Big City Blues - Paul D Brazill Page 3

  Lisi Solitaire checked her reflection in the mirror that hung on the back of the door, knowing that you didn’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Especially with big shot clients like the one she was about to meet. She was pleased with what she saw. She thought she looked as sharp as a razor. Dressed all in black with thick black framed glasses and her head recently shaven she thought she looked more like a successful New York psychiatrist than a struggling private eye, even if her designer threads were all knock offs.

  She picked up a magazine from the mahogany coffee table and flicked through it. She was reading an article about whether or not Superman was a scab — how the Man of Steel’s habit of working for free was reducing the salaries of hard working cops and firemen when she heard the cough.

  The night before, she’d been playing the celebrity lookalike game with her roommate Dana, who was a dead ringer for Father Of The Bride era Martin Short. Solitaire herself, it had been decided, was like Alien 3 era Sigourney Weaver. When she looked up she saw a more than passable Lauren Bacall lookalike standing in the doorway to her office. Doctor Katherine Howard was elegant, tall and beautiful. Her raven black hair was tied back and her half–moon glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Solitaire guessed that Doctor Howard’s designer clothes were all bona fide. Unlike Solitaire, she was a genuinely successful New York psychiatrist and she could afford the real deal.

  “Ms Solitaire?” she said in a husky voice that fit the way she looked just perfectly.

  “That’s me,” she said. “The only game in town.”

  She winked.

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but it certainly seems there aren’t too many female private detectives about these days, I’ll admit,” said Katherine with a warm smile.

  Katherine held out a perfectly manicured hand.

  “Katherine Howard,” she said. They shook. “Do I call you Antoinette or just Lisi?”

  “Call me anything you like but don’t call me early.”

  She winked. Katherine smiled weakly.

  Solitaire cringed.

  “Sorry, lame line. Most people call me Solitaire,” she said.

  “Come into my office,” said Katherine.

  This certainly wasn’t the first time that Solitaire had been in a headshrinker’s office. Far from it. In the past, though, the rooms’ design had been; anonymous, minimal: spartan. Devoid of any personality. Much like most of the shrinks she’d encountered, truth be told. But Katherine Howard’s office was different, which led her to believe she was different from those other psychiatrists, too.

  On one wall was a large print of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks and on another a number of framed vinyl album covers – Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bessie Smith, Tom Waits, Van Morrison, Edith Piaf. There were photographs of Katherine Howard socialising with various celebrities – Al Martino, David Bowie, George Clooney and OJ Simpson. There was a wall length shelf of vinyl albums and a book case containing the works of Albert Camus, Dostoevsky and Graham Greene, amongst others. Solitaire realised that this was more of a masculine office than she’d expected.

  “Take a seat please,” Katherine offered.

  Solitaire sat in a leather armchair.

  “Nice room,” said Solitaire. “Not what I expected. Not a typical psychiatrist’s office.”

  “Oh, I don’t see my patients here,” she said. “This is my sanctum sanctorum. My dojo. My home away from home. Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “Espresso would be great.”

  She went over to a machine and made two death black espressos. She gave one to Solitaire and sat on the edge of the desk.

  “So what can help you with, doctor?” said Solitaire.

  “Call me Katherine. It’s nothing complicated, really. I just want you to find my husband.”

  “How long has he been missing?”

  “Oh, only a few days. It seems Howard has gone on one of his drinking binges — he does this every now and again – and I need him back here to sign some important papers.”

  She handed Solitaire a piece of paper.

  “These are his regular boozing haunts. He’s sure to be at one of them,” she said.

  Solitaire looked at the list.

  “I’m not one to turn down work but why can’t you go? Doesn’t seem that difficult a task, since you pretty much know where he’ll be.”

  “I’m a recovering alcoholic, Ms Solitaire. It would be too much temptation, especially under such stressful circumstances.”

  “Do you expect it to be stressful?”

  “For sure. You’ll need to use your brain as well as your brawn to drag Howard out of there. You know what he’s like, right?”

