A Trio of Blues

By Andrew Scorah

Andrew Scorah's Jimmy Dalton series, all three books in one collection.

Dalton’s Blues
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It was a night to end all nights. The night Jimmy Dalton's life changed forever.

Will Jimmy walk away unscathed or will he sink to the depraved depths of those around him? What started as a night out with the boys, soon descends into a drug fuelled ride of madness and mayhem.

Homecoming Blues
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Coming home from war can be hell.

All Jimmy Dalton wanted after fighting for his country was to escape his demons and live a quiet life. But a notorious gangster has other ideas and Jimmy finds himself in a war of a different kind. The daughter of Phil Duggan has been kidnapped by the Russian Mafia and Dalton is coerced into rescuing her. What he finds out sees Dalton set on a path of revenge that may turn the streets of London red with blood, a path that may not only destroy those he cares about; but also his sanity and his very soul.

Border Town Blues
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Dalton's on the run with a gal, and a gun!

What begins as a search for missing D.E.A agents, turns into a race against time, through the Sonoran Desert. Jimmy Dalton & Jamie Duggan uncover a plot to unleash a terrible Biological weapon. Suicide bombers loaded with viral death are on their way to unleash hell, only Dalton & Jamie stand in their way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: XinXii
• Release date: Feb 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301250578

Andrew Scorah

Andrew Scorah-1965-, I was born in Doncaster south yorkshire but moved to Swansea in 1999. Andrew has worked in a variety of jobs over the years,mostly in the security industry. He worked as a security supervisor at the Dome leisure centre in Doncaster for many years, after that he became a DJ and karaoke presenter before moving to Swansea with his fiancee Lisa. In wales he worked for a firm specialising in security for various events such as football matches, music concerts, and such prestigious events as the Brit Awards, and door security. Andrew always wanted to be a writer but life got in the way, now an 'old fogie' he has taken up the pen again. He has just had a short story published, Eastern Fury, you can find this in ACTION:Pulse Pounding Tales, a book of some of his poems, A Collection in Time, is also published on Amazon. At the moment he is putting together a collection of short stories involving the character from Eastern Fury and doing research for a gangland novel set in Swansea. I have also published Eastern Fury and Other Tales featuring a trio of adventures featurng my character from the Action novel.

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Copyright ©Andrew Scorah 2013

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Andrew Scorah has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Published 2013 by Creativia.

Ebook-Distribution: XinXii

http://www.xinxii.com

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Act 1

Act 2

Act 3

Chapter 2

Act 1

Act 2

Act 3

Act 4

Act 5

Act 6

Epilogue

Chapter 3

Prologue

Act 1

Act 2

Act 3

Act 4

Act 5

Act 6

Act 7

Act 8

Act 9

Act 10

Epilogue

Author Biography

Glossary

Introduction

This book contains first three of Jimmy Dalton's adventures in one book. Go ahead and enjoy, and if you like what you read don’t forget to leave a review to the place of purchase.

This is also to commemorate my first year as a full time writer, I have met a lot of wonderful people along the way who have helped me along the golden path of the scrivening Bodhisattva. I would like to thank in no particular order: Matt Hilton, author of the Joe Hunter series of books, Stephen Leather, author of the Spider Shephard, and Jack Nightingale books, Joe McCoubrey, Ian Graham, Andrew Peters, David Barber, the good people at ASMSG Facebook group. I would also like to thank my family for allowing me to live a dream and strive to be all I can be, Lisa Elphick, Tammie Elphick, Sammy Lou Elphick, Kat Elphick Nation Steffan Elphick, Kristy Eloise Scorah, and Lauren Scorah. Lastly my mother and father, Betty Scorah and Allan George Scorah plus my sister Sharon Chambers and her cow pie eating husband Carl Chambers {Joke lol, as they say on Facebook.} There are many more I could mention and you know who you all are, thank you one and all.

Anyway, enough of me. Get on with you, read the book and enjoy.

