That man knows everyone and everything. Besides all that, the bloke needs to know who’s been poking their nose into his little arrangement.’
Eric took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Ya ain’t going alone are ya, Mikey?’
With a cocky wink, Mike replied, ‘Izzy is a ruthless Jew, but, bruv, he has no grief with me. However, Harry Harman, that little grass, will most certainly be in his bad books. Izzy set up our arms racket with the Lanigans. All he asked for was a cut in return, along with no fuck-ups. But now, he’ll see the Harmans as trying to ruin his reputation. That man won’t sit back and take it, not all the while he has a skullcap to pray with.’
Within an hour, Mike was parked up behind the old jeweller’s place just off the Old Kent Road, well away from Izzy’s manor in Tottenham. The shop was just a front; the main business was conducted at the rear of the building. Mike stepped out of his car. He made sure his jacket covered the belt that held his handgun and knocked three times at the back door. He paused and knocked another two times, following the code that Izzy insisted upon.
Slowly, the door opened, and there, taking up the doorframe, was Quasimodo, whose real name was Norman. He acquired his nickname due to his size and an ugly, twisted face that only a blind grandmother could love.
‘All right, Quasi?’
There was no response, apart from a flick of his head to indicate that Mike could go in.
Passing the stacked tatty boxes and a rancid toilet without a door, Mike grinned to himself. He never failed to be amazed that after all the shit and smell from the entrance, there could be such a huge transformation. They went through the secure heavy metal door that led into Izzy’s so-called office. Row upon row of books, housed on highly polished mahogany shelves, surrounded an enormous solid wood antique desk. But the central feature was a Persian rug. Anyone who entered had to remove their shoes before stepping onto it. Mike followed the rule, and with one eye on Izzy, he flicked off his footwear and walked towards the desk. Izzy hadn’t even looked up; he was sitting on a high-backed mahogany chair and staring at a piece of jewellery through an eyepiece. Still ignoring him, he waved his hand for Mike to take a seat.
‘Seventeenth century, this piece. The scag heads around these parts have no idea of the value of what they steal for me.’
He removed the eyepiece from his face and gently placed it on the desk along with the brooch. Clasping his hands together, he leaned back. ‘I was wondering when you were going to visit me. Let me see. It’s been three days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes since the establishment turned over your lock-up.’ His voice sounded relaxed; Mike knew, though, that it was just the calm before the storm.
‘Yes, Izzy, and it’s been forty-eight hours since I’ve discovered the fucking culprit who grassed me.’
Izzy, a middle-aged man with piercing black eyes and thick white hair, in the classic slicked-back style to match his long beard, slowly nodded. ‘You know, Mike, people swear when they have no other word to use. Anyway, I’m assuming you wanted to establish the facts before you showed up at my door?’
Mike sat as cool as a cucumber, not even blinking, his eyes firmly fixed on Izzy’s face, although he knew only too well that Izzy was more than capable of pulling out a shooter and blowing him through the walls into the greengrocer’s next door.
‘No, Izzy, I came because I wanted to pick your brains, not ’cos I owe you or anyone an explanation. You had a business deal with me. Five grand to pair me up with a buyer for my guns, that’s all the deal was. You got your money, and I got the name of the buyers. That, Izzy, is where our business was concluded.’
Izzy slapped his hands on the desk and stood up. Mike looked him over. He was dressed in a suit, complete with waistcoat and collarless shirt. A gold watch hung from his waistcoat pocket and three heavy gold chains swung from his neck. A distorted smirk showed his gold back teeth as he glared at Mike.
‘You, Mike, are forgetting a very important fact. I have a reputation and that means more to me than money.’
Mike laughed out loud. ‘Never, Izzy. I don’t believe it.’
‘You and everybody else think I’m all about money, but you’re wrong. My family and my honour mean far more. So, listen to me.’ He walked around the desk and lowered himself to sit on the corner as he leaned close to Mike’s face. ‘You give me the names of the grasses, and I’ll make sure they don’t see their next bowl of porridge. The Lanigans want more than ammunition. That’s just small fry. I’m in negotiations for bigger wares, and that, dear boy, is why you need to keep me well and truly in the loop. Now, I want names!’
Mike shook his head. ‘Nah, Izzy. Let me deal with it because it’s just got fucking personal. The little firm that grassed me up also killed Staffie’s dog. I assume that was a warning.’
Izzy rose from the desk and pulled a cigar from his top pocket and lit the end, puffing away with his back to Mike. ‘A dog, you say? And a warning? A warning for what?’
Mike realized it sounded stupid, but, nevertheless, like Izzy’s honour, it meant a lot to him. But it wasn’t so much about the dog – that was bad enough – it was the upset it had caused his friend.
Just as Mike was about to explain, the side door opened and in breezed Zara Ezra, Izzy’s daughter. In her early thirties, this tall, slender woman had a swan-like neck accentuated by a wavy multitoned bob. To Mike, she was the epitome of class and grace with an unforgiving, deadly sting in her tail. Her copper, cat-like eyes slowly blinked when she noticed Mike, yet her face remained inscrutable, with not even a trace of a gentle smile. Totally ignoring Mike, she went over to Izzy, pecked him on the cheek and pulled a wad of banknotes from one of the desk drawers.
Mike noticed how Izzy’s face had lit up when she’d walked into the room.
‘Is it all here?’
‘Yes, my darling.’
‘Good. I’ll be back at teatime. Before you say anything, I have Joshua with me.’
Mike watched her every graceful step as she left the room.
‘Nice-looking woman. Is she—’
He never got the rest of the words out of his mouth. Izzy slammed his hands down on the desk. ‘Yes! My fucking daughter.’
Mike couldn’t restrain himself from a slight smirk. He’d definitely got under Izzy’s skin.
‘I didn’t think you swore. Besides, Izzy, I was only gonna pass a compliment.’
Izzy glared with his beady eyes. ‘Anyway, were we talking about a war over a dog?’
Mike nodded heavily. ‘Yep, over a bleedin’ dog. But you and I both know that it’s a statement. So, Izzy, it seems that a little firm run by three brothers, Harry, Vinnie, and Scottie have taken serious liberties, and although we sent them a clear message via their informant, they saw fit to brutalize Staffie’s dog. And in my world, if not in yours, Izzy, that goes against the grain.’
Shaking his head, Izzy smirked. ‘You lot are nuts. Okay, you do what you need to do, but if these Harmans are not found and dealt with in the next forty-eight hours, I’ll take over, and you, Mike, will be owing me … Harmans, you say?’
Mike watched as Izzy’s fingers, which displayed a variety of rings of all shapes and styles, wiggled as if he were about to play the piano.
‘I didn’t, but you knew it was the Harmans all along, didn’t ya, Izzy?’
Izzy gave a slow, deliberate nod. ‘Yes, I just wondered how long it would take you to work that out, Mike. I’m a shrewd man. I watch and listen. I backed off and allowed you to deal with the situation. But I was testing you to see how long it would take you to be upfront and inform me of the issues. You passed that test.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Now, you have forty-eight hours, or you will be working for me.’
Mike huffed. ‘Well, that ain’t gonna happen – ever!’
Izzy