Big City Blues - Paul D Brazill

by Near To The Knuckle

  ***

  Solitaire reclined in one of Bar Kinky’s gold coloured sofas. She stretched one of her long arms to pluck a drink from a sparkly, silver table. She was tired after her flight from Spain to London. She knocked back her Alhambra Mezquita. It tasted better in Madrid. It did the trick though, or maybe she really needed it. She looked around the bar. The design was suitably kitsch and a small stereo had been playing Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots Are Made For Walking when she’d walked in and she wondered if here was some sort of foreshadowing thing going on. She ordered another beer from a stumpy barman with ears like a football trophy. She could see why most Europeans she knew drank more than her friends back in the states. The booze tasted so much better here.

  The music changed to Raquel Welch’s version of Bang Bang as she sat and sipped her beer, which was when Mikey Howard walked into the bar.

  He looked tired and his attire was dishevelled, but since that was the demeanour of many ‘man boys’ in his demographic, Solitaire didn’t take anything from that.

  Mikey ordered a beer and sat in the corner of the bar. He took out a laptop and a battered brown note book. He opened the laptop and, glancing at the notebook, started typing.

  Solitaire sat and watched him write as he slowly sipped his beer. She took a surreptitious photo with her smartphone and sent it to Katherine Howard with the message ‘What now?’

  Twenty minutes later, Katherine replied. The music had changed to The Band Of Holy Joy’s What The Moon Saw. Solitaire sat and listened for a moment, soaking in its beautiful melancholy. She sighed and got another beer. She checked her messages and sat down opposite Mikey, breaking his trance.

  He looked up. Startled. Like a rabbit in the headlights. “Sorry, do I know you?” he asked wearily.

  “No,” said Solitaire. “But your mother says, ‘hello’, and asks if you’re taking your meds.”

  ***

  Jacqui walked into The Old Iron Horse and went straight to the bar, which was half empty. A saxophone player sat on a small stage practising a John Coltrane song. Sean Bradley, a tall alcoholic that Jacqui vaguely knew, was sat at a table deep in conversation with a sleazy hack known as Luke Case. There was always something shifty about both of them. Jacqui was sure that they both had enough skeletons in their respective closets to keep a palaeontologist happy for months, which was why she usually kept a polite distance from them.

  She nodded to them as he walked up to the bar.

  Blanka, the diminutive Polish barmaid with a crimson Mohawk that was almost as tall as her, was playing a game on her iPhone.

  Jacqui coughed and Blanka looked up and grunted.

  “Co?” she said, barely controlling her sneer.

  Jacquie’s smartphone vibrated. She tapped it and saw that Hove had changed their meeting place again. She sighed.

  “Well,” said Blanka.

  “Oh, forget it,” said Jacqui.

  Jacqui wasn’t in the mood for Blanka’s charm offensive anyway. Or the saxophone player’s doodling for that matter. She took out a cigarette and lit it as she walked out of the building and down Acton High Street.

  A few moments later, she stood at the entrance to Patrick’s Irish Pub, the neon sign flickering and humming.

  Patrick’s was a bit of a dump although the building itself was fine. Oak doors. Oak floor. Marble bar. Silver chandeliers. And a very attractive old Wurlitzer jukebox which played some even tastier tunes. Multi–coloured lanterns adorned the bar area and the pub’s few tables were lit up by large coloured candles that had melted into strange sculptures. The rest of the pub was in pitch black darkness. The air smelt of booze, cigarettes, incense and peppermints, but the dregs of the city were drawn to Patrick’s Irish Pub like a used condom down a toilet bowl. As Jacqui walked to the bar, the Jukebox eased out a Tom Waits song, something about getting drunk on the moon. Jacqui smiled. She was in the mood to get drunk anywhere, even in this joint. The place was almost empty. A small, semi–conscious group of rugby players slumped over a wooden bench and a well–dressed old man who sat near the jukebox drinking a half of Guinness and looking particularly out of place.

  She recognised the fat man swaying near the bar.

  “Hi Oliver,” she said. “How’s tricks?”

  Oliver Robinson’s grunted a reply and waved a hand around.

  “Fair point,” said Jacqui.

  Oliver grunted again.

