Too Many Crooks - Paul D Brazill Page 8

  Her phone buzzed. She took it out and hoped that no one saw her using it.

  Leslie read the message and thought for a moment, biting her bottom lip. She stared out of the window. A group of city boys staggered down Dean Street singing a Coldplay song.

  “Okay,” she said. “Drink up. We’ve got to get back to work.”

  “And why, pray tell, would we want to do that?”

  “Because I’ve just had a text message from Ted Singh. Apparently Robert Kowalski wants to meet us.”

  “And did he say why?” said Sidney.

  “Well, it seems as if Mr Kowalski would like his brother’s Totenkopf.”

  “Now, that’s not something you hear every day,” said Sidney.

  Warsaw, Poland

  The haunting, melancholy strains of Ryuchi Sakamoto’s Forbidden Colours leaked from the large, dark house. The milky moon washed the colour out of the landscaped garden as a black clad McGuffin crawled across the lawn, past the trees and the sculpted topiary, toward the French windows. Slowly, methodically, until he was close enough to see inside.

  The darkened room was suffocating in red velvet and leather. Chandeliers hung from a mirrored ceiling. Vladimir sat in a red leather armchair. In his other hand was a large brandy glass.

  An owl hooted in one of the trees. A dog howled close by. It was time to move. McGuffin’s hunt was over.

  McGuffin raised his Glock and fired. A hail of bullets shattered the glass and he was inside within seconds. He slowly walked towards the armchair. Vladimir still hadn’t moved. He seemed to smirk at McGuffin, his black eyes shining. As McGuffin moved closer, he saw that Vladimir was dead. His throat had been cut.

  McGuffin heard a movement in the room and jerked to his left. Svetlana Gogol stepped into the light, grinning. A bloody dagger in her hand.

  “So sorry but I started without you,” she said.

  Love And A Molotov Cocktail

  London, England

  Robert’s hot breath appeared and disappeared on the cold windowpane. He couldn’t help smiling as he watched his kids make a snowman in the park outside. Sandy, their dog, barked at them while his ex–wife Alison drank coffee from a tartan thermos flask. They waved and headed off across the park. Perhaps the money he would get from selling the skull ring would help him restart his life.

  Robert felt calm for a moment. Contented. It didn’t last long, though. He looked at his Rolex and his agitation returned. He turned and glared at Sidney.

  “Where the hell is she, then? Answer me that. Where is your wife? Where is the ring?”

  Robert had been doing his best to keep calm. But it was particularly hard there in Sidney’s office, since the heating was switched off. He had turned up the collar on his Crombie and put his flat cap and leather gloves back on but he was still freezing.

  Sidney, on the other hand, had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He was knocking back the Evian and dabbing his forehead with a paper towel. Semicircles of sweat around each armpit. Looking like a reject from Miami Vice in his powder blue linen suit and salmon pink shirt.

  “I have no idea where she is, Robert,” said Sidney. “She doesn’t have a tagging device.”

  Sidney snorted. He walked over to a globe shaped drinks cabinet in the corner of the half–decorated office and opened it up.

  “Too early for a snifter? Or too late?” he said.

  “Why not,” said Robert, “it might warm me up.

  Sidney grinned and made himself a gin and tonic. He poured Robert a double Maker’s Mark.

  “I take it you won’t be wanting ice,” he said.

  He guffawed as he passed the drink to Robert.

  “You’re a funny man, Sidney,” said Robert.

  He took a long, slow drink.

  There was a loud bang against the office door and it creaked open, scraping against the concrete floor.

  Warsaw, Poland

  As Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive blasted out, Svetlana Gogol, dressed head to toe in black leather, danced in front of McGuffin who was sat in a red leather armchair smoking a large cigar.

  “I know you’re dressed in black but shouldn’t you be playing the grieving widow a bit longer?” said McGuffin.

  Svetlana laughed, her long blonde hair was wild and free, like her.

  She winked at McGuffin.

  “Sorry, I just couldn’t wait,” she said, with a grin. “It’s celebration time.”

