The Limit: Chapter 3
...The gang leader had visited Blackpool only once. His business had been elsewhere, Haydock or Manchester racetrack. Toni had been a child but she remembered his visit to the house. It was years later that she discovered who and what he was.
He had arrived with three men, one of them Maudie. The visit had been brief. He had left a small suitcase, which her father had locked in a safe, and collected it the next day. Her father had not attempted to look inside...
Now, years later, Toni needs Maudie's help - but things are not what they used to be when "muscle'' is needed.
To read earlier chapters of Peter Lacey's tough and professional crime novel please click on The Limit in the menu on this page.
Maudie regretted being flippant. While she had been talking his stomach had become light and empty. A nervous feeling without the nerves. One that he had once been used to. The remark about Clint Eastwood had been self-derogatory, not a criticism of her hope.
"I'm sorry, gel."
He sat back in the chair and wondered how to let her down lightly. Her story had been clear and well told. The Dysons sounded like middle-class ponces who could buy muscle without commanding its respect. They wouldn't have lasted long thirty years ago. But now? What did he tell Toni? He began to reminisce out loud.
"It's changed down here, since the old days. The loyalties, the old-time values, have gone. They went with the Krays. When Jack Spot and Billy Hill ran things, you could trust somebody's word. Ronnie and Reggie changed all that. They enjoyed violence too much. No honour, just violence."
He came back to the present.
"But that doesn't help you, does it?"
He thought aloud some more.
"The lads round here are no use. There are plenty of tearaways, none with nous. You could try the Italians in Clerkenwell. But that'd be no good. If they were invited to a deal up north they'd stay." He shook his head. "You'd be better off praying for a miracle in St. Peter's Italian church than getting involved with them. No disrespect to Italians. Just the Clerkenwell mob.
"What you need is a Jack Spot or Billy Hill. They could handle violence when they had to. They were prepared to go the limit. They lasted so long because they were clever. They knew when to be hard and they knew when to fix things. They were dealers. Like your grandad. That's why Jack liked him. Your grandad. That's why both Jack and Billy retired when they saw things changing. Retired. Not banged up in top security or Rampton. Retired."
Toni remembered, too, as he talked. The family legend of how Grandfather Mario had met Jack Spot Comer, the gangland ruler of the West End, at a boxing match in London.
Spot had been loud and bombastic. Grandfather Mario, without knowing who he was, had finally had enough. He had got to his feet, drawn himself up to his full five feet three inches and, punctuating his words with the fat cigar between his fat fingers, had told Spot to shut his mouth.
Spot had liked his honest bull-terrier aggression. Instead of taking offence he had invited him to dinner. Grandfather had accepted and their friendship had been casual but lasting. It had continued after Grandfather died.
The gang leader had visited Blackpool only once. His business had been elsewhere, Haydock or Manchester racetrack. Toni had been a child but she remembered his visit to the house. It was years later that she discovered who and what he was.
He had arrived with three men, one of them Maudie. The visit had been brief. He had left a small suitcase, which her father had locked in a safe, and collected it the next day. Her father had not attempted to look inside.
She had been nineteen when she next met Maudie at Brian London's 007 Club in Blackpool. The doorman had asked her to sign in a guest. The guest had been Maudie and when he read her name as he signed the book after her, he had introduced himself.
Toni had been intrigued at meeting an associate of a famous underworld figure who was living proof that the family legend was true. She had been impressed with his quiet but totally assured manner. His age hadn't mattered, she had simply categorised him as beyond her scope of romantic interest, and he had behaved with an old-world courtesy that had charmed her but been a deterrent to casual boyfriends.
They had met three times during the course of the week, each time at the 007 Club, and once they had gone for a meal at an Italian restaurant afterwards. Other people had been present, but in a temporary way, flitting in and out of their company. His mystery had fascinated her and she had never discovered what he was doing so far from London.
The last night he had given her the card and said, "If you ever need me, give me a call."
He had said it quietly, with his usual understatement, but his meaning had been clear. She had treasured the card.