  “Give me a shot of vodka,” said Jacqui to Bam Bam, the squat Rockabilly barman.

  “Finlandia?” said Bam Bam.

  Jacqui nodded.

  “There y’go, cobber,” he said as he gave her his drink.

  Jacqui took her drink and sat down in front of the old man who had been watching them. He had jet black hair and a hooked nose. He was wearing a well–tailored tweed suit. A deerstalker hat hung on the back of his chair. He smoked a strange elaborately curved pipe.

  “Mr Sheraton Hove,” said Jacqui. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have baked a cake.”

  “You did know,” said Hove, grumpily. “And I’m diabetic, as you are also well aware.”

  Sheraton smiled and shook hands with Jacqui.

  “You’re here a bit earlier than expected,” said Jacqui. “I haven’t finished my cleaning up yet.”

  Hove looked around the pub. “Speaking of cleaning, this is a charming establishment you’ve brought me to, Jacqui,” said Hove.

  “Not the kind of place to invite the heads of MI5, for sure,” said Jacqui. “But it’ll certainly give you a taste of the seedier side of London life.”

  “And a bitter taste at that, I suspect,” said Hove. “And I’m a retired government employee, remember. As are you, as of …”

  He looked at his watch.

  “As of ten minutes ago.”

  Jacqui knocked back her drink in one. She coughed and banged her chest with a manicured hand. “In that case, I’m going to get another drink before we get started talking the business bollocks. Do you want another one?”

  “Of course,” said Hove.

  Jacqui went to the bar and the music changed to The Ramones Rocket To Russia and one of the rugby players immediately leapt to his feet and started to pogo. Within seconds he toppled over and fell into Sheraton Hove’s table sending the drinks smashing to the ground.

  Hove swiftly leapt to his feet and with the speed and agility of a man a quarter of his age dragged the rugby player to his feet, rabbit punched him back to unconsciousness and carefully placed him on a seat next to his slumbering cohorts.

  “Nice work,” said Jacqui, picking up the table.

  “Indeed,” said Hove. “But perhaps we can move to somewhere less raucous. This is a serious matter, after all.”

  Jacqui necked her drink. “Not a bad idea,” she said. “You’re right. Let’s go The Slaughtered Lamb, it’s usually as sedate as a morgue.”

  “Oh, that does sound delightful,” said Hove.

  They walked out of the bar and into the warm and bustling street. Two nuns shuffled by, holding hands.

  “So, I hear the medics have given you the all clear?” said Hove. “And the bureaucrats have organised your pension?”

  “You do hear everything,” said Jacqui.

  “I think you’ll find that knowledge is power, Mrs King,” said Hove.

  “I think you’ll find, the phrase ‘I think you'll find’ usually precedes something that you weren't even looking for,” said Jacqui.

  “And which of your erstwhile criminal cohorts have you yet to extinguish?”

  “Oh, only a couple of stragglers. Cannon fodder. Foot soldiers and the like.”

  “Like poor, unfortunate old Kenny Cokehead?”

  “Yes, I felt a bit bad about that, but Kenny was a loose end that needed to be tied up unfortunately. One of the handful of odds and sods to throw the coppers off the scent. And, you know, Kenny was one of life’s eternal victims.”

  “Indeed. But in fact it almost sent the metropolitan police’s cats in amongst
the pigeons,” said Hove.

  “Well, not really. At least the serial killer wild goose chase ...”

  “I think you mean wild crow chase ...”

  “Or a red herring?”

  “I think we’re mixing our wildlife metaphors,” said Hove.

  “Aye, well whatever it was we sent those coppers on, it worked. It gave me all the time I needed to take out the main players,” said Jacqui.

  “And get the cash, I hope.” Hove’s voice shook.

  “Of course, Sheraton. There’s no trace of those stooges now. Only untraceable cash to set us up for our retirement. And Darek Peplinski’s pen drive.”

  They stepped into a darkened alleyway in front of The Slaughtered Lamb. A nearby French restaurant played an Edith Piaf song.

  “When will I get my share?” said Hove.

  “Oh, you’ll get yours, soon enough,” said Jacqui.

  Which was when she pulled out the knitting needle.

