signed up to the Rank Oganization. This slender hoity-toity boy was marketed at first as the new Freddie Bartholomew, and renamed ‘Dickie Eton’. Lots of Little Lord Fauntleroy roles in comedies and musicals. He was also a teenage recording star with four top-ten hits.
But Rank’s plans for Dickie to grow into as big a star as Dirk Bogarde never materialized. He stopped short of becoming a grown-up matinee or pop-idol stardom when he stopped growing . At five foot three inches he was never going to cut it in the big time. He stayed stunted and got bitter and twisted. But he was determined – determined to wreak revenge on all those who scoffed and saw him as a spent force.
He started working for promoter Larry Parnes as a talent spotter in the music business. Larry taught him artist management, looked on him as a son. Then he started working with the record producer, Joe Meek, and learned the production side of the business . Meek, a raging homosexual, looked on him as something a little bit more than a son.
Dickie persevered. He picked their brains. Then he picked them dry. He took their best clients and set up his own record label in Denmark Street, as Dominate Records. His trademark ‘Sea of Swirl’ producing style, with its swirling percussions and strings, led to many a hit with a stable of girl groups: The Heart Stoppers, The Head Spinners, The Hard-Ons, The Wolf Whistles, The Pick-Ups, The One Night Stands and The Morning Afters. And when the boys became more popular than the girls, he manufactured four-piece Mod bands: The Blues, The Bombers, The Bennies, The Dexies, The Lines, The Head Cases and The Heart Attacks. He had made his fortune.
Vince didn’t find any criminal record there, or mugshots of Dickie Eton. He was, if not totally straight, then certainly undetected.
But there were plenty of Jack’s associates found among the serried ranks of mugshots. And way down the list was a petty criminal called Vaughn Treadwell. His record had him pegged as a lowlife, but Vince had him pegged as his brother – older by a year. Painful reading. More often in prison than out. Not because of the severity or audacity of his crimes, but because he just kept getting caught. Pulling the same stunts now as when he was still fourteen. Chance burglaries, ill-thought-out warehouse lifts, and misjudged muggings where, chances were, he’d end up as the victim and receive a good hiding. It would be comical if it wasn’t so true – and if he wasn’t Vince’s brother.
Then, way back up the top of the list, to the face he’d been avoiding. The real horror story, looking into the face of Jack’s deeds. The man who, as a kid, had put the fear of Christ into him. He turned the pages and found a mugshot of Henry ‘Redskin’ Pierce. Pierce had picked up the nickname Redskin during his wrestling career, since his costume and character of choice was Red Indian. Some said he even had genuine Sioux blood in him, and others said it was because of the razor and knife cuts he’d picked up over his long and violent criminal career. They had never really healed, remaining flushed and fulsome. Against his sallow bloodless complexion, his scars looked like sets of red lipstick kisses.
It was Pierce who did Jack’s bidding. It was Pierce who was the visible one. He collected. He delivered. He maimed. He sent out the message. The wrong look in a packed pub always led to the same thing, some luckless mug lurching around with half his face on the floor, asking himself what the fuck he’d done to deserve that! Nothing, was the answer, because Pierce would have done it anyway. He decided on the looks that you were giving him, even if you weren’t looking at him, even if you were twenty feet away with twenty people between you and facing in the other direction, minding your own fucking business. Because he could. Because it sent out a message: ‘You think I’m your worst nightmare , you should meet Jack.’
Tony Machin bowled into
But Rank’s plans for Dickie to grow into as big a star as Dirk Bogarde never materialized. He stopped short of becoming a grown-up matinee or pop-idol stardom when he stopped growing . At five foot three inches he was never going to cut it in the big time. He stayed stunted and got bitter and twisted. But he was determined – determined to wreak revenge on all those who scoffed and saw him as a spent force.
He started working for promoter Larry Parnes as a talent spotter in the music business. Larry taught him artist management, looked on him as a son. Then he started working with the record producer, Joe Meek, and learned the production side of the business . Meek, a raging homosexual, looked on him as something a little bit more than a son.
Dickie persevered. He picked their brains. Then he picked them dry. He took their best clients and set up his own record label in Denmark Street, as Dominate Records. His trademark ‘Sea of Swirl’ producing style, with its swirling percussions and strings, led to many a hit with a stable of girl groups: The Heart Stoppers, The Head Spinners, The Hard-Ons, The Wolf Whistles, The Pick-Ups, The One Night Stands and The Morning Afters. And when the boys became more popular than the girls, he manufactured four-piece Mod bands: The Blues, The Bombers, The Bennies, The Dexies, The Lines, The Head Cases and The Heart Attacks. He had made his fortune.
Vince didn’t find any criminal record there, or mugshots of Dickie Eton. He was, if not totally straight, then certainly undetected.
But there were plenty of Jack’s associates found among the serried ranks of mugshots. And way down the list was a petty criminal called Vaughn Treadwell. His record had him pegged as a lowlife, but Vince had him pegged as his brother – older by a year. Painful reading. More often in prison than out. Not because of the severity or audacity of his crimes, but because he just kept getting caught. Pulling the same stunts now as when he was still fourteen. Chance burglaries, ill-thought-out warehouse lifts, and misjudged muggings where, chances were, he’d end up as the victim and receive a good hiding. It would be comical if it wasn’t so true – and if he wasn’t Vince’s brother.
Then, way back up the top of the list, to the face he’d been avoiding. The real horror story, looking into the face of Jack’s deeds. The man who, as a kid, had put the fear of Christ into him. He turned the pages and found a mugshot of Henry ‘Redskin’ Pierce. Pierce had picked up the nickname Redskin during his wrestling career, since his costume and character of choice was Red Indian. Some said he even had genuine Sioux blood in him, and others said it was because of the razor and knife cuts he’d picked up over his long and violent criminal career. They had never really healed, remaining flushed and fulsome. Against his sallow bloodless complexion, his scars looked like sets of red lipstick kisses.
It was Pierce who did Jack’s bidding. It was Pierce who was the visible one. He collected. He delivered. He maimed. He sent out the message. The wrong look in a packed pub always led to the same thing, some luckless mug lurching around with half his face on the floor, asking himself what the fuck he’d done to deserve that! Nothing, was the answer, because Pierce would have done it anyway. He decided on the looks that you were giving him, even if you weren’t looking at him, even if you were twenty feet away with twenty people between you and facing in the other direction, minding your own fucking business. Because he could. Because it sent out a message: ‘You think I’m your worst nightmare , you should meet Jack.’
Tony Machin bowled into
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