New York, USA
“Oh yes, Shane Malone was a truffle hound for tragedy,” said Howard J. Howard, his dark eyes glimmering as the lights in The Mucho Mojo Club faded. The bar was in the heart of New York’s Soho district and was, thankfully, less crowded than usual.
“He had a way of sniffing out people that had been stained by trauma of some sort. He had an ability to hone in on their damage, as it were. To wheedle it out of them like a pearl from an oyster. Now, there were those that consider it to be an example of his empathy. But there were just as many, myself included, who thought it was his way of balancing the books with the universe on account of all the suffering he’d been through. Whatever it was, Shane knew a fuck up when he saw one.”
Howard J Howard was a massive man. He banged against the bar as he swayed backwards and forwards. He looked worse for wear after his three day drink session. His sweaty bald head glistened in the smoky bar’s lights. He was unshaven. His eyes were red. His expensive double breasted pin stripe suit was crumpled and stained with various liquids.
He leaned against the bar nursing a large Jack Daniel’s. Bertie The Bolt stood in front of him sipping a half–pint of Sam Adams. Bertie was short and ferrety wearing a similar suit to Howard. He nodded profusely at every one of Howard’s utterances, occasionally eying the photographs of famous boxers that hung behind the bar, wondering if he’d be able to take any of them on.
“I remember Shane,” rasped Bertie, spittle flying. “He was a suave bastard, alright. A good looking fucker.”
Bertie’s East London accent grated on Howard at times but as an Anglophile it came with the territory. And anyway, he needed Bertie as research fodder for his hugely successful crime novels. Howard was the Harvard educated son of two lawyers. He had no inroads into the criminal fraternity. Well, not the sort of criminals he wrote about.
“Indeed, Shane was a charmer. He could sell ice cream to Eskimos. And the woman doted on him, of course. Especially women of a certain age. Hence his relationship with Martha.”
“Yeah, Martha. I remember her. Martha Lawson, wasn’t it?”
“It was indeed. Or at least it was until she divorced Walter. Poor old hapless Walter Lawson. A great artist but a professional cuckold.”
Bertie laughed.
“Yeah, how many wives took him to the cleaners, anyway?” he said.
“At least five, if we include the 24 hours Las Vegas marriage that induced his fatal heart–attack. And I suppose we really should since it was very much par for the course as far as Walter’s romantic encounters were concerned,” said Howard.
“Yeah, old Walter was unlucky in love, and shit at cards too.”
“Which accounts for the loan sharks that were chasing him all over the country.”
Bertie rang a bell that was perched at the end of the bar. Carla, the bleach blonde owner, stumbled from her stool at the end of the bar and poured them another round of drinks.
“You were saying about Shane?” said Bertie.
“Oh, yes. Well our faux–Irish friend has fallen on his feet again,” said Howard.
“You’ve got to be kidding? I thought after Martha topped herself he’d be persona non grata.”
“I suspect most thought the same, but it appears he discovered a secret supply of previously undiscovered paintings. Painted by Walter, of course.
“Before he died, like?”
“Well, he could hardly have painted them after they died although I wouldn’t put it past Shane to try that old chestnut.”
“And I’m guessing Shane still has the rights to Martha’s paintings.”
“Of course. And he has at least two exhibitions worth of unreleased material.”
“Here’s to Shane Malone. If he fell in the Hudson he’d come out with a pocket full of fish,” said Bertie.
They drank.
“I’m off for a slash,” said Bertie.
He walked into the toilets.
Howard J. Howard was holding onto the bar to stop himself falling over.
“Do you remember Kim Fowley?” said Howard J. Howard.
Carla shrugged as she put a mixture loose change into a small leather wallet.
“I don’t even know her,” she said.
“Not her. Him. Kim Fowley was a man. He was the manager of The Runaways and Rachel Sweet,” said Howard. “He discovered Joan Jett, for his sins. Anyway, he once said to me ‘If you’re wonderful in any way somebody will fuck with you. Just like if you’re horrible in any way they’re gonna fuck with you. The world is for the average and the common. Those are the people who never hurt – they just fall asleep. The rest of us, we’re The Walking Wounded.’ He had a point, eh?”
