Too Many Crooks - Paul D Brazill

  Copyright © 2017 by Close To The Bone

  All rights reserved.

  Digital Formatting by Craig Douglas

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  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, Small Time Crimes, A Case Of Noir, Guns Of Brixton, Big City Blues, 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 David Cranmer

  CONTENTS

  Things To Do In Deptford When You’re Dead

  War Pigs

  The Big Nobs

  Our Man In Warszawa

  The Man From Esperanto

  Snobbery With Violence

  A Tissue Of Webs

  Family Misfortunes

  A Quantum Of Bollocks

  It’s A Knockout

  What A Palaver!

  Carry On Croaking

  Love And A Molotov Cocktail

  Bullets Over Ealing Broadway

  Things To Do In Deptford When You’re Dead

  London, England

  Ted Singh had really had enough of Bobby Jake’s incessant whining and he was more than somewhat relieved when Ziggy eventually shot the annoying fucker in the back of the head, spraying blood and gunk down the front of Jake’s previously pristine white Fred Perry t–shirt.

  Ted’s guts churned. Although he certainly had no qualms about the moral aspects of murdering Bobby Jake, he didn’t really have the stomach for the gory stuff. He never had, truth be told.

  “Hold onto this for me,” said Ziggy, handing the Glock to Ted whose hands shook as he took the gun.

  Zygmunt ‘Ziggy’ Kowalski checked his reflection in the mirror to see that there were no splashes of blood on his red Versace suit. He ran a gloved hand through his spikey, dyed red hair. Ted checked his own clothes but thankfully his powder blue drapes were as pristine as ever.

  “Make sure you wipe your fingerprints from the gun before you get rid of it, eh?” said Ziggy, grinning. “We don’t want to get nabbed because of slovenliness.”

  Ziggy’s Polish accent rarely broke through his mock Cockney drawl but sometimes Ted could detect a trace of it, especially when Ziggy had been snorting happy talc. The man’s cocaine consumption was phenomenal.

  Ted avoided looking at Bobby Jake’s corpse and looked around the cluttered kitchen. Slivers of morning sunlight sliced through the broken blinds. Like the rest of Jake’s South London flat, it was a shithole reminding Ted of the country and western song about getting a wino to redecorate your home. A dust coated plasma TV was fastened to the wall, silently showing an interview with the winner of the recent American presidential elections.

  Ted shook his head.

  “Who would have thought that daft twat would ever become president of the USA?” said Ted. “It’s like making Jimmy Saville Prime Minister.”

  Ziggy licked his lips.

  “Ah, but you see, that there orange clown may be an idiot but he has discovered the true secret of sales success,” said Ziggy, tapping his forehead.

  “And what’s that, then?”

  “It’s a very simple equation, really; the higher the level of a person’s emotions, the lower their level of intelligence. If you get their adrenalin pumping, people just don’t think straight. And people may not remember what you did or what you said but they’ll always remember how you made them feel. So the Mad Jaffa Cake Eater makes people feel good. Especially crap people with crap lives. He makes them feel good about being crap, even though, deep down, they know that their lives will probably never change and they’ll always be crap. And their kids will be crap and their kids too.”

  “Well, it’s certainly done the trick, alright. He’s a star–spangled winner.”

  “Unlike old Bobby Jake here, eh?”

  Bobby Jake had been a small–time gangster all of his adult life and a good part of adolescence although his career trajectory had certainly plummeted of late. So much so that Ted and Ziggy had been able rip off his drug stash and money with ease. They untied Bobby Jake’s corpse from the kitchen chair he’d been strapped to.

  “Right, are we going to have a nosey through the rest of the flat now? I’ve still got my mum’s Christmas present to get?” said Ted.

  Ziggy picked up a red North Face holdall. Ted did the same.

  “Let’s get on with it then,” he said.

  Ted went into the living room to see what was worth taking. When he went back to the kitchen, Ziggy was sat drinking a bottle of Sprite.

  “I’m getting a taste for this,” he said. “What did you get?”

  “A few bits and bobs on the gadget front, a couple of tasty watches. Was there anything in the bedroom?”

  “A load of overpriced artisan crap made by old lags. I even recognise one of the artists’ names. He was in Wandsworth nick last time my brother was there. He croaked his whole family. He’d turned to Jesus, last I heard.”

  “Art is good for the soul, eh?”

  Ted looked at Bobby Jake’s corpse. He grimaced.

  “Now, what do we do about him?” he said. “We can’t leave him. How are we going to get him out of the flat without being spotted?”

  “Hold on,” said Ziggy.

  He finished what must have been his fifth line of cocaine that morning and went out of the kitchen, into the living room. He returned with a fluffy white rug.

  “We’ll use this,” he said.

  They picked up Bobby Jake and rolled him up in the rug. Ted groaned

  “He’s a heavy bastard for such a little man, eh?” said Ziggy.

  He took a roll of insulating tape and wrapped it around the corpse.

