“Only you died first. You never kept an opinion to yourself when you were alive and now it seems you can’t stop yourself even after death… and I’m supposed to be the one with the problem.”
“Less of it, you layabout, hear me out! You were never suited to the business, it’s true, but I finally realized that you’d earned the right to make your own mistakes. Now I’m sure as hell not going to stand idly by and watch you throw the family business down the pan. Get out of bed and solve this case, like I taught you. Show me what you can do!” So saying, the grumpy apparition dematerialized through the wall.
After the initial shock had passed, Hymie was gracious enough to concede that the old illusion may just have had a point. Gathering his nightgown about him with a flourish, he pulled the bandages down over his nose and mouth at a raffish angle, suggesting the merest impression of a surgeon’s mask, and raced down the corridor. Thus it was that the scantily-clad detective returned to his case.
He tiptoed cautiously past the somnolent copper on watch, PC Reidy, Terse’s relief; a former civil servant who had been dismissed for showing excessive initiative. Then, pulling open the latticed doors of the first service lift he came to, Hymie stepped inside.
WHOOSH!
A sudden rush of blood to the head. A sensation of cold air whistling through what was left of his hair and the laundry chute loomed up at him as he plummeted to certain death.
WHUMPH!
Certain death never sounded like that. It usually involved the crunch of mangled bones or the splattering of one’s soft tissues. Not for Hymie; he came to rest in a pile of dirty laundry with nothing worse than mild concussion. Not nice of course; dirty underpants in the face, but a million miles from being stone dead.
“Yrrgh! Arrgh!” he groaned, eloquent to a fault.
“You can’t kip in ‘ere mate. Try the park down the road. Who the ‘ell are you anyway?” enquired a passing porter.
Stumbling clumsily through the emergency exit, he fell down a short flight of stairs, banged his head on the wall for luck and burst through the fire door, tripping the alarm as a grand finale. As the door flapped wildly in the breeze, the sound of bells filled the air. All he knew was that he had to get as far away as possible as quickly as he could. Even by his own sartorial standards, he looked a real mess and he felt worse than he would have thought possible.
Hymie instinctively found himself heading for the park. He needed time and space to assess where the last few nightmarish days had left him. Half-naked, bandaged and bloody, he kept to the shadows for fear of arrest or identification as a young Conservative on his way home from a fancy dress party. He scowled at passers-by and they gave him a wide berth.
The facts were certainly grim; he was wanted for a murder he hadn’t committed by a criminal justice system that didn’t much care if it got the right man or not. Of course, he’d probably only get a suspended sentence for the murder, it was the parking offences that really worried him.
North Finchley’s first private detective to be listed in Catering World shivered in the park for ten minutes before deciding that hypothermia wasn’t a good career move and what he really needed was pizza, preferably from Benny Baker’s. Benny was the next best thing to a really good friend; a really old creditor.
For once the lack of bus fare didn’t seem to matter. The driver assumed he was an escaped mental patient and public-spiritedly let him on for nothing. He left the bus at Finchley Central bus depot and headed straight for Benny’s. The Unbeatable Bakery was looking sorrier for itself than usual; a bulb had fused in the neon sign outside, rendering the pizzas “Un-eatable”. The shop had long since closed for the day, but Hymie rang the bell and a light came on in the upstairs flat. A window opened and Benny poked his head out cautiously.
“Who the heck’s calling in the middle of the night? Don’t you loonies got homes to go to?”
“Benny, it’s me, Hymie Goldman. I’ve got the money I owe you.”
“Goldman? Is that really you? You look like some old tramp. Come to think of it, you are…”
“Benny, I need help…”
“I never doubted it. Come here, stand under the light.”
Hymie obliged by walking into the streetlamp.
“Jeez, Goldman, you’re in a right state, mate. What’s with the bandages? You haven’t joined the young Conservatives, surely?”
“Benny, I hate to ask, but it’s urgent. You couldn’t rustle up some old clothes and a pizza could you?”
“I’d heard you were wanted by the police, H., but I never figured they would cut up so rough over forty-eight parking offences. You look ruddy awful.”
“Awful’s right. As for the fines, it’s only thirty-five, but I’m in serious need of a few hours kip if you’ve got a spare sofa, Ben.”
“Well, just this once, H. I’ll come down and let you in.”
“You’re the best, Benny.”
Moments later he appeared at the door, lead Hymie through the restaurant and up the backstairs into his flat. From the look of his furnishings, Benny’s business was clearly booming. The Pizza-King of North London draped a couple of black garbage sacks across his sofa and bid his old acquaintance sit down. Over a glass or three of chardonnay they reminisced about days and mutual friends long since gone.
“What are you calling yourself these days, H.?” asked Benny.
