Scott Tuplin

This piece was something I started writing back in 2005. It's about three unexperienced brothers attempting to secure their hold in London's criminal underworld with the help of a returning older brother who was a real face back in the 80's. I don't know why I ditched it, because it seemed to be going well back then. I've just found this file on the back-up disc that I have kept for years, and I want to know if it has the potential I thought it had back in 2005 before I pick up where I left off.

Janey Smith was late for her class. The night before, she had been out drinking with a couple of girls from the town and the "after party" had gotten a little crazy. There'd been a lot more drink and a few drugs, and even though she enjoyed her dabbles it took a lot out of her. Now she was tired and her aching body couldn't handle such an early wake up. She had hurried to get showered and dressed and now she was collecting her books together and rushing out the front door. As so, she did not see the black Mercedes parked down the road, and she did not see it follow her all the way toward the bus stop. She did not see it until it pulled in front of her, blocking her path. When she saw the masked man climb out the back seat her face flashed with fear and she turned to run away. The man launched forward, grabbed hold of her and dragged her toward the car, kicking and screaming. Feisty as she was, Janey Smith was no match for the grown man as he bundled her into the back of the car and she was certainly no match for the blow to the head that followed. As she drifted into unconsciousness, she felt the mans clammy, cold hands against her wrists, wrapping something around and pulling it tight.

Jerry Hall was a man to be feared. It was strange that he should be so feared in London when he had spent much of his criminal career in Chicago, where he was born and bred. In the short six years he had been in London, he had worked hard to get his name known and to give people a reason to find out about his past. Now he was feared and hated for it rather being respected, but it still got him what he wanted. Some would say that it was Jerry who carried Charlie, and not the other way around even though it was Charlie who had spent money, blood and contacts to get Jerry out of the hands of the Chicago police and into London. Jerry never encouraged the rumours of him having control over the ruthless Charlie Smith and his empire, nor did he discouraged them. He let beliefs be beliefs and he worked his own profit whilst keeping Charlie happy by doing the odd small job. One of those small jobs was to collect protection money from a few Soho clubs every Friday. This made it easy for Benny and Chris to find him when the call came through from Billy. They sat in the last club of Jerry's rounds and waited for him to show up. They watched him enter the staff room and emerge minutes later with a briefcase. They followed him out and over to his car. Chris kept back as Benny approached him. When Jerry saw the man stood by his car, he smiled and shook his head in slight disbelief.
"Benny."
He said, throwing the briefcase into the boot and slamming it shut.
"Jerry. Billy'd like a word with you."
Benny said, as Chris stepped into view and pulled back his coat to reveal a cattle prod that he wouldn't hesitate to use.
"We can do it the easy, if you'd like. Please?"
Benny added, looking hopefully at Jerry. The American nodded and flashed the palm of his hands to show that he would cooperate. Together, the three men made their way over to Benny's car. But first impressions could be decieving, and as soon as the Hart's let their guard down Jerry would show them why he was so feared.

Michael Keller was widely known as a nutter, which is why many of the firms found it hard to accept him as a fixer. He’d once set up a meet between John Marshal’s South-End boys and the Brixton coons, then a week later he’d ploughed through Brixton with a few guys and a few shotguns. Everything was profit to Michael. To him, spending a few bullets was just a minor obstacle between him and the dough he’d be getting to spend those bullets. There was nothing could stand between Michael Keller and more money. He’d do anything for anybody, as long as Queen Elizabeth’s face was waiting for him at the other end. Even so, he was shocked to find Jamie Hart stood on his doorstep when he got home from his day job. He and Jamie knew each other from way back, before the streets were flooded with coons, chinks, Jews, Greeks and Lord knows how many other foreigners, but Jamie had never used Michael for his “extra” skills as a fixer. They had both worked for Bob The Breaker in the eighties, when they were just wet-eared little punks from the slums. Since then, the Hart brothers had made quite the name for himself, and their business was not the kind you ever needed a fixer for. If Jamie was on Michael’s doorstep now, he was there for only one thing; information, and even though Michael had known this man since they were teenagers, he hoped to Christ he had whatever information was wanted from him.
“Evening Jamie, what brings you up this end?”
He tried to sound friendly, a part of him was actually quite pleased to see his old friend, but he was curious as to what Jamie craved so much that he had waited on the doorstep having no idea when Michael would return to his home. Jamie grinned, gave an exaggerated shiver and dug his hands into the pockets of the trench coat he was wearing.
“Offer an old pal inside, Mikey? Its freezing out here.”
That should have been Michael’s first hint that something was wrong. It wasn’t all that cold. Certainly not cold enough to warrant a shiver such as the one Jamie had just given. In spite of his gut feeling, however, Michael locked his car and ushered Jamie toward the house. Jamie shook his head, insisting that Michael go first. That should have been the second sufficient hint. In fact, Michael’s brain was still working over time to figure out what the fuck was going on when he slipped his key into the front door lock. He suddenly realised what was happening just as Jamie struck him about the head with the cricket bat he’d concealed under the trench coat. As Michael blacked out, he cursed himself.
Should’ve fucking known… Jamie never wears a trench coat.