  “There you go,” said Ziggy. “That should do the trick. I’ll phone the Greenwood twins to dump it.”

  “Why aren’t they here anyway? What’s the use of having goons or henchmen if they don’t do the heavy lifting?”

  “I see you’ve forgotten that it’s the semi–final of Strictly Come Dancing tonight. You know the twins couldn’t miss that.”

  Ziggy giggled as he took a stainless steel briefcase from an otherwise empty fridge. He opened it and took out a handful of cash. He licked through it and grinned.

  “Not a bad haul this. What are you going to do with your share of the dosh?” asked Ziggy, as he rifled through the briefcase.

  “I’m going to start my own business,” said Ted.

  “Good idea that. I’m all for free enterprise. What kind of business?” asked Ziggy.

  He took a small ring box from the briefcase.

  “A record company,” said Ted.

  “Really? These days? Can you still make money out of that? I thought everyone downloaded music for nothing now. Spotify and the like.”

  “Yeah, you can do alright if you know what you’re doing. Specialist stuff stills sells. Vinyl only. Niche market and that. I’m going to put out stuff from cult artists. Lost rockabilly classics and the like.”

  “Best not get caught here t
hen or you’ll have a criminal record!” said Ziggy, guffawing.

  He grinned as he clicked open the ring box.

  “See anything interesting?” said Ted, trying to take a peek inside the box.

  “Yes. Very,” said Ziggy. “Something very nice indeed.”

  He clicked the box shut before Ted could see its contents.

  “Best get moving,” said Ziggy. He stood, laughing. “We don’t want to be caught by the police. I can’t bloody stand Sting.”

  ***

  The players walked off the football pitch talking about which pub they were going to for the Sunday afternoon drinking session.

  “How the hell did you manage to score the last one?” said Ginger Ron.

  “Divine intervention, mate,” said Peter Rhatigan, waving a hand. “Touched by the hand of God.”

  “Jammy twat, more like it,” said Ginger Ron, grinning.

  They went into the changing room and Peter showered and changed. He tied his long hair into a ponytail and checked his iPhone. He saw that he’d had a text message and a missed call from Ziggy Kowalski. He put on his black leather biker jacket and headed out of the changing rooms.

  Peter could see the stream of traffic heading in and out of the new IKEA car park. Ignoring the Sunday shopping zombies, he strolled down to the river. He stopped outside The City Barge, checked his watch and went into the crowded pub. He’d already slurped half of his pint of London Pride when Ziggy called him back.

  “Yeah,” he said. “What’s the story, old glory?”

  He listened for a few minutes and a smile crept across his face.

  “Sounds well worth checking out. I’ll be there in about an hour,” said Peter.

  He hung up, grinned and reminded himself that although he didn’t believe in fate or karma, a window of opportunity had just opened wide.

  ***

  “Those that can, do, those that can’t, teach, and those that can’t teach, buy. And some of those who buy, like to collect,” said Sidney Hawkins.

  He reclined on a black–leather chaise lounge in his Holland Park home’s oak and leather library. He was wearing a paisley silk dressing gown. After dining with Karl Lagerfeld, a large pair of black–framed sunglasses had become a permanent fashion fixture for Sidney. He wore them inside as well as outside, whether it was sunny or not. He had never been a handsome man. He’d once been told that his pruney face was so lived in squatters wouldn’t stay there, but he was always stylish.

  “It’s a form of reflected glory, really,” he said. “The underachiever’s paradise.”

  The sound of George Gershwin’s An American In Paris filled the dimly–lit library. Sidney smoked a massive Cuban cigar, its smoke rings trailing toward a creaking ceiling fan like wraiths.

  “I know. I know,” said Leslie, irritably. “I’ve heard it all before. It’s your bloody mantra. But those underachievers keep us in business.”

  Leslie sat in a wicker armchair, nursing a glass of Rosso Esperanto. She wore a long black evening gown and a Yin and Yang amulet hung loosely around her neck. Her lips and fingernails were painted blood red.

  “You are being uncharacteristically anxious today, sweetheart,” said Sidney, stifling a yawn.

  “Sidney, you know as well as I do that it’s not normal for Jim to be gone so long. Not without contacting one of us anyway,” she said.

  “He can take care of himself,” said Sidney. “If Jim McGuffin fell into the river he’d come out with a pocket full of fish. Your brother’s like you, a born survivor.”

  Leslie rubbed the amulet.

  “I know he’s a survivor but still … Oh, you’re right. I’m fretting for no reason.”

  She took a sip of her drink. Her phone vibrated in her handbag. She took it out and read the message.

  “Interesting,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a text message from Peter Rhatigan. He says he has something very tasty for us. He wants to meet tomorrow. Fancy it?”

  “I have a meeting with that American lawyer. The one with the comic book collection to get rid of.”

  “Have you found a buyer already?”

  “Well, touch wood and I’ll be able to offload them back to the original owner,” said Sidney. “Where are you meeting Peter?”

