Big City Blues - Paul D Brazill

  Copyright © 2017 by Close To The Bone

  All rights reserved.

  Digital Formatting by Craig Douglas

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. The stories may not be reprinted without permission. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Barnsandnoble.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the authors’ work.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintended.

  Paul D. Brazill

  Paul D. Brazill’s books include Last Year’s Man, Guns Of Brixton, Too Many Crooks, A Case Of Noir, The Last Laugh, and Kill Me Quick! He was born in England and lives in Poland. His writing has been translated into Italian, Finnish, Polish, German and Slovene. He has been published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Books of Best British Crime.

  Dedicated to Richard Godwin

  Acknowledgements to;

  Craig Douglas, Mark Hammonds,

  Billy Oblivion, Dana King,

  Mauro Falciani, Lou Boxer,

  Darren Laws, Ronnie Burke,

  Niki Bogajski, Julian Bogajski,

  Jason Michel

  CONTENTS

  Cops And Robinsons

  The Boys Are Back In Town

  Crook, Line And Sinker

  Work Is A Four Letter Word

  The Whole Wide World

  A Snitch In Time

  Right Place, Wrong Crime

  Just One More Thing

  Cops And Robinsons

  London, England

  Detective Sergeant Ronnie Burke slammed a fist into the massive, red faced thug’s guts. And then he hit him again for good measure. He assumed that would be the end of it, after all, Ronnie was a big man who had always kept himself in shape. He’d been in more than a few street fights over the years, usually winning with ease.

  But the thug just took a few steps back and laughed.

  “You useless tosser,” he said. “Is that the best you can do?”

  The thug shook his head, smirking.

  They were stood in a snow smothered alleyway, illuminated only by the light from a nearby Methodist church. Snow poured down on them like confetti.

  At least the thug was dressed for the weather, though. He was wearing a black woollen hat, overcoat, jeans and black leather gloves. But Ronnie’s gaudy Hawaiian shirt and fake tan wasn’t doing too good of a job keeping out the cold, and the blue sunspecs perched on top of his bleached blond hair were clearly of no use at all. He was just glad he’d decided to wear jeans and Nike trainers instead of shorts and sandals. But he was still freezing his balls off.

  He knew it was his own stupid fault for parking his Aston Martin near the alleyway instead of forking out for a space in the multi–story car park. It was a suitable punishment for a rare moment of thriftiness. He’d run from the car and into the alleyway when the Shrek look–a–like had stepped out of the shadows and blocked his way. Ronnie had reacted instantly and punched the behemoth. However …

  “L– look. I’m a– a copper,” said Ronnie, shivering.

  He shuffled to find his warrant card in his black hold–all.

  “I know you’re a copper, you wanker,” said the thug. “I could smell bacon as soon as you came into the alleyway. That’s why I’m going to kick the shit out of you. I fucking hate coppers.”

  He stepped forward.

  “Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” said Ronnie.

  He pulled a black object from his bag and jammed it against the thug’s neck. The Taser buzzed and the thug screamed. Ronnie kneed him in the balls and the thug fell to the ground.

  “Oh, shit,” said the thug. “Shit! You shot me!”

  Ronnie laughed and gave him a couple of kicks, then he stepped over him and walked quickly to the end of the alleyway. The lights from a basement bar glowed invitingly. A Day–Glo sign saying ‘Fancy Dress Karaoke’ peeled from the metal door. Ronnie ran down the steps and entered the bar.

  ***

  Jimmy Robinson was volcanic. Although he couldn’t honestly say that he was someone who didn’t suffer fools gladly, in his line of work that was nigh on impossible these days, he had little tolerance for stone cold ineptitude. Scopey Bailey had, however, proven himself to be a grandmaster in that particular area.

  Finding underlings had proven to be a bit of a problem since Jimmy had got out of the slammer, what with his brother Mad Mack stuck in the booby hatch and his sons out in Spain. So, Jimmy had borrowed Scopey from the Bailey Gang, which wasn’t such a good idea, in retrospect. Now he knew why the Bailey Gang had been keen to offload their idiot cousin.

