucked brain. I had rightly shafted
one of the heaviest gangsters in England but me feeling justified
didn't matter as I knew there would be some severe fucking
ructions going on back in Blighty. I was also very concerned about
Longshanks using his IRA connections to try and hunt me down
whilst in the States.
As soon as I left San Francisco airport I rented a
nondescript motor and hit the road, just as the sun was going
down, trying to work out how I was going to cash over one hundred
and sixty thousand US Dollars worth of travellers cheques, without
drawing suspicion from the Federal authorities, or some fucking
Paddy hellhound who could be on my trail. It hit me straight-away.
Sin City! The sort of dough I was carrying was fuck-all to that
gaff, so I put the pedal to the floor of my motor and hit the
interstate, making it to Las Vegas in about ten hours.
Once there I booked into a pucker hotel on the Strip,
shitted and showered, put on a class whistle and set about going
into the casinos to cash the paperwork. Not wanting to draw too
much attention to myself I done the lot over four or five days
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with not a single plucked and shaped eyebrow raised. Now there was
another problem. I was sitting on a shitload of readies which I
couldn't afford to lose, so on about the fifth day I strolled into
a local Wells Fargo bank, opened up a safe deposit box and spent
the next week or so going in and out of it to top up the box.
It then began to slowly dawn on me that I had made it out
of the hell-hole that my life had sunk to since becoming partners
with Longshanks. My body began to finally unwind with all the
heartache and grief began seeping from my body and brain like pus
from a boil. I booked myself into another hotel, one with a topfloor suite, pulled open the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, and
under the starry desert night cried like a baby, as I sucked in
the cool crisp air while looking out over the city's buzzing neon.
For the next few days I hit the craps tables, bars and brasses,
and began to kick back and have a fucking blast. It felt like
being reborn and given another chance at life. If I have to be
honest I was never really in the criminal game for the dough, it
was the buzz of committing crimes that was the turn on.
On further reflection I felt nothing but revulsion for the
fucking animal that was my ex partner, alongside his
embarrassingly gaudy mansion with its revolting marble floors,
King Tut dcor and badly maintained lawns, all of which had been
purchased with the dough of his supposed best friend. You can
spend as much as you like Longshanks but you can't buy class. You
truly are Essex royalty. A scampi-in-a-basket slag!
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Plus the delusional cunt thought that his mansion was the
total bollocks, whereas we used to take the piss out of him behind
his back by calling him Jed Clampett and whistling the theme tune
from The Beverly Hillbillies whenever we drove up to him on a
meet. The slippery cunt knew he was doing a wrong 'un when he
bought it, that's why he never told any of his firm about it till
the deal went through.
I remember going over there when he first moved in and he
had the electricity meter wired so he wouldn't have to pay the
heating bill for the indoor swimming pool. Fucking freezing in the
winter the gaff was as well. And because the clueless cunt had no
en-suite bathrooms in any of the bedrooms we used to just piss in
the vanity sinks whenever we stayed there. And the first time he
came round to my Docklands pad and saw my bidet he thought it was
for birds to wash their Jack and Dannys in.
Longshanks also fancied himself a bit of an interior
designer, although every gaff he put his touch to ended up looking
like inside of a gypsy caravan, even going so far as sticking
plastic covers on the DFS sofas. His new gaff soon acquired the
moniker of the Pikey Palace. Think Donald Trump meets Keith Lemon
after a bad acid trip with Bez from Happy Mondays. There was pink
wallpaper and marble floors everywhere, and he had a guard dog
with long toenails that got inside the house one day, and the
marble was so slippery that the dog ended up just running on the
spot with its fucking legs going a million miles an hour, as if it
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were stuck on a gym treadmill.
After a short while the the fake shine of Las Vegas began
to lose its lustre. Plus I really didn't want to stay in a gaff
built solely to fleece dopes of their dough, because I knew I'd be
one of those dopes and blow every fucking shilling I had there in
a matter of months, so I decided I needed to head west to LA.