Andrew Scorah

Swansea, Dec 2012

Chapter 1

Act 1

Tonight is the night it all ends. The graft, the booze, the skirt, and the possibility I, Jimmy Dalton, may end up floating down the Thames with a bullet in my nut. I had no idea at the start of the night though. Danny Bowers’ younger brother, Jono had just been released from the big house. He had been weighed in for a seven-stretch for an armed blag on a security van.

Me, Paulie, Danny, his brother Jono, met up with Ronnie Tibbs at a private club in Camden Town. All suited and booted in our best tucker. A nonce hairdresser owned it, but we didn’t mind as he always passed on a bit of tasty graft our way now and again. We were an up-and-coming little firm, starting to catch the eyes of the big boys. We were young and we owned the night, at least in our little bubble of the world.

I had only been with Danny and his crew for a year; I saved his ass when some geezer in a spieler down Newham way tried to bottle him. I had always been tasty with my fists, and he saw that night how I could be useful to him. During that year I saw more of the folding stuff than I ever would in a straight goer’s job. Most of our cash came from taxing dealers, or shifting snide gear from point a to point b. Danny also had interests in several massage parlours in Soho and a couple down in Essex.

We also did bits of graft for a few of the old lags, mostly when some mug needed a slap to keep them in line; nothing too heavy.

We piled into the club, and found our usual booth next to the stage. Some faded old bint was doing her version of an erotic dance to the sound of Limahl’s Too Shy. She gave us a wink as we sat down. Danny ordered Champagne then drew up some lines of tooting Charlie to kick the night off.

I hated the stuff, hated the way it made me feel, but snorted a line just to be sociable.

Are you still up for that bit of graft on Monday, Jimmy? Danny wiped some of the white stuff from his nose.

Of course, sweet, it’s a nice little earner, easy money.

Enough talk about work, this is me first night out in seven years, and I want to get shit faced, then bang the granny out of some slag.

The Champagne came and we toasted Jono, and his aspirations for the night to come. We had been knocking back the champers, and talking bollocks, for about an hour when Siddy Cruckshank and his seven strong crew stroll in. Danny hated Siddy with a vengeance; their relationship was like America and Russia back in the day. Nothing overt but underneath the currents broiled.

Siddy nodded at Danny, as he and his crew took the booth opposite ours. I had a feeling this would not end well. Ronnie decided he needed a gypsies kiss, and headed off to the bog. This was the catalyst for the rest of the night’s events. He explained later how it all went down.

I had just put the beast back in its cage and was washing my hands when Jake Dark came in.

"See Jono’s out then," he says while shaking hands with Mr Pink.

"Yeah, just got out today, takin’ ‘Im out for a bit of a binge."

"I hear he was a tea-boy for the screws."

I turn and give him a clump, and he comes up with a shiv and sticks me in the gut so I hit him again.

Calling someone a tea-boy for the screws, you may have well labelled him a grass. Inside, you don’t help, you cause trouble. Ronnie came back cool as you please; he sat down and let out a long breath. Paulie saw the blood on his shirt.

What the fuck, Tibbsy?

Fuckin’ Dark shivved me, he gasped and nodded at Jono, He called Jono a screws bitch, so I conned him fucker came back at me with a blade.

Paulie and I looked at each other, we knew what was coming. See, the thing is with insults; you insult one of us, you insult all of us. Now, Danny was the only one, I would not say scared, I was wary of. He was an out and out psychopath; he didn’t know when to stop. I knew Danny would not let this sleight go; he would lose face if he did not react.

We looked at each other, and then at Danny, his face was a picture straight out of Dante’s inferno.

Dark returned to Siddy’s booth as Danny looked over. He saw the look on Danny’s face, and he and his crew had it on their toes towards the doors.

Danny hefted a champagne bottle and lobbed it at their retreating backs, screaming his fury. The bottle clumped John Tobin on the back of his bonce. He went down like a ten bob brass. We were on him like a pack of hungry jackals; paggering the granny out of him.