  Jimmy sat at a small table in a dark corner of Marjorie’s Bar, nursing a glass of Laphroaig. The pub was closed up for the night and Acker Bilk’s Stranger on the Shore eased out of an old Wurlitzer Jukebox, taking him back to his youth during the Swinging Sixties. Jimmy’s black clothes melded with the pub’s shadows. A gnarled hand reached out of the darkness and picked up his glass of whisky. He sipped the drink, put down the glass and growled like a dog.

  “You know, Scopey,” said Jimmy. “My granddad, Bertie, was a bit of a philosopher. He was a merchant navy man. Travelled the world and read a lot, as they all did in those days. Had time to think, too. One thing I remember he used to say was that when you’re dead, you don’t know anything about it so it’s only difficult for other people. And it’s the same when you’re stupid. What do you think about that?”

  “I dunno, like,” said Scopey.

  Jimmy growled again.

  “You don’t know much, do you, son?” said Jimmy.

  Scopey shrugged. His mauve shell–suit crackled.

  “You know …” he said. “I … I dunno.”

  Jimmy sighed.

  “Okay. Okay. So, let me get this straight, you lost both bloody envelopes?” said Jimmy. “The wallet and the certificate of authenticity?”

  “Yeah,” said Scopey. “It wasn’t my fault. It all went a bit pear shaped, like.”

  Jimmy stood and rubbed his aching knees. He looked out of the pub window at the darkened graveyard outside. He scratched his freshly shaven face. It was close to midnight and he could see his reflection in the window pane. He’d worked out a lot when he was in the slammer and had been cutting down on fatty foods since he got out. He’d even given up his afternoon pint of London Pride and switched to white wine and soda during the day, though it had been a bit of a struggle at first. Still, his suit fit him perfectly now and he was pleased with what he saw.

  He wasn’t as pleased with the news that Scopey had given him, however. He turned back to the ratty, scar faced skinhead as a nearby church bell tolled midnight.

  “So?” said Jimmy. “How the bollocks did you manage to do that? Not one of the most demanding tasks, I would have though.”

  Scopey started twitching.

  “Well, you see, what happened was … I needed a dump, didn’t I,” he said. “I was touching cloth. Had a turtle’s head, like. So I ran into The Essex Arms to use their bogs.”

  “And?”

  “And while I was having a crap someone put a hand under the cubicle door and grabbed the envelope from my pocket while my trousers were round my ankles.”

  “And you didn’t notice them?”

  “Well, no. I was listening to my iPhone, like. The new Kenya West. Love him, I do. He’s a genius, I reckon.”

  Which was the point where Jimmy decided
to break Scopey’s fingers one by one but disappointedly remembered the dirty scally suffered from congenital analgesia and didn’t feel pain. What a day. He checked the phone and wondered if it was too late to phone Kevin and Wayne in Spain. His sons were going to have to come back to London, like it or not. Too many jobs had been screwed up by incompetents lately. You really couldn’t get the help these days.

  Jimmy looked back out of the window the cemetery and knew there would be a new resident soon enough. He turned back to Scopey.

  ***

  The Essex Arms was hot and crowded and pumping out James Brown’s Sex Machine. The place seemed to envelope him for a moment and he caught a breath before he moved through the crowd, towards the bar. The line of spirits that hung behind the bar seemed to twinkle, as inviting as a bunch of high class call girls but Ronnie decided to avoid the hard stuff. He was on an early shift the next day and supposed to be babysitting some new recruit. Something he wasn’t looking forward to.

  He was trying — and failing– to catch the pasty–faced barmaid’s eye when he heard a loud, braying voice rise above the music.

  “Friggin’ hell it’s Miami Vice,” shouted Detective Sergeant ‘Leapy’ Lee Winspear.

