Dangerous Lady (26 page)

As did George’s erection. He lay on top of his young wife with his mouth hanging open, the telephone receiver still in his hand.

Magdalena Milano brought up her long slender arms and, putting a finger under her husband’s chin, pushed his mouth closed. She had to endure his nightly assaults, she accepted that, but she did not have to look at his false teeth and his yellow tongue.

TJje action spurred him back to life. He leapt from the bed, his flaccid penis lost in the roll of fat that was his stomach. Screaming abuse in Italian, he began to dress himself. Magdalena rolled over and closed her eyes, grateful to whoever was on the phone for cutting her husband’s sexual appetite short. When he left the house five minutes later she was asleep. .

By the time George got to his yard in Aldgate East the worst of the fires had been put out. He saw a police car and went straight to the officers standing by it.

‘I know who did this thing! It was the Ryans! They rang me up to tell me …’ His voice trailed off. Sitting in the police car was Maura Ryan.

She looked at him innocently. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Suddenly George Milano realised exactly what he was up against. His vision of usurping the Ryans’ position in London was replaced by one of his body floating in the Thames. He heard the two officers laughing. Turning from their grinning faces he went to what had once been his yard. Nearly all his vans were destroyed. As Maura watched the man’s shoulders slump inside his suit she felt a moment of pity for him. She had just ruined his business. Then her heart hardened as she reminded herself that if he had had his way the boot would be on the other foot. She got out of the police car. Her brother owned most of the officers in this area. She went to George Milano and put her hand on his shoulder.

‘I did try to warn you, Mr Milano.’

He nodded imperceptibly. ‘I know that.’

‘I’m not sorry for what happened here tonight, but I am sorry it had to come to this.’

He nodded again. She left him. Getting into her car with Tony Dooley, she went to her own yard. She would stay there for the rest of the night with Tony and a couple of his friends. If there were going to be any comebacks she

would sort that out herself as well.

Tony bought the Daily Mirror at five-thirty. The explosion in the Milanos’ yard had made the middle pages. It said that following the ramming of rival ice cream vans in Baker Street, a well-known Italian ice cream merchant’s yard had been firebombed. The police believed it was the work of another Italian family. The Italians were known to be the main distributors of ice cream in London and the surrounding areas. The story went on to describe George Milano’s father’s rise to riches. From an ice cream barrow boy in the late eighteen hundreds, he had built up the Milano Brothers business empire …

Maura, Tony and the other men laughed. They had done it! Michael took the call from George Milano at nine-fifteen. ‘Hello, Michael. It is George … George Milano. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, Georgie. Which is more than I can say for you, ain’t it?’

‘I did not realise your sister had your protection …’ His voice sounded desperate. Michael cut him off.

‘My sister has my protection, Georgie, but only when she asks for it. Whoever done that bit of business last night works for her, Georgie, not me. It’s her you’ve got to pacify.’

The line went quiet.

‘I know what you was thinking, Georgie. Chatter always gets back to the person being chattered about. I know what the word was on the street. That I was a nutter for allowing my sister to take over the creamers. But it paid off, didn’t it? She pissed all over your fireworks, didn’t she? Well, I’ll tell you again. If you wanna bargain, you do it with her.’

He replaced the telephone in its cradle, then laughed out loud. He looked at Geoffrey, and, pointing to the newspaper on his desk, said, ‘She’s a fucking girl ain’t she?’ At six-thirty that morning Maura’s workforce turned up for work. They greeted her warmly. She had not only their respect but their friendship. To Maura this was an added bonus. As she watched them sorting out their vans and stocking up, she felt a sudden pride in what she had done. They drove from the site with her watching. Then, as if all of one mind, they began to play their jingles. The noise was deafening. The Dingly Dell music was a clanging rendition of the old music hall favourite: ‘How much is that doggy in the window?’