From out of nowhere, Danny produced a switchblade and stuck him twice in the back of the neck. We legged it then, leaving Tobin leaking claret out of every hole.

Act 2

We jumped into the motor and tore out of Camden like a bunch of pikeys were chasing us. Danny, Jono, and Ronnie, despite his wound, were in stitches over the flying Champers bottle.

Danny soon shut up though when he realised Tobin had spilled claret on his brand new Penny Loafers. He went skywards all over again, punching the dash, and blueing like a Docker. We had to pull over, and Danny jumped out and vented his anger some more on a phone box.

What you fuckin’ lookin’ at! He screamed at two old dears who stared at him like he were shit under their shoes.

We dropped off Ronnie at the nearest Hospital then tore off to carry on with the night.

We parked up near Wardour Street in Soho, and headed to Johnny Rankin’s Ska Club Rankin Manna. Rankin, a second generation Jamaican, was where Danny got most of his toot from; we also did a bit of debt collecting for him too.

Walking straight by the two hulking Rastafarians on the door, we entered the club proper. Dark as the night inside; with the solid tones of Barrington Levi grumbling out from the speakers. Only a handful of customers were inside, all eyes looked away. People knew who we were, especially Danny, he would see it as a sign of respect, and not realising it was fear.

Rankin was at the end of the bar, a huge bifta hanging from his mouth. In fact, the whole place was suffused with the aroma of Mary Jane. You could get high standing by the front doors.

Danny went over to see Rankin, and Paulie and I went to the bar. Jono went over to a table to chat up two Essex girls looking for something better than Southend shag.

I ordered four cans of Red Stripe, relishing the few minutes of peace away from Danny’s madness.

Why the fuck do we still hang around with this crew Paulie?

Because Jimmy Dalton me old mucker, we love the folding, and the bints that chase the folding.

He took a long swig of Red before lining up some toot on the bar. We hoovered up the lines, and I started to feel easier. The snow entering my system, helping to fire up my engines. Fuck it, they had it coming. You don’t mug people off like that then expect a free ride, not in our world.

I think Danny is getting out of control though, Paulie said as we both leaned against the bar,

Fuck him, let’s just get pissed!

Yeah c’mon soppy bollocks it’s your round.

We grabbed a couple of cheeky Tequilas to go with our Red Stripe, and waited for Danny to come back; he had disappeared into the staff area with Rankin. Jono glided back to the bar, and ordered a drink.

No luck Jono? I laughed at his downtrodden face, which only a mother could love, no wonder they blew him off.

Fuckin’ slags, think they upmarket totty, Jono spat.

You couldn’t pull yourself in a reach around contest.

I nearly spat out a mouthful of Stripe at Paulie’s comment. Jono glared at him, and I thought it was going to kick-off. The situation was dissolved with Danny’s return. He was carrying a small bag, which he reached in and tossed us a fat envelope each.

What’s this? Jono asked.

Rankin’s lay on a retainer for us all, I’ve agreed for us to do some work for him. He needs some merchandise minding during the exchange.

What else’s in the bag? I asked pocketing the envelope. Extra cash always came in handy thank you very much.

He took the bag off the bar, opening it to show us.

A fuckin’ Uzi! Paulie looked from the bag to him, What do ya need a shooter for, you gonna start a new war?

Sweet! Jono worshipped his brother.

Fuckin’ Siddy is going to get it tonight; he’s had it coming a long time, fuckin’ liberty taker!

Let’s have it right Danny, he mugged us off tonight, I’m gonna open Dark up, cheeky little cunt! Jono had a big grin on his face, and was making fists.

Danny turned to Paulie and me.

You two carrying?

We shook our heads.

No mind, we’ll slip by Disco Dave’s, he’ll have some steel for ya, he can come along too, bout time he did something for the Queens I’m paying him.

Great, Danny was on a mission, and we were going to be pulled in. Still he was right Siddy had been taking the piss just lately, he had upset more people than us. Word was he was behind a raid on a big deal up the Motorway; the Andersons wanted his bollocks on a plate. One thing for sure by the time this night was over there was going to be murders.

