Richard O'Rawe

Northern Heist


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have been put down holes for that,’ Coleman chips in.

      ‘We didn’t do it, Tiny,’ Panzer says. ‘I swear.’

      Murdoch touches Panzer’s arm. ‘I’m going to let that one go because, well, I like you, Panzer. You did us a turn or two back in the day.’ He points to Ructions again. ‘But I don’t like him.’ Murdoch puts two of his fingers to his temple. ‘You’d love to nut me, wouldn’t you?’

      Ructions looks nonchalant and does not reply.

      ‘See, Colm? See?’ Murdoch says, a look of contrived consternation on his face. ‘The little shite hasn’t even the decency to deny it.’ Murdoch continues to stare at Ructions, still waiting for a denial that will not be forthcoming. He turns to Panzer, ‘If I hear—’

      ‘There’ll be nothing to hear,’ Panzer interjects.

      ‘Belt up when I’m talking.’ Murdoch pauses to see if Panzer will defy him. ‘If I hear you’ve a job on and we don’t get our tax, I’ll be paying you a visit. Got it?’

      ‘Sure.’

      Murdoch’s attention returns to Ructions. Both men try to outstare the other. Murdoch breaks first. He looks out the window before returning his gaze to Ructions. ‘Colm, were we tailed?’

      ‘I don’t think so.’

      Murdoch looks about to see if there are any close-circuit cameras in the building. There are. One of the heavies, reading the signs, puts his hand in his waistband as if to pull out a gun.

      Ructions’ eyes concentrate on Murdoch’s nose. I’ll lockjaw on to that big fuckin’ beak before your pups whack me, asshole.

      Two uniformed policemen enter the shopping area. Murdoch shakes his head and the heavy withdraws his hand.

      Tapping Ructions’ cheeks, Murdoch smiles. ‘Panzer, bring your Rottweiler to heel, or I will.’ Murdoch gets up and walks away. He turns, rubs his belly, and says, ‘Oh, and thanks for that snack. It hit the spot.’

      Ructions’ eyes follow Murdoch and his comrades as they get into their car. It pulls around past the window and stops. Murdoch stares out the passenger-side window at Ructions before waving on the driver.

      ‘You shouldn’t annoy him,’ Panzer says. ‘It’s not good business.’

      ‘He’s easily annoyed. I never opened my mouth.’

      ‘You could’ve been more diplomatic.’

      ‘You mean I should’ve grovelled to him?’

      Panzer winces. ‘Ructions, we’ve got to—’

      Ructions’ face looks like a red-hot boil that is about to burst. ‘I don’t crawl to the likes of that bastard, Panzer. And when we’re on the subject – fuck him – and fuck his tax. Who the fuck does he think he is to tax us? I’d—’

      ‘All right! I hear you!’ Panzer snaps. Ructions retreats behind his wall of silence again. ‘Look, Ructions,’ Panzer says in a more even tone, ‘I’m gonna be out the guts of a quarter of a mill before this thing kicks off …’ Panzer holds up one finger. ‘Before one single pound coin comes back. So I need you to be with me one hundred per cent. If you’re not, then fuck off now before I lay out the money.’

      Ructions feels genuine contrition. ‘I’m with you all the way, Panzer. Count on me.’

      Panzer grabs Ructions’ cheeks in the palm of his hands and pulls his face close to his. ‘Son, if we have to shovel shit, we shovel shit together – not because we fear the IRA – but because it’s good tactics.’

      Once more Ructions opts for silence; he wouldn’t know how to shovel shit.

      ‘But you are right about one thing.’

      ‘I am?’

      ‘Yeah. We’re paying tax to nobody. Fuck them all, the greedy bastards.’

      Ructions smiles. ‘I’m starving. Fancy a hamburger?’

      SIX

      In Dublin, Finbarr sits on the wooden window ledge, gazing out at a long back garden that is surrounded on all sides by fir trees. Ennio Morricone’s ‘Gabriel’s Oboe’ from The Mission plays on the radio. ‘Benzo’ Mullins leans against a furry animal skin that adorns the back of a cream sofa. His feet are resting on a matching pouffe. The drug dealer’s eyes are closed and his right hand waves an invisible baton. Beside Benzo is Ian ‘Twenty Bellies’ McClure, rubbing his Uzi sub-machine gun with a cloth.

      Finbarr speculates whether a cut-throat razor had been used to give Benzo his ‘Glasgow smile’. He reckons that the scars at the corners of his mouth are each about an inch long. Involuntarily, he strokes the sides of his own mouth with his thumb and index finger.

      Geek O’Reilly does not take drugs, but he knows that Finbarr has a nose for coke, so he invites him to sample the goods. Finbarr comes over to the glass coffee table, bends down and, using a rolled-up ten-euro note as a funnel, snorts a line of coke. He throws back his head.

      ‘Well?’ Geek asks.

      The innocuous grin on Finbarr’s face soon turns into a full-blown smile. ‘It’s good stuff.’

      Benzo stands up, walks towards Geek, puts one hand on his shoulder and points a finger at the kitchen. ‘That mule is carrying an awful lot of Charlie. Now, tell me you’re going to look after her, coz the minute she walks out of here, she and Charlie are your responsibility.’

      ‘It’s all sorted,’ Geek says.

      ‘How are they getting up to Belfast?’

      ‘That’s my concern.’

      Benzo makes an appealing face. ‘Indulge me.’

      ‘Like I said, how Charlie reaches Belfast is my concern.’

      Benzo nods. Twenty Bellies, sub-machine gun in hand, stands up. ‘That’s okay, but terms still have to be agreed.’

      ‘Of course,’ Geek says.

      ‘You get a month’s credit.’

      ‘No problem.’

      ‘Ahh!’

      Geek remains unmoved by Benzo’s outburst. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks soberly.

      ‘I hate those fuckin’ words! Every cunt that tells me there’ll be no problem ends up being the fuckin’ problem.’

      ‘Hey!’ Geek snaps, ‘I’m no cunt.’

      ‘I didn’t mean it like—’

      ‘When you call me a cunt, you call my boss a cunt, and he takes exception to being called a cunt.’

      Benzo nods slowly. ‘No disrespect intended, Geek. You’re no cunt, and neither is my good friend Panzer—’

      ‘What a strange name,’ Geek says with a glint in his eye. ‘I can’t say I know anyone by that name.’

      Unruffled by the sudden spike in tension, Benzo strokes the scar at the right side of his mouth. ‘You’ve got your ways of doing things and I’ve got mine, and business is business. I want my two hundred large by this time next month. No excuses, no sob stories. I really don’t give an elephant’s fart if your boss is down the bury hole and you’re lying on top of him. I want my poke. And if the gear’s caught, I still get my poke.’

      ‘Are you finished?’ Geek says.

      Benzo whispers in Geek’s ear. ‘The General had a saying: “familiarity is the slippery slope to bad judgement”. This way, nobody can say they didn’t know the score if one of the boys has to blow them away.’

      ‘My boss has a saying,’ Geek says. ‘“Don’t