“If you haven’t made a fool of yourself at least once in your life, you haven’t lived,” said Anna.
“Oh, well, if that’s true, I’ve lived more lives than a cat, then,” said McGuffin.
Anna laughed.
“In more ways than one, if half of what your sister told us is true,” she said.
She chuckled.
The tram jolted to a halt and McGuffin and Anna slammed into each other.
“Oh, it’s all true, I’m afraid,” said McGuffin. “Failed private eye, jewel thief, womaniser, cat burglar… ”
“And more, I suspect?”
“And a bit more, yes.”
He frowned.
“But you still can’t remember everything that happened with Vladimir Gogol?”
“Well, I remember hiding from his goons in a pizza oven and him switching it on. Isn’t that enough?”
Anna laughed. The tram started up again.
“It would be interesting to find out how you got from Gogol’s restaurant to a snow covered field.”
McGuffin shrugged.
“Hopefully it’ll all come back.”
“So what’s the plan? Are you going back to London soon?” said Anna.
“Yes, I just need to clear up a few matters here and then I’ll head off back to Blighty.”
“You know, I’m going back to London next week. I could go back with you. As your medical advisor, perhaps,” said Anna.
“Yes? You go there a lot.’
“As much as possible. Ever since I was a teenager. London was always a great escape for me. Poland was too conservative for me then. And I feel more at home there than here. Especially now. Most of my friends are married with kids and I’m just a workaholic spinster. In London I don’t feel as if I stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Great. It’s a date, then,” said McGuffin .
The tram stopped suddenly and they slammed into each other again. They both grinned.
“A date is it?” said Anna.
McGuffin smiled.
“Oh, yes,” he said.
The tram started again but they held each other tightly and kissed.
London, England
Leslie had always considered herself as someone who could associate with all manner of people. And having friends in high and low places was very useful in her line of work. She considered Tosh to be somewhere in the middle.
Madge brought Leslie a cappuccino and another Irish coffee for Tosh. Madge changed the music to Miles Davis Kinda Blue and Leslie gave her a thumbs up sign.
“So, RIP Peter Rhatigan. That was a bit of a shocker,” said Tosh.
“Yes. Sidney and I are rather cut up over it. We quite liked old Peter,” said Leslie.
“One of our PCs has spoken to his mum and said she seemed really shocked.”
“Well, she would be. Did she give any indication as to who could be responsible?”
Leslie drummed her fingers on the red Formica table
“Well, yeah. Funny thing that. She mentioned him going on the run from some Polish gangster and some high–faluting fence.”
“Which is why you called me, of course.”
“Of course.”
Leslie sat back in her seat. Looked around the room. Everyone was deep in conversation or reading. She even saw a couple of people with Joan Rhatigan books. A good career move that, Peter. She leaned toward Tosh.
“So, yes. Peter was… working with Sidney and me. We were attempting to move a specific, valuable item, with Peter’s help. And Ziggy Kowalski was involved.”
“The late and not so great Ziggy Kowalski.”
“Indeed.”
Tosh frowned.
“And Peter croaked Ziggy? Seems unlikely.”
“Well, not directly but he was… involved.”
“As you said. And as I remember, Ziggy had an older brother. Used to be a big–shot gangster back in Warsaw.”
“Yes, Robert. He took the pledge a few years ago. Joined AA and recanted his wicked ways. However… ”
“However… ”
“He was recently spotted as drunk as a skunk in Marjorie’s Bar the night after Ziggy’s body was found,” said Leslie.
She finished her coffee and Picked up her umbrella.
“Any idea where we could find him sharpish?” said Tosh. “It could tidy things up nicely.”
“Robert had a thing for, and a fling with, Tina Shaw. You know, the torch singer at Marjorie’s Bar? You could look there.”
“I’ll do just that,” said Tosh, picturing Tina vividly.
He watched Leslie leave the café and put up her umbrella, which flapped in the wind like a black crow. His smartphone buzzed and he picked it up, not noticing the massive Hell’s Angel step out of a kebab shop doorway and follow Leslie.