Maura laughed out loud as she placed her hands over her ears to blot out the noise. All that day she found herself humming the tune. It was a turning point in her life. Within eighteen months she ran every site in London. Thanks to her own natural friendliness, coupled with a ruthless use of pickaxe handles and muscle men, Maura Ryan was well and truly on her way. Book Two

Pecunia non olet

(Money has no smell) - Emperor Vespasian, AD 9-79 I fear the Greeks,

even when they bring gifts - Virgil 70-19 BE

in

Chapter Fourteen

1975

Roy walked into the Lotus House Restaurant in Dagenham. It was three-thirty in the morning, 1 December 1975. He walked up to the tiny bar in the corner of the restaurant and banged on the counter. He frowned. Mr Wong was usually there to greet him, offer him a complimentary drink and pay him his money. Instinctively, Roy’s hand went into his jacket, to the gun that he kept there. With his free hand he banged once more on the counter.

‘Oi, anyone at home!’

He sensed rather than heard two men step from the shadows of the dimly lit room. He turned to face them.

‘Mr Ryan? Mr Roy Ryan?’ A short swarthy man stood there smiling at him - an oily smile that dripped from his face. Looking at him, Roy knew that if he got close enough the man would stink of garlic. His hand tightened on his gun. ‘You have no need of your firearm tonight, Mr Ryan. I am intending to be very nice to you. .Very friendly. I am a very generous man.’

He snapped his fingers at the large muscular young man beside him. ,;:

‘Dimitri, get Mr Ryan and myself a drink.’ As the younger man walked to the bar, the smaller one offered Roy a seat. ‘Who are you?’ His voice was careful and controlled.

‘I am Mr Dopolis. You may laugh if you want.’ He paused to allow Roy to chuckle. Roy ignored him. ‘Normally you English hoot with laughter when you hear it.’ He shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, that was my father’s name and his father’s before him.’ He smiled again. ‘I could not have changed it.’ His voice was conversational, as if they were old friends.

‘Look, Mr Dopolpolis, or whatever your name is, what do you want and how do you know who I am?’

Mr Dopolis shook his head sadly.

‘You young men! Always in a hurry!’

He snapped his fingers again and the boy brought over their drinks.

‘Please, Mr Ryan. Sit down and have a drink with me.’

Roy sat down opposite the man. Up close he realised that his first thought had been correct. Dopolis did stink of garlic.

‘Drink your whisky, Mr Ryan. We are going to have a little chat.’

Dimitri stood between the two of them and Roy noticed that he was carrying a gun. In his padded leather jacket it would have been virtually undetectable by anyone else. However, Roy was unnerved to observe that it was no ordinary handgun the youth was carrying. He would bet his last pound that the thigh-length leather the boy was wearing had a special ‘long pocket’ fitted inside it. That meant only one thing. Young Dimitri was carrying a sawn-off shotgun.

He glanced at the door, weighing up his chances of escape. Mr Dopolis laughed out loud, bringing Roy’s head round to face him again. know what you are thinking, young man.’ Dopolis held his hand up as if to stop Roy leaving. ‘You are free to

go when you have heard what I have to say. You won’t need your gun. Not tonight anyway.’

The man’s voice was cold and calculating, as if he took great pains to pronounce his words properly.

Roy leant back in his chair nonchalantly and took a long sip of the Chivas Regal Dimitri had placed in front of him. He was well aware that he was not Brain of Britain. Roy had never overestimated himself. He could work the bookies, the hostess clubs, the minding. He was also first .

in line for any armed robberies that were in the offing. Roy was the eternal heavy. That’s why he was in the Lotus House now. He was collecting the ‘rents’, the protection money. What he did not know was that Dopolis had picked him out for these very qualities. He wanted a message taken to Michael Ryan and Roy seemed to be the perfect messenger boy.

‘I want you to tell your brother something for me, Roy. May I call you Roy?’ He did not wait for an answer, but carried on as if taking everything he said for granted. ‘I want you to tell Michael that although he has run the West End satisfactorily for many years, people are getting … how shall we say? … upset at the way he has gradually taken over East London and even parts of Essex!’

He laughed as if it was all a big misunderstanding. ‘He collects the “rents” on the restaurants and bookies, not to mention the pubs and the clubs. He owns all the cab ranks. He even has the monopoly on the ice cream and hot dogs. Not forgetting that he gets a percentage of any blags that take place on the manor. Now I ask you, is that fair? My friends and I would like to know what is left for us? We want to earn a living as well. We have all joined forces, so to speak. We have only one avenue left for making money - drugs - and the blacks have always had the edge where they’re concerned.’