  “Well …”

  “I’m sure my husband’s reputation has preceded him.”

  Solitaire smiled.

  “For sure. He’s a crime fiction writer and a pretty successful one, too. Writers operate by different rules to the rest of us, I expect,” said Solitaire.

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just an excuse for self–indulgence,” said Katherine.

  “You’d know better than me,” said Solitaire.

  “Oh, yes,” said Katherine. “So. Can I ask you about your name? It’s a tad unusual.”

  “Yes, it’s my real name and yes, before you ask, I am related to Antoine Solitaire. I’m his daughter, for my sins. Which are not as many and as varied as his, of course.”

  “Antoine Solitaire. Well, there was a man who operated by a different set of rules to the rest of us.”

  “He certainly did. For better or for worse.”

  “How long is it since he went missing?”

  “Five years, now.”

  “Do you have any leads on the case?”

  “Nope. There’s not a lot the cops can do short of digging up half of Brooklyn.”

  “Is your mother still alive?”

  “Sure is. She’s alive and kicking ass. Literally. She runs an actual dojo Downtown.”

  “Really?” said Katherine.

  “Yes. She’s working with some ‘has–been’ action movie star. Teaching the five fingers of death to the local geriatrics.”

  Katherine walked over to the window and black clouds spread like a cancer across the skyline.

  “It’s certainly a life of surprises,” she said.

  “Sure is.”

  Solitaire finished her coffee and got to her feet.

  “Well, I’d best get going. I’ve got a long bar crawl ahead of me, by the looks of it,” she said as she looked at the slip of paper that Katherine had given her.

  “It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it,” she said. “I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve found him.”

  Katherine nodded.

  “By the way, Howard is a pussycat, even when he’s drunk, but if he’s with Bertie, you’d better be careful.”

  “That wouldn’t be Bertie The Bolt would it?”

  “It would, I’m afraid.”

  And so am I, thought Solitaire.

  London, England

  The big, bearded Russian burst into The Essex Arms, bringing the afternoon rain in with him. His long, wet black hair hung down like party streamers on New Year’s Day. His long, black raincoat trailed behind him like a crow’s wings. The few customers turned their attention to the pool table in the corner of the room where a stripper in a nylon French maid’s outfit was grinding her stuff to a Robbie Williams song.

  The Russian went straight to the bar and seemed to collapse against it. He whispered something to the squat barman, who shook his head. The man whispered something again and the barman poured him a pint of Stella Artois. Ronnie watched, sipping his half–pint of John Smith’s Smooth, and wondered what the story was there, thinking it must be a sad one. Then again, most pub stories were sad ones, truth be told. He was soon dragged out of his reverie as Lee strolled out of the gents’ toilets pushing a pack of condoms into the top pocket of his pinstriped shirt.

  Lee did a little wobble with his head and clap
ped his hands together loudly.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have had that vindaloo last night,” said Lee. “I’ve got an arse like the Japanese flag.”

  “Thanks for sharing that,” said Ronnie.

  “Well, that’s the kind of guy I am,” said Lee.

  “Yes, you’re the milkman of human kindness, you really are.”

  “Wanna hear a joke, Ronnie, old son?” said Lee.

  “Not particular,” said Ronnie.

  He was feeling tired. His hangover was biting despite the beer he was drinking.

  “You’ll like this one, I promise.” Lee winked.

  Ronnie slumped in his chair.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, for sure. Would I lie to you?”

  “Yes, and you have done many times,” said Ronnie.

  He took a sip of beer and grimaced.

  “Trust me, it’s a good one,” said Lee.

  “Go on then, as long as it’s a short one.”

  “That’s what that big Irish bird said to me last night.”

  He rubbed his hands together.

  Ronnie forced a smile.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Okay,” said Lee.

  He took a gulp of lager and burped.