  Right Place, Wrong Crime

  London, England

  Solitaire was struggling, she really was. The band in The Green Lantern were absolute goddamn torture. They were called Totenkopfring. A bunch of saggy old farts playing some painful, horrible hybrid of blues rock and folk rock.

  Even the few songs that Solitaire recognised were mangled into some sort of plodding anonymity, Whisky in The Jar, Born to Run and Brass in Pocket. They all sounded the bloody same. The singer wasn’t too bad, but he fancied himself as some sort of Jim Morrison, and he was clearly far too old for those leather trousers. There was certainly no eye candy in the place at all.

  The singer started moaning about how if it wasn’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all and Solitaire took another sip of her drink. Mikey Howard looked as uncomfortable as her.

  “So both you and your mother are embarking on literary careers,” said Solitaire.

  “Kinda,” said Mikey. “Well, the book I’ll be ghost–writing for Jacqui King won’t be post–modern, that’s for sure. But Jacqui really has a hell of a lot of material to turn into a best–selling thriller series, I think.”

  “Nice. I hope it works out. I like the hardboiled style. Do you like Les Edgerton? I love his stuff.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty damned good. He used to be a friend of Howard’s, once upon a time. I think Les spotted that Howard was a fake or lost interest in the heavy boozing.”

  Solitaire chuckled. “Howard was a pretty good fake though. So, what’s next?” asked Solitaire.

  “I’m heading off into Chelsea to meet my real dad and hang around with some true life gangsters. Check some old school punk venues, and look at some really horrible teeth.”

  Solitaire smiled. The band had finished and music had changed to David Bowie’s Lazarus. The cape of melancholy felt particularly heavy.

  “I’ve never been on a real night out in London. Do you mind if I tag along?” she said.

  “Tag away,” said Mikey. “It’ll be good to be around someone who was alive when Curt Kobain died. Like being with a slice of history.”

  “Thanks for that, Mikey,” said Solitaire. “Thanks a bundle.”

  ***

  The sun was streaming through the fake stained glass window, bathing Ronnie Burke in a golden glow. Niki Scrace thought he almost looked angelic, which brought a smile to her face knowing Ronnie as well as she did. They were sat in O’Neills, a fake Irish Pub close to Carnaby Street. There were a few tourists and shoppers around, drinking flat Guinness and microwaved Irish food. The air was stale, almost foisty. It was bereft of personality. A bit like the pub itself.

  “Well that little stakeout wasn’t a complete waste of time. I managed to pick up some hooky cigarettes from a Polish bloke,” said Ronnie.

  “You don’t smoke,” said Niki.

  “Yeah, but I know a man who does. Any news from your godfather?” said Ronnie.

  “Not a dicky bird since Sheraton phoned me to cancel your mission.”

  “He actually said that? My mission?”

  “He did.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yes. Very. All he said was that ‘The Black Crow’ had been located and that he would deal with the matter himself. I haven’t heard from him since. It looks like he’s gone off the grid again.”

  “It happens a lot, does it?” said Ronnie.

  “Yes, he’s probably off somewhere in the Caribbean sunning himself with his toy boy, Doctor Watkins.”

  Ronnie smirked and said, “Good luck to him.”

  “Good luck to you, more like it, Burkey. You’re still on bloody holiday.”

  Ronnie shrugged, grinning.

  His expression changed quickly.

  “For Christ sake,” said Ronnie.

  A bland, muzak version of The Irish Rover had segued into Carrickfergus which faded into Dirty Old Town.

  “This music must be the stock in trade for every plastic paddy pub around the world,” he declared.

  “Along with an elaborately drawn shamrock on the Guinness by an overly jocular barman,’ said Niki and they both laughed.

  “I don’t mind the faux Irish shtick myself, though. Maybe it’s because I’m not Irish, or faux Irish,” said Niki. “Though I am a bit faux.”

  “It drives me up the wall, though. It’s like that big idiot over there,” said Ronnie, gesturing towards the opposite end of the crowded oak bar. “I mean, look at the daft fucker.”

  A massive bull–headed man with curly red hair was balancing a pint of Guinness on his head in an attempt to impress a small group of scantily dressed Spanish girls.