  Svetlana took off her long black gloves and threw them into the fire.

  In the distance, sirens howled. McGuffin looked at his watch.

  “I’d better get moving,” said McGuffin.

  “Your assistance is greatly appreciated,” said Svetlana.

  She blew McGuffin a kiss.

  He laughed.

  “The hunter gets captured by the game, eh?” he said.

  “Something like that.”

  “See you around,” said McGuffin as he ran out into the garden.

  “No. Only if I see you first,” said Svetlana, as she switched off the music.

  London, England

  “Speak of the devil,” said Sidney.

  Leslie shuffled into the room.

  She winked at Sidney and collapsed into a leather armchair still covered in cellophane. She held out a hand and clicked her fingers.

  Sidney frowned and went to the mini–bar and filled a half pint glass with vodka. He handed it to Leslie, who took a swig. She licked her lips.

  “Breakfast of champions,” said Robert.

  Leslie looked him up and down.

  “Pots and kettles, Robert?” she said.

  Robert looked at the half empty glass of whisky in his hand.

  “When in Rome,” he said.

  Sidney topped up Robert’s glass.

  “Here’s a bit more spaghetti.”

  Robert sighed as he sat down on the edge of Sidney’s desk.

  “You got the ring, then?” he said to Leslie.

  “Robert, Robert. Ye of little faith. I’m hurt that you even need to ask me that,” said Leslie.

  Robert stood up. He loomed over Leslie.

  “Well?”

  “Patience is a virtue, Robert. You should try to be a bit more Zen. It’ll help your blood pressure.”

  “Leslie!” barked Sidney.

  He got to his feet. “Stop pissing about,” he said.

  Leslie smiled.

  “Alright, alright. Hold on.”

  She put her glass on the floor and unsteadily stood up. Made a show of stretching her muscles.

  Robert chewed the inside of his cheek.

  Leslie pushed a hand into her jacket inside pocket. Plucked out a small, oval–shaped package and held it aloft.

  “Here you are,” she said.

  “You are sure that is the real Totenkopfring?” said Robert.

  “For sure, Robert. It’s real.”

  She put the ring on Sidney’s desk. Sidney opened the box to reveal a ring with a skull and crossbones design.

  “You know, Himmler gave SS honour rings to lots of members of the Old Guard. How do we know it’s actually his personal skull ring?” said Robert.

  “I’ve had it checked out, authenticated,” said Leslie.

  She handed an envelope to Robert.

  All the info’s in there,” she said.

  “So, that’s our side of the bargain, Robert,” said Sidney. “A deal done.”

  Leslie polished off her drink.

  “And don’t I know it,” said Leslie. “No peace for the wicked.”

  She put her hands in her coat pockets and pulled out a gun.

  “Still, we all have our own double–cross to bear,” she said as she blasted Robert in the face.

  Leslie picked up the ring.

  “So, this silly fake came in handy after all,” she said.

  “Indeed, indeed. I’ll phone Ted. The sooner we can get Robert spirited away, the better,” said Sidney.

  “Yes, and remember about
that little bonus for Ted,” said Leslie. “He did well convincing Robert it was safe to meet us.”

  “If only we could get rid of Sir Kenneth so easily,” said Sidney. “That’s an itch I’d love to scratch out.”

  “Well, you know, I have very long fingernails,” said Leslie.

  Warsaw, Poland

  “So, how long is it since you were last on an aeroplane?” said Anna.

  She picked up a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin and put it in the shopping basket she was holding. They were shuffling around the crowded duty–free section of Warsaw Frederic Chopin Airport. Their flight had been delayed and McGuffin had started to get a little twitchy.

  “Never been on a plane since I went on a long weekend to Spain. It was a mate’s stag party. So, not this century, then,” said McGuffin .

  “How did you get to Poland?”

  “By coach. A crowded, smelly coach at that. I had a hangover was stuck behind a fat and smelly Goth for the whole journey. And that was a long and winding road. I can tell you.”

