Dangerous Dealings

Author's Note: "Dangerous Dealings" (DD) is a one-off story, serving as a prequel to a series of full-length novels featuring Heather Hunter. Because she was only six years old in 1988, Heather does not appear in DD, but some of the characters that do appear become major players alongside her.

Please be forewarned: DD only contains a small amount of sex, and it is "straight" at that. I realize this submission is very different to anything I have offered previously but do value feedback from Literotica readers. Any comments on it as a non-erotic story will be sincerely appreciated.

*****

Chapter One

(11th August 1988)

'Did you really meet Reggie Kray?'

Danny Painter was renowned for rarely if ever smiling. He twitched his lips in approximation as he regarded his questioner. Ah, he thought. So this is the young nutter; the one who gets off on The Swinging Sixties.

'Yeah,' he said politely, 'I met him a couple of times.'

'What was he like?'

'Same as he probably is now, except not locked up.'

The nutter wasn't deterred by Danny's unforthcoming response. 'That must have been awesome. Was it in London? Did you get to go in The Blind Beggar?'

Danny's expression didn't even flicker. 'It was over twenty years ago. I could only have been your age. I can't remember all the ins and outs.'

That wasn't at all true. Danny had done a job for Reggie early in 1967. Part of his payoff was a week in the big city, which he'd saved until November. Reggie had put him up in a fancy hotel and left him safe in the hands of a young woman; one who looked very much like 1966's face of the year, with the body to match. Make that very, very much like her. She'd actually been called "Zoe", but readily answered to "Twigs".

Ins and outs? There had been plenty of those and they'd been unforgettable.

Danny's lips twitched again, this time authentically. He didn't know what Reggie had promised the girl, but she'd bought into her role with gusto, spending every last minute with him, both sleeping and waking. The pound had just been devalued and the weather had been iffy, so they'd filled a lot of time "sleeping", but they did venture afield occasionally. Out of bed Zoe seemed to know everyone in London. It had been a delight to be with her, even if her idea of "the sights" centred on and around pubs, bars and restaurants.

'Surely you'd remember The Blind Beggar,' the nutter persisted.

'I've got a feeling it was still closed after the shooting. Nipper Read was after the twins big-time by then. I remember that much.'

At that point Paddy O'Brien got to his feet and called the meeting to order. The nutter obediently shut up and, spared further questioning, Danny took in the other men round the table, making mental notes as Paddy introduced everyone.

Paddy had been watching too much of The Godfather. Maybe he'd even been reading the book. This meeting had been his idea, in his words "an assembly of tutti capi", designed to "bring us all closer together". Danny reckoned Paddy fancied himself as capo di tutti capi. Maybe there were machine guns waiting in the car park, ready to deal with any objectors.

That didn't seem too likely though. Paddy was capable of violence . . . and extreme violence at that . . . but he was a pacifist at heart. Perhaps it was his age; like Danny, he was pushing the big five-o, twice as old as everybody else in the room. And, talking about the room, it was hardly the place for a massacre. The venue was in a pretty village a couple of miles outside Keighley, in a jazzed-up manor house that usually catered for weddings, birthdays and funerals.

Funerals? Danny grinned inwardly. Hmmm . . .

He'd never been convinced anything would come out of a gathering like this, but the hundred per cent attendance could only be admired. Paddy had got every "crime boss" in their end of the Aire Valley to come. There again he'd sold it as "be there or miss out", so it was hardly surprising. And if nothing else, they'd all get to put faces to names.

Paddy must have been on some management course. He had a whiteboard with an agenda on it, written in green felt pen. He'd also started to use words like "challenge", "going forward" and "our common objectives". It was a relief to see that the agenda was in plain English and that he'd used everyday business headings: Areas; New Products . . . things like that. They wouldn't be leaving anything incriminating behind them in ghostly writing.

Danny found the various exchanges interesting if not particularly useful. And it was reassuring to see the co-operation levels. Positioned as he was in Bingley, he normally only had contact with the two bosses in Shipley and one of the several in Keighley. It was good to know everyone else was bumping along, avoiding needless and expensive turf wars.

Last on the agenda, before "A-O-B", was prostitution. Not that it was headed that way: the green letters read "Female Rights". Prostitution wasn't a big deal out of Bradford, not nowadays, and Danny hadn't much of an opinion on it either way. When it was his turn to give input he kept his face deadpan.

'I'm all for female rights,' he said. 'Ask the ex-girlfriend.'

