Too Many Crooks - Paul D Brazill Read online

  Leslie thought for a moment.

  “Is it Himmler’s ring?” she said.

  “The self–same. What do you know about it?”

  “Not a lot,” she said.

  She took out her phone and tapped the screen.

  “Now, let me see,” she said. “Ah, yes. The Totenkopfring was some sort of honour ring. It had a skull and crossbones design and was sometimes known as a death’s head ring. Himmler dished them out to the SS elite, back in the day. They’re collectable for sure but unless it’s actually Himmler’s own it wouldn’t be super collectable.”

  “Yes, a lot of people want to get their hands on Himmler’s ring,” said Peter.

  “Innuendo and out the other,” said Leslie.

  Peter winked and tapped the side of his nose.

  “Well, that’s it, dear. I think I can get my hands on Himmler’s personal Totenkopfring. What do you think about that?”

  Leslie sipped her drink and grimaced.

  “It’s an interesting proposition, I’ll give you that,” she said.

  “And it’s said to be possessed of mystical powers, you know?”

  “So they say. It’s a load of old rubbish, of course, but there are, however, those who believe such things and would pay a pretty penny for it. How can you get it?”

  Peter tapped his nose again.

  “That’s for me to know and … me to know.”

  “Okay,” said Leslie. “I’ll let Sidney know and get him to put the feelers out regarding a possible customer. He’ll get an estimate to you. How soon can you get your mitts on it?”

  “Soon enough. It all depends on Ziggy though,” said Peter, frowning.

  “Ziggy? You surely don’t mean Ziggy Kowalski, do you?” said Leslie.

  “Unfortunately, I do. I know that you and he have a bit of a history.”

  Leslie rubbed her eyes.

  “Yes. And history has a nasty habit of repeating,” she said.

  “So do pickled eggs but I still love them,” said Peter.

  Leslie groaned.

  “In that case,” she said. “You’d better get me another bloody drink and make it in a bottle this time. The state of that glass was disgusting.”

  Peter smirked as he went to the bar.

  “And tell them to turn this bloody racket down, too,” shouted Leslie, just as the song stopped.

  She laughed.

  “That was quick,” she shouted to Peter.

  Iron Maiden’s Run For The Hills burst to life, even louder than the previous song.

  “Oh, for fucks sake,” said Leslie. “I can’t stand much more of this.”

  Peter brought over the drinks.

  “Let’s go outside to the smoking section,” said Leslie. “A passively smoked pack of Silk Cut is less detrimental to my health than this horrible cacophony.”

  As they went towards the door, Hattie Lugg, a muscular biker chick with wild red hair and more facial piercings than Pinhead from Hellraiser, stepped in front of them.

  “What’s the matter, pet? Is our pub not good enough for you?” she said.

  She jabbed a finger at Leslie.

  Leslie sighed. Tensed.

  “Something like that,” said Leslie. “Though it’s not so much the pub it’s the bloody awful music. And the clientele, of course …”

  Hattie grabbed Leslie by the shoulders.

  “Well, maybe you should hang around a bit and we could show you some local hospitality?” said Hattie.

  She licked her lips. A couple of ageing Hell’s Angels stood next to her chuckling.

  Leslie sighed. She turned to Peter.

  “Move,” she said.

  As Peter stepped back, Leslie grabbed his pint glass from his hand and smashed it in Hattie’s face which turned crimson as she screamed. One of the bikers rushed at Leslie who slammed her cider bottle in his face and waved the broken bottle at the others.

  Peter walked backwards out of the pub as Leslie dropped the bottle and took a silver Derringer pistol from her handbag. She pointed it at the other bikers.

  “Any of you ugly bastards follow us and I’ll shoot you. Simple as that. Understand?” she said.

  Big Bernie Lugg nodded, grinding his teeth. He glared at Leslie and Peter as the others helped their injured cohorts.

  “Oh bugger it, let’s go to The Ivy,” said Leslie, as they stepped into the street. “I’ve had enough of slumming it.”

