Crooks - A London Gangsters Tale | COMPLETED

Chapter Thirteen

Business as usual. That was the mantra throughout the Mile End stadium. All the staff – and there were several hundred of them – carried on with their day to day activities as though the rapidly growing crowd of protestors at the gate was not there at all. David Carter was good at sweeping things under the rug, but he had his work cut out for him this time. Some of his staff were getting a look about them that made him think of the band playing on deck as the Titanic went down. A sort of desperate good humour. Something had to be done about it. Drastic measures must be taken. And David Carter was the man to take them.

He decided to bypass the usual channels – which would have meant going through Max Linley and several others – to make the call himself. It was now a few months since their last acquisition, and he was proving to be somewhat better than anticipated, actually. Scored a handful of goals (three, to be exact). So it couldn't hurt to add another name to the roster. It was a classic technique used by governments and others with dirty secrets to hide – the dead cat manoeuvre. As opposed to the dead duck manoeuvre favoured by the likes of George McMinn. A new player might be enough to monopolise the headlines for a bit, and before long the loan would be chip-paper fodder. A largely forgotten (albeit somewhat embarrassing) episode in the club's storied past. And if what David had in mind came together, he might even be able to redeem himself in the eyes of the fans. Maybe.

The loan would give him about 600 million to play with. Enough to keep his shareholders from losing all faith in him, but also enough to invest in another player. A biggish name, someone with news-making capabilities. And, as usual, he would arrive in the country with a shipment. Business as usual, business as usual.

David put in another call to George McMinn. "George."

"Funny," said The Fucker, with a smile in his voice, "I had a feeling you might be calling back."

"I'm strategising," said David good-humouredly. "And I'm starting to think a new acquisition might be the way to go."

"Are you, now?"

"Things are falling into place," David assured the old gangster. "It'll all come together. Just you wait."

"Let's hope for your sake that it does."

Next, David put in a call to his chief scout, a guy named Joey Adams, a sound bloke who'd been with the organisation forever. He was the one who got most of the free holidays to South America, and who spent an inordinate amount of time by the pool at various drug barons' villas, sunning himself with a cocktail.

"Joey, how are you?"

"A bit better than you are, me old mucker," said Joey. He'd been around long enough that he could talk to the boss like that.

"Yeah, tell me about it," sighed David. "I've got something that might interest you, though." Of course Joey could never say no to another excursion. It was money for nothing. He had the cushiest job on the planet.

"Tell me more."

So David told him. The club was planning to acquire a new player – but not just any player. Someone good. Someone world class. Someone with a track record to be envied. Someone who scored goals, someone who looked good on TV, someone who put on a show. Ronnie Vincent, only with more talent and less of a bloodlust.

"The dead cat manoeuvre," Joey chuckled. "Well, I've heard whispers about Enrico Brigante. Seems he's unhappy with his current situation."

David could hardly blame him. Brigante was indeed a good player, whose talents were currently wasted on a second-rate Brazilian team. Well, now they could be wasted for a second-rate English team. "When's the next flight out there?" said David.