The Golden Pig

by Jonathan Penny Mark Penny

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Parcel for Mr Goldman. Sign here please.” The courier seemed to be in a hurry.

  Hymie took the box and signed for it.

  “Funny, but how would anyone know I was going to be here at this precise moment?” wondered Hymie, absently.

  “I couldn’t tell you, but this is your “Reader’s Digest.” Anyway, what’s wrong with a parcel once in a while…as long as it’s not ticking.” Mike smirked.

  “Funny you should say that buddy, but I can hear a faint ticking sound,” said Hymie.

  “Well, we don’t have a clock, I don’t have a watch and…”

  “Mine is broken,” added Hymie.

  “Run!! Chuck it out of the window now!!” cried Mike.

  Hymie ran to the nearest window, undid the catch and dropped the box. Before it hit the pavement it exploded.

  “KABOOOOMMM!!!”

  The walls shook visibly. All the windows of 792A, 792B and 792C Finchley Road shattered and migrated across a wide area in a tidal wave of glittering destruction, scattering damage, injury and pain indiscriminately in their wake. Goldman and Murphy, instinctively leaping face-down onto the cracked lino of their first floor office, received only superficial injuries.

  They shook themselves back into the land of the living and made a hasty retreat down what was left of the fire escape ladder. However stunned and shaken they may have felt, past experience had taught them that being questioned by the police wouldn’t make them feel a whole lot better. Mike cautiously scanned the street for would-be assailants but fleetingly saw only the back of an old guy, resembling none other than their recent acquaintance, Jervis the butler.

  ‘Nah, get a grip’ he thought to himself. “You’re not a popular guy, H.,” he said.

  “In other circumstances I would dispute that remark,” replied Hymie.

  “Really? Well, when I signed up for this detective malarkey I didn’t realise my life expectancy would halve overnight, H. You seem to have a talent for upsetting the wrong people.”

  “Wrong people?”

  “People with guns, bombs and high explosives.”

  “Ah yes, those wrong people. Well, wrong they may be, but how I could have upset them, heaven only knows,” remarked Hymie.

  “Maybe just by being yourself,” said Mike. “Perhaps you should try acting like someone else?”

  “Look, I’m not ready for another identity change yet, thanks Mike. Let’s get back to business; someone just tried to kill me. Is there any sign of who might have done it?”

  “No, not really. Anonymous parcel from a courier company. Mind you, the delivery guy disappeared sharpish didn’t he? Perhaps he was in on it.”

  They headed for the park to clear their heads and become less of a sitting target. “You know Mike, I think I’m beginning to see light at the end of this very long tunnel.”

  “Go on, inspire me,” said Mike. “I’ve had enough of people trying to kill me and not getting paid, I might just as well go back to being a doorman; at least there you could see it coming and the money was alright.”

  “Okay, cards on the table time, Mike. It looks like we have two cases: the Golden Pig or Scarlatti case and the Hunting-Baddeley or Summer Lightning case.”

  “Had, I think you’ll find,” said Mike. “The first client’s dead and in the second case, the racehorse is missing in action.”

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Hymie, thought-provokingly.

  “Okay, Groucho, so you’re disputing what exactly? the client’s death or whether the racehorse is missing? Please tell, and please try to make it convincing, H.”

  “Well, obviously Lucy Scarlatti is dead and the racehorse seems to be missing, but what I meant was, what if the two cases were in fact linked? What if Steffie Scarlatti was involved in both? We’re almost certain she killed her sister so she could keep the golden pig, right? We also know from first hand experience that the Triad is also after that pig, so what if it was the Triad that freed Scarlatti en route to Holloway?”

  “Perfectly possible, Hymie, but how does that connect her with the horse-napping?”

  “I know it’s a bit tenuous, Mike, but I just have this hunch.”

  “Yeah, you’re the hunch-front of North Finchley. It’s just a gut, mate.”

  “Ho ho, there goes another rib,” scowled Hymie. “Look, I can’t help it if I can’t quite explain why I think it, but we know the Chinese are heavy gamblers and would therefore follow the racing calendar, we know they wanted to get hold of Scarlatti to find out what happened to the pig and we know she also enjoys the high life. So if she’s still alive, which I for one don’t doubt, then there’s every chance she might be mixed up in this too.”

  “No, that’s a load of garbage, H. You should go back to being an electrician,” said Mike on reflection.

  “Oh well, what are we going to do then Brains?” Arriving in the park they sat on Hymie’s regular bench.