Carla ignored Howard and went back to stocking the refrigerator with bottles of Heineken. Howard was mumbling to himself. He was slumped over the stained and sticky bar humming an old Irish rebel song when a tall blonde walked into the bar looking like a long drink of water to a thirsty man. Or, Howard thought, glided in, her hair was long and straight. Her lips were painfully red. She wore a short sparkly gold dress that made her long black, stockinged legs look even longer.
She winked at Howard as she walked over to a dusty old jukebox and put in a handful of coins. She pressed a few buttons and James Brown began to sing It’s a man’s world.
“You’re dressed to kill and guess who’s dying?” said Howard.
She walked over to a bleary eyed Howard J Howard and smiled.
“I’m bored,” said Solitaire. “Buy me a drink?”
“Sure,” said Howard. “What’ll you have?”
“Two fingers of red eye. Whisky makes me frisky.”
The gargoyle behind the bar was pouring the drinks when ‘Bertie The Bolt’ stepped out of the toilets. Solitaire’s heart sank. She hoped he was too drunk to see through her disguise.
Bertie pulled up his fly and sniffed his fingers. He grinned when he saw Solitaire. If she’d been playing the celebrity lookalike game she’d have cast Ving Rhames as Howard. And Bertie was pure Wayne Roth, albeit a sleazier version. It was like being at a Tarantino theme night.
“Well, well. I do believe we have a working girl on the premises,” he slurred as he staggered towards Solitaire. “And a pricey one too, I imagine.”
He wrapped a hairy arm around her waist. “Still, quality costs,” he said.
Solitaire sighed. She’d hoped to seduce Howard back to her hotel. Lock him in the room until he dried out. But the presence of ‘Bertie The Bolt’ made things a little more complicated. She decided to cut to the chase.
As soon as the barman turned away, she elbowed Bertie in the throat, tripped him up and threw him to the ground. He tried to struggle to his feet. She pulled him close, pulled a Taser from her bra and pressed it against his neck.
“What the hell …?” said Howard, as Bertie collapsed to the wooden floor.
The scream melded with the whine of the Taser as it started to charge up again. She pressed it against Howard’s neck and caught him before he hit the ground.
“I think this guy’s had a little too much to drink,” said Solitaire to Carla, who was staggering from behind the bar. Solitaire blew her a kiss as she escorted Howard out of the bar.
Work Is A Four Letter Word
London, England
The evening was melting into night as Kevin and Wayne Robinson parked the car and walked down Druid Street, once one of the most sought after streets in West London. Now, like everywhere else in the area, it was almost a no–go–zone. Smack–heads roamed the streets like characters from The Walking Dead and the sight of the occasional wino gave the area a touch of class. Every terraced house on the street was bordered up but one. Number Thirteen.
Kevin knocked on the door. Nothing. Knocked again. After a few moments, the letter box opened.
“Is that you, Wayne?” said a frail and reedy, voice.
“It is, Barbara,” Wayne answered.
“Is it a Sunday?” said Barbara Bailey. “Have you come to collect t
he milk money?”
“Naw, I’ve been sent to give you a message. Can you let me in?”
She opened the door.
“Quick,” she wheezed.
She trundled away pulling an oxygen tank behind her. The brothers stepped into the house. Kevin closed the door behind him. The place stank of death and disappointment. And kippers.
The Robinson brothers followed Barbara into the living room as she plonked herself down on a worn sofa.
“Help yourself to a snifter of vodka, if you fancy,” she said. “It’s only that Ukrainian stuff, but it does the job.”
“Naw thanks,” Wayne said, looming over her.
“This is more business than pleasure,” said Kevin. “My dad sent me.”
Barbara nodded slowly and pulled the oxygen mask over her face for a few minutes. Kevin looked around the room. It was a museum to past glories. Faded photographs cluttered the wall. He sighed.