The City of Angels was a gaff I knew well and was a place
where I also knew some old pals of mine were living, although I
hadn't been in contact with them for a few stretch. A day or so
later I hit the road, and although I was thousands of miles from
London, paranoia soon set back in and I started to get as twitchy
as a schizophrenic at pill time, looking for hitmen in my rearview every five fucking minutes.
I needed some protection, and so on spotting a house-sized
hoarding advertising a three day gun show on the outskirts of the
city, I thought I would try my luck. I parked up my motor and
walked into a warehouse full of right-wing peckerwoods and
doomsday preppers, salivating over rocket-launchers and fullyautomatic rifles, while eagerly waiting Armageddon. After making a
few discreet enquiries about purchasing a handgun I realised I
would not be able to buy anything without an American ID.
As I walked back out to my motor I was stopped by a
redneck sporting a Billy Ray Cyrus mullet who asked me if I wanted
to buy a gun. I explained to him my predicament to which he
replied it weren't no problem in the land of the free. An hour
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later I climbed back in my motor packing a Smith and Weston .38
snub-nosed revolver with two packs of bullets and a two-shot
Saturday Night Special that fitted nicely in my suit jacket
pocket. A thousand dollars the lot.
Once again I felt safe, although I did curse my insecurity
for pushing me into the madness of now being in the United States
in possession of two felony offences while driving on a desert
highway towards a new life. The road I was driving on cut straight
through a succession of shit-kicker towns and I followed it all
the way until I could drive no more, finding myself confronted by
a wall of blue Pacific Ocean at the beautiful beach town of Santa
Monica. It seemed as good as place any to plot up and have a
butcher's around.
Within a month I'd tracked down an old pal of mine and
former hitman, Killer Ken. Ken had jacked in the murder game and
was running a successful business knocking out syrups for
superstars from a quiet little set-up just down from Venice beach.
From the outside of his gaff you couldn't tell he made wigs, which
was the way it was supposed to be and sort of reminded me of my
early Soho days, in the fact that you'd get all these well-known
male actors pulling up outside his parlour with baseball caps
pulled down low over their heads. They'd then take furtive glances
around to make sure no-one had spotted them before creeping inside
the door while staring down at the ground. Once inside they'd have
their bald spots tonced over with one of Killer Ken's weaves
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before slipping back out and having it away back to the safety of
the Hollywood Hills.
As time slipped by I was keeping in intermittent touch
with Little Tich who told me that the initial storm had passed and
everything was settling down nicely. He also let me know he was
regularly topping up my secret Channel Islands bank account with
cash deposited via a system I had set up in Soho's Chinatown. As
everything seemed to be going sweet, I got myself an American
social security number, and after opening a number of bank
accounts, stuck a deposit down on a condo in Santa Monica,
furnished it and set about trying to set something new up to start
earning a straight living.
It weren't long before I hooked up with another pal I
hadn't seen for donkeys, a tea-leaf by the name of Pinch, who told
me over morning coffee on Venice beach that he was earning a
reasonable crust as an actor. The first name he stuck up to me who
he had worked with was Al Pacino, although I wasn't convinced,
until he took me round to another coffee shop in Santa Monica a
week later, and sure as shit there was Al Pacino sitting at a
table in a pair of sunglasses knocking back espresso after
espresso.
Pacino gave Pinch the nod which left me well fucking
impressed as more names rolled off his tongue.
'Jack Nicholson, De Niro, Duvall! I've worked with them
all, Billy.' He told me, although being a film buff I'd seen all
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their work and couldn't remember seeing Pinch's mooey in any of
them.
After digging a little deeper it turned out that Pinch was
only a spear-chucker in the movies, and although the names he had
mentioned were in films he had worked on, being only an extra he
had never even seen any of the stars on the set, let alone done
any acting with them. It didn't really matter, at least he was
having a go and seemed happy, which was more than I was, even with
all the readies I had wrapped around me.
