Fat Kenny was an arsehole. No-one ever doubted that. Not even his own mum. I remember in the Bell and Bucket one time, Bethnal Green, Kenny starts giving it the biggun, getting all intimidating like, just 'cos some kid's bumped his pint. Next thing, his Mum comes over, grabs him by the ear and twists it hard as you like. She kept twisting 'til he apologised to the kid for scaring the shit out of him. Kenny was almost in tears at the end. So was we, it was fuckin' hilarious.
He was forty-one at the time.
Now Kenny had his fingers in a lot of pies but there are some pies not even a fat bastard like him should touch. Yeah, Fat Kenny was a proper arsehole, but what become of him, well, it was a crying shame. That's what it was. A bleedin' crying shame. We all knew he was running a couple of brasses out of a flat in Tilbury and that he dabbled in a bit of puff. He could get hold of an 'alf decent pair of trainers if you wanted, knocked-off aftershave, bit of jewellery, stuff like that. Strictly small time.
Back end of last year, everything changed.
We was in the boozer, Sad Keith, Tommo and me, when the door bangs open and in strides Fat Kenny. Now, Kenny was never a strider. He was more of a shuffler, like the rest of us, always had been, but this night he strides in like he owns the whole fuckin' world. Gone was the oversized, Chinky-stained t-shirt and gone was the arse hanging out of his jeans. All suited up in Italian clobber, he was. My old man was in the rag trade all his life, so I knows top clobber when I sees it. Fuckin' Brioni suit - three grand a pop. Black cashmere overcoat hanging off his shoulders, silk scarf round his neck. Looked like he just walked off The Sopranos. Sad Keith spits out his beer, Tommo's fag falls out and I nearly chokes on me pork scratchings. Then Kenny up and buys a round for the whole fuckin' place. It was like he'd gone all big time overnight. Fucking unbelievable.
A couple of hours later, he squeezes up to me at the bar smelling of aftershave and hair cream. For the last ten years he'd smelled of nothing but chips and piss. Aftershave and fuckin' hair cream, for fucks sake.
'You all right, Kenny?' I says, 'Had a touch on the gee gees?'
He smiles at me, sort of conspiratorial, like. Doesn't say a word.
'So, what's up, Kenny, what's with all the clobber?'
Kenny tries to tap his nose and misses. He's a bit pissed by now. For a fat bastard, he never could hold his drink.
'Come 'ere,' he slurs, pulling me closer, 'I'll tell you a little secret.'
They're not really the words I ever want to hear from a grown man but my curiosity gets the better of me, and I lean in.
'You won't tell no-one, will you?' he says.
'No, Kenny,' I says, 'course not.'
'Good boy.'
Then he tells me how his brother's mate, Ronnie Swordfish, a well known face on the manor and one horrible cunt, taps him up one day and asks him to do a little job. Kenny's given a pile of cash and told to put a certain amount on a certain dog at half a dozen different bookies. I suspect its a blood doping scam 'cos the odds are always as long as your arm, but it's clear Kenny's fuckin' clueless. He's happy just to be mixing it with the big boys.
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