didn’t waste his. By his second year he was running an SP operation out of the junior common room and selling contraband - cigarettes, dope, girlie magazines, you name it. In the tenth grade he smuggled two hookers into the senior dorm as part of a ‘use it or lose it’ weekend for spotty virgins.
The Eton version of a court martial followed. It wasn’t the last time. Ray Jnr went to three more posh schools in the next two years and was asked to leave each of them. His old man paid the damages, apologised to the parents and made donations to the building funds.
At one point he employed a brace of security specialists, ex-Paras, to keep an eye on Ray Jnr and make sure he didn’t dig a tunnel under the fence. Made no difference. The kid was a chip off the old block, an entrepreneur, a mover and a shaker without the brains or the guile of his father.
Eventually, Garza’s missus suggested he let Ray Jnr leave school and bring him into the business where Daddy could keep an eye on him. They gave him a junior management position. Put him on a salary. Began showing him the ropes.
Unfortunately, the only ropes Ray Jnr was interested in were wrapped around a young lovely’s wrist and knotted to the bedpost while he snorted cocaine off her gym-sculptured stomach.
Ray Jnr didn’t have an A-level to his name but he wasn’t a complete moron. He knew Daddy was worth millions and the trust fund kicked in when he turned twenty-five. All he had to do was wait.
Consequently, he stopped showing up for work and hung out with his hooray buddies, partying hard. He liked the ladies. He liked the clothes. He liked the flash sports car Daddy bought him for his eighteenth.
The Chairman must have been tearing his hair out, so he tried something different. Tough love. He cut the kid’s allowance. Figured he’d bring Ray Jnr to heel. It didn’t quite work out that way.
Ray Jnr went into business for himself, dealing coke and Gary Abblets to his trust fund buddies and posh mates. He had all the right connections and enough chutzpah to think he was a class act, when in reality he had about as much sophistication as a coat-hanger abortion.
Ray Jnr was dealing to the top end of the market, the quality street gang, the crème de la crème and didn’t notice he was treading on some big hairy fucking toes. The Albanians and the Turks didn’t give a shit if he was Ray Garza’s boy. To them he was simply a young punk muscling in on their primo uno turf.
That’s when Ray Jnr came to Murphy. Couldn’t go to his old man. There was too much yuppie Mafioso shit going down and he wanted protection. Security.
Murphy offered him advice. Said he’d make some calls.
Ray Jnr was scared. He wanted a piece for his personal protection. Murphy promised to sort him out in a few days, but the kid took something from him. Something he shouldn’t have. Something nobody could know about.
Maybe things would have worked out if Ray Jnr had kept his head down and let things cool off with the Albanians and the Turks. Instead he got clocked doing over a ton on the M40. The rozzers gave chase. Ray Jnr burned them off. An hour later they found his Porsche parked up outside a pub in Hammersmith. They wanted to search inside. Ray Jnr told them to fuck off. Rozzers just love it when you talk dirty to them. Their eyes must have lit up when they found eight kilos of cocaine under the spare wheel.
Ray Jnr went off his head. Pulled the semi-automatic out of his belt. According to Ray the shooter went off accidentally. According to the charge sheet it was attempted murder.
The rest is history, as they say, except Ray Garza wants to rewrite the whole episode and get his boy off. Only this is a rap he can’t bribe or beg or blag his way out of. And history is going to get rewritten a dozen different ways when the boffins in the ballistics lab test the gun Ray Jnr was waving around. It’s all about scratch markings on the chamber of the gun. Telltale signs. Damning
The Eton version of a court martial followed. It wasn’t the last time. Ray Jnr went to three more posh schools in the next two years and was asked to leave each of them. His old man paid the damages, apologised to the parents and made donations to the building funds.
At one point he employed a brace of security specialists, ex-Paras, to keep an eye on Ray Jnr and make sure he didn’t dig a tunnel under the fence. Made no difference. The kid was a chip off the old block, an entrepreneur, a mover and a shaker without the brains or the guile of his father.
Eventually, Garza’s missus suggested he let Ray Jnr leave school and bring him into the business where Daddy could keep an eye on him. They gave him a junior management position. Put him on a salary. Began showing him the ropes.
Unfortunately, the only ropes Ray Jnr was interested in were wrapped around a young lovely’s wrist and knotted to the bedpost while he snorted cocaine off her gym-sculptured stomach.
Ray Jnr didn’t have an A-level to his name but he wasn’t a complete moron. He knew Daddy was worth millions and the trust fund kicked in when he turned twenty-five. All he had to do was wait.
Consequently, he stopped showing up for work and hung out with his hooray buddies, partying hard. He liked the ladies. He liked the clothes. He liked the flash sports car Daddy bought him for his eighteenth.
The Chairman must have been tearing his hair out, so he tried something different. Tough love. He cut the kid’s allowance. Figured he’d bring Ray Jnr to heel. It didn’t quite work out that way.
Ray Jnr went into business for himself, dealing coke and Gary Abblets to his trust fund buddies and posh mates. He had all the right connections and enough chutzpah to think he was a class act, when in reality he had about as much sophistication as a coat-hanger abortion.
Ray Jnr was dealing to the top end of the market, the quality street gang, the crème de la crème and didn’t notice he was treading on some big hairy fucking toes. The Albanians and the Turks didn’t give a shit if he was Ray Garza’s boy. To them he was simply a young punk muscling in on their primo uno turf.
That’s when Ray Jnr came to Murphy. Couldn’t go to his old man. There was too much yuppie Mafioso shit going down and he wanted protection. Security.
Murphy offered him advice. Said he’d make some calls.
Ray Jnr was scared. He wanted a piece for his personal protection. Murphy promised to sort him out in a few days, but the kid took something from him. Something he shouldn’t have. Something nobody could know about.
Maybe things would have worked out if Ray Jnr had kept his head down and let things cool off with the Albanians and the Turks. Instead he got clocked doing over a ton on the M40. The rozzers gave chase. Ray Jnr burned them off. An hour later they found his Porsche parked up outside a pub in Hammersmith. They wanted to search inside. Ray Jnr told them to fuck off. Rozzers just love it when you talk dirty to them. Their eyes must have lit up when they found eight kilos of cocaine under the spare wheel.
Ray Jnr went off his head. Pulled the semi-automatic out of his belt. According to Ray the shooter went off accidentally. According to the charge sheet it was attempted murder.
The rest is history, as they say, except Ray Garza wants to rewrite the whole episode and get his boy off. Only this is a rap he can’t bribe or beg or blag his way out of. And history is going to get rewritten a dozen different ways when the boffins in the ballistics lab test the gun Ray Jnr was waving around. It’s all about scratch markings on the chamber of the gun. Telltale signs. Damning
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