Pinch went on to tell me that since he had known me before
I had become totally introverted and suspicious and that I needed
to free myself from within. It sounded like a lot of New-age
southern Californian bollocks from a man that now spent his time
swimming with dolphins and chanting the chakras. He also told me
he was taking ongoing acting lessons up in Hollywood and reckoned
it would be a good idea if I came along to get in touch with my
inner-self.
I had nothing to lose and nothing else to do, so the next
thing I knew I was three weeks into Method Acting classes with a
crazy old bird who had starred in sixties slasher movies and even
had a part in the Godfather. So there I was in the class with
about ten other hapless cunts, no shoes and socks on, eyes closed
and a gun stuck down the back of my strides, while pretending to
be a tree swaying in the breeze, when the door flew open and in
steamed this homeless looking bloke who had been watching us
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through the door's window.
'I'm paying you motherfuckers thousands of bucks and
you're teaching my daughter this fucking bullshit!' He screamed.
I recognised the face and voice straight-away. It was Brad
Dourif the actor of Billy Bibbit and Chucky doll fame. That sealed
it for me. If Chucky thought that pretending to be tree was a load
of old bollocks then who I was I to argue. I put on my shoes and
socks and walked out of the class with Pinch in tow, telling him I
weren't cut out for the acting game. Next thing I know he'd talked
me into catching a plane with him to New York to take some more
acting lessons with a bloke called Jack Waltzer.
'Honestly this geezer's proper, Billy,' he said. 'Plus I
got a personal recommendation from Al Pacino himself.'
I weren't convinced. I'd already spent nearly a month
trying to channel my inner De-niro but all I'd managed to come up
with was Mr Tumble. Nevertheless I was up for the challenge so off
we went.
After arriving in the Big Apple we booked into a hotel and
then spent sometime sightseeing before starting lessons with Jack
Waltzer. About a week into classes I still didn't have a fucking
clue what was going on and my acting was still about as realistic
as Spotty Dog from the Woodentops. I was longing for a way out.
Providence came in form of a prim and proper little bird of about
nineteen with a whiny Minnie Mouse voice. We were all sitting in
the acting class one day and she asked Jack Waltzer how she could
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become a better actress. He looked at her with a cynical smirk and
growled.
'Go out and get fucked up some!'
It was the best advice I'd ever heard. I bid farewell to
Pinch, boarded a plane back to Las Vegas, booked into a five star
hotel and spent the next week getting fucking hammered with any
prospective acting career well and truly binned.
Another eighteen months flew by as I put down some roots
in southern California while still keeping in intermittent touch
with Little Tich, who told me everything was still sweet and he
was happy now that he was copping a nice few quid without having
to sell drugs. Meanwhile I'd been dipping my toes in various small
ventures, and was also keeping myself afloat by having a trusted
pal raid the drug cash stash in my Brighton lock-up, and send it
over in twenty grand parcels of travellers cheques. As the next
six months approached I felt secure enough to consider my first
trip back to Europe, in the form of flying to Jersey, in order to
pick up the takings from my West End properties. That's when
things started to sour.
I had belled Little Tich on our secret number but there
had been no answer, so I left a message on his voicemail. Still no
reply. Starting to get suspicious I left another message letting
him know I was on my way to the Channel Islands.
After landing at Jersey airport I was making my way
through Customs when I got a strong tug by the authorities which I
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felt was a bit strange as I knew by all appearances I was kosher.
Then a succession of flat-capped cunts rummaged their way through
my belongings and immediately honed in on the ten grand cash I was
carrying for the trip, telling me they believed it to be part of a
robbery haul, before throwing me in the slammer and then
proceeding to check the serial number of every note with the
British authorities.
Twenty four hours later after coming up with fuck all they
reluctantly let me into the airport terminal where I rented a car
and headed for for Saint Helier in order to go sort out my
offshore account. As I was making my away through the countryside
that led to the town, I sensed that Old Bill was on my tail, and
so I pulled in to a small village, got out the motor and went for
a coffee. Sure enough I spotted two dopey looking plainclothes
cunts watching me through the reflection of a shop opposite. I
didn't want to lead them to my bank so I had to work out a way to
shake them off.
