The side alley leading to Benny’s rear entrance offered an excellent, if restricted, view of the pavement outside his own office, so Hymie spent a few minutes standing in the shadows observing proceedings. The green Renault had to be an unmarked police car. There was a hefty guy with a crew cut in the back who reminded him of that neanderthal, Terse, and a driver who could have passed for a close relative.
Times must be tough in the Met., reflected Hymie as he examined the Renault 25 in more detail. The wings were pock-marked with corrosion spots and someone had sprayed “Frog Shit!” in fluorescent pink along the driver’s door. It was probably Terse’s idea of a joke.
Suddenly the doors of the blue Transit flew open. Ha! Benny had been wrong. Two uniformed policemen jumped out and walked back to the Renault. Terse seemed to be in charge. After a brief exchange the uniformed duo headed along the pavement towards the Black Kat.
Hymie frowned. If they were searching door to door they needed him and it was probably only a matter of time before they found him. Still, he wasn’t going to hand himself in; as much as he feared being on the loose with a killer at large, at least he wasn’t a sitting duck in a police cell. Breaking his cover he headed down the road away from his office. He passed Aftab’s shop. The dozy shopkeeper was engrossed in something on the counter and didn’t notice him. Probably one of those Swedish imports.
There were two public phone boxes, back-to-back on the pavement, just past the newsagents. He paused, then entered one. Lifting the receiver he placed a washer in the coin slot and held an imaginary conversation with someone on the other end. It gave him the chance to keep his office under surveillance from a safer distance.
‘I must be stark staring mad to leave a nice warm hospital bed for this,’ he thought.
‘What good am I doing here anyway? Watching a bunch of coppers trying to find me won’t solve anything.’ He was on the point of leaving when his gaze was arrested by the sight of Janis emerging from the small car park behind Hamid’s. She clocked the unmarked police car and started walking away; directly towards Hymie. Behind the sunglasses he closed his good eye and raised his hands to his face in a despairing gesture.
“Why me, God?” he said aloud.
He had tried to work it out, he really had. He had given it his best shot, but the harder he tried, the more confusing it all became. This case was like his life; a huge shattered looking glass, whose splintered shards had become an increasingly distorted series of unrelated images. All his points of reference seemed to be in a state of flux and he could discern no pattern in the chaos. Janis, who had been his rock, might as well have turned to jelly; she now seemed to be batting for the other side. Had she really shot his client in cold blood and set him up for it? If so, was this whole ruddy case simply about a golden pig? He could only presume Janis already had the flaming thing, because he certainly didn’t.
With his good eye open he peeped between his fingers, half expecting the words “Game Over” to flash in neon lights across the sky. The beautiful Miss Turner was opening the door to the other phone box and appeared not to have noticed him. She was now close enough to hear, but he was terrified of being recognized. Keeping his back turned towards her, he pulled up the new jacket’s excuse for a collar and continued his own one-sided conversation in case she should begin to think he was listening to her.
He was at a loss to fully explain his fear of her. She was a killer, yes, and as such deserving of the greatest caution, but she had saved his life too. Had she only spared him to become the patsy for the murder of Lucy Scarlatti? He would have to have words with her at her next performance review. Ah, no, wrong again; those days were over.
Janis was deadly and unpredictable and she unsettled him, but he didn’t know for certain that she had killed La Scarlatti. He hoped against hope that she was still on his side. For his part, he had lied to the police to protect her, yet he hadn’t the faintest idea why he had done it. He wasn’t about to find out the hard way.
He became increasingly curious to know what she was up to and tried to make some kind of sense out of the dribs and drabs of conversation he was able to overhear.
“You cowardly yellow turd…mumble, mumble.”
“This is the last time…mumble, mumble.”
“…so you say, mumble. Look, I want those numbers, mumble, mumble. Twenty four, thirty six, mumble, mumble. Tonight…right.”
She slammed down the receiver, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and then retraced her steps back down the road.
Hymie’s heartbeat took several minutes to return to its normal sloth and then he hastened to examine the vacated phone booth. Those numbers had sounded strangely familiar…his overdraft limit? No, he had it…it was that crazy Chinaman and his pairs of numbers! The call at the office must have been for Janis, but what were the numbers for?
He searched the booth but she had left no obvious clues; no box of matches bearing the name and address of the secret dope den, no map references, nothing. Yet she had written down some numbers.
He remembered one of the few things he had read, as an eager trainee, in The Investigator’s Handbook; that you could recover a written message from a pencil rubbing of the book or blotter used to rest the writing paper on. He tried it and was delighted to learn that it worked.
The message simply read “Rainbow Rooms 11pm, 24, 36, 42, 60.”
Tonight, she had clearly said tonight. This was one appointment with destiny he intended to keep. He didn’t know what he would do when he arrived yet, but somehow he was going to be there.