  “That twat only left Boston six months ago, and now he’s playing the professional Irishman all over London, living off his daddy’s money, dancing to all this diddly–dee crap. Young, dumb, and full of come, is the expression, I believe. Whinging on about the potato famine when he could do with a famine himself. And be–jaysus, the amount of shags he gets! Tells them all he’s related to The Pogues, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I thought The Pogues were English,” said Niki Scrace., wiping Guinness froth from her top lip.

  “Exactly!” said Ronnie. “And here’s me as Irish as St Patrick, and I can’t get a fuck for love nor money. Well, okay, money, if I ever have any.”

  “Well, St Patrick was English, too, Burkey. And anyway, you grew up in Manchester. And you get plenty of shags.”

  “Aye, well you know what I mean. Anyway, I still can’t get over that poster getting robbed from my flat.”

  “Builders are like serial killers,” said Niki. “They always take souvenirs from their victims. The amount of pairs of knickers I’ve had go missing when I’ve had renovations done. Well, you can’t imagine …”

  “But thieving from a copper?” said Ronnie. “That’s just daft. And who’d want a tattered old Samantha Fox poster, anyway? Autographed or not?”

  “Well you would, you did, and you do,” said Niki.

  Ronnie yawned. “Fair point, I suppose so. Still sounds stupid to me. How long would they expect me to work out who it was who nicked the thing?”

  “Long enough to put two and two together and make something other than sixty–nine. As opposed to you and Jola.”

  “Are you jealous?” smirked Ronnie. “Maybe you’re after a threesome with me and Jola the five–foot Pole?”

  Niki jabbed him with her fork as her phone buzzed. She finished her drink and answered it. Ronnie rummaged through her shopping bags as she spoke. He plucked out a Best Of Rick Astley and smirked. Niki slapped his wrist and switched off her phone.

  “It’s a gift,” she said, throwing the CD back into the bag. “For my aunty.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Ronnie.

  “Anyway, that was Leapy Lee. It seems that Barbara Bailey’s house was blown up a few days ago.”

  “Babs Bailey as in the mother of the Bailey Gang? The Grande dame of the London crime scene back in the seventies?”

  “Yep, the self–same.”

  “Was anyone inside?” said Ronnie.

&
nbsp; “Barbara. And she’s as dead as a doornail,” said Niki. “Lee fancies the Robinson Gang for it and when Molly and the Bailey boys find out the excrement is sure to hit the extractor.”

  “You’re not even safe in your own home these days,” said Ronnie.

  “True. Pubs are the safest place to be sometimes,” said Niki.

  “Fancy another, then?” said Ronnie.

  ***

  The ghost of a Procul Harum song drifted into The Chelsea Potter through a partly open window. A shard of sunlight sliced through the blinds, picking out specks of dust that floated in the air. An old electric kettle boiled in another room. A refrigerator hummed. A dishwasher chugged dully. A mangy black and white cat strolled across the newly polished bar before curling up on a wooden bar stool and going to sleep. Jimmy Robinson took another sip of warm beer and drowned in a haze of Proustian nostalgia. The Chelsea Potter was a lot more upmarket than in the days when Jimmy Robinson used to frequent it.

  “It’s been a long time since I was last in here,” said Jimmy. He sipped and savoured his pint of London Pride. He felt he’d earned it. “Takes me back, it does.”

  “I bet you used to come here when it was called The Commercial Tavern,” said Jacqui. She nudged him. Jimmy chuckled.

  “Not far off,” said Jimmy. “My old dad used to be a regular in those days. And I played a few gigs around here and popped in regularly. Saw a few big names drinking in here, too. Hendrix. The Stones.”

  “They’re more like The Strolling Bones these days,” said Jacqui.

  Everyone laughed.

  Solitaire felt as if she hadn’t laughed so much in a long time. Despite his reputation, and criminal record, Jimmy Robinson was a lot of fun to be around. Charming and good looking for an older guy. If she was into men, she was sure she’d have gone for him.

  Mikey Howard and Jacqui King had been deep in conversation about the book they were writing together, but she could see that Mikey was also paying a lot of attention to Jimmy’s anecdotes, maybe seeing another writing opportunity. Jimmy’s colourful yarns were certainly a good source of material.