My anxious wait only lasted for one week. But then it started. The war.
It was a Saturday night and Bernie and I were on door duty at Lucky Lucy’s Club. Gusts of heavy snow were sweeping down from a dirty yellow sky, the large snowflakes glistening in the headlights of every car that passed.
By the time the clock on the Broomielaw steamboat pier was showing ten o’clock, the club was crowded. The noise and raucous laughter could be heard up and down the street.
Just after midnight the snow stopped. That’s when it happened.
A lorry emerged under the railway bridge and skidded to a halt outside the house. On the side of the lorry were the words city of glasgow police, written in gold letters. A moment later a similar lorry came round the corner from Oswald Street and, at a sharp signal on a whistle, the rear 308doors of both lorries opened and out leapt a score or more policemen.
One of the constables showed Bernie his warrant card and said they were about to search the club for evidence of sales of illegal spirits. Then a group of officers, truncheons at the ready, forced their way down the stairs into Lucky Lucy’s. The laughter ceased abruptly and was replaced by mass panic. There was yelling and screaming and the sound of breaking glass and splintered furniture.
Within twenty minutes Lucky Lucy’s was empty and the worst troublemakers and drunks were being herded into the lorries to be taken to the nearest police stations. The constables formed a chain and began sending up bottles of spirits and casks of beer from the bar. In the midst of all this, a small, fat man came running along Oswald Street. He must have slipped in the slush at some point since his trousers were soaked. I’d seen this man before—his name was Brown and he was Moira’s lawyer. In a shrill voice he tried to convince the police to stop emptying the club’s supply of spirits. He had no success.
Among the crowd of policemen I caught sight of the constables who usually came to the club to collect an envelope of money from Gordon. And when Gordon saw them, he strode over to them. I was standing close enough to eavesdrop. 309
“What’s all this supposed to mean?” Gordon asked angrily. “Moira pays you a substantial contribution every week precisely to avoid being raided! And now this happens!”
The officers looked around anxiously and tried to shush Gordon.
One of them said, “It’s not our fault! We don’t know who came up with the idea… but the order came from City Hall. They must have been given a tip-off, probably by someone who pays more than Moira does.”
“Right! I get it!” Gordon said bitterly. “So that’s the way of it…”
It sounded like the pealing and chiming of a hundred clocks as the police lorries drove off, laden with bottles and kegs. Bernie and I found ourselves alone in the alleyway—someone had to pick up all the glass that had been shattered in the turmoil.
When we had finished, Carl arrived and told us that the whole gang was to meet in Moira’s office. Immediately.
Kevin, Carl, Mr and Mrs Flint and Lucy were already waiting outside the office door. No one said a word. Through the door we could hear the muffled voices of Gordon, Moira and Brown the lawyer. Eventually Gordon opened the door and let us in, at the same time as the lawyer was departing with a serious 310look on his face. Moira was sitting behind her desk, her hands tightly clenched into fists.
“Well? How much have we lost?” she asked Lucky Lucy.
“Our whisky store was almost full,” Lucy answered. “Not a single bottle left now. They’ve even taken the barrels of beer. And any number of tables and chairs have been smashed.”
Moira slapped her hand down on the desk. Hard.
“Bloody cops!” she snarled. “I’ve paid out a fortune to grease their palms! And now they do this!”
She fell silent, as if regretting her outburst.
“They want more money,” she said once she’d calmed down. “It’s as simple as that, of course. And this is their way of showing us what happens if we don’t play ball.”
“I agree, that’s possible,” Gordon said. “But I’m not so sure. When I was talking to the constable who usually counts our—”
Just then the telephone on the desk rang.
The sound was so loud and unexpected that everyone in the room jumped. There were a few seconds of silence and then it rang again.
We all stared at the telephone. It was made of black Bakelite with gilt decorations and a handset of polished hardwood.
Then it rang for a second time.
Moira looked at Gordon and nodded at the telephone. 311
He reached out, picked it up and said, “Yes?…”
The room remained silent while Gordon listened, the handset pressed to his ear. I could just make out the voice at the other end, but only as a weak mumble.
Finally Gordon said, “I’ll do that.”
Then he put the receiver down.
“Well?” Moira asked.
Gordon gave her a worried look.
“That was Craig McCauley… one of Tarantello’s men… The one with the big ugly scar on his face.”
Moira stared back at Gordon.
“Tommy Tarantello?” she asked.
Gordon nodded.
“McCauley sends you a greeting from Tommy Tarantello, who says you must immediately hand over the goods stolen from the Greek’s gambling club. If you don’t, Tarantello will see to it that the police ensure you never open the club again.”
Moira’s face remained as motionless as a plaster face mask.
Gordon continued, “And half of all the future takings in Lucky Lucy’s will have to go to Tarantello. McCauley says it’s punishment for burgling the Greek!”
“Do you think it’s a bluff?” Moira asked.
“No,” said Gordon, shaking his head emphatically. “Tarantello knows it was us—McCauley was absolutely certain of that.” 312
Moira turned round very slowly to face the rest of the gang. Her eyes were black as nuggets of coal.
“In that case,” she said through clenched teeth, “someone must have let the cat out of the bag. One of you has betrayed me!”