Free Powder Wars by Graham Johnson Page A

decor, new windows – the lot and they wanted a sit down with the local gaultiers and that to make sure there’d be no noses out of joint, knowmean? Good manners, in all fairness. Very civilised, our southern friends are, to be fair.
    Johnny lived up to his nickname, ‘The Peacemaker’, by brokering a good deal for them. Billy was to help himself to two separate clubs as a sweetener for him, to make sure that the deal went through. There was no way anyone could refuse. Nash controlled the West End in London. Liverpool was small fry to him, in fairness. Nash had a massive protection racket going in the Smoke. All the big West End clubs coughed up and the dough was split three ways – between him, the Kray twins and Freddy Foreman. I remember Billy telling me that the alliance nearly went tits up after the Krays caned that Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie, because he was related to Johnny’s top boy. But I could never be arsed with gangster gossip and I just took Johnny as I found him – which was dead fair.
    There was few grumbles from these Liverpool club owners. Obviously, some of them would have liked to have cherry-picked these venues for themselves and obviously tarted-up clubs makes their paint jobs and that obsolete, doesn’t it? So it’s a bit of a sickener for them, in all honesty, but the deal had been sanctioned from way high up, so there’s fuck all they can do. Rubber stamped. End of. Meeting closed. Ding ding. Let’s get knees-upping.
    We’re having a good craic, to be fair. All of the boys are there. Loads of birds and that. Everything’s allday. At about one o’clock we go to a club and Billy introduces one of the boys to Nash. Suddenly this feller goes to Billy: ‘What are you introducing me to him for, the cockney cunt?’
    Bit outers, to be fair, I thought. Rude and that. But they don’t like people poking their noses in up north, as the line goes. This feller shouting the odds was a bit of a scallywag, in all fairness, and he didn’t like the fact that these cockneys were throwing their weight around on his manor. But times were changing, weren’t they? I was ready to knock him out, in fairness, but Nash steps up to him and gives it the ‘I like a bit of a cavort’ routine and pulls out a pistol. An automatic it was. Nice it was as well. Like mine, la ’cept mine had pearl hangles, knowmean?
    â€˜Do you know who I am?’ Nash says. The scallywag’s arse has gone a bit to be fair, with the shooter and that. He done one from the club sharpish. About an hour later the doorman come over and says that the scallywag is outside with a sawn-off wanting a fucking showdown with the Cockney or something. High noon or what, la. Quite fancied a bit of gun-slinging entertainment to round the night off, to be fair, but we just told the doorman to fuck him off in the hope that he’d cool off and come to his senses.
    No way, la, would this cunt listen. Next minute, the big window in the club shatters. Bang! Bang! Bang! He’s pumping rounds into the club pure Michael Ryan-style. Windows are going in left right and centre. Like a film, la. Pure Wild Bunch , knowmean? Ricochets off the plaster, the works. To be truthful, I’m buzzing, but there’s pure mass hysteria, especially with the birds, and that. You can smell the cordite. The cunt’s still going, thinking he’s James Cagney, and that. Reload! Bang! Bang! Reload! All hands are going for their armaments, but there’s no point, he’s got them pinned down.
    Billy’s like that to Nash, buzzing with him: ‘Don’t worry Johnny. Your investment is safe with us. Safe as houses Liverpool is.’
    Johnny goes with it, to be fair: ‘Do any of you scaairce cunts know where I buy some bullet-proof glass? That’s the first thing on my shopping list for my new clubs.’
    We’re all in bulk at this, to be fair. There’s a busie