JAKE’S JUSTICE (short story)

(In 2009, I sat down to write a short story about a lovable rogue I called Big Jake Davenport – not a pure malt, but a blend of four charismatic clients who had suffered the misfortune of crossing my portals over the years.?Here’s the result! Big Jake went on to become the main protagonist in my crime novel, ‘Murder at the Bailey’)

Jack Davenport reached for his oversized wine glass, glanced round the table at his minions with obvious contempt, sat back in his chair and swore.

“It’s the limit, it really is, it’s the bloody limit.”

The four other seated men at his table did not beg to differ. If Big Jake said it was the limit then it was a fact and not open for discussion. They waited in silence for further particulars. Big Jake shook his head with carefully considered disgust. “This really takes the cake – I thought I’d seen it all” he continued warming to his task. It was a cold early December Friday evening, which traditionally in the higher echelons of Bermondsey society was considered boy’s night out. For five years or so, Big Jake’s ample frame had occupied the corner seat, at the corner table at “Luca’s” in the Old Brompton Road. He was without doubt their best customer. This he had become, after reading that when Pavarotti was in town, he rarely dined anywhere else. Jake therefore assumed that they must serve what he chose to call ‘proper portions’. He and his cronies ate heartily, drank nothing but Cervaro, Tignanello and Hine Antique, and Jake never bothered checking the bill – that was for cheapskates. And, oh yes, he always paid in cash, albeit it on many occasions, with a mixture of foreign currency; with Luca the owner, never daring to question Jake’s suggestion as to the appropriate exchange rate.

Jack Davenport was by any standards, a huge man. Late 50s, six foot three, over 20 stone plus VAT, with a 52-inch chest, a matching waistline, and a gait which any of his crew and the entire Scotland Yard Flying Squad could pick out at 200 paces in a blizzard. When Jake talked, you listened. When Jake ate, you could talk. On this particular Friday, Jake was obviously in the mood for talking.

“Can you credit it,” he continued while calling with an imperious wave of his right paw for yet another bottle of Tignanello. “I’ll be the laughing stock of Bermondsey.”

Jake looked around the table for comfort – none came. The four other occupants of the table were well used to Jake’s soliloquies, and experience had taught them that silence was the best policy. Jake tapped his left hand on the table rhythmically, like some arrogant judge deciding what punishment should be meted out to some hapless defendant. The only difference was that Jake’s justice excluded a jury trial. “I brought the boy up from the gutter, I put him on the map, I even let him date my next door neighbour’s daughter, and this is how he repays me. Do you remember when he took a 2 stretch over that container of beef – who looked after his family eh?”

None of Jake’s dinner companions had a clue who he was raving about, but at least the first few pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were in place. Any immediate further outbursts were interrupted by the arrival of five steaming plates of Minestrone (if Jake ordered Minestrone, you followed – what else?).

?Jake tucked his serviette deep into the 18” collar of his initialled silk shirt and started slurping. The other four mere mortals waited for the soup to cool a little. “The problem these days is that there is no loyalty left in the world,” Jake continued. “I’m no angel, God knows,” he admitted in touching understatement, “but I know where to draw the line. Ok, I’ve done a fair bit of villainy in my time, but I’ve never mistreated my own, have I Ernie?” Ernie nodded approvingly like the toad he was. Ernie always sat on Jake’s right. He was after all Jake’s right-hand man – a poor cousin to the Italian Consiglere.

“I won’t be able to show my face in any pub south of the water. I may even have to move out to the country.” He anguished. “What sort of respect will I get at Porto Banus in August? They’ll all call me a has been. I’m no has been, am I Joey?” Joey had just come to terms with the temperature of his soup and despite his limited schooling, wisely elected to treat the question as rhetorical.

“This boy’s got to be taught a painful lesson,” Jake concluded in a lower tone. “And I’m not talking about a slap on the wrist either.” The four others at the table shuddered at the thought of the form the retribution might take.

“I mean, I’m a fair man, but when all is said and done, I’m going to have to make an example of him, what do you think Eric?” Eric did not think, or at least not very often. He wasn’t paid to think. He was paid to follow Jake’s orders to the letter, and to keep his mouth shut.

Luca was back at the table, this time with his wife Lena, clearing up the soup bowls personally. Jake didn’t trust anyone else, and Luca knew it. Without delay, five plates of Osso Buco and new serviettes were provided all round.