After getting back on the road I carried on driving until
I spotted a small country road, just wide enough for one car, that
ran parallel to the beach front. Without indicating I turned into
it, as if I was looking for a particular place, and once I was
about a mile in I looked into my rear-view mirror and could see
the unmarked pig motor a few hundred yards behind me. I stopped,
turned off the engine, grabbed my bag, got out, locked the car and
legged it through a field down to a beach path, leaving the two
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Old Bill stranded.
Once in Saint Helier I made my way to the Hong Kong and
Shanghai Bank to check my account. My worst fears were realised
when I realised that that slag Little Tich hadn't topped it up
with fuck all. I was fucking fuming and it was all I could do to
bite my lip and not go garrity and start smashing up the gaff
while understanding that I had to act fast to salvage whatever may
be left of my Soho criminal empire. I rushed straight to a travel
shop and tried to book a flight to England but there was nothing
leaving till the next day, so I made my way to a hotel booked in
and decided to get some shut eye.
I was awoken about three hours later by a posse of Plod
standing around my bed, some of the carrying yoggers. They
instructed me to get dressed and while doing so read me an order
they had obtained from a local magistrate which in essence was an
order banning me from the Channel Islands. One of the pigs then
growled at me.
'We don't want your type here.'
They then hand-cuffed me and hustled me through the foyer
of the hotel with everyone staring at me. Although feeling
embarrassed and humiliated I was also thankful on learning that I
was being loaded onto a flight leaving that very afternoon. Plod
ferried me straight through the main gate of the airport without
getting out of the motor and drove it all the way to the waiting
plane which was parked up and ready to take off. They then hustled
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me up the steps with all the passengers craning their necks for a
gander as I was then brought on board. After having my hand-cuffs
taken off I was informed by the Plod in charge never to return,
and spent the whole of the plane journey paranoid as fuck, while
wondering if I was being set up in some way for a proper nicking
or execution by my old firm.
After working through a strategy I made my way straight to
Soho the same afternoon. By sheer good chance it was a Monday
which I knew would the ideal day to ambush Little Tich as Mondays
were rent days. I plotted up near a telephone box in Great
Windmill street and sure enough, the short-arsed, bad-breathed
quisling turned up, and entered a premises where me and Longshanks
had two brasses grafting in two flats above a tattoo parlour.
After about five minutes he came out and I had a little chuckle on
noticing that the muggy cunt was carrying a leather clutch bag. I
called out his name and he turned and had a litter of fucking
kittens before legging it up the road with me in tow telling him
nothing was going to happen to him and that I just wanted to talk.
I finally managed to calm him down and we went for coffee,
where first of all he tried to convince me he had gone into
partnership with Longshanks at his own behest, but as I probed him
deeper he began to crack before breaking down and sobbing that he
had done as I had told him and kept a low profile but that Powelly
had inadvertently lured him to a meet with Longshanks at his
tailor's shop. He said that no sooner had he had walked through
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the front door then Longshanks hit him on the chin, dragged him
into the stock room, sat him on a chair and then threatened him
with having sulphuric acid poured over his head. He told me he
rolled over straight-away.
'Fair enough' I said. 'That's why I gave strict
instructions to you not to go on any meets.' Brains of a fucking
rocking horse! I then asked him why he had not answered my phone
calls and he told me that Longshanks had told him he was supposed
to tell me that I was not allowed to phone England ever again. I
couldn't believe what he had just said to me so I asked him to
repeat it word for word. Longshanks' actual statement went as
follows.
'Tell that AIDS-ridden, coke-headed poof, I said he's not
even allowed to ring this country.'
'He's the one that needs to have an AIDS test,' I sneered.
'Cunt's fucked more people than a crack whore. Listen, that slag
ain't Pablo Escobar. He's just a Canning Town guttersnipe on the
make. Now tell me about the Channel Islands. How come I got a tug,
seeing as you was the only cunt who knew I was going there?'