  He glanced at the knock–off Rolex watch he’d picked up at a bar in Warsaw’s Old Town.

  “Yes, well there’s no need to panic. Aeroplanes don’t run on propellers and elastic bands these days,” said Anna.

  She winked.

  “Once you’ve sorted your groceries, let’s get another drink in, eh? Better safe than sorry.”

  He headed off to the bar.

  Anna chuckled to herself as she paid for her shopping. She could see that life with McGuffin would be far from boring.

  He was already ordering the drinks in the airport bar as she got there. Anna shuffled onto a wobbly stool and put her carrier bag onto a wobblier table.

  McGuffin handed her a gin and tonic. He had almost drunk his own.

  “You should be careful with how much you drink,” said Anna. “There are no toilets on these budget airlines.”

  “Yeah?”

  “No, I’m joking but it wouldn’t surprise me,” said Anna. “I hear they were going to have standing only areas and sell cheap tickets.”

  “You’re winding me up,” said McGuffin.

  “I’m not, actually.”

  “Well, I’ve been subjected to worse experiences especially at the hands of that Russian.”

  “Life is a pageant of experience,” said Anna.

  “You know, you don’t seem very shocked by my… colourful life. Or recent events, like that gangster trying to kill you. I know psychiatrists hear a lot of strange stuff but still… ”

  “Oh, there’s a lot more to me than meets the eye,” said Anna.

  She winked.

  “I look forward to peeling back the layers, then,” said McGuffin.

  Anna laughed.

  “Oh well, upwards and onwards,” he said.

  “To fresh starts,” said Anna.

  They clinked glasses.

  McGuffin finished his drink.

  “Time for one more?” said McGuffin.

  Bullets Over Ealing Broadway

  London, England

  Big Bernie Lugg’s housing association flat was bathed in the dim light of a dozen red Lava lamps. Stale dope fumes mixed with the smell of staler cider and cigarettes. An old VHS player played a flickering copy of Goodfellas with the sound turned down. An expensive sound system played Steve Hillage’s Rainbow Dome Musick at low volume. Bernie sat on a battered brown sofa smoking a spliff.

  Hattie Lugg stormed into the room from the kitchen, taking sips from a frothing can of Special Brew. She was drunk and she was fuming.

  “We just can’t let that posh cow get away with it, Bernie?” said Hattie. “Look at me. Look at the friggin state of me!”

  She pointed to her scarred face, slumped in an armchair and swigged her beer.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Bernie.

  His West Country accent burred like a tractor. He yawned. “We’ll do something. Sometime. Soon.”

  “When? People might start to think Satan’s Souls have gone all old and soft.”

  It came up to one of Bernie’s favourite the scenes in the film. The part where Ray Liotta beat the crap out of the posh bloke that disrespected Ray’s girlfriend. Bernie turned to Hattie. He looked at her scarred face.

  “Alright,” he said. “It’ll take some planning, like. I’ve had some of the lads keep an eye on her and her husband and it they reckon she’s well connected. Has friends well high up, like. But we’ll have a meeting with the pack. Like. Don’t you worry. Satan’s Souls will sort her out.”

  “You’re a good lad, big bruv,” said Hattie.

  She cackled and opened another can of beer.

  “Maybe we can make a bit of dosh out of this, too,” she said. “That bling she had on her must be worth a fair bit. We could auction it off on eBay.”

  “Couldn’t hurt to try. I fancy a booze cruise somewhere.”

  She picked up a hammer from a rusty toolbox that was on the floor.

  “What do you think, ball hammer or claw hammer?” she said.

  “Why not use both on the bitch?” said Big Bernie. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “You are a good lad my big, big bruv,” said Hattie as she straddled her brother.

  ***

  Sir Kenneth felt empowered as he left Magda’s apartment and got into the back of his limousine, though his anus was a tad sore. Magda had been particularly enthusiastic this time. He was sure he could smell alcohol on her breath and it had excited him.

  “To The River Cafe, Rossiter,” he said to his beaky chauffeur. “I’m famished.”

  “Yes, Sir Kenneth,” said the chauffeur.