'Which one?' Paddy leered. 'You've had a few, haven't you?'

For once Danny allowed himself a smile. He truly loved his wife but had been known to stray; not as often as his reputation would have it, granted, but he didn't mind being thought of as a stud. 'The last one set new records when it came to demands,' he said, 'but don't tell the trouble and strife. It might give her ideas.'

For reasons of his own the boss from Frizinghall, Malky, waited for Any Other Business to raise an add-on question about drug dealing, a topic already covered in "Operational Review".

'Nobody mentioned it before,' he began, 'but I'm seeing a lot of new independents on my patch, all selling the same stuff at all the same prices. It has to be organized.'

'I've noticed that,' said one of the delegates from Shipley. 'So I introduced a three strike rule. One strike and you get a slap. Two strikes and you're in the canal. Nobody's tried three strikes yet. I'm taking that as a good sign.'

'Do you think it's organized?'

'Yeah, but only by a coward. We soon scared them off.'

'What about you, Mr Painter? What's it looking like in Bingley?'

Danny shrugged. Drugs didn't play a major part in his empire. He'd buy the odd consignment now and then, because it was like printing his own money. It was a very occasional thing, however; he normally just sat back and let the independents pay him tribute.

'Can't say I've noticed,' he said, glancing at his watch.

Malky wasn't letting go. 'Does Sean Dwyer have any connection to you?' he persisted.

Surprised, Danny looked more closely at the Frizinghall delegate. 'Dwyer's a small-time fence who does a bit of loansharking. He's not connected to me in any way.'

'Are you sure? I've heard his name mentioned, and not in a small-time sort of way.'

'He's not connected and he's not permitted to deal. What is it you think he's dealing, anyway?'

'H and C in bulk. Possibly a little LSD.'

Danny fought back the anger. He prided himself in knowing what went on in Bingley. If Dwyer had gone upscale he should have been told.

'I'll investigate and let you know,' he assured Malky. 'My bet is your problem's from Manningham, not Bingley, but I'll check it out.'

'Trust me, Mr Painter. These guys aren't from Manningham. You only have to look at them to tell.'

Two of the Asian delegates from Keighley scowled at that. Malky didn't even notice.

'Okay,' said Danny, 'I'll check it out my end.'

Chapter Two

(15th August 1988)

There had been a lot of bad in Huyton's twenty-five years. Lots and lots of bad. Usually he was on the giving end, though. He'd never been hit with a baseball bat before. And it hurt. Thank fuck the little twat had aimed for his shoulder instead of his head.

One to the head and I might well be dead, he thought. Then, chuckling in spite of everything, I'm a poet and I didn't know it!

'Move it,' Little Twat snarled. 'Unless you want another.'

For once compliant, in agony and unable to move his arm, Huyton allowed himself to be bundled into the back of a van and driven away.

Jesus, this is not in the plan!

Favouring his undamaged right side he tried to sit up, only to be met with kick from a brand-new Nike.

'Keep down, arsehole,' a different voice said. The speaker was young but heavy on the Yorkshire accent.

Huyton kept down. He hadn't previously taken notice but, now he'd had a look-see, he found he was not alone. He had company. Two white lads, in their late teens or early twenties, at a guess. One of them was the twat with the baseball bat. The other one . . . the one with the zits . . . had a handgun.

Normally odds of two-to-one wouldn't have bothered Huyton. Sadly, the circumstances were not normal. He was rendered almost blind by pain, physically handicapped and flat on his ass. While he wasn't scared of the gun, the last thing he needed was another belt from that bat.

Who in hell are they, he wondered, local vigilantes?

He hadn't an answer to his own question. They weren't undercover bizzies, he was sure of that. A plod wouldn't have belted him from behind . . . not with witnesses around, anyway.

Huyton cursed. His lifestyle had given him a nervous disposition; he wasn't usually the sort to be taken unawares. Usually he could sense danger and avoid it before it happened. But not today; today he'd been taken for a muppet and sewn up like a kipper. There he'd been, out in broad daylight, minding his own business, shaking down a few Asian dealers . . .

Next thing he knew he'd been clobbered by someone who fancied himself as Babe Ruth.

The journey was not a long one. After only a few minutes the van pulled up and the engine died. Doors opened and slammed as the guys in the front got out.

'Stay where you are,' Zitface commended.