  Ronnie groaned, inwardly. He’d thought Lee was still on holiday in Spain and hoped he could have a night out free from the rat faced piss–taker. Maybe he’d even cop off with a WPC. He certainly didn’t need Lee cramping his style. Lee was a mate, but sometimes Ronnie wasn’t in the mood for his endless banter and wind–ups.

  “Evening Lee. I thought you were off in Lansagrotty or somewhere equally as plebeian,” said Ronnie as he walked towards Lee Winspear.

  Lee was wearing a silver dinner jacket and pink bow tie. His inky black hair was slicked back. As soon as the karaoke started, he was going to be belting out a couple of Tom Jones songs, no doubt. Sex Bomb most likely. Complete with pelvic thrusts. Lee had been on the verge of a successful music career in his youth and took the karaoke nights much more seriously than everyone else.

  “I had to come back early, didn’t I?” said Lee. “The missus got the diarrhoea; daft cow. Told her not to eat the local crap. Was all inclusive, too. Non — stop free booze, for Christ’s sake! The beer was watered down, mind you. Like gnats’ piss.”

  “You’re the milkman of human kindness, you are,” said Ronnie.

  “My old man was a milkman. We drank gallons of it as kids. Can’t stand the stuff these days. Speaking of drinks?” said Lee, tapping his empty pint glass. “It’s your round.”

  “What a surprise,” said Ronnie. “Lager than life?”

  “As per usual.” Ronnie went to the bar and ordered two pints of Stella Artois. He looked around the room. Pretty much everyone in the place was a police officer of some sort, if you included a couple of retired old soaks cadging drinks and the odd police pathologist. What was it about coppers that they only felt good spending their free time with their own kind? It was bloody claustrophobic at times, but it gave them a sense of security, he supposed. It explained why so many were divorced, though.

  Ronnie paid for the drinks and went to look for Lee. He found him looming over a small table that was in front of a broken fruit machine. There were two young women sat at the table. Ronnie recognised the red haired one who was dressed as a sexy nurse. She was Mary somebody or other. Irish, if he remembered correctly. Loudmouthed but funny in small doses. A bit like Lee. But the other woman, a petit blonde in a cowboy outfit and the big framed spectacles was a new one on him. She was quite tasty, too. He liked the librarian type and he hoped to get stuck in there before Lee got his oar in. He knew she wasn’t Lee’s type but that wouldn’t stop him trying to scupper Ronnie’s chances just as a wind–up.

  “There you go darling,” said Ronnie.

  He handed a drink to Lee and then blew him a kiss. Lee ignored him. He leaned close to Mary and whispered something in her ear. She giggled, looked up at Ronnie and then looked at his crotch. She giggled again. Ronnie shook his head and sighed theatrically.

  “I’m Ronnie Burke,” he said to the blonde. “A Detective Sergeant of this parish. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  He held out a hand and she shook it.

  “Jola Lach,” she said. “I’m …”

  “Jola’s from Czechoslovakia or Siberia or somewhere,” interrupted Lee.

  He winked. Jola grimaced.

  “Poland. Actually,” she said.

  “Yeah, Sausage–roll–land. I knew it was somewhere near Siberia,” said Lee.

  “Ignore him,” said Ronnie. “He’s a moron.”

  “I’ll try,” said Jola.

  “I’m supposed to be going to Krakow for a stag night next year,” said Ronnie “Do you know the city?”

  “A little,” said Jola. “I went once or twice as a child. I’m from Warsaw. Well, a small town close to there, to be specific.”

  “So, what brings you to London?” said Ronnie. “And this den of iniquity in particular?”

  Jola chuckled.

  “I’ve been stationed here. For six months. In order to learn British police techniques,” she said. “Watch and learn.”

  “You’re a copper?” said Ronnie.

  “Yes. In Warsaw.”

  “You must feel like a fish out of water here.”

  “Yes. I used to think that Warsaw was too big. I felt like a small fish in a big pond. But London is so big that sometimes I think I’m drowning in the city.”

  “Your English is good, though. That must help?”

  “A little. But I don’t always understand what everyone says. There are so many different accents. And some people speak very quickly.”

