Powder Wars (11 page)

7

Caesar's Palace

Meanwhile, back on the doors Paul was embroiled in an endless round of gangster violence as the battle for control of Liverpool's bloody and brutal clubland raged on. It was 1976. Change was in the air. Disco was invading the dance floors. Punk rock was kicking off. Chicken-in-the-basket cabaret was fighting to hold its own. In Liverpool, a new and exciting youth trend was taking root.

Fuelled by Liverpool Football Club's success in Europe, fans had taken to wearing expensive training shoes ‘zapped' from exotic sports shops in Italy, Switzerland and Germany. The scally or football casual was born, the bane of door teams across the land. That year there was also a heatwave. Society was restless. Like a fresh wound, an unnerving undercurrent of panic meandered through the nation's collective psyche.

Old institutions were being affronted, insulted and torn down. The underworld was not insulated from this cultural upheaval. New gangs were growing stronger, tearing up the rule book and challenging the old order. As Paul gently expanded his own influence on the nightclub scene he was locked into a war of attrition, fighting on two fronts with old enemies and the young bucks alike.

The Oslo moved from the rundown Dock Road area to a more prestigious and lucrative town-centre location. Paul took over the door on several other clubs including one called the Beachcomber, and when a new three-tier dance-floor-on-every-level club called Caesar's Palace opened, it wasn't long before Paul had muscled in on the action. Business was good, but it came at a price.

PAUL: The punks were sound, in all fairness. No trouble from them at all. Their clobber was truly outlandish, knowmean? Mad kecks, kilts and all of that. Some of the lads couldn't get over them, knowmean? We was wearing flares and shiny bomber jackets and all of that so we thought we were sound.

A lot of folk thought the punks were hell bent on trouble and that, just 'cos of what they wore – razor blades on their heads and that – but the way I seen it, the punks just came in my clubs for a good time, not for meddling with fellers like my good self and the lads, so it was sound, as far as I was concerned. Did not half-mind some of their tunes, mind you, too. The Sex Pistols and The Clash and all of that. Used to loiter around the top floor when those tunes came on, to be truthful, just to have a listen.

In the mid '70s a new club came to prominence in Liverpool. Caesar's Palace was a bit sleeker than the other clubs, a bit aspirational, if you will. It was a new club for a new era, with Mrs Thatcher coming into play and all that carry on. It was half the super club of its day. There were three floors, each with its own entrance.

On the ground floor there was a gay disco run by a flamboyant queg called Sadie. He was known as the Queen Bee and the bar became known as the Queen's Club. Not that I'm cake myself like – that does go without saying that does, in all honesty – but they were an all right crowd, knowmean? No gip, no nothing. Is right, the quegs.

On the middle floor there was the actual Caesar's Palace nightclub, for your discerning '70s groovers, knowmean? And on the top floor was the Swinging Apple where all the punks went. Also there was a little bar called Caesar's in the upstairs, in like a little living-room bit. Needless to say, and it does go without saying by now, in total fairness, my good self was taxing all three floors of Caesar's Palace, without prejudice, to death. Full stop.

I got my foot in the door at first by offering the owners protection. I used to go in there and chat with the owners and sort out any problems with big gangsters who were coming in. Anyone leaning on them. Come and see your Uncle Paul, knowmean? And I would lean on them and the problem would normally disappear. Then I formally took over the door, and as well as the gangsters, I had to deal with the normal punters running amok as well.

As well as the punks I noticed that a few of the younger lads coming in had started to dress a bit different. Especially off've a Saturday night, after the match. They caught my eye this crew, with their distinctive dress and that. More often than not they wore green Peter Storm cagoules and tight kecks and that. Some of them looked half cake with their big, mad floppy wedges and so on. And I used to buzz off them and ask them if they were here to go in the gay bar and that. But they were nasty bastards, this crowd, from Gerrard Gardens, and the Bull Ring and Scotty. Cutters, they were, knowmean? Stanley knives and all of that business, so you had to watch them. Luckily enough they insisted on wearing trainees. So it was one of them when a crew of these scallies turned up, trying to blag in and that: ‘Sorry lads. Not today. No trainees and that. Can't help you, knowmean?'

