In today’s Wednesday literature segment, I feature a seven-page excerpt from The Long Firm by Jake Arnott, a British novel which I’m just about to finish reading. As usual, if you enjoy dabbling in books, feel free to join me on Goodreads [here].

My literature extracts on this blog usually come from classic English literature that is suitable for a general readership. But today’s featured book comes from the crime genre and includes LGBT themes, which I hardly ever read. I was looking forward to the change. It is definitely a bit “left-field” compared with the usual material I feature here.

The Long Firm is about a gangster seen through the eyes of his associates. His name is Harry Starks and he controls much of the London underworld. The story also features a number of fictional encounters with real-life entertainers from the 1960s, including poor Judy Garland, no less.

The book is made up of five sections, each told by a different character who has dealings with Harry Starks. Each person gives their own account of what it was like to be involved with him. The characters range from a Member of Parliament whom Harry is blackmailing to a young male prostitute. It goes without saying that the subject matter can be quite scandalous, and at times it becomes very violent and rather gruesome in parts. So intending readers should be aware of what they are getting into.

That said, I am not usually one for watching or reading violent material. But the realism, the world-building, and the authentic slang and language of the period drew me in completely. The build-up to the pay-off or climax in each section is very well done. The violent episodes never feel as if they are there just for shock value. Instead, they come across as a realistic consequence of dealing with the underworld and the sorts of characters who inhabit it.

I found The Long Firm a cracking read – a real page-turner up until the last section, which I’m currently reading. It has unfortunately descended into a social-political ideology snooze fest, lacking any of the heightened tension and realism that came before it. But overall, the novel has been a refreshing change from the more proper and sensible books I had been reading, not that I mean any disrespect to those.

After something this entertaining, darkly humorous, and full of edge-of-your-seat moments, it may be a little difficult to return straight away to my beloved classical and historical fiction. From a Tv & film perspective, I would compare the feel and tone of the book (four sections of five) to a mix between Pulp Fiction, True Detective (season 1!) and Goodfellas. If you like those in particular, you will probably get a real kick out of The Long Firm.

Before I get to the extract, it is worth explaining what the title The Long Firm actually refers to. In plain terms, “the long firm” is slang for a long-running con in which a group of criminals sets up what appears to be a legitimate business – often a trading company. They build trust slowly over a long period, taking goods on credit, until one day the business collapses overnight and the gang disappears with the merchandise or the money. So the “firm” was fake all along, and the “long” part refers to how patiently the scam is carried out.

The seven-page excerpt from the book that I have included below contains one of my favourite parts. I found myself laughing out loud at some of the wordplay and confrontations. It does not spoil any of the major plot twists, nor does it go into anything too violent, although there is a brief recollection of a violent incident. There is plenty of foul language, sexist rhetoric, and general mouthing off – so you are warned.

This excerpt comes from the section told in the first person by another associate of Harry’s – freelancer Jack “the Hat”, who works as a hired “heavy” for Harry. As the description suggests, his job is to help out in certain situations by being an intimidating physical presence. And if the situation calls for it, he is there to physically engage and “rough up” someone Harry is trying to get information from.

To set the scene: both Harry and Jack have arranged to meet at a club owned by one of Harry’s associates. Harry wants to see a stage performance by Dorothy Squires (a real life Welsh music entertainer), whose music he was rather fond of in her heyday. He wants to see if she still has the chops, and if so, perhaps invite her to perform at his own club.

So when the excerpt begins below, we find Jack “the Hat” in his apartment in the afternoon – pretty dishevelled, to put it mildly – before heading out to the club (from which he had been barred) with Harry to see Dorothy Squires perform.

So without further ado, if you have ten minutes to spare, grab yourself a cuppa and strap yourself in. It is quite a show. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Please excuse the poor image formatting in the second half, when I realised there was simply too much to transcribe – but you should find yourself well-settled in by then to carry on.