“I’ve been trying to see it from his point of view, you know boys, as I always do – I mean I’m no gangster, I’m a reasonable man – ask anyone. No one in my manor is more charitable than me. When everyone is nicely stone drunk on Christmas Eve, where am I, eh? Everyone knows, I’m delivering turkeys to all the poor families in my neck of the woods. Do you remember when old grandma Willis was burgled by that slag Jeffries? Who had her TV replaced before Coronation Street the next day and with a bunch of roses to boot? And who was it that frog marched that scumbag kid to the nick to hand himself in and confess to it, eh? Did I get thanks from the Old Bill for that? No, I did not. Now I’m not one to blow my own trumpet, but facts are facts. There is not much wrong with my sense of justice, as I know you’ll all agree.” Four heads nodded in well practised unison.

“It’s taken me years to build up some respect (others called it fear) and now my name won’t be worth a brass farthing” – Jake looked round the table for consolation, but all remained silent, searching for any discarded scrap of veal on their plates as an excuse for not looking Jake in the eye.

A family sized bowl of Tiramisu soon replaced the veal just in time to delay Jake making further self-pitying statements. The respite was brief. “It will have to be dealt with first thing tomorrow boys – delay will be seen as a sign of weakness, and that is one thing I’m not renowned for.” Jake managed his first grin of the evening. The others were glad for an excuse to break the ice and follow suit.

Jake pulled the bowl of Tiramisu towards him and polished off the remnants in his usual democratic manner. Luca knew this as a sign to wheel in the liqueur trolley. Jake’s right hand reached out like an octopus’ tentacle and plonked the bottle of Hine Antique in front of him. From nowhere, Lena produced five glasses, and Jake poured the cognac as if he was serving Perrier water. After a large swig and a gurgling sound resembling a mouthwash, Jake eased back into top gear.

“Right boys, now where was I? Oh yes, well tomorrow, you’ll all have to be up with the milk. Jock, pick me up at 6.30 in the Bentley. No, on second thoughts, bring the Jag – the Bentley’s too good for what I’ve got in mind for Wally. I don’t want to risk staining the new cream carpets.” Jake’s four dinner companions shuddered for a second time. But now they had a name – Wally. What had that idiot done to upset Jake?

Before any of them could muster the courage to ask, Jake moseyed into overdrive “Yes Wally – Wally Price. I treated him like a son, didn’t I? I taught him everything he knows – thank the Lord I didn’t teach him everything I know, or he’d be sitting here in my seat tonight and I would be in Carey Street. That registered moron came to see me a week ago crying like a baby that he didn’t have two half pennies to rub together. ‘Wally’, I said to him soothingly, ‘Wally, what have you done with that lorry load of cashmeres I gave you to sell for me?’

‘I sold them all Jake, just as you asked me to’” he mimicked.

“Well boys as you can imagine, by this time I was beginning to get a trifle worried about my investment – as anyone would, but did I blow my cool? No, I did not. I put a fatherly arm around him and patted him as gently as if he were my baby grandson in the bath with me”.

Jake was now having some difficulty in continuing. He emptied the rest of the cognac bottle into his glass and gulped it down. “Well,” he continued. “Even you airheads can work out what my next question was”. Three of the men at the table nodded, while Eric tried to catch up. “’What have you done with my 80% Wally?’ I asked him, or to put it more bluntly, ‘Wally, where’s my 16 Large?’ Do you know what he said?” By now Jake was almost in tears himself. ?“’I invested it Jake’.

Now boys as you know, I’m not averse to a little profitable investment here and there, but none of us would be nutty enough to trust a donkey like Wally to put vinegar on our chips, never mind letting him loose with 16k. ‘Wally’ I said to him, soothingly. ‘What did you invest it in?’. The boy broke down like a school kid. I could hardly control myself from topping him then and there.

‘You’ll kill me if I tell you, Jack’ was all he kept saying. Well, fellas, at this stage I was in no mood for any more beating about the bush, so I got hold of him by the neck and told him that his days were numbered. Then he came out with it, ‘I invested it in a horse, Jack, and may God forgive me – the whole 20 grand.’

I started screaming at him and I thought I was going to pop. Then I thought, well maybe by some miracle this dunderhead Wally had at least bought a horse that might be worth a few bob.