  Sir Kenneth took out one of the many mobile phones he kept for his more clandestine conversation and dialed.

  “Sidney,” he said. “Where is my fucking ring!”

  Sir Kenneth listened to Sidney for a moment before interrupting him.

  “Soon isn’t soon enough,” he said. “I want it yesterday.”

  He hung up.

  ***

  A grubby, grey, winter morning had darkened to an inky–black night. And then it all turned white. Anna was wearing black sunglasses and a black leather coat as she strode across a snow–smothered Hyde Park, indifferent to the blizzard attacking her from all sides. She looked as if she owned the place, thought McGuffin, but then, she always did, wherever she went. Shivering and slightly hungover, he stumbled beside her.

  “Anna,” he yelled. “Slow down, sweetie. I’m still not 100% fighting fit and I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  She stopped walking and smiled. He wrapped his black overcoat tight.

  “Now, now, Mr. McGuffin,” she purred. “Now, now. A man is as old as the woman he feels.”

  Anna put a finger to his lips and nodded over his shoulder. He turned and saw Tosh running up to them, slipping and sliding.

  “Mr McGuffin,” he gasped. “Mr McGuffin.

  McGuffin shuddered and not with the cold. Snowflakes covered Tosh’s Brylcreem–clogged black hair like old confetti.

  “What’s the big panic, Tosh,” said McGuffin. “And why the annoying meeting place?”

  “This needs to be hush–hush. I’ve been trying to get in touch with your sister and Sidney. I spoke to one of my informants yesterday. It turns out the biker gang Satan’s Souls have put out a contract on Leslie.”

  ***

  Sidney hadn’t noticed the pub start to fill up. When he’d first wandered in, he had been the only customer. Now there was a fat, bald biker nursing a half of lager, a white–haired old woman with a wicker–basket talking to herself in between loud slurps of Guinness and a large group of noisy tourists hovering around near the bar. Spanish by the look of them. Loud, brash and spending an age just to order coffees which they would only complain about and never finish.

  Wiktor, the massive barman, stopped stocking the fridge with Kopparberg cider and wandered over to the loudest Italian, an overdressed matriarch wearing gaudy Armani sunglasses. Only a couple of years in London and alr
eady the Pole was jaded, intolerant. A typical Londoner, then.

  The old grandfather clock had just struck thirteen and Sidney sipped his pint of London Pride—hopefully the braying Latinos would finish faffing around soon. He wanted some solitude though it looked as if he was unlikely to get it.

  It was his own fault for drinking in a Covent Garden pub, of course. He should have known better, even on a Monday. The post–theatre crowd would be coming in soon enough. But he often found himself wandering the streets of London in the early evening, eventually stopping off at the first pub he saw open. He’d been tempted to get a Tube train to Knightsbridge and pop in to The Tea Clipper, though it had lost a lot of its charm since Charles Grey and his old acting cronies had all shuffled off this mortal coil.

  Sidney squinted as he looked around the room. He put his sunglasses back on. He had actually thought about purchasing a pair of normal specs lately, perhaps some half–moon ones to give him the Oxford don look, but he was too vain, he knew. Once a dandy, always a dandy.

  The noisy tourists had collected together a few tables in the corner of the room and were seemingly yammering away about the over–priced clothes that they’d bought. Sidney couldn’t help a twinge of resentment. They had an ease about them. A sense of freedom.

  Sidney felt his joints creak as he stood up to go to the bar. He caught the weary barman’s attention.

  “I shall need more lubricant, I think,” he said to the barman. “To oil the joints.”

  Sidney yawned as he waited to collect his drink.

  “Life is brutal,” said Wiktor, stone faced.

  “Oh, indeed,” said Sidney.

  “And full of ambushes,” said Wiktor.

  As he unsteadily sat back down, he noticed a man step into the pub doorway. Tall and dressed in black leather. War made gun shapes with both of his hands and pointed them at Sidney. He grasped his chest, dropping his pint glass which shattered on the pub’s wooden floor.