Warsaw, Poland
The tram’s movements dragged John McGuffin from his deep sleep and into consciousness as it pulled up outside Warsaw Central Station. He was hungover from a bad dream, or maybe a bad life. Good vodka for sure. He rubbed his eyes and stood. He put on his black overcoat and hunting cap, picked up his black suitcase as the tram pulled away from the station. His stomach lurched, reminding him of the last time he had been in Warsaw’s main railway station and how close he had been to death.
He walked out of the station, toward the massive Golden Terraces shopping arcade which was next to The Palace of Culture and Science, Josef Stalin’s unwanted Neo–classical gift to the people of Warsaw, which loomed over the city like a gigantic gargoyle keeping evil at bay. A large red banner was stretched across its entrance advertising an avant–garde jazz concert. McGuffin cringed. He hated jazz. Especially the free–form stuff.
As McGuffin walked across Zlote Tarasy, the winter sunlight shone through the massive shopping mall’s glass roof. McGuffin was feeling good. A sense of calm had come over him since he started to regain his memory. Since meeting Anna. He was looking forward to a fresh start when he returned to London. Maybe one last job for Sidney and then a change of lifestyle. That sounded like a good idea.
McGuffin stopped in the mall’s central indoor courtyard. Despite it being after Christmas the mall was still full of vociferous shoppers. McGuffin cut through the crowds and went straight to The Hard Rock Café.
As he walked into the bar, McGuffin heard Sting sing about Fields Of Barley. Dimitri leant against the bar drinking Guinness. He smiled when he saw McGuffin and held out a gloved hand.
“Greetings Mr McGuffin,” he said. “Long time no see.”
“Dimitri,” said McGuffin. “Must be a few years since that thing in Toulouse. Good gig, that.”
“Yes, short but sweet.”
“Sweet for us but not so much for Cyprian.”
They both laughed and shook hands.
“What would you like to drink?” said Dimitri.
“I’ll have the same as you. I haven’t had a pint of Guinness for a while.
Dimitri shrugged and ordered two pints of Guinness.
“The prices here are criminal,” he said. “Warsaw’s swift gentrification has had a major impact on the price of booze.”
McGuffin looked around. The Warsaw Hard Rock Café was identical to every Hard Rock Café McGuffin had been in, and he’d been in a few. Autographed guitars, album covers and t–shirts lined the walls.
“I assume most of this memorabilia is from Polish rock stars that I’ve never heard of?” said McGuffin.
“And you assume correctly,” said Dimitri. “Although I am quite fond of Manaam. Do you know them?”
“I’m not sure. My memory is coming back in fits and starts.”
The stumpy barman put the drinks on the bar.
“Is there a Hard Rock Café in Moscow?” said McGuffin.
“I assume so though I’ve never actually been to Moscow. I’m from St Petersburg.”
“Ah, the city of the white nights. I’ve always wanted to go there. Never made it so far.”
“But you’re a well–travelled man.”
>
“Sort of. A bit eurocentric. The thing is, I hate flying. The furthest I’ve made it on a plane is to New York. Six hours from London was enough for me, thank you.”
“I’m not so fond of air travel myself. I prefer the train. Have you ever traveled on the Trans–Siberian express?” said Dimitri.
He sipped his Guinness.
“No. That’s another ambition unfulfilled. I hear it can get pretty wild.”
“In the old days that would have been an understatement but these days it’s more of a tourist trap. Most of Russia’s gangsters are legitimate or semi– legitimate these days.”
“But not Vladimir Gogol.”
“No, not very. Do you remember any more of your… contretemps with Vladimir?” said Dimitri.
“Yes, a little Although I remember his wife in greater detail.”
Dimitri laughed.
“Ah, Svetlana is a particularly memorable young woman although I’ve never had the pleasure myself,” he said.
“You know where they are now, I assume?” said McGuffin.