Part Ten
Hymie stood on the southbound platform of a Northern line station and watched the world go by. A young couple were kissing next to him and seemed to be in a world of their own, but though he existed in the same state he found it hard to remember the enthusiasms of youth. He had been married once, but it couldn’t last.
“Duz deez wan go to Lundun sur?”
He was about to tell the curious stranger in no uncertain terms that they all went to London, because it was a big place, but allowed himself to be seduced by the latter’s use of the “s” word in relation to himself. He so rarely received even so slight or unintended a courtesy.
“No mate, this one’s for postal deliveries only. Try the other platform,” he said, pointing across the station.
Soon his Tube arrived, the doors hissed open and he was swallowed up into its monstrous mechanical belly. The only vacant seat was the one next to the wild-eyed Glaswegian drunk who smelt of urine. Recognizing a fellow piece of flotsam washed up on life’s shore, Hymie sat beside him.
The drunk goggled at him.
“Aaahm no sitten nexteryu pal” he growled, and slouched off to be offensive elsewhere.
“SHHTOOOM!” The train disappeared into the shadowy world of subterranean tunnels in pursuit of timetable compliance while Hymie worked out his strategy for getting into the nightclub. Looking as he did, the options were strictly limited; the eccentric millionaire or the escaped mental patient in search of tea and sympathy.
Above ground, the tall, statuesque brunette with the opalescent eyes approached the double doors of The Rainbow Rooms Club and Casino with a winning smile upon her beautiful face. No-one had ever refused her entrance to a night club and they weren’t about to start now. Though dressed like a million dollars, tonight she was slumming it, but she hadn’t come to dance. Her name was Janis Turner and she had her own reasons for heading for the roulette table at 11pm; to keep an assignation with her own unadulterated greed.
“Is Tony in tonight?”She asked the doorman.
“Tony who?” he queried.
“Lee.”
“Oh, the croupier…I think he’ll be in later.”
She smiled at him. If he had been wearing glasses they would have steamed up.
“Is this the way to the Dragon Bar?”She asked.
“Over there, lady,” he said, pointing.
Back on the Underground, the short podgy guy in the flat
cap and charity shop gear was catching up on his beauty sleep. Five or ten years would have been in order with a face like his. The serpentine sound of doors opening roused him just in time to disembark at London Bridge. Outside the station he hailed a taxi. The first driver put his foot down on spotting his potential fare and sped past the disreputable looking P.I. in search of American tourists. The second pulled up for long enough to catch his destination and then decided to take the chance. Perhaps he’d pick up a fare back from the club.
It had been many years since Hymie had ventured into what could properly be described as a nightclub. With his planned big entrance as an in-cognito oil-billionaire, the possibility that he might get turned away at the door in the garish clobber Benny had provided, simply hadn’t occurred to him. Apparently it had occurred to the doorman; a man-mountain in a ridiculously small tuxedo.
“Can I help you mate?”
“Waahl, hah there Buddy. Ahhm a visiting yor liddle ol’ country from Hoostun, Texas an’ ah thought ah’d lahk ter see wan o’ yore casino boars.”
“Sorry, members only mate.”
Close up, Hymie began to appreciate just how vast and imposing the bouncer actually was. He seemed to completely blot out the light. His chances of getting into The Rainbow Rooms were beginning to resemble the prospects of a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.
“Aahl mek it wuth yor wahl Buddy,” he persisted.
He reluctantly proffered a dog-eared five-pound note.
The bouncer looked down disdainfully at the meagre bribe.
“Bugger off, Hank!”
Clearly the exaggerated American accent hadn’t stacked up with Hymie’s apparent deficiency of moolah and he had been dismissed as a fake; an impecunious phoney. The denizens of Texas hadn’t hitherto been noted for their reluctance to part with their greenbacks on a big night out. Deflated, Hymie turned and began to walk back down the street. He stopped abruptly.
Something about the way the bouncer held himself and the matching pair of cauliflower ears rang a distant bell. He turned back to examine the massive Road Block more closely.
“Hadn’t you used to be Mad Mike Murphy?” asked Hymie, from a safe distance.
“What’s it to you mate? Coming here with your dodgy yank-accent and your cheap bribes. I ought to punch your face in.”
“I used to be Artie Shaw.”
Blank look. Dawning recognition. Sunrise over the industrial park of his face.
“Artie Shaw! I remember. Are you still the same loser you always used to be?”
“Well, of course I never aspired to the heights of being a professional chucker-out like yourself, but I do have my own business.”
“No kiddin’?”
“Yes, it’s the old family business… private investigations.”
“So you’re under cover then?” asked Mike.
“No, but I will be if you let me into the club.”