Benny and Chris had been waiting only a few minutes when Billy arrived. He grinned at Jerry Hall, shook his hand and put on his best hospitality face. Even though he was eager to find out where Charlie was, he was going to take his time. From the look on Jerry's face, however, it was obvious he wasn't going to give his knowledge up lightly, nor was he going to entertain Billy's hospitality acts.
"Its been a long time, Jerry. Four years, right?"
Billy was referring to the time when he was the only Hart brother running the streets of London, and the tension between himself and Jerry was considerably less then present times. Jerry's continued allegiance to Charlie and the spawning of Hart's in the criminal aspect had put an end to that mutual relationship. Now they were forever competing for control of drug trafficking in the city.
"Yeah, about four years."
Jerry replied, watching Benny and Chris in the corner of his eye as they circled round to either side of him.
"Well," Billy began, before sighing heavily and opening his arms out before him in a slightly apologetic way, "We've got history, Jerry, so I ain't going to fuck you around. Tell me where I can find Charlie, and I'll let you on your way."
Of course, he was bluffing. He couldn't run the risk of letting Jerry go on the chance that he'd warn Charlie before Billy could reach him. He was hoping that, given this oppurtunity, Jerry would realise how doused his potential was whilst under Charlie's control. The American, however, did not realise this. Instead, he realised that he had absolutely no respect for Charlie Smith. He hated the man.
"He has a place in Mayfair. Opposite the White Saints church. There's a huge stone Tiger on top of the porch, you can't miss it."
He told them, stifling the hint of humour on his face. Billy nodded and felt a surge of self-shame as he pulled a gun from his jacket pocket and pointed it at his old friend. Jerry seemed less shocked than Billy, he may even have looked slightly amused.
"You going to shoot me, Billy?"
He asked, his lips producing a shapely grin. Billy took a length of rope from his pocket and tossed it at Jerry's feet.
"Tie your hands up."
He ordered, thumbing back the hammer on his gun to show Jerry that yes, he would shoot if he had to. Jerry chuckled, bent down to get the rope, and began wrapping it around his wrists. Only then did Billy flick the hammer off and conceal the gun, but he should have known better. Jerry lunged forward, swinging his clenched fists and hitting Billy in the side of the throat. Benny grabbed Jerry by the hair and held him still as Chris poked him in the ribs with the cattle prod. Jerry's back arched as an excruciating pain shot through his body. He felt his bladder loosen, but he was in no state to control it. He fell to the floor and felt the warm presence of urine down the inside of his leg.
Fuck. Forgot about that cattle prod.

Charlie was deep in conversation with one of his best headhunters when his phone rang. He ignored it at first, letting his answering machine pick it up, but it rang again straight away. Cursing, he snatch up the receiver and placed it to his ear.
"What?"
He snapped down the line.
"Charlie, me old china. Someone missing an American mobster?"
Came a cockney voice, making Charlie freeze in his chair for a few seconds.
"Listen to me, you little prick! Whoever the fuck you are, I'm going to find you, and when I do I'm -"
Charlie's words were cut short by a shotgun blast and the screams of Jerry Hall.
"You listening now?" The cockney voice sneered, "You better have those deeds to Billy Hart's club for when he turns up at your place in about an hour. If you don't have them by then, your boy Jerry'll be all over News at Ten, got it?"
There was a click and the line went dead. Charlie hung up his own phone and reached for a bottle of whiskey. Slowly but surely, he was beginning to regret his moves against the Hart brothers.

Michael Keller couldn't feel his fingers. He knew the ropes around his wrists had been pulled too tight when he had been tied up. He also knew it wouldn't be long before his hands were starved of blood too much to be useful again. Fortunately, someone else in the room seemed to know this too. His bonds were cut and his blindfold removed. It took his eyes a while to adjust to the light, and then he saw Jamie Hart stood over him.
"Evening Mikey. Feeling ok?"
Jamie's voice was full of warmth and friendliness. Michael almost forgot he'd been kidnapped.
"I could use a drink."
He replied, shuffling around to try and find a comfortable position. Jamie smiled and handed Michael a silver liquor flash. The man drank a little, revolted and spat the liquor out.
"I meant a fucking Irish drink."
He said, handing the flask back. Jamie laughed and drank a little of his favoured beverage.
"You always were the stronger drinker, Mike."
It was true. Michael's half-Irish heritage had wielded him an extremely able drinker, and he'd only drink the best Irish whiskey. He'd also inherited his father's lack of patience.
"Whats this all about, Jamie?"
He was, understandably, a little pissed at being hit over the head with a cricket bat and bundled into the back of a car boot. Jamie's eyes turned cold, and sudden;y every friendly memory he had of Michael was gone. This was business now, nothing more.
"I think you know what this is about, Mike. McCarne seemed to think it was us who offed his boy. What's more, he seemed to distinctly remember that the man who told him we offed his boy was you."
Michael looked shocked. Of course, he had heard that McCarne was accusing the Hart's of Patrick's death, but he had no idea that his name was being passed around as the instigator of the rumour. He and McCarne were not the best of friends but, as a fixer, Michael had gotten much business from McCarne over the years, all of which had been successful.
"Me? I have as much an idea of who killed Patrick as you do."
His words were strong, but fear shone through as Jamie reached into his jacket and produced a hatchet. Friends were friends until times like this. Michael, in Jamie's eyes, should've known better than to blame something as serious as Patrick McCarne's death on the Hart's. But Jamie wouuld come to regret trusting his enemies over old friends, as soon as he discovered that Michael Keller had not even seen Roy McCarne since the death of his son.