“Of course. They usually spend every weekend in their country home just outside Warsaw but today is the last Friday of the month, and tonight they will both be in the Kasyno Warszawa, the casino that is located on the top floor of The Marriot Hotel. Vladimir is a creature of narrow habit. And one of his habits is blackjack.”
“And Svetlana?”
“She will be playing roulette from time to time and slowly getting drunk. How did you meet her, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well, I heard via a contact that a rich Russian woman was selling a large amount of jewellery. She was selling it cheaply so that she could escape from her psycho husband. My plan was to meet her, rip off the jewellery and do a runner. I arranged to meet her at Radio Café. You know the place?”
“Indeed I do. A great part of Polish and European history. The club for former members of Radio Free Europe.”
“So, Svetlana and I met there for brunch and things took off from there… ”
“Ah, plans. Didn’t one of The Beatles say something very clever about plans?”
“Maybe. I’m not a big Beatles fan. I always preferred The Rolling Stones.”
“And those old men are still rolling, too.”
“More like The Strolling Bones.”
Dimitri laughed.
McGuffin finished his drink.
“One more?” he said.
“No thank you. I have a busy afternoon ahead of me.”
“Anything interesting?”
Dimitri tapped the side of his nose.
“A reconnaissance mission on behalf of your brother–in–law.”
“That bloody Nazi ring?”
“Of course. Sidney’s potential customer is a very powerful and influential man.,” said Dimitri. “And someone who is very easily displeased.”
Carry On Croaking
Warsaw, Poland
McGuffin checked his reflection in the long mirror that hung behind the bar. The tuxedo that Anna had loaned him fit quite well. He could almost hear the James Bond theme playing except Champions Sport Bar was blasting out Eye Of the Tiger. The big screens were set to show a boxing match between a Polish boxer and an American. Not that McGuffin had heard of either of them. He certainly wasn’t a keen sports fan, apart for football, of course, and he’d even lost a little interest in the beautiful game over the years. It was all money these days.
The large American themed bar was packed. Warsaw was uncharacteristic of many capital cities in that the hotels, bars, and restaurants were cheaper at the weekend. The city was at its busiest during the week because of the amount of people who visited on business but Warsaw hadn’t really caught on as a tourist city, hence the cheap weekend prices. This also meant that every Friday night the locals would descend upon bars that were normally too expensive for them. Warsaw’s ex–pat community were also out in force. A braying American with an unfeasibly large head was staggering around near McGuffin, holding court to a group of post–teen Polish girls.
McGuffin resisted the urge to spank the yank, and finished his Zywiec.
He walked to the lift and headed upstairs.
As he got out of the lift, McGuffin saw a familiar face. Dimitri walked into the casino with a super tall African woman on his arm. He nodded to McGuffin and winked.
“Can we have you passport, please, sir,” said a perky, petit blonde receptionist with a fake American accent.
“Of course, Gosia,” said McGuffin, noticing her name tag.
He handed one of his fake passports to the woman.
“Thank you Mr Case,” said Gosia, with a 1000 watt smile.
McGuffin walked into the casino. A line of tall, beautiful Russian call girls stood against one wall. A wheezing Englishman sat playing blackjack against the dealer, a big cigar in his mouth and large glass of whisky on the table in front of him. All of the roulette tables were empty except for one where a little old lady, with her knitting in her lap, played. She had a mountain of winning chips next to her and a mob of eager punters crowded around her copying her bets.
McGuffin hated gambling and knew it was a sucker’s game so he went to the bar and ordered a small beer. He watched the gamblers win and lose for about twenty minutes and then Vladimir swaggered in.
He sneaked out of the casino without being seen and headed down to the car park. He took the tracking device from his pocket and went to look for Vladimir’s Daimler.
London, England
Ted Singh was dressed in his best blue Teddy Boy drapes and would normally have felt pretty cool but he couldn’t relax. His guts were churning. He was twitchy. Nervous. Stressed. He was all of those thing but he was sure he was having an allergic reaction to the food that Robert Kowalski had bought him.