  Peter flagged down a passing black cab

  “Are you sure I’m dressed for it?” said Peter. “I’m not exactly wearing my Sunday best.”

  He opened the taxi door for Leslie.

  “You’re an actor, darling,” said Leslie. “So act!”

  As she got into the taxi, she saw the fat, bald biker taking her picture with his smartphone. She sighed. She would have to do something about that potential little inconvenience when she had the chance.

  The Big Nobs

  London, England

  “It has become more and more apparent, in these politically turbulent times, that the vast number of people, by and large, the general public, as it were, do not want, or appreciate, freedom. Indeed, they need to be told what to do and even prefer to be told what to do,” said Sir Kenneth Watt. “There is a belief that 99% of the world’s population is just here to make up the numbers. That they are merely cannon fodder. And it is a belief which I most certainly share. Most people’s lives are severely limited, after all. Their experience is limited by their lack of imagination and their lack of experience limits their imagination. Freedom of choice is far too horrific as a concept for them ever to truly entertain it as a reality.”

  It was late afternoon and Sir Kenneth lounged in a leather armchair in The Canning Room at The In and Out Naval and Military Club. He took a sip of Zico coconut water and glanced around the near deserted room. He was wearing a Mark Powell pin–stripe suit which his ex–wife had said made him look like a gangster. His friend Vladimir Gogol had worn something similar at one of their last meetings, although it hadn’t been as well tailored, of course. One simply couldn’t buy style.

  “Of course, you’re right,” said Lord Terence Peters.

  He stroked his pencil moustache and nursed his bandy uneasily. “But it was still a shock when Donald got in, even for his supporters. Donald after all is a …”

  “A pompous and vulgar cretin. Yes, but he is also a very useful pompous and vulgar cretin,” Sir Kenneth.

  Sir Terence chuckled.

  “True enough,” he said.

  A dithery old waiter staggered out of the shadows and replaced Sir Terence’s brandy.

  “Would you like anything else, Sir Kenneth?” said the waiter.

  “Only silence,” said Sir Kenneth.

  The waiter returned to a darkened corner of the room.

  “You know, I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol for so long now,” said Sir Kenneth. “That I wonder if I actually ever derived any pleasure from imbibing. It’s the same with cigarettes. But I do enjoy a good cigar from time to time.”

  Terence yawned. He was almost drowning in ennui, once again.

  “I admire your strength of character, Ken,” said Lord Terence. “I’m afraid I just don’t have that sense of resolve. I have no self – control.”

  Sir Kenneth looked at Terence with contempt.

  “No, you have the spine of a jellyfish,” said Sir Kenneth, “You always have had. Even at school you were like a wet fart.”

  Terence smirked and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, Sir Kenneth’s smartphone buzzed. The club had a strict ‘no cellular phones’ policy but Sir Kenneth always ignored it. He took out the phone. It was a message from Sidney Hawkins. He read it and grinned.

  “Good news?” said Terence.

  “Oh, yes. I believe I have found my own rara avis,” said Sir Kenneth.

  “Ah, the stuff that dreams are made of.”

  “Oh, nightmares, Terence. More likely nightmares,” said Sir Kenneth, licking his lips.


  ***

  Darren Greenwood drove Bobby Jake’s car to a piece of waste ground on the outskirts of the city and set it alight. It was cold and it was starting to rain. Darren leaned against a tree and opened a packet of Menthol cigarettes. He lit up and stared into the distance at the pitch black lake His brother Dane sneezed and fastened his black Crombie coat tighter.

  “Come on, let’s piss off,” said Dane.

  “I swear I heard banging from the boot,” said Darren, as they trudged back home in the darkness.

  “Don’t be a daft arse,” said Dean. “The twat was as dead as disco. I know Bobby Jack was a hard fucker but come on …”

  “I’m just saying what I thought I heard, is all.”

  “Well, you know what thought did,” said Dean.

  Darren sniffed his clothes.

  “We’ll have to get rid of our clobber when we get back,” he said. “It stinks of blood and petrol and fire.”

