A Proper Shootout

The road to the back room of the Bear and Key began three days earlier under grey Hackney skies, in the sorting office on Mare Street. George White ran crime the way a venture capitalist ran a portfolio: the East End’s illegal cigarette trade suffered from chronic market inefficiency, and the Goldman Firm was not a rival syndicate to be negotiated with, but an asset to be liquidated. Rather than send the usual warning, he dispatched a typed memo by courier to Freddie Goldman’s credit-betting office, outlining a mandatory handover of territory.

Freddie read the memo. Then he made the courier eat it.

The real trouble started that same afternoon at one of Goldman’s betting shops in Bethnal Green. George sent his frontline men to enforce the merger: Mad Coupon Eddie and Balaclava John. What followed was no proper cinematic shakedown. Eddie twitched violently, screamed about non-refundable deposit terms, and sliced the shop’s velvet curtains to ribbons with his tailor’s shears. John simply stood by the counter, flipping a heavy Victorian sovereign and staring at the ceiling.

When the manager reported back, Freddie was not angry about lost revenue—he was mortified by the lack of style.

“Shears, Mickey?” he roared, pacing the lock-up. “They brought bloody haberdashery to a turf war? Where’s the dignity? Where’s the silver-plated revolvers? It’s an insult to the entire history of British villainy.”

Mickey polished his brass knuckles calmly. “They want a meeting, Fred. The Bear and Key. Tonight. George wants you to sign a contract.”

That evening, George White transformed the pub’s dingy back room into a makeshift boardroom: antique mahogany desk, expensive Havana cigars, and two heavy-set minders positioned by the snooker table. 

He told Balaclava John to keep flipping the coin for ‘psychological baseline dread’” – great line, just maybe “…for what he called ‘psychological baseline dread’”

and instructed Mad Coupon Eddie to stop muttering about Bulgarian lev exchange rates—a request that failed within seconds.

George was ready for negotiation. He had spreadsheets and an ultimatum.

He was not ready for Freddie Goldman’s commitment to the dramatic arts.

The heavy oak doors swung open. Freddie Goldman and Mickey O’Neil stepped in looking less like men about to sign away their livelihood and more like theatre critics walking into a badly reviewed play.

George smoothed his silk waistcoat with a manicured thumb, cold eyes measuring Goldman like a patch of land he intended to develop. To his left loomed Balaclava John: a neckless mountain of tweed whose head merged straight into a torso built from thirty years of shifting timber on the Isle of Dogs. In one spade-like hand he flipped the sovereign. Flip. Catch. Flip. Catch.

To White’s right jittered Mad Coupon Eddie, a human live wire of sharp angles and old trauma. His left eye twitched a frantic Morse code while his elbows jerked as if trying to snip out promotional discount flyers.

“Good of you to come,” White said in a smooth public-school drawl that sounded absurd in a pub reeking of stale ale and damp wood. “You’ve built quite the reputation, Goldman. Shame you’re making such a loud, un-British mess of my territory.”

Goldman ignored him, mesmerised by the coin. “What’s with your man and the currency?”

Neither George nor John answered.

“It’s his lucky coin!” Eddie blurted, head snapping sideways. “John don’t talk much, see? Don’t like talking, likes bashing people. He’s counting down your minutes left alive. Tick-tock… bang, bang, discount’s expired, you’re dead!”

Goldman turned his gaze on the twitching wreck, his face twisting in theatrical disgust. “Is that your psychological warfare? What are you gonna do—hope the coin hits me on the forehead?” He sneered. “And you—vibrating like a washing machine on spin cycle. Are you the warm-up act?”

White’s polished veneer cracked. “John.”

The coin stopped mid-air. Balaclava John pocketed it and drew a rusted, industrial-sized meat cleaver that looked as if it had seen serious work on beef carcasses that morning. Not to be outdone, Mad Coupon Eddie shrieked about terms and conditions, producing a pair of heavy iron tailor’s shears and snapping them open and shut like a deranged crab.

Goldman’s face fell—not in fear, but in profound, soul-crushing disappointment. He slapped the sides of his heavy wool overcoat. Two solid metallic clunks answered.

“Fuck me,” he said. “I came here expecting a proper cinematic showdown. Wild Bill Hickok stepping out in El Paso. The O.K. Corral. Real men with Colt revolvers and double-barrelled shotguns. And what do I get? A load of misfits who couldn’t act their way out of a primary-school nativity play.”

He turned to Mickey, who was calmly polishing his signet ring. “Look at this circus, Mickey. A boardroom suit who thinks he’s Michael Caine, a silent butcher, and a twitchy bargain-hunter. A room full of bloody housewives about to start a baking class.”

Goldman spun on his heel and marched back toward the entrance, shoving the two minders aside like cardboard cut-outs.

“A SHOOTOUT, RIGHT, IS A SHOOTOUT!” he bellowed. “Like Tombstone! You’re a bunch of fucking wankers! Embarrassing!”

The back-room door did not simply open.

It exploded inward.

KABOOM!

The twin blast blew both hinges clean off, sending six inches of solid oak hurtling across the room like an angry wardrobe.”

iThe door cartwheeled directly into George White’s antique mahogany desk, reducing two hundred years of craftsmanship to expensive firewood.

George disappeared behind it with a shriek. “My desk!”

Smoke drifted lazily through the ruined doorway. Freddie Goldman stood in the middle of it like an actor who’d waited twenty years for his grand entrance—sawn-off shotgun in one hand, nickel-plated Colt in the other.