“Oh, it’s still Hymie, Ben. Well, it got rather confusing after a while; I’d pick up a phone and not know which name to answer to.”
“I never understood what was wrong with Artie. Still, you don’t change much otherwise. So, you’re hungry eh?”
“Starving. I could eat my way through the menu twice, Ben.”
“Not on the house, H., but I can certainly rustle you up a pizza. How about I give you a cookery lesson? Well, I’m never gonna get rich selling you pizzas; the state your finances are in, so I may as well help you avoid dying of starvation. I’m going to teach you a life skill you won’t learn anywhere else, H.; how to make the best pizza in the world.”
Hymie began to salivate, like a Pavlovian dog on hearing the dinner gong.
Benny donned his white chef’s hat and was instantly transformed into the culinary wizard he had always been. Presentation was everything.
“Will it take long Benny? Only my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“You can’t rush perfection, H.”
“Don’t you have anything average you could serve up in a couple of minutes?”
Dismissing the remark as unworthy with a curt shake of the head, Benny resumed the impromptu demonstration of his peerless cooking skills.
Minutes later, Hymie was tucking into the best pizza he had ever tasted.
“Benny, you reign supreme. Abso-ruddy-lutely-supreme mate.”
Benny smiled and left his guest to his thoughts.
“I’ll put some clothes outside the door for when you get up, H. Make sure you’re out by 9am, I don’t want you upsetting the staff with your appearance.”
“Will do, Ben, and thanks.”
He was back on track now, thought Hymie; he only had to beat the murder rap, solve the case of the golden pig and sell the business to Ceefer Capital and it would all be hunky dory. Easy.
Part Eight
Back in his office at the police station, Inspector Ray Decca was dozing at his desk. He had spent a long hard night piecing together the few strands of evidence available. It didn’t amount to a hill of baked beans. He was a frustrated perfectionist and hated having loose ends on his investigation. The biggest loose end of all seemed to be Hymie Goldman.
Three corpses in two days: one man decapitated in some ritualistic gangland execution and two ventilated at close range by what looked like the same gun. Someone had seen a short fat guy walking away from the scene of crime one, and although not a betting man, he would have put his gold cufflinks on it being Goldman. Still, however much he tried to imagine it, he couldn’t see Goldman killing anyone, with or without a gu
n. Boring them to death or offending them with his appalling dress sense, perhaps.
Terse and Reidy had cocked-up big time and their number one suspect was on the loose but he didn’t seriously believe that Goldman constituted a real threat to society, probably less of one than Terse anyway.
Decca began to snore. His chair, which had been tilted back against the office wall, started to slide down it. Just as he began to overbalance there was a knock on the door that sounded like an air raid on Iraq and Sergeant Terse entered.
Decca sprang up in his chair and knocked the contents of his half empty coffee cup all over the files on his desk.
“Terse, you’re a flaming idiot!”
“Yes, Chief.”
“What do you want?”
“You asked me to let you know if I discovered any leads, sir.”
“The mind boggles, Terse…tell me all.”
“We’ve had a positive ID on the dead Chink, sir. A guy named Chiu Mann. Nasty piece of work, Chief: a hit man for the Triads.”
“You don’t say, Terse, I never would have guessed it.”
Sarcasm was wasted on him.
“Thank you, sir,” said Terse, beaming. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.
“Just leave me the file. Oh, and Terse...”
“Sir?”
“Make sure you’re on surveillance duty at Goldman’s office bright and early, eh? We don’t want a repeat performance of the hospital fiasco, do we?!”
“No Sir.”
So saying, the pride of Finchley nick buggered off to arrange the mother of all surveillances. He’d show that smartass Inspector and that toe-rag Goldman. No-one messed with Barry Terse.
Decca reviewed the files once more. His instinct told him that three corpses in two days must be connected. But how?
Body number one turned out to belong to a guy called Tony Martino; a small-time drug-pusher with rumoured links to the Triad’s cartel. It was fairly safe to assume he’d fallen foul of his Chinese paymasters and been topped by the professional hit man, Chiu Mann.
Body number two had been the hit man himself. Mann had been a ruthless killer, Red Pole for the Second Lodge, so whoever had shot him must have taken him by surprise. The gun was mightier than the sword, not the pen. Just imagine trying to fend off a mad Samurai warrior with a biro! No chance.
Body number three was the mystery woman, Lucy Scarlatti; young, beautiful, and seemingly affluent, yet she had been tragically misinformed. She had hired Goldman as a private investigator, although if you believed him it was only to recover a diary from her sister. The Girl Guides could have handled that…and yet Goldman claimed he was about to drop the case as being too difficult for him. Who did he think he was kidding?
If Goldman had been there when Martino died, and was still walking around, which he clearly was, then either Goldman must be the greatest actor this side of Stratford; a level-headed killing machine masquerading as a total idiot; or he was a lucky blighter and the real killer was still walking the streets.