Little Tich went on to tell me that it was Longshanks who
made him phone the pigs in the Channel Islands in an attempt to
get me lelled by the authorities. He then went on to explain that
he had handed over all my paperwork to Longshanks, including
property deeds and offshore company registrations. I sat there
feeling like I wanted to strangle the dopey little cunt,
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especially when he told me that Longshanks had stuck him on less
wages than what I used to pay him.
'I made you a fucking partner,' I said. 'You was copping
grands a week and now Longshanks is wanking you off with shirtbuttons. Why did you tell me you could handle it, if you
couldn't?'
'I'm sorry I came up short, Billy.' He grinned weakly.
Yeah, about five foot three I thought to myself, gutted
that I had been fucked-up in the head enough to have entrusted my
dealings to a mentally-challenged midget. Without Little Tich
knowing I carried on with the conversation and grafted him as best
as I could in the circumstances. He went on to unwittingly tell me
that Bernie Silver had also rolled over and signed over my other
Soho properties to Longshanks, leaving me out in the cold. Before
I left Little Tich I wanted to know where he stood and he tried
his best to meet my stare, telling me that now I was back he would
no longer pick up any rents on behalf of Longshanks.
Determined not to show my hand we parted on seemingly good
terms but inside I was fucking gutted that I had been completely
frozen out but remained determined to at least remove Longshanks
from Soho. The properties we had together in east London could
wait but Soho was my baby, and if it weren't for the steady money
from the West End then Longshanks would still be stuck in his ex
council house in Canning Town. The other thing that rankled was
that that cunt Longshanks had no idea about mortgages or offshore
19
companies until I showed him the ropes.
On another downside I was stunned by Bernie Silver's
betrayal as I had always afforded him the utmost respect. Finding
out that he had fucked me over was a bitter pill I had no
intention of swallowing. Through discreet enquiries I had heard
that he hardly any longer visited the West End and had settled
back down with his ex-missus Joan and retired to his farm in Derby
which was run by his son Joe. However, I guessed Bernie was still
a keen golfer and so phoned around some courses where he lived and
simply asked if 'Bernie was about' knowing he would be using at
least his real first name. With no luck in finding him at any of
the gaffs I turned my attention to his farm with the intention of
recruiting a couple of pals to help me kidnap him and hold him for
ransom until his family paid me for my losses.
Just as I was putting the kidnapping plans into operation
I received a call from an old pal of Bernie's saying that Bernie
had heard I was looking for him and so had scheduled a meet in the
Sportsman's Club casino in Mayfair. As soon as we met I tumbled
Little Tich had been lying to me, as Bernie went on to tell me
that Little Tich had told him I had gone to America and left all
my business in his hands. Bernie had no reason to doubt him
because I had often used Little Tich as a go-between in regards to
dealing with Bernie if ever I wasn't about. I outlined my problems
and Bernie insisted he did not recognise Longshanks as having
anything to do with the properties we had with him.
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There were four buildings all told in which I had dealings
with Bernie, alongside another building in Green's Court, which
was exclusively mine and Longshanks and which was run via an Isle
of Man company and administered by front men in Jersey. All of the
buildings had brothels on the first and second floors with varying
sex businesses on the ground floors and in the basements.
Before taking any further action I got word to Little Tich
and told him I planned on causing a stir in Soho but was prepared
to leave things be and fuck off back to America, if Longshanks
were to agree to pension me off for an index linked grand a week,
no questions asked, and he could even keep all the east London
properties we shared. A few days later I got back an answer.
'Tell that queer cunt, I'm gonna bury him!'
So I went to work. The first thing I did was go around to
Bernie's properties and change all the locks. Then I sent written
notification to all the tenants that no more money was to be
handed over to Little Tich. Instead it was to be paid into an
offshore account administered by me. This was done my means of a
solicitor's letter pinned to all the doors.
A few days later my brief received a letter from
Longshanks' brief, who was now also acting for Little Tich, and
claiming his client to be the sole owner of all the businesses
that were really mine. Not only did Little Tich have all my
paperwork but he also had access to the various aliases and
company names used in all the properties. It had now become clear
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just what a duplicitous little Judas cunt he had become.