“Tripe?” said Ted . “You gave me soup with tripe in it? I’m a Hindu! A vegetarian!”
Robert shrugged.
“Flaki is good,” he said. “You should take tablets for your meat allergy.”
Ted bit his tongue. He was scared of Robert, for sure. Robert had always been a tough guy but since Ziggy’s death he’d taken on a manic edge. The amount of booze and cocaine he was consuming was exactly helping matters, either.
They were sat in Robert’s sparsely decorated basement apartment. Robert was watching the feet of the people that walked past his window.
He opened a bottle of Finlandia vodka and poured two shots.
“You do drink, don’t you?” he said.
“Of course I bleedin’ do,” said Ted. “I’m a Hindu, not a Muslim!”
“Then drink this. It will take the taste of the flaki away.”
“Have you got any orange juice? And ice? I don’t drink spirits straight.”
Robert chuckled and poured Ted’s vodka into a tumbler. He added fresh orange juice and ice. He handed it to Ted.
“Thanks much,” said Ted. “Nice place you’ve got here. Very minimalist. Very Phillipe Starck. Have you lived here long?”
“I moved here after my wife left me. It is sufficient for my current needs.”
He knocked back his vodka and poured another shot.
Ted sipped his drink.
Robert sat in front of him.
“So, tell me what you know about Mr and Mrs Hawkins.”
“Well, there’s a lot I don’t know… ”
Robert moved closer.
“But what you do know.”
“Well, Sidney is a fence. A big shot in the import export game, especially when it comes to the rare and the exotic. Exotic pets, antiques, film memorabilia, even comic books. He used to an actor. Quite the matinee idol in his day. He even had bit parts in a couple of James Bond films and he’s very well connected. He’s also supposed to be the bastard offspring of Sir Robert Murdoch. Remember him?”
“Yes, he was a corrupt media baron who went missing on a sailing trip and is believed to have drowned although some people think otherwise. What about Leslie Hawkins?”
“A
h, well she’s a true enigma, she is. Leslie Hawkins nee McGuffin appeared on the scene about fifteen years ago. Her and her brother were a tasty couple of cat burglars until Leslie married Sidney and went straight or straight–ish.”
“What about her early history?”
“That’s the thing. Nobody knows and I mean nobody. She came out of nowhere,” said Ted.
“That is interesting,” said Robert. “Now, what can you tell me about this German ring?”
“Not much. I know it’s worth a decent amount and your brother knew a bloke who knew a bloke who… ”
Robert held up the palm of his hand.
“And the first bloke was Peter Rhatigan?”
“It was.”
Warsaw, Poland
McGuffin sat on a graffiti–stained bench in a darkened park and watched Vladimir get out of his car. McGuffin was dressed head to foot in black and holding a black briefcase. Vladimir walked up to an apartment block and opened the front door with a key.
Vladimir was one of the bad guys, for sure. Drug dealing, loan sharking, money laundering, people trafficking. He had his grubby fingers in so many dirty pies. But he had friends in high places. Power and influence. So he had remained untouchable by the law for a very long time.
As Dimitri had said, Vladimir was also a creature of narrow habit. Come rain or shine, hell or high water, each Monday, just after midnight, he visited his Colombian mistress in her luxurious penthouse apartment atop an expensive Warsaw apartment block. One hour later, he returned home.
McGuffin waited for fifty five minutes and crossed the road to Vladimir’s Daimler. He took the tracking device from under the car. His joints ached as he stood back up and limped back toward the park.
London, England
It was a stiflingly hot Friday evening and The French House was stuffed and stuffy. Sidney and Leslie were leaning against an open window drinking prosecco.
“There’s so much that I like about the French House,” said Leslie. “The history, wine, the food, the location, the lack of music. Oh, and the fact that people can’t use mobile bloody phones. It’s part of Soho history. Frances Bacon, Jeffrey Bernard, Peter, Derek Raymond. Real London. Well, the London I fled the sticks to escape to, anyway.”
Too Many Crooks - Paul D Brazill Page 7