Free Powder Wars by Graham Johnson

Johnny Nash, who was heading north on the rattler.
    There was a strong possibility of a go-around, so me and Billy were sorting out the security arrangements, so as to offer maximum protection for this Londoner. Not that Johnny Nash needed it. Johnny was huge in London at the time, super-heavyweight, if you will and he could hangle himself. Billy just wanted to make sure that all went smoothly, knowmean? No hassle off’ve beauts and that.
    So I could have done without all of this squabbling doormen carry on, but I knew I had to do Joey in good and proper for his troubles and I figured that I could drive down to the Oslo, twat Joey, and get back to Billy in time to finalise the arrangements. Mick turns up. He’s out of ozzie already and ten hours into a bender, his head wrecked with all this. I bought him a bottle of Bacardi to keep him happy.
    Then I phones the Oslo and orders the lads to keep Joey ‘Tony fucking Montana’ Duvall there, jumps in the jalopy and goes the Oslo. The lads are saying that Joey’s going nowhere; he’s settled in for the night and is too busy holding court and telling everyone how great he is. As I pulled into the car park I was half-thinking of running and smashing Joey’s head on the bar, straightaway, no back answers, but I thought I’ll see what the beaut’s got to say first.
    When I arrived Joey got right on his high horse, thinking he was it. As though it’s his fucking boozer, by the way. Half-taking me for a cunt, he was, to be fair. So it’s bang, bang. Punches fuck out of Joey and gets him on the floor, ready to break his legs, but Mick intervenes – he wasn’t into that. So I tells Joey I want a straightener in the car park pronto, a one-on-one right now. Both strip off to the waist, pure WWF and get it on. A few digs and he’s in bits, to be fair. Like a lot of these so-called hard men, he couldn’t pull a punch. He was too fat. He was one fat cunt, in all fairness. I purely knocked fuck out him without breaking sweat. He goes down, just as the busies arrive on cue, so I grabs my shirt and gets off back to see Billy. End of.
    So the meeting with the cockney is set up for the next day. Billy meets him off the train at Lime Street. He’s all right Johnny Nash. Allday he is. Looks the business, like all of these cockney gangster types always do. Loads of gangster greetings and all that carry on. Goes a bit Chaz out of Performance on us, to be fair, which I’m into, by the way. He has us laughing straightway, though.
    He tells us that to get out London he had to change cars three times and switch trains. It’s that ontop for him, in all fairness. The busies are trying to crucify him and following him all over the show. So it makes it double difficult to travel. But there’s a serious underlying point to all this as well – if it’s that hard for Nash to move around then it makes these meetings extra flippin’ important, knowmean?
    We walk over to the Big House, a boozer opposite the station. All of the Liverpool club owners are sat round a big table in a circle. Pure Appalachian, knowmean? Behind each owner was their teams, sat off, keeping an eye out and that. A lot of them were carrying. Could just tell. They were a bit thingy with us. I noticed Tommy Comerford was there. He was a heavyweight armed robber juiced into the nightclub scene like no one’s business, but he’s quite funny with it, a good laugh and that, so he’s putting everyone at ease with his banter and that. I sat right behind Billy. I didn’t need a shooter. I knew most of these mushers and they knew there’d be untold if they made a show of Billy in front of his posh mates and that.
    Billy and the main boys started talking. The jist of the meeting was that this London crowd were offering top dollar for the four biggest clubs in Liverpool. They were going to take over, give Billy a slice and do them up. New bars, new