Although Huyton wanted to rip the bastard's head off common sense prevailed. He stayed where he was and tried to identify the gun. Unless he was very much mistaken, it was the ever-popular Browning HP. Ever-popular in his bit of Merseyside, anyway. Obviously the Yorkies had a liking for the Hi-Power too.

Someone thumped on the van's panelling and yelled, 'Wakey-wakey, we're here!' Then the rear doors opened to reveal a small crowd. Others must have been already there, waiting for them. Wherever they were.

'Get up real slow,' said Zitface.

Seriously outnumbered, seeing no alternative, Huyton hauled himself upright, his left arm singing Ave Maria. He reckoned it was gradually getting better, but in no hurry to make a full recovery.

Zitface waved the gun at him. 'Let's go see Charlie,' he said. 'He's got a new shirt waiting for you.'

*****

Sean grinned down into the face of the woman under him. Sally was old enough to be his mother. She could have done with losing a few pounds but she had great tits and a pretty face. And boy, could she fuck!

Yes, he thought, yes she could!

Just shy of his twentieth birthday, Sean had had a lot of experience with "ladies". In fact he was renowned for being up for fresh fanny when and wherever opportunity knocked. And he wasn't too fussy about "fresh" or "wherever". He claimed he preferred younger women but had never been known to turn down an older one. The older ones were always hungry for cock. Hungry? No, they were ravenous. Like this one. Like . . . what's her name . . . Sally. Sally was as ravenous as anybody he'd ever met. It would be rude to let her down, wouldn't it?

Sean's ego was such that he'd forgotten how and why they'd got together. Later, in the pub, when he was telling everyone about his dazzling "swordsmanship", he'd claim it was all down to his irresistible charm. In truth "charm" had been only a tiny part of it: Sally was fucking him for coke.

'Yes,' he grunted, firing into her, never pausing to wonder if pregnancy was still a possibility. Not for one second thinking about anything but firing and firing and firing. Then, registering her lack of orgasm, he grinned again. She'd be supposing she'd had her lot, game over player one. Hadn't she got a surprise in store!

Quickly recovering his rhythm he produced his party trick and carried on . . . and on and on and on, without needing to rest.

'Brilliant,' Sally gasped, 'don't stop. Whatever you do, don't stop.'

Sean had no intention of stopping. Naturally gifted, he could go on like this all night. Come to that, he could go a lot harder and keep on all night. For him, in situations like this, to think was to act. Gritting his teeth, he pushed in more strongly, at the same time ever-so-slightly upping speed.

'Fuck me,' Sally yelled. Then, vigorously cumming beneath him, 'yes, fuck me! Fuck me!! Fuck me!!'

Ever the gent, he obliged.

*****

The van was parked on an expanse of bare earth behind a massive old mill building. Like really, dead massive. Nowadays, its original purpose served, the mill yard seemed to have been split into several lots, most of which were currently vacant. Not this one, however. It was being used as a scrapyard. There were piles of junked motors everywhere, guarded by the world's biggest Alsatian, thankfully fastened onto the end of a long chain.

'Mind the dog,' said Little Twat, sniggering.

'Wouldn't want you getting hurt,' Zitface added. 'Not yet.'

Huyton let himself be led across the yard. Well, he had the shooter pressed up against his spine, so perhaps "let" wasn't strictly accurate. It was more a case of having no say in the matter. He still wasn't afraid, not exactly, but he was wondering what the fuck was going on. Wild thoughts were swirling inside his head. That mention of a "new shirt" was ringing alarm bells, but he didn't know why.

There was a dilapidated old portacabin standing by the mill. It looked as if it was propped against the wall for support. Zitface told Huyton to go inside so he did, and was surprised to find a smart interior consisting of just one room. He was also disturbed to see a long, bench-like desk and as many as a dozen chairs, set out in a rough circle around the perimeter. Another, solitary chair had been placed smack-bang in the middle of the carpeted floor.

A ravaged-faced man was sitting on the desk, idly swinging his feet. 'Ah,' said in greeting, 'you must be The Accused.'

Huyton had been in plenty of courtrooms over the years. He recognized the set up in a flash. And those alarm bells were ringing louder and louder.

'Come on in, lads,' the ravaged-faced man went on. 'Take a seat.'

Most of the crowd did as requested but Little Twat and Zitface held position behind Huyton, gun barrel in spine, bat presumably out and ready for action.

'Charlie, let me prosecute this one,' said Little Twat. 'It's my turn.'