  “Some pub or other. Knowing him it’s sure to be some trendy gastro pub.”

  War Pigs

  From the outside, The Old Iron Horse looked like many of the other quaint, faux, mock– Tudor pubs that riddled Ealing and West London is general but inside it was different. It was lit by dim red lamps that had been placed randomly around the pub; the walls were painted black and decorated with paintings of skulls and pirate flags. A massive, red and black Satan Souls banner hung behind the bar. And the pub stank. It smelt of incense, sweat, nicotine, beer, and testosterone.

  The main bar was stuffed full of overweight, middle–aged greasers. Everyone was dressed in leather and denim. The sound of Black Sabbath’s Paranoid filled the place.

  Leslie Hawkins sat in a battered, brown leather armchair that was pushed against the back wall. She looked – and felt – completely out of place in her sharply cut designer suit and high heels. Her long blonde hair was tied back and she kept her expensive handbag on her lap. She’d covered her ample cleavage with a scarf but she could see that was still getting leery looks from the greasers. She sipped a Britvic orange cordial as she impatiently waited for Peter Rhatigan.

  Peter was late, as usual, which was annoying enough but what really pissed her off was his choice of meeting place. Of all of London’s thousands of pubs why had he chosen this stink pit? She really hated rock music, heavy metal in particular. Ugly, stupid, music for ugly, stupid, people. She was strongly tempted to get a real drink and break her month long run on the wagon. She wondered if Kopparberg cider could be considered a halfway house. A compromise, of sorts. The strawberry one was hardly alcoholic, after all. And wasn’t it Swedish or something? They were always so health conscious it was probably good for your health.

  Two stinky bikers walked out of the toilets, sniffing their fingers. Leslie ignored them as they walked past her, though both tried to catch an eyeful of her breasts. She was tapping away at her iPad, checking her LinkedIn page, when a particularly hairy greaser carrying a cloudy glass of snakebite approached her.

  “Hello gorgeous, fancy a shag?” he said, looming over her.

  Leslie turned and was about to give the bloke a smack when she broke into a wide grin. Normally, Peter Rhatigan was so good looking and stylish that it made Leslie uneasy. Just like his late father, a best–selling thriller writer, he was a suave bugger. Not today, though.

  “Peter, you silly twat,” she said. “What the fuck’s this all about?”

  She looked him up and down and Peter Rhatigan chuckled.

  “Well, there’s a bit of a story behind this,” he said. “But, then, isn’t here always? Fancy a drink in lieu of a shag?”

  “Okay. Bugger it! I’ll have a cider. Kopparberg. A strawberry one,” said Leslie.

  “You’ve got to be joking. In this place, if you want cider it’s Strongbow or nothing,” said Peter.

  Leslie grimaced.

  “Okay,” she said. “When in Rome …”

  “Shag a priest?” said Peter.

  “Something like that,” said Leslie. “If you’re young enough.”

  Peter ordered the drinks from the tattooed barmaid.

  Young Peter Rhatigan hadn’t inherited his father’s ability to churn out money making potboilers and so he had decided to try and get into the film business. He was currently working as a film and TV extra, trying to make contacts in Hollywood.

  “So?” said Leslie. “What are you doing? Getting into character? Doing research?”

  “Exactly that!” said Peter. “Spot on. I’m up for the comedy sidekick role in a new “80s style action flick. I may even get to act alongside Tom Cruise.”

  Leslie looked at Peter.

 
“You’re about a foot and a half taller than him. I doubt he’d be too happy about that,” she said. “These actors do have fragile egos, you know.”

  “Maybe they’ll dig a trench for me like they did for Veronica Lake when she was acting alongside Alan Ladd,” said Peter.

  He chuckled.

  “More likely, the scientologists will bury you in a trench if you piss off Tom. I have heard rumours …”

  The barmaid put the drinks on the sticky bar. Peter paid and pointed to a table in the corner of the pub.

  “Let’s go over there to talk business,” he said.

  They sat at a wobbly, round table next to a broken cigarette machine.

  They both sipped their drinks.

  “So?” said Leslie.

  She sniffed and took out her perfume. She sprayed it around extravagantly.

  “So, indeed,” said Peter. “Well. To cut to the chase. I may have a little something that you and your hubby may or may not be interested in.”

  “You may?” said Leslie.

  “Yes, I may,” said Peter, grinning.

  “Or may not?”

  “Well, probably will.”

  Leslie sighed. Someone had turned up the music and Deep Purple’s Child In Time was now assaulting her ear drums. She couldn’t wait to get out of the place.

  “Something unusual, I hope. Sidney only deals with the exotic these days. The different. The esoteric. As you well know,” she said.

  Peter looked around the pub and moved closer to Leslie.

  “Oh, this is very exotic,” he said. “What do you know about the Totenkopfring?”

  “Is it another brand of tasty Swedish cider that I haven’t yet tried?”

  “It isn’t. Try again.”