“Look, I’m off duty in ten minutes so if you can keep a low profile in the Dragon Lounge for that long, we can get a beer for old times’ sake around the corner if you like.”
“Sounds like a plan. Which way is it?” asked Hymie.
“Just follow the lights and the din,” said Mike.
Hymie passed through the double doors and followed the noise. It made a change from following his nose. Standing at the bar, dressed to kill, was the remarkable Miss Turner; a vision in Versace, Cuban heels and a cigar to match. Fidel would have been proud. Hymie couldn’t tell if she was surprised to see him or not, but she hid it well.
“It’s good to see you on your feet again, Mr Goldman. Look, er, Hymie, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. The hospital didn’t know where you’d gone so I thought I’d have to deal with it myself. You had a call from the Total Disaster Insurance Corporation. Apparently they were interested in retaining your services in trying to recover a golden statuette…”
“Of a pig?”
“Exactly.”
Dare he believe her? Did this mean that she didn’t know where the pig was and that she thought he might? Was there a “y” in the month?
“So it was insured? I wonder who by?” he speculated idly.
“Presumably by the owner, of course,” said Janis.
“Yes, but who owned it? Perhaps no-one can own a golden pig.”
“You seem a little confused, Hymie. You should get more sleep.”
“I will. Listen, Jan, you never did tell me what happened on the night Lucy Scarlatti died. You were there too, remember?”
“I feel terrible about it Hymie, I really do. I just popped down the road to the off-licence for some cigars and when I came back it was all over. The door was open and everything was in complete chaos. I phoned for an ambulance and the police and then drove home in your car. There wasn’t really anything I could do by then and I didn’t want to get involved with the police.”
He nodded dumbly at her, not believing a word. He had seen her gun down a hired killer and, albeit that in doing so she had saved his life, such things leave an indelible impression.
She seemed to be getting edgy all of a sudden and he noticed it was almost 11pm by the clock behind the bar.
“I have to go. They’re sending a claims investigator to see you tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“11am sharp.”
“Is it safe to go back to the office then?”
“I said you’d meet them at Benny’s.”
“Are the police still crawling all over my office?” queried Hymie.
“No, they left today. They told me to let them know if you came back.”
“Thanks, Jan.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She turned and walked over to the Casino.
“No sign of Tony Lee tonight, Mike?”
“He hasn’t been in at all, Steffie. Maybe he’s doing a double shift at the Take-away.”
“Good night, Murphy.”
“See you, gorgeous.”
Hymie had followed at a discreet distance and overheard all that was said.
Why would Murphy be calling Janis Turner “Steffie” if it wasn’t her name? Which of them had she duped, or was it both? And why did her name sound so familiar? He’d come to the club to find out what Janis Turner was up to and what the significance of the numbers was, but he’d discovered a long-lost friend. Hymie felt sure Mike would be able to shed some light on his questions and if it was over a few jars for old time’s sake then so much the better.
Murphy appeared a few minutes later and lead Hymie around the corner for the promised drink.
Part Eleven
In the words of the late, great Irving Berlin, “There may be trouble ahead, but while there’s moonlight and music and love and romance…” yowza, yowza, yowza!! Love and romance may be on the ropes but giving oneself up to wild uninhibited pleasure was still as fashionable as ever and certainly on the agenda for Janis Turner or “Steffie” as we have come to know her.
First however, she had to get rid of Hymie Goldman. He had always been disposable, like a soiled nappy, but it had suited her to leave him bumbling around in his ineffectual manner. He was becoming a bore and that would never do.
She pressed the keypad on her mobile and dialed the ex-directory number of a certain Master Lau. He was poor value as an entertaining after-dinner speaker but he knew how to eradicate vermin.
In his tenth floor apartment the phone began to ring. The King of Evil was home for the evening.
“Lau.”
“Just listen. I understand you are in the market for a golden pig. My partner will meet you at Benny’s Unbeatable Bakery on the Finchley Road at 11am tomorrow.”
“Who is this?”
“Be there,” she barked, then rang off.
Where was that useless waster Tony Lee? He’d better keep out of her way for a long, long time unless he wanted to look like a portrait by Picasso. The deal was, he would meet her at the roulette wheel at 11pm, arrange for the little ball to stop on fo
ur pre-arranged numbers and they would split the proceeds. Even as she cursed him, Tony Lee was lying face down in a nameless alley with his throat slit.
She took a cab to her favourite dance club.
“Leptospirosis!”
“I’ve never heard of it, love. Sounds like a bacterial infection in rabbits.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look, are you?” she quipped.
“Thanks. I think, but what a stupid name for a nightclub. Whatever happened to The Palais or The Tower Ballroom? Things never get better anymore, they just get weirder!”
The Golden Pig Page 6