  “So, there’s a bloke goes into the supermarket with his missus for the weekly shopping trip and she tells him they have to be careful about how much they spend because times are hard and cash is tight and the like. Anyways, halfway through the shop he’s looking at a box set of Dr Who DVDs and she tells him to put them back because they’re tightening their belts and the like. So, begrudgingly, he does. After a bit, they wander off on their own and return to the shopping trolley at the same time. She’s got loads of cosmetics, Clarins and the like, and he’s got two six–packs of Stella Artois and a bottle of Jim Beam. ‘You can’t get that,’ she says. ‘We’re cutting costs.’ ‘Well what about all that make up and the like?’ says the husband. ‘They’re for both of us,’ she says. ‘They’ll make me look more beautiful.’ The husband nods toward the booze and says ‘And so will that lot but it only costs half as much.’ Ta dah!”

  Lee guffawed and spat dry roasted peanuts his across the table. Ronnie chuckled. He liked the joke more than he let on but never wanted to encourage Lee.

  “Not three bad,” said Ronnie. “Not bad at all.”

  “It’s a good one, eh?” said Lee.

  “By your standards, it’s a work of genius,” said Ronnie.

  “Speaking of good ones, how’s that Russian bird?”

  “Jola? She’s Polish.”

  “Yeah, of course. I know it was something like that. Anyway, is she a goer or a bit of an ironing board? She comes across as a bit of an ice queen, and the like.”

  “Oh, she comes across, alright,” said Ronnie with a wink. “How’s Mary Shenanigan?”

  “Plenty of shenanigans there, alright.”

  They both chuckled.

  The music stopped and the stripper finished her act by sliding a pool cue between her legs and potting the black. There was a muted applause.

  “I wouldn’t mind her kissing her pink,” said Lee.

  The stripper collected her clothes and stepped off the pool table only to freeze as she saw the big Russian grinning at her.

  “Ivan?” she said.

  She squinted and took a pair of big pink glasses from her bag and put them on.

  “Ivan, what do you want?” she said. “It’s over. You know that.”

  The man stepped towards her.

  “Evelina,” he sobbed. “How could you?”

  He pushed a hand into his raincoat and pulled out a meat cleaver. The stripper froze as he stepped towards her. Ronnie cannon–balled himself out of his chair and straight into Ivan, sending him smashing heavily into the side of the bar. Glasses and bottles smashed to the ground as Ivan waved the meat cleaver around. Lee was quickly on Ivan and disarmed him, cuffing the man’s hands behind his back with ease.

  Ronnie called for backup as Ivan started to sob. A short, well–dressed old man went up to comfort the stripper. She wrapped her arms around him as he escorted her through a door marked Private.

  This made Ivan cry even more.

  “We’ve all got our own double cross to bear, old son,” said Lee to Ivan, patting him on the shoulder.

  “Plenty more fish in the sea, eh?” said Ronnie.

  “I don’t want a fish,” said Ivan. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  Ronnie looked around the pub and suddenly felt claustrophobic. He started to sweat and his heart felt as if it was bursting out of his chest. His vision blurred. His legs felt weak. He leaned against the bar and then it all faded to black as he collapsed on top of Ivan.

  Crook, Line And Sinker

  London, England

  Detective Inspector Nikki Scrace had an annoying habit of playing with her long red hair when she was angry, which was something that had happened increasingly ever since she’d been promoted to detective inspector. It hadn’t been a popular promotion amongst some of her colleagues. First of all, she was a woman. Then she was a lesbian who many people believed used to be a man. Then a northerner, too. She was also a hell of a lot younger than most of them, still, most of them had accepted her eventually and DI Scrace had to accept that her nickname — disgrace —could have been a lot worse. But she was in a hell of a mood now.

  She leaned across the desk and looked DS Ronnie Burke in the eye.

  “So, the quacks have given you the all clear, then?” she said.

  “Yes. It was just exhaustion. Too much booze, late nights, shagging …”

  Niki held up a hand.

  “That’s more than enough information than I need, thank you,” she said. “So, you know why you’re here?”