Billy and Liam were both nervous, but it only showed on the face of the younger brother. Billy had been to too many meets like the current one that he had learned, quite a time ago, never to show them your emotions. They stood in the living room of a fairly large house in Mayfair, with a large stone Tiger out front, belonging to Charlie Smith. Charlie himself was sat in a large chair in the window, smoking a large cigar and watching football on a large television. He hadn’t said a word since the Hart brothers had walked in fifteen minutes earlier. In that time, they’d seen five failed goal attempts from Charlie’s team. The older man finally switched it off when his team was scored against.
“Well,” He began, turning toward Billy and Liam, “Seems you boys stayed true to your word. I remember you, Billy, standing there a couple of days ago, threatening all the different aspects of my lucrative empire. And you, Liam, telling me ‘how it was and how its going to be’.”
He grinned and studied the brothers for a moment before continuing,
“I must admit, I thought you lads were all mouth. Seems I stupidly underestimated the wrath of the Hart brothers. I expected some broken windows and bones. Maybe a few burning buildings but no, you boys went all the way. The question is, just what am I going to do about this?”
Liam shifted nervously at these words, but Billy stood steady. Charlie wasn’t going to murder two people in his home. He wasn’t that stupid. Maybe if he knew that the mystery kidnap victim was in fact his daughter, he would have no qualms about slaughtering them both on his Persian rug, and then going off to take care of Jamie and Anthony too. As it was, he was without doubt that his daughter was safe at Oxford. There were a few minutes of silence as Charlie thought over his options. Then he rubbed his hands together and got to his feet, grinning widely.
“Tell you what. You tell me where Jerry Hall and the other victim is, and I’ll give you your club back.”
He said, as if it were the deal of the century. Billy and Liam said nothing.
“Plus, of course, the money I’ve earned from it.”
He added quickly, to which Billy nodded and Liam smirked. Now Billy spoke, his voice still a little coarse from the blow he had taken to the throat from Jerry Hall.
“You sign over the deeds, and I’ll give you addresses.”
Charlie was fast to refuse with a shake of his head, and there were a few more moments of silence as he thought.
“You give me this mystery victim, I’ll sign the deeds and hand them over, and then you give me Jerry.”
To this Billy nodded, as he knew Jerry was important to Charlie. He’d sign deeds for the American. Without Jerry Hall, the undisputed boss from Chicago (well, until now), Charlie’s empire would crumble. If Jerry was the ultimate fist, then Charlie was the muscles that worked it. Billy told Charlie of the house in Whitechapel, where they were holding the unidentified ‘employee’ of his, then told him they’d be back in four hours to get the deeds. With their business done, Billy and Liam quickly left, leaving Charlie to go find his ‘employee’ in the flooded basement. But none of the Hart brothers were expecting Charlie to find little Ms. Smith with a bullet in her face. It was quite ironic that Janey had been screaming all day without anyone hearing, and now half of Whitechapel heard the cries of Charlie as he cradled his dead daughter in his arms.

Billy and Liam had been back at the bar for an hour and a half when Jamie smashed through the doors and went straight for the Jack Daniels. He guzzled a quarter of the bottle before speaking,
“We are fucked. Charlie Smith just brought his daughters body out that place in Whitechapel. Bullet hole in her face.”
Liam frowned, but said nothing. Billy calmly finished his beer and picked up the phone, punching in a mobile number. Chris’s voice answered the other end.
“Yeah?”
“Chris, it’s Billy. Is Jerry still there?”
“What are you on about? Course he’s still here. We tied him to the bloody radiator.”
“Yes, I know that Chris. Just check.”
A few minutes of silence and Chris’s voice returned.
“Fuck me, Billy, we’ve got some big problems.”
“Is he still there?”
“Still here? He’s all over the fucking place.”

Charlie hadn’t said anything since his men had brought him home. He’d sat in his chair with the same glass of Scotch for over an hour, hoping that the Hart’s would dare come back for the deeds after what they’d done to his poor Janey. Of course, they hadn’t. If they were smart, they’d be on the next plane to China. Janey’s body had been taken down to a funeral parlour by the Thames, the owner of which owed them a few favours. Charlie swore he’d be calling in four more favours before he’d bury his daughter. Four favours in the shape of coffins, each with the name of a Hart on it.

__________________
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
- E.L. Doctorow

Scott Tuplin

No comments from anybody?

__________________
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
- E.L. Doctorow