bullshit. Every con will tell that you he’s innocent of the crime he was convicted of and then brag about the ones he got away with.
According to the skinny on Tony Murphy, he came from one of those big Irish families (seven brothers and sisters - the girls as mad as the boys) who seem to live everywhere except Ireland. Murphy grew up in Kilburn, North London, and began stealing cars to order when he was barely old enough to see over the steering wheel.
From car rackets he branched out to running escort agencies, nightclubs and casinos (illegal and otherwise), including a floating Chinese junk in Manchester that he shipped from Hong Kong. His latest passion was a restaurant on the river near the Millennium Bridge - one of those up-market nosheries where the chef is a daytime TV star who can make a four course meals out of a bag of spuds and a Bisto cube.
The place has booths along the walls and linen tablecloths. The maître d’ gives Sami the hairy eyeball.
‘Do you have a reservation, sir?’
‘I’m here to see Mr Murphy.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Murphy doesn’t like being disturbed while he’s dining.’
‘Maybe you could pass him a note,’ says Sami. He borrows a piece of paper and writes Nadia’s name, draws a sad face on it, folding it twice before handing it to the maître d’. Then he watches him weave between the tables, up three stairs, pausing at a table overlooking the main seating area.
He hands the note to a fat man whose head seems to be stitched onto an oversized tweed jacket. A hard man turned to lard.
Murphy reads the note and sways back, sucking down an oyster from the shell. Juice dribbles over his chins. He wipes it away with a napkin. Waves Sami over.
Sami tells himself to relax. It’s a busy restaurant. Nothing’s going to happen.
Murphy’s luncheon companion is a head taller, with ruddy cheeks discoloured by broken veins beneath his skin. This guy is walking proof of man’s simian ancestry - flared nostrils, torso like a wardrobe, arms reaching his knees. He doesn’t say a word.
Murphy and Sami make the introductions.
‘What can I do for you, son?’ asks the fat man, edging the blade of a knife beneath the flesh of another oyster.
Sami has to be careful here. It’s a balancing act. Tony Murphy is not the sort of man you threaten or piss off or yank about. It’s also not a good idea to crawl up his rectum and set up house. He has to be respectful. Considered. Polite.
‘Toby Streak says you might know where my sister is.’
‘What’s your sister’s name?’
‘Nadia Macbeth.’
‘What makes you think I know where she is?’
‘Toby said he sold her to you.’
Murphy puts down his fork. Wipes his mouth. Folds his napkin. Places it on his side plate.
‘Slavery was abolished in 1841, son. People don’t get bought and sold any more. Didn’t they teach you that at school?’
‘Toby Streak seemed pretty confident, Mr Murphy.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I had my boot on his balls, sir. Figuratively speaking.’
‘Well, if we’re speaking figuratively, in my experience drugsters like Toby Streak can be coerced into saying almost anything.’
‘Toby still seemed pretty sure.’
Murphy’s voice drops an octave.
‘Let me give you a piece of advice, Mr Macbeth. You don’t want to be making unsupported allegations against people. There are laws about that sort of thing. Defamation. Slander.’
‘I’m not here to cause any trouble,’ says Sami. ‘I just want my sister.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Old enough to make up her own mind.’ Murphy summons the waiter. Asks for another glass. Pours a wine for Sami.
‘I appreciate your candour, Mr Macbeth. I can also see you got courage. You got balls as big as the Ritz to waltz in here and accuse me of wrongdoing. This makes me think that either you’re a very loving brother or you’re so dumb you couldn’t piss straight with a
According to the skinny on Tony Murphy, he came from one of those big Irish families (seven brothers and sisters - the girls as mad as the boys) who seem to live everywhere except Ireland. Murphy grew up in Kilburn, North London, and began stealing cars to order when he was barely old enough to see over the steering wheel.
From car rackets he branched out to running escort agencies, nightclubs and casinos (illegal and otherwise), including a floating Chinese junk in Manchester that he shipped from Hong Kong. His latest passion was a restaurant on the river near the Millennium Bridge - one of those up-market nosheries where the chef is a daytime TV star who can make a four course meals out of a bag of spuds and a Bisto cube.
The place has booths along the walls and linen tablecloths. The maître d’ gives Sami the hairy eyeball.
‘Do you have a reservation, sir?’
‘I’m here to see Mr Murphy.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Murphy doesn’t like being disturbed while he’s dining.’
‘Maybe you could pass him a note,’ says Sami. He borrows a piece of paper and writes Nadia’s name, draws a sad face on it, folding it twice before handing it to the maître d’. Then he watches him weave between the tables, up three stairs, pausing at a table overlooking the main seating area.
He hands the note to a fat man whose head seems to be stitched onto an oversized tweed jacket. A hard man turned to lard.
Murphy reads the note and sways back, sucking down an oyster from the shell. Juice dribbles over his chins. He wipes it away with a napkin. Waves Sami over.
Sami tells himself to relax. It’s a busy restaurant. Nothing’s going to happen.
Murphy’s luncheon companion is a head taller, with ruddy cheeks discoloured by broken veins beneath his skin. This guy is walking proof of man’s simian ancestry - flared nostrils, torso like a wardrobe, arms reaching his knees. He doesn’t say a word.
Murphy and Sami make the introductions.
‘What can I do for you, son?’ asks the fat man, edging the blade of a knife beneath the flesh of another oyster.
Sami has to be careful here. It’s a balancing act. Tony Murphy is not the sort of man you threaten or piss off or yank about. It’s also not a good idea to crawl up his rectum and set up house. He has to be respectful. Considered. Polite.
‘Toby Streak says you might know where my sister is.’
‘What’s your sister’s name?’
‘Nadia Macbeth.’
‘What makes you think I know where she is?’
‘Toby said he sold her to you.’
Murphy puts down his fork. Wipes his mouth. Folds his napkin. Places it on his side plate.
‘Slavery was abolished in 1841, son. People don’t get bought and sold any more. Didn’t they teach you that at school?’
‘Toby Streak seemed pretty confident, Mr Murphy.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I had my boot on his balls, sir. Figuratively speaking.’
‘Well, if we’re speaking figuratively, in my experience drugsters like Toby Streak can be coerced into saying almost anything.’
‘Toby still seemed pretty sure.’
Murphy’s voice drops an octave.
‘Let me give you a piece of advice, Mr Macbeth. You don’t want to be making unsupported allegations against people. There are laws about that sort of thing. Defamation. Slander.’
‘I’m not here to cause any trouble,’ says Sami. ‘I just want my sister.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Old enough to make up her own mind.’ Murphy summons the waiter. Asks for another glass. Pours a wine for Sami.
‘I appreciate your candour, Mr Macbeth. I can also see you got courage. You got balls as big as the Ritz to waltz in here and accuse me of wrongdoing. This makes me think that either you’re a very loving brother or you’re so dumb you couldn’t piss straight with a
Similar Books