  “We should have thrown it in the car with Jake,” said Dane. “And brought a change of clothes. More haste, less speed.”

  “God, you don’t half go on,” said Darren. “You’re like an old woman. You even talk like our nan. You’ll be saying stop mithering next.”

  Dean grunted. He spotted a sign for a country pub.

  “Fancy a pint?” he said.

  “Looking and stinking like this? Not very incognito, is it.”

  “Aye, you’re right. Anyway, I think that’s the one that the loonies go to. There’s that posh mental clinic nearby.”

  “What’s wrong with that, like? Mental health issues affect everyone. You shouldn’t stereotype.”

  “Well, pardon my French fries,” said Dean.

  Ziggy’s phone buzzed. He checked the message and grinned.

  “Very nice,” he said.

  “Good news?” said Dean.

  “Oh, yes,” said Darren. “It looks like Ziggy has another job for us. Something with a bit of rough and tumble involved.”

  The rain started to pour heavier and a cold wind sliced through Darren and Dean as they turned a corner.

  “Oh, fuck it,” said Darren. “Let’s call in for a quick one. We’ve a good enough reason to celebrate.”

  ***

  “Anyway, do you think Ziggy’s really got the ring?” said Leslie. “Now that you’ve told him you can get it for him, Sir Kenneth will be most disappointed if we don’t get our hands on it. And you know what he’s like when he’s disappointed …”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t trust Ziggy Kowalski as far as I could throw him,” said Sidney. “And that’s not too far. They don’t call him the Slippery Pole for nothing.”

  “Well, I think he refers to himself as that more than anyone else does,” said Leslie. She smiled.

  “Yes, Ziggy has certainly never been lacking in confidence. He has a strong knack for self–promotion, to be sure,” said Sidney.

  “That’s the secret of his fame, I suspect.”

  “More like his infamy.”

  Sidney rose and dropped his dressing gown. He was naked. He walked toward his wife.

  “Infamy, infamy,” he said as he pulled Leslie towards him.

  “Have you got it infamy?” she said.

  Our Man In Warszawa

  Warsaw, Poland

  The black BMW skidded sharply and jolted Doctor Anna Nowak out of her reverie. She struggled to regain control of the car and only just managed to do so.

  Her heart was pounding. She slapped herself on the cheek.

  “Idiota,” she said to herself.

  She slowed the car, reached into her handbag on the passenger seat and took out a can of Red Bull. She clicked it open with one hand and downed it in one.

  Anna knew that she was taking a risk by driving so fast. The Polish county roads, never in a great condition at the best of times, were icy and she was exhausted. She was struggling against the urge to sink into the dark womb of sleep. She’d been working non – stop shifts at The Maudsley Hospital in London for days and had just flown back to Poland the night before. She’d been up for hours. But she wanted to get to her parents’ home before the Christmas celebrations began. She needed these respites more and more these days. Work was consuming her.

  The drive from Warsaw to her parents’ country home wasn’t usually too but it was painfully long in these conditions. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side Of The Moon had kept her company on the journey and she’d turned up the music loud, hoping it could help keep her awake just a little longer. It was just a little farther, after all. But it clearly hadn’t worked. She was ‘knackered’ as her old English boyfriend would have said. If she didn’t wake herself up, she’d be heading to ‘The Great Gig In The Sky’ a lot sooner than later.

  Anna caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and felt a tad depressed. Her long, blonde hair looked ragged, she thought, and she certainly looked a lot older than thirty–five. She felt it too. That was for sure. She noticed that her red nail varnish was chipped and couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a make–over. She knew appearance probably wasn’t the most important part of being a psychologist but she felt as if she’d let herself go recently. All work and no play …

  She decided to change the music to something more up–tempo. She dug in her cluttered glove compartment and plucked out a CD. Took out Pink Floyd and slammed in Bjork.

  Singing along to Violently Happy, she started to feel a little better. A little more alive.

  Her mobile phoned buzzed, jolting her to attention.

  She pushed it into the hands–free phone holder.