We left the club and headed back to the motor. Siddy’s crew hailed out of Newham, and hung out at a pub called Chillers near Upton Park. This also happened to be the main pub where West Hams notorious ICF, Intercity firm, hung out. Handy for Siddy, he used some of their boys for muscle.

So, that was our destination, into the lion’s den, after a detour. One of Siddy’s crew was just down the road in an amusement arcade. Rankin had phoned round some of his contacts; Jim Sneddon was in King Slots dry humping the Pin Ball machines. Sneddon was a twat, a woman beater and all round scumbag; the world would not miss him.

Before pulling away, Danny lined up a few rows, and we all had a line each. He went on about what we were going to do to Siddy, buzzing us all up. The toot adding to the black euphoria he was creating. I realised we were being pulled along on the Coke tide, it was helping to elevate our mood, and Danny was playing us like a master puppeteer. I didn’t care though; the booze and snow had blown away any reticence I had towards what we were doing. Right this moment I really did not care.

A couple of minutes weaving through traffic saw us pulling into the curb at the corner of Rathbone Place and Oxford Street. King Slots was right on the corner. It would be packed with tossers wanting to make a quick buck but not realising all the machines were fixed so the house wins, fucking numpty’s.

Danny pulled the Uzi out of the bag, all business like now.

Keep the motor running, he said to Jono, This won’t take long.

He climbed out and disappeared inside.

I could picture the scene. Danny walking into a world filled with the sounds of kerchings, clangs, and whistles. The odd cry of a punter who has a win, mingling with the sounds of Duran Duran, or Human League pumping from the speakers. Neon clad walls, and the air fogged with cigarette smoke. Sneddon would be at his favourite Pinball, one of many that lined the back wall. He would be standing there legs gunslinger wide, trying to become part of the machine, racking up the scores. Danny casually strolls through the crowd, no need to mask up, ‘because no one will grass to Old Bill. Danny stands behind him, raises the Uzi, and fires at the back of his head. TILT! Game over. Claret and brains spraying over the machine, and he just turns, and walks away. The whole tableau of people nearby would be frozen for a second, not realising what had happened, then panic, and fear would take over.

The panicked crowd came running out of King Slots, disappearing into the night. Danny cool as you like, comes strolling out... He even stops to grab a snog and a grope from one of the brasses who regularly hang out by the doors. She pushes him away. He laughs at her and stuffs a few notes down her top.

Once Danny was back in the motor, we shot away onto Oxford Street.

Where to now Bruv?

Green Street, I figure that’s where Siddy has slithered back to.

The bollocks and backslapping carried on until way past Gray’s Inn Gardens. When we reached East India Dock Road, we had to pull over. Paulie was bursting for a slash, and we all fancied a livener before carrying on. The Kings Arms on the corner of Canton Street was where we plotted up. By this time, we were all buzzing, and up for anything. Even Paulie, who was normally so laid back he would fall over, was eager to be stuck into some agg.

Paulie did his business and I handed him his pint on his return. Danny was chatting up a bottled blonde Barbette at the far end of the Bar; she seemed to be hanging on to his every word. Jono was dropping some of his not so hard earned into the Bandit.

This is turning into a right fucking night, mate. Once we do Siddy and his little muggy firm the big boys will sit up and take notice.

Yeah, and they might get scared of us, decide we’re too much of a threat, fuckin’ Danny’s out of control.

What’s got your giz, yer farmer Giles playing up again?

Get out of it Doris, I was up for a night of booze and bints, what we got, madness and mayhem.

I know, once we slot the mugs we can get right on it big style.

I looked over the bar to see Danny disappearing out the door, with the bimbo trying to ram her tongue down his ear. He turned and winked at me then was gone.

Where the fucks he going now, Paulie necked his pint then went to the bar for another one.

Old Danny, never one to turn down