The deal was that Jimmy Robinson wanted to buy 13 Druid Street from Barbara because the council were going to make a Compulsory Purchase Order of the street very soon, before they sold it off to some supermarket or other. Jimmy Robinson already had the rest of the houses in the street and only Barbara Bailey was holding out. She was dying of lung cancer caused by asbestosis and wanted to die in the place where she was born.
Barbara took off the oxygen mask.
“The answer is still no,” she rasped.
She fiddled with a packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes.
“Is it alright if I smoke?” she said.
Wayne looked at the oxygen tank and had an idea. He caught Kevin’s eye and winked.
“Can you wait till I’ve gone, Barbara? I’ve got that asthma,” said Wayne.
Barbara nodded.
“Not a bad gaff in its day this, eh?” said Kevin.
Wayne wandered into the kitchen. It was filthy. He turned on the gas.
“I was born here; married here, had my kids here: I just want to die here. That’s not unreasonable, is it?” she said.
“It isn’t,” agreed Wayne, as he stepped back into the living room.
“Will you tell that to your dad, Kevin?”
“I will,” said Kevin.
“And we’ll let ourselves out,” said Wayne. “Now.”
He nodded toward Kevin who headed to the door.
“So long Barbara,” said Kevin.
“Tara, lads,” she said.
As soon as they closed the door, they started to jog down the street.
They were already a couple of streets away by the time they heard the bang.
***
Kenny Cokehead staggered out of the Costcutter late night shop carrying a plastic bag full of cheap, strong cider and crisps. He was outside an old and abandoned cinema, wet, cold, starving, knackered and, worst of all, sobering up, when he had to stop for a piss. He leaned against the peeling Beverly Hills Cop poster pulled down his shell suit bottoms and pulled out his ‘old man’.
He let the piss splash on his hands a while to warm himself up. He farted and coughed up a wad of phlegm which splattered his ‘Mohammed Was A Nonce’ t–shirt. From the corner of his eye he saw a big black car pulling up. He looked on in horror as a tall woman wearing a black fedora and black overcoat got out of the car. The woman’s heels clicked as she walked across the cobblestoned street.
“The right place, perhaps, Kenny,” said Jacqui King. “But certainly the wrong time.”
“Oh, bugger,” said Kenny.
Jacqui pulled out a knitting needle and stabbed Kenny’s throat before he could scream. She wiped the knitting needle on Kenny’s copse and threw it into the gutter.
New York, USA
Howard J. Howard had heard that people headed into a white tunnel before they died. He certainly felt as if he’d died, as he pulled the skin back from his eyes. The room was migraine bright, or maybe he actually had a migraine. He never suffered from the damned things thankfully, but this is how he imagined they were like. His head was pounding, sweat acupunctured his pores. He felt like vomiting. Ah, it was only a hangover. And he’d experienced, endured, enough of them in his time to know that they weren’t fatal no matter how bad they felt. Although this one felt different.
The room was unfamiliar, for sure. An anonymous hotel bedroom by the looks of it. He had spent plenty of nights in rooms like this, of course. Especially during his drinking sessions. He needed to pee and struggled to stand, but fell back down as he realised he was naked and handcuffed to a radiator. What the hell kind of mess had he got himself into this time? He closed his eyes and hoped to retreat into the oblivion of sleep.
A door opened and he heard a chuckle. He opened his eyes. Katherine stood in front him with a hand on her hip. She held a black folder in the other hand. She wore a black overcoat and sunglasses like she was going to a funeral.
“Katherine? What the hell is going on?” said Howard.
“Good morning, darling. I just need to interrupt your sojourn for a few moments and then you can get back to your fun,” she said.
She knelt down in front of Howard and gave him the envelope. “Sign these and I’ll give you the key to the handcuffs.”
Howard sighed.
“I’ll need a pen,” said Howard. “And a drink would be nice.”
“Hold on,” said Katherine.
She went over to her bag in the bed and brought over a pen and a thermos flask. She gave them to Howard. He opened the flask and sniffed.