  “Anna,” said a faint voice. “Are you there?”

  She turned down the music.

  “Tak,” she said.

  “It’s Terry Bagley. Your old mate from Interpol.”

  Anna pictured the good looking, cheery young Irishman with flopping red hair and smiled.

  “Oh, Terry. I haven’t heard from you for a long time,” said Anna. “Are you still in Poland?”

  “Yes, I’m still here. But I’ll be heading back to Dublin today. I may be staying there a while. My mom’s not so well. Dodgy ticker, as the Brits say.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. How old is she?”

  “Seventy–eight this year, so it’s to be expected. Anyway, I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year.”

  “Same to you,” said Anna. “Wesolych Swiat i Szczesliwego Nowego Roku.”

  “The thing is… I was also wondering,” said Terry. “Have you heard from Pierre recently?”

  “Which Pierre? The safecracker? The tall one that works with the Russian?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. His wife contacted me earlier today. She heard he… ”

  The line started cutting out.

  He… went… Esperanto… church… ”

  The line went dead. Anna pressed the buttons on her old Nokia randomly but to no avail. This was one of the problems of her parents living in the middle of nowhere. Although sometimes it could be more of a blessing than a curse. Especially when she wanted some peace and quiet. Some rest.

  Anna realised that she could now see the snow smothered roof of her parents’ country house, peeking over a copse of pines. There were Christmas lights in some of the trees and she started to relax.

  Everything was dusted white except for a murder of crows. She watched their black shapes slash across the sky and land on a snow bank alongside the road.

  As she got closer to the snow bank, she saw something that made her gasp.

  Reflex made her bury the brake–pedal. A poor choice. The BMW slalomed right, threatening to jump an embankment. She fought to keep the car under control. A large pine bole loomed, but luck, and perhaps German engineering, brought the vehicle to a skidding halt, inches from the tree.

  “Kurwa!” she said.

  She panted and pulled herself together. What the hell was that in the road? It looked like a corpse.

  Anna threw open the car door. She grabbed her parka from t
he passenger seat and pulled it on. Her breath was heaving as she jogged towards the flapping crows.

  A man lay on top of the snow bank. He was bloodied and dressed in a black biker jacket, black sweater, black jeans and Dr Martin boots. The black birds pecked at his face. Anna kicked and sent them flapping away. As she drew closer, she saw the man’s chest hitch with breath. The hint of mist from his nostrils. He was alive, but his left eye was bleeding. Maybe he’d been attacked by one of the crows?

  She wrapped the coat tight around him then plucked a metal hip flask from her coat and put it to his lips. There was no reaction. She wiped the top of the hip flask and took a swig herself. She slapped the man’s face but there was still no reaction. Anna waited a moment and then took him by the shoulders and dragged him toward the car. Anna was strong due to years of active sports – mountain climbing, kayaking, and the man was tall but slightly built. But it was still a great effort to drag him toward the car. Only there did she realised that the man had left a trail of blood snaking behind him.

  She opened the car’s back door and got in, dragging the man inside. She leaned over the driver’s seat to the hands–free and grabbed her phone. She was relieved when she saw that she had a signal. She dialled her home number, hoping that her father would be there.

  “Tak, sucham,” said the strong voice that answered the phone.

  “Tata!” she said. She sighed deeply.

  “Anna?”

  “Tak!”

  Anna looked at the man on the back seat. He may not have known it but today really was his lucky day.

  London, England

  Sidney Hawkins gazed at his reflection in the hotel room’s mirror, still pleasantly surprised by how well he looked, considering he was in his sixties and drank like a fish. Admittedly, he had started to feel the occasional sharp pain in his joints of late and his stomach was starting to widen but that was par for the course for a man of his age, surely.

  Sidney was wearing an expensive black suit and shirt as well as his sunglasses. His black Italian leather shoes shone.

  “Do you think we’re getting too domesticated, Leslie?” he said to his wife. “This is the first time we’ve stayed in a hotel for donkey’s years. We rarely leave the house these days.”