  Ronnie shuffled in his chair.

  “Sort of,” he said. “I’m in the naughty chair.”

  “Again,” said Niki.

  Niki pulled a packet of Mentos from a drawer and popped one in her mouth. She crunched it for what seemed like an eternity to Ronnie. She swallowed and pointed a finger at him. Tapped the side of her head. “Marjory Razorblades?” said Niki. “Marjory bloody Razorblades! How the fuck could you?”

  Ronnie shuffled in his chair again. He had a hangover from the meds the doctor had given him and he’d been hoping to sleep it off. He had been called in for an early morning meeting with DI Scrace and had shaved quickly and badly. A piece of tissue paper was stuck to his neck. Shaving had been bit of a trauma.

  “You know, Nikki ... Guv ... Inspector. It was just one of those things,” he said. “I just needed the cash.”

  “There are places called banks, you know?”

  “Yeah, but I’m mortgaged up to the hilt and when I saw the car on E–Bay, I had to strike while the iron was hot.”

  “I’m tempted to take a hot iron to you myself, but I suspect Marjory will be more than happy to do that, if you fuck up the payments. And I won’t stop her, either.”

  Ronnie looked at his fingernails. He felt like a scalded schoolboy.

  “Yeah, I know, but …”

  He shrugged. Smiled.

  Niki Scrace shook her head. She couldn’t help but laugh. She could never stay pissed off with Ronnie for long, no matter how often he screwed up.

  “You’re a copper for god’s sake,” she said. “It’s bad enough you living in a trendy Shoreditch flat like some dickhead pipe–smoking hipster, but why the hell would you need an Aston Martin, second–hand or not? Does the phrase living beyond you means, mean anything to you?”

  “You’re only young once, eh?”

  “Mid–life bloody crisis more bloody like it. You know, there were a few people here that actually thought you were on the take?”

  “No, no way would I…”

  “No but you’d be daft enough borrow a wad load of cash from one of the most violent money lenders in the city. So, that’s alright then, is it?”

  “Oh, Marjory’s alright. Me and her go way back,” said Ronnie wi
th a wink.

  “Don’t I know it,” said Scrace.

  She sat back in her black leather chair.

  She shook her head and opened a can of Red Bull. She couldn’t stop grinning.

  “Alright, tosser,” she said. “Piss off and give me time to think about what I’m going to do with you.”

  “Ta much, Guv,” said Ronnie.

  He walked to the door.

  “By the way. Did you get a chance to sign my holiday consent form?” he asked.

  Scrace picked up a pile of post–it notes, threw them at him, and chuckled as he scuttled out of the door.

  ***

  Wayne Robinson looked dead on his feet, and no amount of coffee could help, even the strong stuff that he usually drank. He switched off the espresso machine and took his cup over to the kitchen table. Kevin sat with his head in his hands and he didn’t look much better than his brother. He looked up as Wayne sat down opposite him.

  “You look like death cooled down,” said Kevin.

  Wayne grunted.

  “I’m out of practise, ain’t I? All that poncy Spanish beer and wine’s made me soft,” he said.

  Wayne drained his coffee.

  “Not too soft to do this job?” said Kevin. “Get back in the game?”

  “Well, I’d rather not, to be honest. Been getting used to the quite life but … Barbara’s a Bailey. You know what they’re like. They won’t take it well.”

  “True. Family’s family.”

  “Indeed. But remember what old Ron Moody used to say?” said Wayne.

  “Yep. You choose your friends not your family.”

  Wayne got up, stretched and walked around the room.

  “You sure dad was serious about Barbara?”

  “Oh yes. He was deadly serious,” said Kevin, shuffling in his pocket for his hip flask. He added a dash of whisky to his coffee. He closed his eyes and whistled a Judy Garland song. When he opened them, Wayne was gone. He heard puking sounds coming from the toilets. A nearby builder’s radio played that bloody awful Oasis song about Sally. He groaned. There was no place like home, indeed.