“What’s in here?” he said.
“Your famous diazepam and painkiller cocktail. It’ll help you take the edge off, for now.”
Howard took a sip and then a gulp.
“Take it easy with that,” said Katherine. “Especially if you’re going to be boozing later. And I’m sure you are.”
“You know me, dear. I’m the very model of restraint,” said Howard.
Famous last words, thought Katherine.
London, England
Ronnie had rarely seen a site as pathetic as the scrawny and scraggy creature that sat twitching, scratching and snivelling in front of him. ‘Baghead’ Berry had the sort of face that was so lived–in, squatters wouldn’t stay there. His skin was greener than The Incredible Hulk’s. His brow was constantly sweaty, spotty and furrowed. He was the very dictionary definition of emaciated and dishevelled. His red leather biker jacket had holes at the armpits and elbows. His George combat trousers were splattered with mud stains. His green spikey hair was wilting. His Anti–Nowhere League t–shirt was ripped and torn, though, Ronnie thought, that may have been done deliberately.
“Well, well, well, Mr Berry. Long–time no see. For what do I have the pleasure of your company?”
“Well, the thing is …” said Baghead. He sniffed and cleared his throat. “I want to do a deal with you, like.”
“Don’t you always,” said Ronnie. “What are you in for this time?”
“Nothing special, like.”
Ronnie looked at the charge sheet on the table in front him.
“Handling stolen goods? Smuggling exotic pets? Naughty boy,” he said.
Baghead shrugged. “You know. You do what you do, don’t you?”
“Yes. Well, you certainly do. How the hell do you get a kangaroo on the London Underground anyway?”
Baghead smirked. “Well, you see, what you do is …”
Ronnie held a hand up. “I really don’t think I want to know. So, what have you got for me? And make it sharpish, The Walking Dead’s on in half an hour,” he said.
Ronnie chuckled to himself as he realised what he’d said. The Walking Dead was right there front of him.
“Look, I’ve got some info … like. And it’s good stuff, like,” rasped Baghead. “It’s well juicy.”
“Yeah,” said Ronnie. He yawned. “I’m sure it is, but I’m not the man to talk to. Am I? I’m murder squad now. You need to speak to DS Napper. I’ll see if he’s in, if you like?”
He started to get out of his chair.
“It is murder I’m talking about, though, like,” said Baghead. “More than one murder, like. Mass murder.”
Ronnie looked at Baghead with renewed interest. He knew that the junkie was too stupid to bullshit effectively. “Is that right?” asked Ronnie.
“Yeah, that’s right, like.” Baghead smirked.
“And just who is supposed to have committed these murders?” said Ronnie.
Baghead leaned forward. “There’s a serial killer on the loose. They say there’s a bird, a woman, like, that’s going around slicing people up and selling off bits of their bodies. They say she kills them with poisoned knitting needles. They’re her talons, like.” He clawed the air.
“Talons?” said Ronnie.
“Yeah,” said Baghead. “They reckon she croaked Kenny Cokehead outside the Costcutter. The bird’s been in London preying on the homeless and the vulnerable, like.” His eyes sparkled. “You know? Preying?”
“Preying?” said Ronnie.
“Yeah, preying.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“Preying or praying?” said Ronnie.
Ronnie put the palms of his hands together.
“Well, if you’re going to take the piss …” Baghead sulked.
“Okay,” said Ronnie. “I’ll humour you. Does this lady have a name? A description would come in handy.” Ronnie yawned.
“Yeah, they call her ‘The Black Crow’,” said Baghead. “She wears a big black hat and dresses all in black. Looks like a big black bird.” He flapped his arms.
“The knitting needles are like her talons, eh?” said Ronnie.
“Yeah. Talons.”
Ronnie smirked.
“‘The Black Crow’, eh? Nice name that. Catchy. Any idea where we can find her? Camden Lock seems likely from your description. It’s full of ageing posh Goths there.”
“Well …” Baghead looked around the room.
Big City Blues - Paul D Brazill Page 4