230

His voice became low and conspiratorial, as if Roy was his dearest and oldest friend. ‘You must tell your brother what we have been discussing. Tell him that myself and many others have joined forces. We will fight him if needs be. Tell him that we want the East End. The pubs, the clubs, the restaurants. Everything. He must make do with the West End, North London and South of the water. Surely that is enough for him? Tell him that he has my word we will not interfere with him.’

Roy burst out laughing. He sat and literally roared with laughter. Great bursting gales of merriment that rendered him incapable of talking. This man was some kind of nutter. He had to be. Everyone in the East End who was employed in a ‘fringe’ business, whether it was a jellied eel or a market stall, worked indirectly for Mickey. Even the blaggers, and they were getting more and more as the years went on, came and saw Mickey or one of his intermediaries before nipping into their local Tescos waving their sawn-offs at everyone. Now this little Greek twat wanted him to take a threatening message to Michael. He bubbled over with laughter again, forgetting the youth with his shotgun, forgetting everything except the crazy man before him.

Dopolis stared at him icily.

‘You can laugh, Mr Ryan, but I am afraid that I and my friends are very serious. Very serious indeed. As you will soon find out.’

Roy wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. ‘Listen, Cocker, Mickey has not, as you put it, muscled in on the East End. We fought for this shitheap and we won it fair and square.’ ;

The little man sat straighter in his chair. ‘Your brother -‘ he pointed at Roy - ‘firebombed a taxi rank belonging to my cousin Stavros. Only two days after your brother’s

232

funeral my cousin was crippled for life. He was so badly hurt he could not control his armies.’ Dopolis’s face was red with temper and he had flecks of spittle at the corners of his lips.

Roy interrupted him rudely.

‘Armies! What fucking armies? He couldn’t control a bumper car. He had my brother murdered!’ Roy was losing his own temper now. The last shred of fear dissolved in the face of Dopolis’s argument. Anthony’s death was still an open wound with all the Ryans.

Dopolis forced himself to remain calm. He smiled. ‘That famous Irish temper of yours … it will be your downfall one of these days. Remember this - when you are in a temper you do not think straight. Michael should have worked out an agreement with my cousin. Something that would have been satisfactory to both parties. If he had done that your brother would be alive today.’

‘Bollocks!’ Roy stood up. ‘Let me tell you something, Mr Oppodopolis or whatever your fucking name is … Mickey will rip your ears off and shove them up your arse. And he’ll smile while he’s doing it. So do yourself a favour and piss off. I’m a very busy man.’

He pushed Dimitri out of the way. ‘As for your Action Man, if you’re gonna use your weapon, do it now. You’ve been standing there like the orphan of the storm … you big prat!’ -

The boy looked at Dopolis who shook his head slowly. Roy walked through the service door into, the kitchen of the restaurant.

Mr Wong was sitting in there with his wife and daughter clutching him, frightened. His son was standing behind his father. He had recent bruises around his face. They all stared at him pathetically. Roy’s blood was up now and taking his gun from its holster he stormed back into the

Mnow.

Roy nodded. ‘Never mind about that now. Look, I’ll be back at the weekend as usual. If they come to see you before I get back here, phone me at this number.’ He took a small card out of his jacket pocket. ‘Now don’t worry. This will all be sorted out in a few days.’ He nodded to the women and walked out of the kitchen. He put his gun back in its holster. Then taking a serviette from the counter, carefully picked up the glass that Dopolis had used. Now, he thought, we’ll see how good our friends at the Met are.

He left the restaurant and went to his car. Tessa, his Doberman, was lying on the back seat asleep. She shot into action as he unlocked his car, barking and growling. Roy spoke to her gently until she calmed down. She had been lying asleep on more than sixteen thousand pounds. As the dog settled back down Roy smiled to himself. He

restaurant. These people paid protection money. The least he could do was protect them. The restaurant was empty. He walked back to the kitchen.

‘What happened?’

All four started talking at once, the mother and daughter in Cantonese. Roy put his hands over his ears and shouted: ‘SHUT UP!’ at the top of his voice. They all stopped speaking abruptly. Roy pointed to the son, Hap Ki, who spoke reasonable English, and said: ‘You tell me what happened.’