DESHAWN CRAWFORD
Name: DeShawn Lawrence Crawford
Date of Birth: May 8, 1901
Place of Birth: Southwark, City of Westminster, United Kingdom
Occupation: N/A
Affiliations: The Shaftesbury Firm
Modus Operandi: Murder-for-hire, extortion
Background:
DeShawn Crawford defied all odds when he became a prominent member of the Shaftesbury gang. Crawford, coming from a poor family saw himself having few options to make money during his teenage years. Economic prosperity and industrial job opportunities were high during the postwar period; however, as an unskilled and uneducated young man, Crawford became a pickpocket to make his bread. This was when DeShawn was at the age of sixteen, and had just met Mason Frayne. Mason spearheaded a group of pickpockets in the Shaftesbury area in Westminster, under the command and direction of Cherry Daily. He taught Crawford the art of stealing and saw the young man go from a low-down, shoe-shining mug to an A-grade thief on the streets. Yet there was more than that. DeShawn made a lot of connections fast, and developed the mindset of a business-centric conman. In fact, he made such large amounts of money so frequently that his mentor, Mason Frayne felt outshined and feared Crawford’s potential as a rising member in the gang. Instead of paying his weekly revenues in full to Cherry Daily, Mason broke the rules and kept most of Crawford’s earnings to himself. The fact that Daily’s prosperity had brewed jealousy in the younger members of the gang did little to change Mason’s mind. Save for DeShawn Crawford, who many of his and Daily’s associates alike had commented that they carried a similar kind of ‘atmosphere’ wherever they went. Word spread quickly about the friendship of DeShawn and Cherry Daily. In light of these circumstances Mason Frayne saw himself having two options: kill himself before they do, or get DeShawn out of the picture to buy himself time to think about what to do with Daily.
It’s midnight. DeShawn lay asleep on his couch with a flask on the floor next to him. The phone rings and the voice behind it is not pleasant. “Hey, hey.. I can’t hear you too good. It’s Mason. Listen mate, just get down to the Blind Beggar all right? Something we need to talk about. It won’t take a minute”. An odd request at such a time, but nonetheless, DeShawn was under Frayne’s command until due notice. The Blind Beggar was Mason Frayne’s landmark. Throughout the years of 1940 to 1942, Mason committed his first murders, scams and other crimes at this venue. Anyway, there was a new sign for the restaurant being put up at the time DeShawn arrived. It quite caught his attention. “Hey, oh! Somebody get this fucking guy a drink, yeah?” says Mason in his usual, inquisitorial tone of voice. The men approach a table in the corner and sit down facing each other. DeShawn looks at Mason with a straight face as he begins to speak. “All right, listen mate. I just want you to know that I’m no fool. You, you’re a good kid. You make good money and that’s what they’re looking for. But don’t forget who’s in charge of you. You go appeal to Cherry behind my back – come on son, who introduced you?”. DeShawn took a sip of his gin and looked around uninterestedly. However, something caught his eye. As he observed his surroundings, DeShawn saw and recognized more and more of Frayne’s men in the establishment. Some were dressed as waiters and bouncers to keep up appearances. DeShawn swallowed his pride and opened his mouth, “You’re right”.
“I’m glad we talked about this, D, I really am . I knew we could leave things on good terms”, said Mason with an obviously fraudulent smile as DeShawn stood up from the table. He nodded and shook the man’s hand, and he was on his way. It seemed like time was going in slow motion as he made his way to the exit. Frayne’s henchmen were packed in the restaurant, and they mugged at DeShawn like pitbulls. “Hey!”, shouted a familiar voice in the back of the restaurant. Mason Frayne sit at his table, drawing back on his cigarette coolly. “Don’t let your fucking mouth get you killed, all right?”, he barked and out came a roar of laughter that eventually spread from himself to what seemed like the entire restaurant. DeShawn was disrespected. He continued on to the exit, where the doorman allowed him out onto the street. DeShawn, trying to be with his thoughts, lit up a cigarette and looked out onto the street. It was a dark night, a cold night. Few cars were out on the street so late, besides gangsters and dirty politicians in black Chrysler limousines. It was late and DeShawn took a step onto the street. Out of nowhere a car drove straight in front of him in what seemed like an attempted drive-by: through the car windshield, DeShawn saw a man on top of the Blind Beggar’s roof – the man putting up the sign – and he was holding a machine gun. He drew his gun from his coat and spun on his heel, firing a shot at no logical target as a full clip of bullets came skyrocketing his way. DeShawn felt his arteries clogging with blood, followed by immense pain. Hopeless, DeShawn emptied his clip in the direction the shots were coming from. He fell to the ground, his gun lay next to him as he regurgitate on his own blood in the middle of the street. The firing had stopped. Not a minute later, a car drove by and picked up DeShawn, then disappearing. Mason Frayne and his posse stepped out onto the street. There was no body.