  “On the downside, we’ve just lost another case, we’ve been evicted from the office, we’re about to be sued for losing a championship racehorse, we’re broke, various people are trying to kill us…”said Mike.

  “…and Benny Baker’s just emigrated to Australia,” added Hymie.

  “And on the upside?” wondered Mike.

  “Well, you wanted to take charge, where is the upside, Mike?”

  “…errr, well, we’re alive and we’ve just had a great breakfast at the Black Kat.”

  “Brilliant. Welcome to the Hymie Goldman school of positive thinking.”

  “Does it work for you?” asked Mike.

  “No, but the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about,” confided his partner.

  “Okay H., I give in, where do we go from here?”

  “There’s only one place we can possibly go to now,” said Hymie.

  “Which is?”

  “Cheltenham. To the Gold Cup, in fact. Sell anything and everything you can get hold of, Mike. Sell what’s left of ancient Rome, sell your granny if needs be, but we must be at that race; it’s the key to everything. Summer Lightning was due to race in it, so whoever stole him is sure to be there. They’ll be expecting us.” Hymie had never been more certain of anything.

  “Well, I fancy a day at the races, H. We may as well go out with a bang as with a whimper.”

  Part Thirty-Five

  March 18, Cheltenham sunrise. Aching limbs, sleep-flecked eyes. Yawn and stretch the waiting away. The threat of something in the air. A horse race? or kidnap, murder, corruption and greed? Dewy down on the Cotswold Hills, shining through ages of irreproachable propriety, smug in the Promenade, Regency façades, bathed in splendour, drowned in charm. A minute in the lives of two unknown, unsung, unsavoury pieces of trash floating on the ebb tide of the Gold Cup flow.

  Brothers and sisters of Eire and Kentucky, bright-eyed with the liquor of the moment, smother the trackside. Breathe smoke through the Arkle-haze, fête the weather, chew over form, odds and days long since gone. Names lost forever, in time’s sweet oblivion, untarnished return for their day in the sun. Eternal like heroes that live but a moment, but for this moment, their glory is all.

  Millions of minions parade through their paces, a sea of essential irrelevancies; the litter patrols, permits, bright stalls and hoardings, all have their place in the great scheme of things. Gates, railings, cars, buses, fumes burning, noise blaring, excitement; a current that flickers through air.

  The clock ticks so hesitantly back in the weigh-in room, waiting to weigh in the balance all things. Voices buzz, soar, like gulls wheel, recovering haunt like the call of their wilderness years. Eyes smiling, laugh-crying, weighing and watching, rejoice the occasion’s immediacy. Versace, St. Laurent and John Galliano drive by for a fashionable killing spree.

  Arms waving, touts shouting, course is inspected, signals tic-tacking interminably. Clamour and tension build, high-rise deception climbs, stands at the pinnacle expectantly. To be here is everything,
being here; everywhere, up in the Stand let the circus begin. At the summit commanding, last seconds poised hungrily, wait to anticipate silent with awe.

  And they’re off! In the thundering brightness they take flight. Flash Red, Flash Gold, Green, Yellow and Blue like flies impatient to meet their end; to cover time and space in a single thought, fly across the heavy turf, light as a feather poised on a knife edge of terror.

  In the throng, Goldman like a flea. Hunter and hunted; empty, nothing, free. Itch for his anger. Mock at those last vestiges of pride. Plumbed like the last dregs of curiosity. On the contrary; was there ever a moment when he was there? In spirit, when the horse was drugged. In body, when the trap was sprung. In mind? no, never; away with the faerie, he.

  Fleeting, flame flickering scorch-earthed infinity draws to a close as the clock stumbles forth. Still now forever, the chastened but wondering, hushed in their breathlessness crowd clamours on.

  Mike shook his partner by the collar.

  “Hymie, Hymie, what’s the matter with you? Did you back a loser or something? Did we find any answers?”

  “…not untwist these last strands of man in me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.”

  “I thought not.”

  The man mountain carried his seemingly deranged partner out of Prestbury Park.

  In the distance an ambulance ferried away two injured spectators with bullet wounds while a police van removed a livid looking Alfred Jervis. His telescopic umbrella had a forty-five degree bend in the barrel and he was cursing the arresting officers as they bundled him into the back of the van. Mrs Timmins would never trust him again; Goldman was still alive.

  Decca scratched his head. His scalp was itching and he’d noticed that of late it only itched when the name Goldman was mentioned.

  “So, let’s get this straight, Reidy, you’re telling me that there’s been a shoot out at Cheltenham Racecourse on the very day of the Gold Cup?”

