Tuesday, August 29, 2006
He never knew I was there...
Subject one. Surveillance talk for my man, but the number is irrelevant. One could be fifty one, it does not confirm how high or low he is in the organisation.It just confirms we know who he is.
Subject one, male, black, 6 foot tall, good-looking with short corn-row dreads and an eye for the ladies. Big ice fake diamonds in both ears and two phones. A black razr and a black pebl. The razr in the left and the pebl in the right. Waist length black prada jacket. Probably fake but it looked good anyway. Well cut baggy diesel jeans, the good ones, vintage. Black yamamoto Y3's on his feet. I liked the guy already. I liked a man who knows his trainers and liked his garms. I thought about whether the ice would suit me but I quickly disregarded the idea for fear of the incessant amount of piss-taking I would receive.
This boy moved with style. He had a confident gait and he looked around at things and noticed stuff. He read the street. When he was in a large group of his associates, he would move to the back, almost as if he didn't want anyone to flank him. I wondered why? So I flanked him.
The crew clearly liked him. He was shown respect by most of the group and the older members were cossetted by him. He knew that they feared him though and he had a menace to his gaze.
If a nice looking woman walked by, young, middle aged or older, he would smile at them and make a comment to make them spin or smile. Some were nervous and carried on but most of them enjoyed the flattery. I thought to myself that he would have no trouble getting a girl for the night. The trouble with subject one though was that he was a crack man. Not only that but he had opened up a lucrative brothel which he was making several thousands of pounds from a month.
The girls looked so young. There were some of the old-skool brasses also working there but most of them looked really young. Some looked proper rough. Some looked like they had just come from modeling assignments. But the underlying thread was one thing. All of them were on crack. The intel indicated that some of these girls had been lured to the brothel with the promise of cleaning jobs and had been given spliffs laced with stones of crack. Bingo. Hooked within days and then 'you ain't going anywhere girl...you got a drug debt to pay off'. You can start by massaging this bloke at ten this morning. Ten o'clock massage man then says, I will give you £25 for a hand job. Girl needs money. You do the math.
Subject one was in the queue. Smoky betting shop. Dark tables with rough red leather stools,the yellow foam filler sticking out of the sides, where cash-frantic punters had dug their nails in just that bit too hard. There were two of us with him, keeping him under close control. General was behind him in the queue, wondering if I would look out of place if I put a pound bet on or asked if there was anything to eat. The ugly sweaty fat guy behind the counter had a cigarette in one hand and had just put down a huge doorstep sandwich onto a paper napkin next to his overflowing ashtray. I thought that the sandwich looked like a full Monty because I could see a plum tomato hanging out of where he had bitten through it. I wanted one of those. I never got the time. The cigarette smoke in this place was so thick, it was beginning to sting my eyes. Subject one took a call on the pebl.
General was so close, I could hear the other man talking. Irish accent.Two p.m. Two loads(?) and he would be coming to the place too. Subject one seemed happy. He looked at his watch and put a bet on a dog which was about to run from its cage there and then. I asked sweaty man where I could get one of those butties. Next door. Didn't you smell the bacon? I am the bacon I thought. He he.
Subject one didn't know I was there. I just blended in and out of his day like any other person and he never ever knew.That's the thing with these villains, they think they are so clever but sometimes, most of the time, they act so dumb. And you would not believe the amount of criminals who will talk to me, give me a little, give me a lot, but nevertheless they talk to me. There is no honour among thieves. At least not the ones I deal with.
I got home that day after having no food and a 13-hour shift. I walked in the door and Mrs General says "you stink of fags, you been smoking?...oh and can you make the tea, I'm tired."
The fish and chips were lovely.
Subject one, male, black, 6 foot tall, good-looking with short corn-row dreads and an eye for the ladies. Big ice fake diamonds in both ears and two phones. A black razr and a black pebl. The razr in the left and the pebl in the right. Waist length black prada jacket. Probably fake but it looked good anyway. Well cut baggy diesel jeans, the good ones, vintage. Black yamamoto Y3's on his feet. I liked the guy already. I liked a man who knows his trainers and liked his garms. I thought about whether the ice would suit me but I quickly disregarded the idea for fear of the incessant amount of piss-taking I would receive.
This boy moved with style. He had a confident gait and he looked around at things and noticed stuff. He read the street. When he was in a large group of his associates, he would move to the back, almost as if he didn't want anyone to flank him. I wondered why? So I flanked him.
The crew clearly liked him. He was shown respect by most of the group and the older members were cossetted by him. He knew that they feared him though and he had a menace to his gaze.
If a nice looking woman walked by, young, middle aged or older, he would smile at them and make a comment to make them spin or smile. Some were nervous and carried on but most of them enjoyed the flattery. I thought to myself that he would have no trouble getting a girl for the night. The trouble with subject one though was that he was a crack man. Not only that but he had opened up a lucrative brothel which he was making several thousands of pounds from a month.
The girls looked so young. There were some of the old-skool brasses also working there but most of them looked really young. Some looked proper rough. Some looked like they had just come from modeling assignments. But the underlying thread was one thing. All of them were on crack. The intel indicated that some of these girls had been lured to the brothel with the promise of cleaning jobs and had been given spliffs laced with stones of crack. Bingo. Hooked within days and then 'you ain't going anywhere girl...you got a drug debt to pay off'. You can start by massaging this bloke at ten this morning. Ten o'clock massage man then says, I will give you £25 for a hand job. Girl needs money. You do the math.
Subject one was in the queue. Smoky betting shop. Dark tables with rough red leather stools,the yellow foam filler sticking out of the sides, where cash-frantic punters had dug their nails in just that bit too hard. There were two of us with him, keeping him under close control. General was behind him in the queue, wondering if I would look out of place if I put a pound bet on or asked if there was anything to eat. The ugly sweaty fat guy behind the counter had a cigarette in one hand and had just put down a huge doorstep sandwich onto a paper napkin next to his overflowing ashtray. I thought that the sandwich looked like a full Monty because I could see a plum tomato hanging out of where he had bitten through it. I wanted one of those. I never got the time. The cigarette smoke in this place was so thick, it was beginning to sting my eyes. Subject one took a call on the pebl.
General was so close, I could hear the other man talking. Irish accent.Two p.m. Two loads(?) and he would be coming to the place too. Subject one seemed happy. He looked at his watch and put a bet on a dog which was about to run from its cage there and then. I asked sweaty man where I could get one of those butties. Next door. Didn't you smell the bacon? I am the bacon I thought. He he.
Subject one didn't know I was there. I just blended in and out of his day like any other person and he never ever knew.That's the thing with these villains, they think they are so clever but sometimes, most of the time, they act so dumb. And you would not believe the amount of criminals who will talk to me, give me a little, give me a lot, but nevertheless they talk to me. There is no honour among thieves. At least not the ones I deal with.
I got home that day after having no food and a 13-hour shift. I walked in the door and Mrs General says "you stink of fags, you been smoking?...oh and can you make the tea, I'm tired."
The fish and chips were lovely.
