The Drop

added the other one. She didn’t thank either of us.
    ‘You don’t know when you’ll be back?’ she asked, though she already knew the answer to that stupid question.
    ‘No,’ I said through gritted teeth, my mind already on Bobby Mahoney and the reasons why he had sent his top enforcer out to the airport to bring me in. Why did he not just leave me a message or send some low-level member of the crew with a car, unless this was serious and I was somehow to blame for it? What the hell had gone wrong with the Drop? Was it light? Had Cartwright gone completely out of his mind and skimmed off the top. No, he’d have to be mad. It would be spotted immediately. So, if not that, then what?
    We waited till Laura drove away with a face like thunder, then walked over to Finney’s 4x4 and climbed in. He drove us out of the car park and away.
    I had a little over ten minutes to get to the bottom of what was going on before we were back in the city. I hung on for what seemed like an eternity then finally asked, ‘So, you going to tell me what this is all about or do I have to guess?’
    ‘I’m not s’posed to say. It’s… ’
    ‘Don’t be a total cunt.’ I was deliberately talking down to him, like he was being a complete wanker for holding out on me like this, which he was. I only had a short drive to convince him he could safely let me know what had happened. ‘I’m not going to let on, am I?’
    It was a bit of a risk talking to a man like Finney like that and he gave me a look. We both knew he could have ripped my head off my body without even breaking sweat. He was a huge guy with a barrelled chest and fists like mell hammers. His face was marked with the scars from a thousand fights, all of which I am willing to bet he won. Put it this way, I have never heard of anybody beating Finney, not once, not in the illegal, bare-knuckle boxing bouts where he came to Bobby Mahoney’s attention in the first place, not inside, when he got his ten stretch, commuted to six, and certainly not on the streets. Nobody has ever taken down Finney on the streets. He is the firm’s main muscle and I take him anywhere where there might be even a hint of trouble. People soon stop giving me jip when he walks in.
    He didn’t say anything at first, just watched the road ahead. Then finally he quietly told me, ‘It’s the Drop.’
    ‘Yeah, you said,’ I replied irritably and while I was racking my brains wondering what could possibly have gone wrong, he added, ‘It didn’t happen.’ And I am not afraid to tell you that, right then, the blood in my veins ran to ice.

TWO
    ...................................................
    B obby Mahoney has meetings in lots of different places. He has to; in the back rooms of the pubs he owns, or the spa he has a stake in, or down at the Cauldron, the first club he had before he went on to control an empire. It’s safer that way and makes it hard for the local plod or SOCA to get anything on tape. We sweep every location twice a week obviously, we’re no mugs - and Bobby Mahoney isn’t some John Gotti figure, shooting his mouth off all over Tyneside until they get enough to put him away for life. He doesn’t piss about does Bobby and it’s part of my job to make sure he never takes chances.
    I’m not too surprised when Finney tells me we are meeting at the Cauldron. It’s a sort of home from home for Bobby and I suspect he views it sentimentally, like some huge retailer who returns to his first corner shop every now and then to recall the good old days when he had nothing but naked ambition. Well, that and, in Bobby’s case, the proceeds from the robbery of an armoured car which his fledgling crew turned over back in 1973. They stormed in with stocking masks over their faces and sawn-off shotguns, which they brandished under the noses of the unarmed security guards. Those guys were paid a pittance and were hardly going to act the hero.
    That’s how you got started in those days. You’d take out a wages van to secure the funds to start you off. It was the first step on the ladder. Nowadays if we need to be more liquid we talk to venture capitalists. It’s a funny old world.
    No one but a complete numpty would take out a security van these days. There’s nothing like as much cash about for one thing, everybody gets their salary through BACS transfer and the wage packet stuffed with tenners is a distant memory. Police intelligence is a lot sharper as well, gangs get spotted