Not that I was arsed, having to deal with these wayward youths and that. Was just that there was enough trouble in the club anyway, from villains and all too. I was having trouble with all of the major Liverpool crime families – the Lambs, the Hughsies, etc. All on my case for dough and one thing and another. But the Ungi crew were still causing me major blues. Would this crowd let it go? Would they fuck. Even though they were just little skirmishes, glassings and that, they could escalate into big, mad gangster wars if you weren't careful, and we had too much to lose not to be careful, knowmean?

One Saturday night I was on the door giving it loads to this crew of snarling urchins trying to get in: ‘Not today, lads. Even if you take your Addi fucking Dassler off you are not getting in my club . . .' etc.

At about half ten the bell goes from the second floor in the club. Joey Ungi, the well-known Liverpool up-and-coming community leader, is kicking off at the club. Did not need this one bit tonight, la, it being chocca and that and all kind of heads popping in to pay tribute and that. So I just bounces up there, gets hold of the cunt and throws him down the stairs. Out of my club. End of. Straight back to teasing the Ordinary-to-Chelsea types who were now very nicely rising to the occasion. Throwing bottles and that at the lads on the door. Pure pack of hyenas, this crowd were.

After I sorted the scallies out I went and had a word with the owner and asked him why the Ungis were kicking off. He told me that they were tapping him for money, straightforward protection and that. So it's a bit more serious than I originally figured. At about midnight I fucked off round the club for a mooch and that. At about half past 12 a big team of these Ungis steam into the club, do the two doormen on the door downstairs and proceed to run pure amok. Is there any need?

They find the owner, a feller called David Tonner, and smash a pint pot into his head and do him in good style. Head's done in, literally. To be fair, it's one of those big, heavy, old-fashioned glasses and he's on the floor with a fractured skull. Serious, la. I runs down into the milieu and Joey Ungi is just standing there, it's his fucking team, knowmean? There's no back-up for me so I'm thinking that I'm just going to front it out,
Men Who Would Be Kings
-style. Hopefully force the cunts to fuck off.

One of them takes a run at me and hits me over the head with a claw hammer. Fucking killed it did, but I just stood there, blood gushing all over the show. He tried to have another go at me, but I moved a touch and connected a dig onto him. The lad panicked and threw the hammer right at my head and ran. It hit me and that purely killed as well, but at least he was disarmed and I was still standing, despite a big fuck off gash on my head.

From nowhere I get a tyre lever on my head as well. But I don't go down. Fucking angry, I was by then. I starts to grab them one by one and do them in. By myself I battered five or six of them. They had knives and bars and all manner of hardware but still they were going down – no back answers. Joey Ungi could not believe it. He's stood at the door overseeing the massacre of his top boys by yours truly on his todd and he can't get over it. Sickener, it was for him. It worked, though. Soon this team were getting on their toes. The busies were no doubt on their way. Joey Ungi is still standing there saying: ‘Anyone says anything and you're fucking dead.'

Who does he think he is?
Shane
or what? I replies back: ‘Go and fuck yourself, you fucking prick.'

And with that he gets off and the party's over. Not the maddest go-around of all time, but certainly one that had to be dealt with, as soon as. Had to correct their bad manners pronto, in all fairness. If I let that go, next week they'd be looking to have the door off've me, no messing around and muscle in on my action. There were also wider issues – all manner of beauts would be looking to have my good self off, if I give this crowd a walkover. No doubt the affair would be all over the fucking clubland bongos by now. No amount of fucking fishwife-gangster gossips would be relishing this little caper and its implications of my imminent downfall. So I plans to execute the only option open to me – to do them in, totally, on the morrow.

First things first. I goes the ozzie, gets my 20 stitches for the gash and gets back to the club early doors. It's ten bells, the cleaners have just arrived. I can hear the in-and-out drone of a Hoover somewhere in the bowels of the club. The place stinks of beer-soaked carpets and ciggies, but I love that smell, by the way, so it's sound. I bells one of the lads and tells him to get in sharpish to give me a sitrep. He tells me that the owner has got a fractured skull and is still in ozzie and the two doormen are in the same ozzie with bruises and all that carry on. The owner was in a critical condition and he ended up staying in intensive care for two weeks.