  Ronnie leaned close.

  “With the likes of Lee,” he said. “It’s usually better not to know what he’s talking about.”

  Jola smiled.

  “Ignorance is bliss?” she said.

  “It can be,” said Ronnie.

  “By the way, I think we’ll be working together?” said Jola.

  “Really?” said Ronnie. He smirked. “That’s great.”

  Lee tapped Ronnie on the shoulder and said, “Oy, you’re up, Tom Sellick.”

  “Hey,” said Ronnie. “What do you mean? I haven’t even put my name down for a song yet. I’ve only …”

  He caught the smirk on Lee’s face.

  “Bollocks,” said Ronnie. “Which song did you put me down to sing?”

  “You’ll see,” said Lee.

  Ronnie cringed as he walked towards the karaoke machine and looked at the monitor with the name of the song he had to sing. Bohemian bloody Rhapsody. All six bloody minutes of it.

  He caught Lee grinning and winking at Jola. He sat down close to her and whispered in her ear. She forced a smile.

  A policeman’s lot, thought Ronnie. And then the music began and he started imagining the revenge he was going to take on Lee Winspear.

  ***

  “Do you know how the dinosaurs died out?” said Jimmy.

  Scopey shrugged.

  “I’ll tell you,’ said Jimmy ‘It was because they didn’t evolve. They couldn’t adapt to change.”

  Scopey shrugged.

  “Yeah? I heard it was cos of a meteor crashing into the earth. That’s where the big bang theory comes from, like,” he said.

  Jimmy sighed and moved closer to Scopey.

  “You see, we live in a global village these days. It’s a free market economy. So, where in the past I only hired local help, well, nowadays I have my pick of the great and the good and good is good no matter where you come from. There’s no reason to hire an idiot like you, for example, just because he’s local. See what I mean?” said Jimmy.

  Scopey shrugged. The habit was really starting to do Jimmy’s napper in.

  “Yeah, sort of,” he said.

  Jimmy rolled his eyes.

  “You know Mohammed Ali?” said Jimmy.

  “The boxer? Yeah. Well, not personally, like. He’s dead isn’t he?”

  “H
e is indeed. Well, Ali said that if a man sees the world in the same way at 50 as he did when he was 20, he’s wasted 30 years of his life,” said Jimmy. “I wasted a lot of years in the slammer. Tried not to but, you know how it is.”

  “I bet the city’s changed for the worse, since you’ve been away, eh?” said Scopey.

  “Too true. There certainly is some weird shit going down these days,” said Jimmy. “Everything gluten free and vegan friendly. London is turning into a decaffeinated city.”

  Jimmy admired himself in one of the pub’s many mirrors and Scopey thought he’d try buttering him up.

  “Where did you get the whistle and flute?” said Scopey. “Tidy clobber, that.”

  “Mark Powell in Marshall Street, of course,” said Jimmy.

  He grinned.

  “It’s very nice,” said Scopey and yawned.

  “It’s a neo–Edwardian inspired three piece suit with Holland and Sherry bespoke matched with J. M. Weston shoes,” said Jimmy.

  “If you like,” said Scopey.

  “He’s a real slice of old London, is Mark,” said Jimmy. “King’s Road, Covent Garden, Soho. He’s had shops all over the city. Classic clobber but he still changes with the times.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Scopey.

  “Anyway,” said Jimmy. “It’s time to get jiggy wit it.”

  Jimmy plucked a baseball bat from behind a quiz machine and slammed Scopey in the back of the head.

  “What are you doing?” said Scopey, falling to the ground with the impact.

  “Adapting,” said Jimmy.

  Jimmy kept on hitting Scopey until he was dead, the scally’s brains making a pavement pizza on the pub’s hard–wood floorboards.

  Jimmy put down the bat and wriggled life into his stiff fingers. He really hoped that there was enough bleach left in the kitchen cabinet. He’d made a hell of a mess. He took out his iPhone. As he called his son Kevin he looked back at the floor. He’d need a bit more sawdust, too.