The Golden Pig

by Jonathan Penny Mark Penny

  ‘Till our armies have conquered the

  Things of the Night.”

  “Punggghhh!”

  “Is the First Bamboo Tile present?”

  “Yes, oh Mighty Jong!”

  “Louder, the Mighty Jong can’t hear you,” he cried, like a refugee from a pantomime.

  “YES! Oh Mighty Jong!”

  “You don’t have to shout, I’m not deaf. Pray read from the Register of Righteousness!”

  “Brethren let us salute Brother Deccus. He has excelled in the pursuit of our craft.”

  “Punggghhh!”

  “He shall be awarded the order of the Green Dragon, second class, in recognition of his achievements in the pursuit of the one true craft.”

  “Punggghhh!”

  ‘God this is tedious,’ thought Inspector Ray Decca. He’d much rather be down the pub or at the pictures…or curled up at home with a good murder mystery. Unfortunately, once you’d joined, you were stuck with it; your career would go into a terminal nosedive if you left. He had become the prisoner of his own ambition.

  At the conclusion of the ceremonies they stuck what looked like a scout’s badge on him, passed around the holy scotch and soda and got totally plastered. The MJ’s private minibus took them all home at midnight.

  Part Twenty-Three

  Mike had drawn a blank on the office furniture. It didn’t help that they couldn’t raise even the meagre few quid it would have taken to hire the stuff. Perhaps the aura of Doom was hanging over JP Confidential and people could smell their desperation. No-one was seemingly willing to throw good money after bad any longer.

  “Mike, you know as well as I do that we’ve got to get hold of that office furniture and maybe a few horsey prints…”

  “You mean pictures?” queried Mike.

  “What else would I mean? by tomorrow, or we can kiss the job goodbye. Isn’t there anyone else we can try?”

  “It’s a long shot H., a real long shot, but maybe, just maybe, Artful Arnie could lend us some for a few hours.”

  “Why do the call him Artful?”

  “I dunno,” said Mike.

  “Well, is he reliable?”

  “Yeah, you can rely on him to rip you off, but you’re no slouch in that department yourself and besides, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Right. You pull this one off Mike and I’ll make you a full partner in JP Confidential”

  Mike smiled. “Isn’t that a bit like making me Captain on the Titanic, just before her maiden voyage?” he asked.

  Hymie decided to feign deaf. Dead would have been better.

  “Let’s find this guy Arnie then, there’s no time to lose.”

  Arnold Shoebridge, aka Artful Arnie, was a con-merchant with more fingers in more pies than little Jack Horner. People only dealt with him if they were desperate or stupid. Being both it was inevitable that Hymie Goldman should go to him for his office furniture.

  After a few false leads from men in pubs they finally tracked him down to a mobile hovel on the outskirts of Elstree. He seemed to be living the life of a nomad, perched on the edge of civilization. For the last half mile they just followed their noses as the stench of his impromptu sanitary arrangements wafted down the lane. The place had all the ambience of a Brazilian shanty-town.

  Arnie was obviously distrustful of his fellow men as he kept two lurchers tethered on long chains outside his caravan. Their barking drew him from his pit, brandishing a double-barrelled shotgun.

  “Sling yer ‘ook or I shoot” shouted the debonair furniture salesman.

  “You can’t half pick ‘em.” muttered Hymie to Mike.

  “Arnie! It’s me, Mike Murphy. I’ve come about some furniture.”

  “Buying or selling?” asked Arnie.

  “More of a short term rental,” said Hymie.

  “Well, you’d better come in.”

  “The situation is this…” said Mike.

  Dusk was descending by the time they found themselves on home turf. They had a deal on some furniture and a great weight had thus been lifted from Hymie’s mind, although Mike remained reticent about the terms of his agreement with Arnie.

  Benny’s Unbeatable Bakery had miraculously been restored to its former glory, although the same could not be said of its proprietor. Benny had spent weeks convalescing, first in Edgware General, and later, when he had been discharged to make room for an urgent ingrowing toenail case, in a private rest home. He still had no comprehension of who or where he was and was convinced he was being pursued by leprechauns; your average paranoid delusion.

  Mike and Hymie entered the restaurant.

  “Hi Ben, good to see you on your feet again,” said Hymie, brightly.

  “Thanks. A waitress will be with you shortly.”

  “Ben, it’s me: Hymie.”