‘Wally’ I whispered, ‘do you mean in a horse or on a horse?’”

By now, even Eric was beginning to get the drift. “Wally just looked at me with that sorry look of his, and I knew there was more chance of Eric winning Mastermind than my seeing the money.”

Jake paused for breath. Having cleared his throat with the remnants of the Cognac in Ernie’s glass, he opened up again. “I kid you not, it took me a full five minutes to recover my composure. Finally, I kicked him all the way out of the house and down my front garden – if you don’t believe me, I’ll prove it to you on my CCTV cameras. I told him if he hadn’t raised my ￡16,000 by noon today, he’d be pushing up daisies.” Big Jake glanced at his platinum Rolex before continuing, “Well it’s now 11.15 and it seems that Wally must have lost my phone number.” Again, Jake began tapping his hand on the table; a sure sign that he was now considering his options for Wally’s imminent demise. What Jake was least expecting was Wally’s arrival at the restaurant.

“I’m sorry Sir, last orders are at 11pm.” Luca was talking by the entrance with some unfortunate, who had apparently arrived too late to benefit from the restaurant’s renowned Italian cuisine.

“Is Mr Davenport still here?” asked a quaking voice.

Big Jake rose to his feet, murmuring a series of blasphemes in the general direction of the door.

“Hello, Jake, I’m sorry I’m a little bit late.”

Jake glared at the features of a skinny, nervous man in his late 20’s with curly red hair and a baby face – Walter Price in his entirety. Jake remained rooted where he stood. Wally seized the moment and shuffled across to Jake’s corner table. “I’ve got something for you Jake,” said Wally, emptying from his pockets four large wads of ￡50 notes onto the table. “There’s ￡20,000 there, Jake, your cut plus my four grand so I don’t wake up dead tomorrow.”

“How did you lay your hands on this, Wally?” Jake found his voice at last.

“I borrowed it, Jake,” replied an ashamed Wally.

“Borrowed it!” roared Jake. “What raving headcase is going to lend you 20 large?”

Wally hesitated. “Well, he doesn’t actually know he’s lent it yet, but he will when he gets home from his business trip tomorrow – if you understand my meaning.”

Jake understood only too well. “Spare me the small print, Wally, the headlines are bad enough.”

“It won’t happen again, Jake, I promise you.”

“Too right,” retorted Jake, “there won’t be an again. Luca, this gentleman won’t be joining us for coffee, it’s way past his bedtime.”

Following Wally’s forced departure, Jake sat in silence for a moment or two staring at the four bundles of ￡50 notes still lying on the table, as if part of some huge poker pot. Finally, he made his mind up. Breaking up one of the bundles, he chucked a grand in the general direction of each of his team. “Here you are lads, here’s an early Christmas present. Let no man say that Jake Davenport doesn’t look after his own,” whilst deflecting away all thanks with an exaggerated gesture.

“Luca,” called out Jake. “The bill, if you please”. For the first time all evening Jake sounded almost genial. Lena brought the coffee and Luca the bill. Jake didn’t even give it so much as a glance; he tucked the remaining thousand pounds from the first bundle deep into Luca’s side pocket and called for his coat.

Then, Jake waltzed into the kitchen as if he owned the place, whilst calling out for mama, who was personally responsible for cooking any dish that entered his cavernous mouth. Kissing her warmly and wetly on both cheeks, he slipped ￡300 into her apron pocket whilst mumbling something about treating herself to a well-deserved new winter coat for Christmas, before emerging again into the restaurant where Lena was holding his luxuriant camel coat open for him.

By now, the restaurant was virtually empty, save for a couple of late night lovers, too busy staring into each other’s eyes to notice Jake stuffing the remaining three bundles into any pocket large enough. He turned to leave before remembering the arrangements he’d made with the ‘lads’ for the following morning’s ‘early outing’. “Jock,” he called out to his driver. “No need to turn up at 6.30 tomorrow morning anymore. Pick me up at 11 and bring the Bentley not the Jag – we’re going racing.” Then he added with a boyish grin on his face, “there’s a nag running at fancy odds in the 2.30 at Goodwood called Wayward Wally. Now there’s a good omen if ever I’ve seen one – and right now I’m caked-up with a burning fifteen grand which says it simply can’t lose!”