Pages 119 – 125

Drive home. Vodka mouthwash. Collapse into bed. Wake up and it’s already starting to get dark again. Four o’clock. Feel like death. Take a couple of bombers and pick up a bit. Yeah. Have a bath. Shave. Watch a bit of telly. Find a half-clean shirt and give it an iron. No clean underwear so I put on a pair swimming trunks instead. Dab the suit down a bit. Get ready. Chicka, chicka, chicka. Get suited and booted.
Phone Harry. Arrange to meet him in the Midmay Tavern on ball’s Pond Road. Have a few before going on to the Tempo. Barred? What a joke. Ready to go. Down a couple more bombers just to be on the safe side….
Get to the The Tempo mob-handed and a bit tanked up. Bother on the door. Some fucking Geordies in monkey suits don’t want to let me in. Freddie comes out.
‘Look,’ he says all reasonable and shit. ‘We don’t want any trouble from Jack.’
Harry intervenes. One club owner to another like.
‘It’s all right, Freddie. He’s with me. I’ll look after him.’
Freddy lets me in grinning nervously. You know he’s thinking about his fixtures and fittings. I put up with this shit and stroll in, unimpressed. Feel a bit wound up, to tell you the truth. Down a couple more bombers, chase them with a bacardi and Coke. That’s better. Stay out of trouble, Jack. Chicka, chicka, chicka. Fuck them. The Tempo is all red walls and chairs sprayed gold. Trying to be classy, I suppose. All fur coat and no knickers if you ask me. At the least the teenagers I push pills to know how to enjoy themselves. All this pouncing about in dinner jackets. Don’t impress me.
Me and Harry grab another drink and a table. Dorothy Squires has started her act. Short blond hair. Looks a bit washed out to tell the truth. Hoarse voice singing some sad song. She’s past her best but she can still belt it out good and proper. Harry loves it. But then queers always seem to go for this sort of thing. Some washed-out old bint wailing on about what a mess they’ve got themselves into. Like old Judy Garland. Harry’s a sucker for her and all.
Dorothy’s taking swigs from a bottle between numbers. Pretending it’s water, I suppose. It’s obviously booze. Looks like she’s had a few already. Harry looks a bit concerned. Unprofessional, he’d call it.
‘She’s pissed Jack.’ he says a bit affronted.
‘Maybe The Saint ain’t giving it to her enough,’ I reply.
You see Dot’s married to Roger Moore who plays The Saint on the telly. Harry doesn’t see the joke and goes to take a piss. Dorothy’s beginning to slur her words. I feel the speed and the booze surge up inside me. Feel great. Poor old Dot looks fucked, and the crowd’s getting a bit restless.
‘Where’s The Saint?’ I shout.
Laughter. Then lots of shushing. Dorothy looks out blearily across the crowd, rotten drunk. Chicka, chicka, chicka– I can’t stop myself.
‘What’s he like in bed then?’ I shout over. ‘The old Saint?’
Get a few laughs. A bit more shushing. Dorothy loses her rag.
‘You mind your own business!’ she yells, her voice thick with Welsh. ‘He’s a lot better than you!’
Laughter. No more shushing. I’m part of the floorshow now.
‘Come down here, darling!’ I call back . ‘We’ll soon see!’
‘I’ll come down and have a fight with you!’ she screams, her accent getting Welsher all the time.
More laughter. Everyone turns around to look at me. I stand up. The whole club does a bit of a spin around me. Faces everywhere. Looking at Jack. Jack the Hat.
‘Come on then, darling!’ I shout out.
I move forward. Knock over a chair and kick it out of the way. A couple of doormen are coming over.
”All right, Geordie boy!’ I call out to the biggest one. ‘Me and Dorothy are just working on our double act.’
This thick northener’s grunting something in a stupid accent but no one can hear a thing because Dorothy’s giving the whole place a mouthful.
‘Fuck the lot of you!’ she’s screeching as she leaves the stage.
Game girl. I give her a clap and a cheer. The doormen are moving in but people are getting up and walking out. Lots of pushing and shoving. A ruck starts and the thick Geordie boys go off to deal with it. Booing and whistling from the bac of the hall. Some prat of a compere in a crap shiny tuxedo announces the next act over the row. An exotic dancer. I move towards the stage. The row’s been settled. The doormen are dragging someone out.
The dancer’s music starts. Some mad Turkish racket. Drums going like crazy. Boom ba di boom ba di boom ba di boom.

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