He looked around the room and frowned. “…Bit better.” He glanced back into the corridor. “I should’ve kicked the saloon doors first.”

Mickey leaned around him. “It’s a Victorian pub, Fred.”

“So it is.” Freddie nodded thoughtfully. “Missed opportunity.”

Balaclava John let out a roar that rattled the optics behind the bar and charged, meat cleaver held high.

Freddie looked genuinely offended. “No, no, no!” He held up a hand. “You don’t run!”

John kept coming.

“You draw first…”

Another few steps.

“…then you stare…”

John was nearly on him.

“…then someone says something memorable—”

The cleaver came down. Freddie sighed. “Honestly, it’s like working with amateurs.”

BANG!

The Colt barked. The bullet clipped the cleaver’s handle, spinning the enormous blade right out of John’s grip. It buried itself in the ceiling with a heavy THUNK.

Everyone instinctively looked up. A beat. Dust drifted down.

Freddie pointed skywards. “See? Much more dramatic.”

John blinked, looking at his empty hand with genuine confusion.

Mad Coupon Eddie chose that precise moment to lose what little remained of his mind. “NON-REFUNDABLE!” he screamed, sprinting across the room waving his shears above his head. “You’ve voided the promotional period!”

Freddie watched him approach. “Mickey.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s he meant to be?”

“I think he’s clearance-aisle security.”

“Ah.” Freddie nodded. “Makes sense.”

Eddie lunged. Freddie sidestepped without the slightest urgency, letting the shears slam into George White’s priceless leather chair instead.

SNIP. Half the armrest fell off.

George let out another horrified cry. “My bloody Chesterfield!”

“I did warn you,” Freddie said. “Never bring scissors to a shootout.”

He casually swung the shotgun sideways. The wooden stock caught Eddie square on the jaw, sending the little man spinning twice before he collided with the drinks trolley and disappeared beneath a mountain of promotional flyers he’d somehow brought with him.

A single hand emerged from the pile. “…still valid until Tuesday…” Then silence.

Across the room, George finally lost his patience. “Would somebody shoot somebody!”

“THANK YOU!” Freddie beamed. “That’s the first proper line anyone’s delivered all evening.”

The two minders finally drew their revolvers. Freddie’s face lit up. “There we are! Now we’re getting somewhere!”

The first minder fired; the bullet smashed every bottle of gin behind the bar except one. Freddie looked at the lone survivor. “Remarkable.”

The second minder pulled his trigger, but the gun only clicked. He opened the cylinder in disbelief. Empty.

George stared. “You didn’t load it?”

“I thought John had.”

John, still gazing up at the cleaver in the ceiling, simply shrugged.

Mickey sighed. “This is fucking embarrassing.”

Before either man could recover, Mickey stepped forward. One brass-knuckled uppercut, one unconscious minder. He dusted his cuff nonchalantly. “I’ve done scarier queues outside Greggs.”

The remaining gunman panicked, waving his revolver wildly.

Freddie winced. “Finger off the trigger.”

“What?”

“Finger… off… the—”

The revolver discharged. The shot shattered the pub’s enormous mirrored whisky cabinet, filling the air with flying crystal and twenty-year-old single malt.

Silence descended. Everyone stared.

Freddie slowly removed his hat. “I’ll forgive attempted murder… but that’s alcohol abuse.”

George looked as though he might cry. “That was my Macallan…”

“Was,” Freddie corrected. “Past tense.”

Slipping on the puddle of spilled whisky, the remaining minder pinwheeled wildly across the floorboards before crashing headfirst through the fire exit and out into the alley.

Nobody moved. The antique desk lay in splinters. Mad Coupon Eddie twitched beneath his drift of leaflets. Balaclava John was calculating whether a running jump might reach his meat cleaver, and George was kneeling beside the ruins of his cabinet, brushing dust from his silk waistcoat.

Finally, George rose slowly, the last traces of humor completely drained from his face. He stepped over the broken furniture until only a few feet separated them.

“You’ve made your point, Goldman,” George said, his voice dangerously low. “But hear me carefully: men who embarrass me don’t usually live long enough to tell the story.”

Freddie smiled. “Then you’ll have to make an exception.”

He cracked open the shotgun. Two smoking cartridges dropped onto the floorboards with a sharp clink-clink.

“The territory stays with me,” Freddie said. “Next time you fancy a merger, bring a proper offer instead of a typed threat.”

George’s jaw tightened. “And if I don't?”

“Then we’ll need another meeting.”

Mickey checked his pocket watch. “Kebab shop shuts in ten minutes.”

Freddie brightened instantly. “Can’t be having that.”

Without another word, the pair turned and walked toward the ruined doorway. George watched them go, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Halfway through the public bar, Freddie stopped. “Mickey…”

“Yeah?”

“I forgot something.”

He turned back, tipped an imaginary cowboy hat toward the smoke-filled room, and sighed,

“There’s only room enough in this town for one set of books.”

For half a second, there was complete, frozen silence.

Outside, the cool night air washed over them. Goldman winced slightly, rolling his shoulder. “Ah, that 12-gauge has got a kick on it. Still… worth it.”

Mickey lit two cigarettes with his silver Zippo, handed one over. “You’re out of your mind, Freddie.”

“Not mad, Mickey. A classicist.” Goldman took a drag, exhaling smoke under the streetlamp. “If you’re gonna do a shootout, do it proper.”

They walked down the cobbled street toward the late-night kebab shop, fading into the East End mist.

“Extra chilli sauce?” Mickey asked.

“Extra everything,” Goldman said. “A man works up a proper appetite after a shootout.”