In order to bring things to a head I once more offered a
deal to let Longshanks have the lion's share with me keeping a
pension and agreeing to stay out of the way. I got a further
message from him via an intermediary in the following words.
'No deal will be ever be done with that AIDS-riddled cokehead cunt. You tell him from me, If he fucks off back to America
now I'll spare his life, if not he's fucking dead!'
Following that response my next move was to meet back up
with Bernie where we discussed our options. Bernie wanted no
violence attached to his properties, so we settled on an agreed
plan. I got my brief to write to Longshanks' brief to confirm that
Little Tich was still claiming to be the sole owner and proprietor
of the four Soho properties and he sent a letter back saying that
he was.
A few nights later I accompanied a photographer and
private eye around to all of the properties where they collected
evidence of all the sordid business taking place. With Bernie's
connivance I then complied a dossier and sent it to Bernie's
brief, who was also in the coup, claiming my rightful ownership
and informing him that the properties were being used for illegal
purposes by Little Tich, namely that of porn and prostitution, and
were therefore in breach of the properties' legal uses, as
stipulated in both the freehold and leasehold covenants.
Once Bernie's brief received the dossier he issued 'cease
22
trading' injunctions against Little Tich and all four buildings,
effectively closing them all down. Not long after that my brief
received a letter from Longshanks' brief asking for a meeting to
iron things out but by then it was too late for a deal, as I'd
already agreed with Bernie Silver that restarting the businesses
would be probably bring nothing but grief with Longshanks in the
long run.
Bernie subsequently brought in a bloke called Scotch John
and between us we worked out a deal where he paid me off a nice
whack and took over the four buildings for himself. I shook hands
with Bernie, wished him well and we went our separate ways, job
done. Before I left, Bernie also told me that a year after I had
fucked off, he had heard that Longshanks had led Little Tich and
Powelly by their noses like stray mongrels through the streets of
Soho and paid visits to cafes and watering holes I used to
frequent. Once there, and at Longshanks' prompting, the two broken
bitches slagged me off no end to people that had the utmost
respect for me. I thanked Bernie for the information and noted
down their treachery before parking it up in the back of my brain
to sort out later.
With Bernie Silver's four properties now out of
Longshanks' grip it left only Green's Court to deal with and I
soon received word through the criminal grapevine that Longshanks
was now on the warpath having lost thousands of pounds per week in
relation to Soho. Of course, being a psychopath he wouldn't take
23
the blame himself, and so I knew Little Tich would be sweating
like a cheese sandwich in cellophane, having to explain how he
lost four premium porn properties on the turn. I felt in fine
fucking fettle and was now planning my next move but the elation
didn't last long.
Using Little Tich as a Judas Pig Longshanks had tracked
down a pal of mine who weren't a criminal but had helped me out on
a few things over the last couple of years. After luring him on a
meet they kidnapped the poor cunt and took him to a slaughter in
east London where, as a warning to others not to help or harbour
me, Longshanks cut off the fingers on one of his hands one by one
with a pair of garden Secateurs. Knowing there was no way I could
go to war against Longshanks, his six brothers and untold cousins,
I had to start thinking outside the box to slow him down.
I contacted a well-respected journalist, who was at that
time writing for a weekly London listings magazine, gave him the
lowdown on what was happening, and he stuck in a small article in
his magazine. A couple of weeks later he called me and gave me
some disturbing information that he had come across after doing
some of his own investigative work.
It seems that the Club Squad had carried out a routine
check of the brothel in Green's Court and had found a pair of
fifteen year old schoolgirls grafting there as prostitutes. I was
fucking devastated. I had always made sure when I was in Soho that
we ran a clean show and kept well away with anything underage. I
24
had been out of the frame for two years and now it appeared
Longshanks had schoolgirls punting out their poor little pussies
for peanuts, while the psychopathic slag was driving around Essex
giving it the fucking big 'un and pretending to be a bona fide
businessman.