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  “Of course, we’ve been friends for years; Hymie Goldman. Don’t you know me Ben?”

  “Sorry, no. You’re not working for the Little People are you? They’re always around, watching me.”

  “Who are? Are you winding me up Benny?”

  “You are, aren’t you? They’ve sent you to spy on me.”

  “Have you been on the funny fags again? They used to give me a persecution complex like that too.”

  “Who, the Little People?”

  “There’s no such people you daft nurk!”

  “That will do. Don’t go upsetting him, he’s had a tough time of it lately.”

  It was Susie Parker, one of the waitresses.

  “Oh, pardon me for breathing.”

  “If I must,” she sighed.

  “Look, I only came to see how he was,” explained Hymie. “I wasn’t looking for trouble.”

  “You never are. Trouble always seems to find you and stick with you. Benny needs complete rest, not World War Three.”

  “OK, we’ll go. Tell him we were asking after him.”

  “Cunning you see; the Little People,” continued Benny. “Never underestimate them; they have eyes and ears everywhere...”

  “Ugly little buggers then eh?” said Mike.

  “…but I’ll outsmart them yet. I’m gonna sell up and move to Australia with Susie.”

  She smiled.

  “Ben, you can’t be serious?” Hymie sounded anxious.

  She frowned.

  “You stand alone. No-one makes pizzas like you do, Benny.”

  Now it was Hymie’s turn to be disconsolate. The room seemed to be doing a shimmy as his world rocked on its very foundations.

  “I promised my brother Syd I’d go and visit him in Australia. It’s a land of opportunity you know.”

  “Benny, you haven’t got a brother Syd.”

  “Well, who else would I go to Australia to visit?”

  It seemed impossible to get through to him. Susie may have won the first round, but Hymie wasn’t about to lose Benny, or his remarkable pizza, without a fight.

  Part Twenty-Four

  The sight of the ancient oriental Mr Fixit, Lau, sitting in front of her at visiting time in a blue pinstriped suit and with a grey, greasy pigtail hanging down his neck came as something of a surprise to Steffanie Scarlatti. Was there to be no peace, even in prison? Certainly not, but then what had she done to deserve peace?

  “Have you come to gloat, Lau?”

  “Gloat? No, my dear. I simply wondered how you were finding it in here and whether you would be interested in a small business proposition?”

  “Are you in your right mind? Why would you trust me?”

  “More so than you I imagine, and why trust you? I don’t but I am willing to take the risk. After all, you have more to lose than I.” He was the same supercilious schemer he had always been.

  “You seem to forget I’m on remand at Her Majesty’s pleasure and can’t just walk out of here whenever it suits me,” said Steffie Scarlatti.

  “I can help you.”

  “Okay, let’s suppose for the sake of argument you can,
what’s your price?”

  “You insult me with talk of money, my dear. Has everyone become so greedy and self-seeking that they can no longer recognize an act of altruism?” he asked.

  “That’s rich coming from you Lau.”

  “Our time is nearly up. Do you want to be free or not?”

  “Free? No-one is ever truly free.”

  “Don’t go all existential on me,” he complained, irritated.

  “And don’t you start ruddy preaching at me!” she snapped. She had momentarily forgotten where she was and raised her voice just that little too loudly.

  “Quiet Scarlatti! Visiting time is a privilege and privileges can be withdrawn.” The warder was watching her closely now. ‘Terrific’, she thought.

  Lau as ever was composed and businesslike.

  “The price is removing a couple of obstacles,” he said, more quietly.

  “Names?”

  “Timmins and Goldman.”

  “Hymie Goldman?” She was irritated at the thought of his still being free, while she was a prisoner.

  “Precisely,” confirmed Lau.

  “Like taking candy from a baby,” she said.

  “You agree?” He couldn’t see how she could refuse.

  “A small enough price,” remarked Steffie Scarlatti.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  She would have agreed to anything. She had no scruples about lying, cheating, stealing or killing. They were means to an end, nothing more. Goldman meant nothing to her. She had enjoyed working for him as Janis Turner because he was so laissez faire, but that scarcely justified any kind of loyalty.

  “We will be in touch,” said Lau, getting up from his chair.

  “Good, I look forward to it.”

  The bell rang to signify the end of visiting time.

  Master Lau, bowed formally to his new assassin and left, presumably to return the hire suit to Moss Bros.