On balance he favoured the latter theory, which meant that whether he knew it or not, Goldman was their only direct link with the real killer. There was still no motive for the second and third murders. Was it really all about drugs? If so, he’d have to turn it over to the Drug Squad and he’d miss the best chance of promotion he’d had in ages. Nah, it couldn’t be just about drugs, when you came to think of it. Goldman had said something about a diary and even if you didn’t really take anything he said as kosher it was a good pretext for extending the investigation.
One thing was for sure; Goldman was mixing in lethal company and if they didn’t pull him in sooner rather than later, he’d be found floating in the Thames or propping up some motorway bridge. That was why Terse and the lads would be staking out his office and locating all his known associates. Decca groaned at the thought of all the overtime he would have to sign off, and what his commanding officer would have to say at the next budget review meeting. Ruddy bean-counters!
Part Nine
Benny had unearthed some groovy clothes for Hymie from the back of his wardrobe; collectors items which probably hadn’t seen the light of day since 1969. Hymie, who couldn’t afford to be choosy and had never understood fashion, put them on gratefully.
The ensemble was nothing if not bold; a bright orange pullover, some bell-bottomed trousers in turquoise, an old pair of trainers and a flat cap of the tweedy variety, all topped-off with a promotional padded jacket, bearing the slogan “You can’t beat Benny’s” in gold transfer lettering across the back. A pair of sunglasses helped conceal his injured eye.
“What are your plans H?”
“Oh, you know…keeping a low profile.”
“You’ll be fine…” Benny reassured him.
“Yeah, as long as I don’t go out in daylight in these clothes,” smirked Hymie.
“Will you be going to the police?”
“I don’t think they can help me, Ben. They’d probably bang me up for every open case on their books. I know that sounds paranoid…but everyone really is out to get me,” confided Hymie.
“How’s the case going?” Benny asked.
“Technically I don’t have a case. My client’s dead so I won’t get paid and yet I can’t find it in me to just walk away. There’s such a thing as professional pride, you know.”
“Well, I never thought I’d live to hear you say that, H., you old fraud.”
“This is my greatest case, Ben. I’m on the trail of a valuable objêt.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Ooh…fifty, maybe a hundred?”
“What, quid?”
“No, grand, you charlie.”
“That’s a lot of mozzarella, H.”
“No, seriously, Ben, the stakes are high.”
“The only catch is, Hymie, people get killed for that kind of money.”
“It had crossed my mind too. I’m just not cut out for dodging bullets. Finding lost cats on a good day, yes, getting shot at, no. Look at me; nerves cut to ribbons, bandages all over my head and I haven’t got the faintest idea who’s behind it all or what’s going to happen next.”
“Like you said, you should keep a low profile, H. Maybe even go abroad.”
“My profile can’t get any lower Ben. Trouble is, the only people who know I exist have got it in for me and I can’t even afford the tube fare to Golders Green, so emigration is a non-starter.”
Benny failed to suppress a snigger. He would have been a real asset to the Samaritans.
“It’s all very well you laughing mate, I’m in it up to my neck and there’s another delivery of shit expected any minute,” said Hymie. “I should have stuck to investigating lost pets, at least they don’t try to kill you!”
“I’m sorry to hear it, H., here’s a few quid for tube fares anyway. Be lucky.”
“Thanks Benny, you’ve been great. I don’t want you getting caught up in the crossfire so I’m going. If anyone asks you about me, just tell them you haven’t seen me in weeks. It’s almost true. When I sort everything out I’ll pay you back big time.”
Benny stepped over to the window and peered through the chink in the blinds.
“Hold on a minute, H. It looks like someone’s watching your office.”
Hymie took a look for himself. Aftab Hamid was opening up his newsagents, a few long distance lorry drivers were filing into the Black Kat for the Cardiac Special fry up, and three vehicles were parked at the kerb outside 792A Finchley Road.
“Now who could that be?” wondered Hymie, out loud.
“Well, you’re the detective but from what you’ve been telling me, it’s probably the police.”
“That’s just what I was thinking, Ben,” said Hymie, looking embarrassed.
“Except for the white Transit, of course,” said Benny.
“Oh, why do you say that?”
“It belongs to my nephew, Ricky and he’s probably snogging his bird in the back. He constantly complains of having nowher
e to go. Of course, the blue Transit belongs to that roadie who’s just started working for the opera singer,” added Benny. “But if you ask me, they may be more than just good friends…”
“Really? So, what about the green Renault?” asked Hymie, intrigued.
“You figure it, H., I’ve just told you two out of three, for heaven’s sake!”
“No sweat, Ben. Look, I’ll just leave by the back door and slip down the side passage. Thanks again for all your help.”
The Golden Pig Page 5