I was also furious that Little Tich had been seen going in
and out of the gaff on a regular basis, rightly reckoning that
people might still associate me with the premises. On further
digging it also transpired that Little Tich had signed over the
title deeds of the property to an offshore company owned by
Longshanks but administered by his brief.
I needed to distance myself publicly from the gaff as
quickly as I could, so I got the journalist to run the story about
the schoolgirls, while also naming Longshanks as the new owner.
Once it had gone into print I had copies printed up, jumped on a
motorbike and in the dead of night scattered thousands of them
outside his Essex mansion and throughout the local village. I also
painted a sign on the tarmac outside of his mansion with the word
NONCE and an arrow pointing at the front gate. I then headed down
to Canning Town and dropped the same leaflets through the streets
there.
A few days later my brief received a High Court injunction
via Longshanks' brief, attached to which was a written statement
signed by Longshanks (that I still have in my possession to this
day) in which he accused me of being a very sick and dangerous man
25
who had committed a number of very serious crimes in and around
the London area. In the same statement Longshanks also detailed
some of the alleged crimes, one of which carries a mandatory
sentence of life imprisonment. That was it for me. London's number
one villain had grassed me up via a civil court in an attempt to
stop me revealing that he was poncing out schoolgirls at his Soho
brothel.
Despite the legal proceedings I still knew I had to be
careful as I'd heard he was desperate to track me down and have me
executed, and I believed the injunction to be a ploy he put into
operation, if ever he managed to get to me, by then sticking his
hands up and saying he was just an honest businessman doing
everything by the book. Not only was there the Green's Court
property left to be sorted out between us but there was also some
nice up and coming real estate in the Canning Town area that I had
shares with Longshanks in. I decided to get out of the country for
a while to plan my next move and so caught a flight back to
Dublin.
Imagine my surprise when a few weeks later I read in a
copy of a London evening newspaper that Green's Court had been
fire-bombed, by according to the newspaper report, a gang of
Maltese pimps. In the article it stated that unknown assailants
had kicked open the ground floor of the premises and thrown in a
fire-bomb which almost killed four people on the upstairs floors.
I needed to know more, and so after about a week I phoned Powelly
26
at his tailor's shop, hoping he would be able to furnish with me
with some more details of the actual firm who carried out the
attack. Instead of being forthcoming with any information he
sounded very evasive and nervous and asked me a series of strange
questions. It was then that I sussed that the slag was recording
our conversation. After cutting the conversation short I decided I
would one day have to pay the cunt a visit for potentially trying
to stripe me up at what was obviously at Longshanks' behest.
A month or so later I was back in London to sort out some
unrelated business when I decided to drop in to see Powelly at his
shop. I walked in and asked the bloke who worked there where the
slaggy plastic gangster cunt was. He looked at me, shit his pants,
then legged it out of the shop. My anger overcame me and I made a
foolish mistake, in that I spotted a bottle of bleach on a nearby
table, and poured it all over Powelly's brand new Soho Summer
Collection.
Realising my error I had it out of the shop sharpish and
headed back to my safe house out in the sticks before slipping
back over to Dublin. It must have been a week or so later when my
brief phoned me in a bit of a panic asking me if I could account
for my movements the previous Friday. I told him I had been to the
cinema and then a restaurant with some friends in Dublin city
centre. He went on to explain that Powelly's tailor shop had been
subject to an arson attack and that subsequently Powelly had
visited West End Central police station and made a statement
27
against me saying that he believed I was the arsonist.
Further enquiries by my brief revealed that Powelly had
attended the Old Bill shop accompanied by Longshanks' brief to
make the false statement against me. So there it was. Longshanks,
Little Tich and now Powelly were all using the same brief and all
engaged in a conspiracy to try and have me fitted up and lifted
off the streets.