I'm half-thinking of putting a call-out on these wretched Ungsters once and for all, and having be done with them, totally. But then I'm thinking that will lead to a full-blown skirmish, shooters, serious bloodletting and untold, knowmean? Put the whole caboodle in bulk, that would. That in turn would give the busies a green light to turn the likes of my good self over, which I could totally do without at the mo, by the way. I was setting up a new legit business – a waste-disposal business, tipper wagons and all of that – and I was lying low trying to keep a low profile, trying to put all my energy into that. I'd even laid off the robbing for a few months, to keep the busies purely off my case while I got all my ducks in a row.

On top of that, I couldn't afford to bring it ontop for the Billy Grimwoods and Johnny Nashs of this world. Plunging the whole nightclub underworld into a mini civil war would put their little arrangement at risk, and that income stream was purely sacred at the end of the day. Too many salaries riding on it, knowmean? Much as I'd like to do it, the consequences of mindless violence might be self-defeating. Nash would be right up on the rattler if it kicked off, demanding answers from my good self as to why there were teams of uncouth northerners fighting each other in the street and interfering with his wages. So all in all I was looking for a two-way solution here – a face-saving outro that would make me look good and not lead to all-out mayhem. Easier said than done in this game, believe you me. I got my thinking cap on. Later that night Dave Dicko floats in with a shooter. Clean. No history. No numbers. Untraceable.

‘If you want, I can slip you this . . . and you can pop Joey now. End of. No back answers. Is right kidder. You know you've got to.'

I was half tempted, to be truthful, but this one required half a think through before it came to cold-blooded doorstep take outs. Which is what it would have meant, by the way. The fucking lot of them. Then Johnny One Eye, Ronnie Mellor's son, says that events were moving apace. Breathless, he arrives at the club and says he's just had a phone call off the Ungis and they want a sit-down.

At first, I told them to fuck off. The Ungis knew it was coming ontop for them. They'd sent one of their boys, a feller called McGorry, to the ozzie to check on the owner, to make sure he wasn't going to die. Clumsily, he tried to cut a deal with the owner's people there and then to smooth things over and that. The Ungis were desperate because the owner's partner, a very rich businessman who owned a mini oil refinery on the Dock Road, a total straight-goer, was putting pressure on the busies to find the attackers.

The next night the Ungis sent their top emissary, a feller called Tony Murray who they trusted as a negotiator, to the club to have a wordwith me. Tosee how the land lies with YT. He kept following me round the club, asking if he could have a word and set up a meet and that. He just got fucked off. I was going to whack him there and then. Plug the cunt in his temple and put his body in the Mersey just to send out a message. I had to walk away from him to stop myself from doing it. Dave Dicko talked me out of it and told Murray to leave well alone.

The next day the Ungis phoned Johnny again. For a sit-down. One of their younger members of the family had been nicked for the twatting me with a hammer. His name was Ronnie Stephen Ungi. He was only 17 and they'd charged him with maliciously wounding me. After thinking about it, when they phoned back, I told Johnny One Eye to tell them ‘Yeah!' to a meet.

Why not? I figured. If it's a straightener, I'm laughing – 'cos the poor kid Joey will be going down and will be going to sleep. So that's allday. If they want to zap me, then that's allday, as well, 'cos I'll give them a run for their money and zap them back to boot. But I was half-hoping deep down that they just wanted a chat, say sorry and that, so we could all get on with making dough again.

Of course, I'd have to make a big to-do about it for appearance's sake, verbal them to death and that, but that would solely be for public consumption, knowmean? To reassure the doubtfire fishwives just who was still ontop. Maybe even slap one of them for good measure, but that would be still be classed as a truce, to be fair, seeing the enormity of the liberty that they had been.

8

Cortina Crew

Paul was set for a showdown with his enemies. But like many of these workaday meetings, they were more anti-climax than St Valentine's Day Massacre.