  “That’s right, Sir.”

  “…and that two suspicious looking men were observed leaving the grounds; a short, shabbily dressed, overweight individual and his outsized accomplice.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was told, Chief.”

  “It sounds like Goldman and Murphy. Why the sudden interest in horseracing though eh?”

  “We can’t be sure it was them, Sir.”

  “I’m sure, Reidy; as sure as ever I can be,” said Inspector Decca.

  “Well, shouldn’t we bring them in for questioning, Sir?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary thanks, Reidy. Just because they were there, doesn’t mean they were actually responsible for the shootings. You know what they tell you at Hendon; know your enemy, well I know Goldman like the back of my hand and I have serious doubts that he can even tie his own shoelaces unaided, let alone shoot someone. Let’s just sit back and watch what he’s up to. There’s precious little left for him to do now,” said Decca.

  “I don’t follow you, Chief.”

  “Goldman is a dead man, Reidy; a walking, talking, eating, breathing dead man it’s true, but a dead man nevertheless. His time, if he ever had one, is all but over. His business is a failure, half the criminal underworld seems to want to bury him and he doesn’t even have an office to hide in any longer. Mind you, he’d be a real sitting duck if he did. The sad thing is, he still thinks he’s on the side of the Angels; that he can keep ducking and diving, wheeling and dealing and come up smelling of roses. You know, he still thinks he’s a ruddy private detective!”

  “I see, Sir,” said Reidy, who didn’t see at all.

  “Okay, Reidy, get me a crime report on everything that happened at Cheltenham today. Leave it in my In-Tray. In the meantime, get me Hu.”

  “Who, Sir?” asked Reidy, confused.

  “Eddie.”

  “Eddie who?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well Sir, if you don’t know, I’ll be blowed if I do,” said Reidy, even more confused.

  “No, not ‘who’, ‘Hu’ from Hong Kong; the Chinese detective.”

  “I’m sorry Sir, I’ve not long come out of hospital, I’m afraid I can’t follow you. You’ll have to give me his name.”

  “Listen Reidy, Hu’s a Chinaman, right.”

  “Bruce Lee’s the only one that springs to mind, Sir.”

  Inspector Decca stared morosely into the middle distance, while his brain re-played the conversation he had just been having with his junior office.

  “Look, get lost Reidy, go and do some work. Send Potter to see me will you,” said Inspector Decca.

  Looking peeved and confused, Reidy turned and left the office.

  Part Thirty-Six

  The ancient and inscrutable face of the oriental fixer Master Lau appeared drawn and irritated. He hated playing draughts, especially to lose, but he had to be civil to the old bat, at least for now.

  “Well played, Mrs Timmins, you are most accomplished at the art of draughts.”

  “All games are alike to me Lau. I play to win or not at all. I gather the Gold Cup proved profitable?”

  “Certainly, Madam, certainly. We made a very satisfactory return on our investment.”

  “Very gratifying. Was it enough to settle your outstanding debt to the Baron?”

  “Of course. Will a cheque be acceptable?”

  “I should think so, yes. You have never been known to default.”

  “No, Madam, there can be no life without honour,” said Lau, arrogantly.

  “I’m glad to hear you say it. Which brings me to the small matter of Hymie Goldman. I understand he is still alive. What went wrong this time?!”

  “It grieves me to say it Madam, but you must take some of the responsibility for that particular oversight yourself.”

  “How so, Lau?” asked Edna Timmins.

  “Your own agent as they say ‘queered our pitch’.”

  “My agent?” queried Timmins.

  “Please, Madam, give me credit for some intelligence. Your agent; Alfred Jervis, or ‘Harry the Hit’ as he is known in Teddington, was arrested by the police after bungling his attempts to kill Goldman. I had an agent at the trackside who would have made sure of the job in the ordinary course of events,” continued Lau.

  “What Steffanie Scarlatti?” she queried, with implicit disapproval.

  “Madam, I can not be expected to disclose the identities or methods of my agents. It is in your own interests as well as my own. What you do not know can not be imputed to you.”

  “I know very well you were using Scarlatti on the job.”

  “As you wish. I have no desire to get into a dispute over who was responsible when I know the answer very well.”

  “You forced my hand by your slackness in completing our contract,” snapped Mrs Timmins.

  “Madam, you insult me. Would you like me to refund the money you paid on the contract or should I complete it?” He didn’t care anymore, he just wanted an end to her petty recriminations.