After speaking to my own brief I then received word from
Bernie Silver saying that he needed to speak to me urgently and
that it would be in my best interest to meet up with him at the
RAC club in London with some Old Bill pals of his from back in the
day. I jumped on a plane and flew straight to London and over high
teas the pigs briefed me that they knew it wasn't me that set
Powelly's shop alight as they already had a suspect.
Turns out Little Tich had been spotted by some bloke
sitting up at opposite open window having a sly fag. The dopey
little Singing Ringing Tree dwarf cunt had pulled up in an
adjacent side street, in I kid you not, a car that was registered
to him. He then poured a can of petrol through Powelly's letterbox, set it alight then fucked off. The bloke at the window took
down Little Tich's number plate and called the Old Bill himself.
Bernie's pig pals then went on to tell me that they
believed some sort of pressure had been put on Powelly by
Longshanks to attend the cop shop with his brief in order to press
charges against me. The two pigs on the meeting then asked if I
28
would meet up with their pals conducting the Powelly turn out and
I figured, why not, seeing as that dirty grass cunt Longshanks had
already made a statement against me in the High Court, and had now
tried to have me fitted up for arson, as well as having me tugged
by the authorities in the Channel Islands. As far as I was
concerned the gloves were off.
I made my way to a meet the next day with the two Old Bill
at a cafe near Scotland Yard, sussing straight away that they were
the fucking heavy mob. As I sat at a table opposite them I noticed
a mobile phone laying on the table and emitting a flashing red
light which I suspected was there to secretly record any
conversation we might have. I was right. About twenty minutes into
the meet, after spieling them some tales about drug-dealings,
punishment beatings, protection rackets and the like, one of the
slippery cunts mentioned the double murder of a pub accountant and
his bird that happened out in Epping Forest, and suggested that I
had used an alias that was being investigated by murder squad
detectives on the case.
I told them I had no knowledge of the alias they
suggested, adding that I was willing to talk further but I would
only do it in the presence of my brief. I had the sneaking
suspicion that I was being set up as a fucking patsy for the bit
of graft and was being given enough rope to hang myself. In the
event I called a halt to the meeting and went straight to see my
brief, and he suggested I fuck off for a while while it all calmed
29
down, so I flew back to Dublin then onto the States and got back
to sorting out a means to getting a steady straight living and
settling down to my new life on the West Coast.
About six months later I received news that Longshanks had
put a firm of builders into Green's Court and it had been rebuilt
on the hurry and was now back in the porn and brass business. But
it weren't all bad news. A month after the building re-opened I
was informed by a pal that a gunman had entered the basement in
the early hours, while it was operating as a shebeen, and fired
off a volley of shots at Little Tich. Unfortunately the
treacherous quisling escaped via a fire exit and instead some old
shitcunt he was souvering copped the bullets meant for him. For
Soho Old Bill it was the final straw. A few days later they raided
the gaff and shut down the ground floor and basement by sticking a
cessation order on it.
From my sunny hideaway I took stock. I had all but
succeeded in kicking Longshanks out of Soho, and now all he had
left was a brothel on the two upper floors of Greens Court, which
couldn't be shut as two of the birds grafting there had been able
to prove that they were living in the flats, as well as grafting
them, which meant a long legal process to evict them. But on the
positive side I had snuffed out all his other West End earnings by
about ninety per cent and stuck his moniker all over a London
newspaper.
There was more good news. I heard a little while later
30
that after the Green's Court shooting Little Tich was too shitscared to back to Soho and Longshanks was blaming him for the loss
of earnings and face. So Little Tich was now piggy in the middle
between me and Longshanks. And with any gangster grief it's always
the piggy in the middle that cops it first. I knew then that
Little Tich's days were numbered and that one day Longshanks would
throw that particular little piggy to the big bad wolf.
So all in all things weren't too bad. Heavy Old Bill were
chomping at the bit for a piece of Longshanks, Little Tich was on
his toes, Powelly was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and I
was sitting in a beach bar in southern California knocking back
Long Island Ice Teas.
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1

I pulled away in my motor, leaving Delroy standing with

a little box-suit knocked up, complete with bum-

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