  Part Twenty-Five

  ‘Why me?’ thought Tony Talbot, bank manager, family man and all round good egg, if a tad tedious, as he re-read the letter on his desk. In all honesty he couldn’t have told you who Hymie Goldman was; he was just a blip on his monthly credit risk report. Now it was personal. The man had gone out of his way to make his life unpleasant and he would squash him like a bug in his salad. He had never thought of himself as vindictive, mean-spirited or petty, but there was something about the tone of the letter which made him feel justified in a response which ticked any or all of the above boxes.

  Where did this guy Goldman get off? It was always the bums and deadbeats who complained about bank charges. In fact it was nothing of the kind, but you couldn’t get nasty with the better sort of client. He wouldn’t have minded but he hadn’t even had anything to do with it; there was a ruddy great computer in Peterborough that whacked out charges, they didn’t leave things like that to bank managers.

  He lifted the red phone on his desk. He had two phones; a green one for nice conversations and a red one for unpleasant ones. They were his own symbolic telecoms traffic light, telling him whether to stop or go. Carbuncle eh? On the bloated rear end of capitalism? What did the man mean? He was surely under the influence of hard liquor or drugs. Perhaps both. He would show that no-hoper Goldman, that buffoon among small businessmen. He would call in his overdraft and charge him for the letter informing him. Let him laugh that one off.

  “Miss Jervis, send a letter to Mr H.Goldman. I’m pulling the plug on his overdraft. Standard wording.Thank him for his letter of the 16 inst. and charge him for our termination letter.” His social conscience had ceased to trouble him years ago.

  “Very good, Mr Talbot.”

  That was what he liked most about the bank; in its rigid hierarchical structure and slavish devotion to the rulebook it resembling nothing so much as the British Army.

  He took his blood pressure tablets with a glass of water from the dispenser and lifted the red phone on his desk. Dialling the exclusive London premises of JP Confidential he was surprised to find the line still connected.

  Hymie was in high spirits. He had a new client, some office furniture was on its way and perhaps this call was another new client in search of his unique services.

  “JP Confidential, how can I help you?”

  “Talbot, from the Argyll and Edinburgh Bank, Mr Goldman.”

  Hymie’s face registered concern.

  “Ah, Mr Turbot, sorry, Talbot…I’m glad you called.”

  “Glad, man? I’ve just received your letter.”

  “My letter?” Surely he couldn’t have sent that letter.

  “The one where you refer to me as “an excrescence…a carbuncle on the bloated rear end of capitalism,” quoted Talbot, angrily.

  “Are you sure it was from me? You see, I have a number of business rivals who would do anything to ruin my business.”

  “The letter is in your handwriting, man, and you’ve signed it.”

  This seemed to stump the resilient sleuth.

  “Ah yes, I see. Well, apologies Mr Talbot, I hope you realized I was only joking.”

  “No, I didn’t, Mr Goldman. I was deeply offended by your attitude and comments.”

  “So, you don’t think you’d be in a position to extend my overdraft just now?” asked Hymie, hesitantly.

  A hollow laugh escaped the bank manager’s lips.

  “We take our clients very seriously here at the A & E. Clearly you are dissatisfied with our service and are intending to change bankers. I was merely ringing to let you know I wouldn’t stand in your way.”

  “Well, er…of course, it was a mistake and I wasn’t planning any such thing. I’m sure we’ll all have a good laugh about this in years to come.”

  “You may, Mr Goldman, but as far as I’m concerned that’s out of the question. I will be sending you a written request for the repayment of your overdraft in full in today’s post. Good luck with your business.”

  “But, Mr Tur…”

  Click! Silence.

  On the verge of bankruptcy and with no credit, how long could he last? He was drinking once again in the last chance saloon and putting his shirt on a horse called Summer Lightning and its owner, Lucinda the amazing hyphenated lady.

  He reached for the reefer he’d been saving for just such an emergency and lit up. Now wasn’t the time to re-arrange the deckchairs on the Titanic, it was time to get stoned.

  A few drags later he stood gazing out of the window of his office with unseeing eyes. The sun shimmered across a desert of traffic. The horizon blurred and distorted into a fusion of heat haze and morning mist. He felt like he was floating above his body, looking down on the scene of disaster with complete disinterest. What we shall laughingly refer to as his mind was racing through worlds as yet unknown.