'Fair enough,' said the man on the desk. 'You can be Mr Prosecutor today. Did you frisk him?'

'Yeah. He only had this.'

The lad was holding up Huyton's favourite weapon: a silver hammer. In his agony he hadn't been able to stop it being confiscated. Now the sight of it made him sigh. He wasn't a sentimental guy but he loved that hammer. He'd got it from a fence who swore it was the one that inspired the old Beatles' song. It wasn't, of course. It wasn't even made of silver. But it didn't half feel good when he banged it down on some fucker's head.

'Must be the Liverpool in him.' Charlie grinned. 'Okay, son, I'm going to give you a choice. Sit or be nailed to the floor. What's your poison?'

Oh fuck, thought Huyton as realization dawned, this crazy bastard thinks he's Charlie Richardson.

*****

Pat was spending the afternoon in a similar manner to his lifelong crony. The difference was that he wouldn't be bragging about his prowess later. He'd been making love, for one thing, not simply fucking. And, for another, his "older woman" was not one to brag about. Not with her being Sean's sister.

Now, lying back and smoking a post-coital cig, he marvelled at the way they'd been carrying on. It had been two years and Sean still hadn't a clue. Sean, the man who thought he knew everything that went on in his neighbourhood.

Pat had known DeeDee almost as long as he'd known Sean. Their families had been next-door neighbours for ever and a day. Sean had been his very first playmate. And they'd bonded right from the off. By the time they began primary school they were already firm friends. That friendship continued all the way through the educational system . . . until Sean got himself booted out of the fifth form . . . and it would continue until one of them died. It had been an ever-changing friendship, though; it certainly hadn't stood still.

DeeDee had always been there in the background, throughout all their childhood. In fact she'd been as much of a big sister to him as she had been to Sean. Except he'd sometimes listened to her well-meaning advice; Sean never did.

Pat grinned as the lady in question took the cigarette from his hand and used it to light another for him. As a boy he'd admired DeeDee without even once looking at her sexually. She really had been like one of his fraternal sisters: friendly, beautiful and completely out-of-bounds. Then, one night in 1986 . . .

DeeDee had been at university but was back to attend a friend's birthday party, held at the rugby club. He'd been doing extra training because competition for his treasured position at loosehead had been getting fierce. Strictly speaking, their paths shouldn't have crossed on an occasion like that. Partygoers were expected to stick to the function room; club members and players were supposed to keep out of their way. But things never went exactly to plan, did they?

We were destined, he thought, never mind "paths crossed".

It was fair to say she'd seemed happy to see him. If he remembered correctly she'd been done up to the nines. And she'd practically stuck her tits in his face when saying hello. That was probably the moment he first noticed her as a woman, come to think about it.

Anyway, after re-introducing herself outside the ladies', she'd shown no intention of re-joining her mates, abandoning them and joining him in the Committee Room instead, obviously happy to be surrounded by would-be-colts and older players and ex-players.

Being courteous as well as the next-door neighbour, he'd offered to see her home. And he hadn't protested when she suggested they stopped off for sex. Not just once, either. Firstly on the rugby pitch of Bingley Grammar's arch rivals, Beckfoot. Secondly, again at her instigation, about three minutes further along their way. And finally, acting on an impulse of his own, he'd picked her up in his strong, prop forward's arms and taken her vigorously against the wall of a snicket, maybe two hundred yards from their homes.

'What are you smirking at?'

'Happy memories of being an eighteen-year-old,' he replied, blowing smoke rings.

'About me, I hope.'

'Oh yes,' he assured her. 'I only ever have happy memories about you.'

*****

By the time Sally cried "enough" Sean had lost count of all the cums. She'd beat him four-to-one, he reckoned, but as to a final score . . .

'I need the loo,' he announced. 'Then it's up to you whether I stay or go.'

Sally laughed. 'I said I was paying you with an afternoon in bed. It's very early, yet. And you are still very hard. Make sure you don't pee on my bathroom ceiling.'

'I won't,' he assured her. 'And I'll be back, ready for more. Like I said, the rest is up to you.'

Strutting naked into the bathroom he wondered at the nature of women. A mate of his sometimes compared them to typhoons, saying "They turn up all hot and wet but, when they leave, they take away your house and car." Not that anything like that would ever happen to him. And not that he'd ever pay for it in any way: not by cash and definitely not by marriage. That much said, the idea of a woman paying him with her body was another thing altogether.