Near To The Knuckle presents Rogue: The second anthology

by Keith Nixon

  “A postman’s life, eh? Still, better than walking the streets,” he said. Chuckled to himself.

  As we sat down, Patsy put in a CD and in a few minutes Heaven 17 were singing about Temptation. Quite apt, really.

  I sat and sipped my lager in silence while Howie finished the Daily Mirror crossword. He took a swig of his drink and looked at me.

  “So what brings you out during the day, Dracula? Never seen you on a mid–week afternoon session since God was a lad,” he said.

  “Aye. Well, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh, don’t make a habit of it, you’ll do yourself a mischief.”

  “Naw, really, I …”

  A fat Hell’s Angel wandered over and started to play the fruit machine, alternately slamming the buttons and calling it a fucker.

  I leaned close to Howie and nodded toward the biker.

  “Loose lips sink ships,” I said.

  We sat in silence, tapping our fingers to Crushed By The Wheels Of Industry until the biker left.

  “So, what’s the story, morning glory?” said Howie.

  “Remember Mikey’s plan?”

  “Which one would that be?” he said. “They all blend into one, these days.”

  “The one about Big Little,” I said.

  Howie leaned back in his wobbly chair.

  “Ah, that one.”

  “Yep, that one,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “Are you actually giving the notion the time of day?” said Howie.

  “Well, I’ve heard worse.”

  “Would that fact that he’s shacked up with your ex–wife have anything to do with it?”

  “Not a jot,” I said. I spilled some lager on my shirt as I took a gulp.

  “He’s a local Councillor, you know.”

  “I am aware of that fact but he’s also so bent you could use him as a pipe–cleaner. And he’s loaded.”

  Big John Little was the owner of two particularly successful off–licence chains that had spread across the north eastern region like the clap – Booze n News and Beers For Fears.

  “True.”

  “And we’re not.”

  “Truer.”

  “And it is doable.”

  “Probably. Possibly maybe.”

  Howie finished his pint and slid it across the table.

  “Get another round in and I’ll think about it,” he said.

  I got up and walked to the bar.

  “And I could murder a pickled egg,” he said.

  ***

  “You don’t exactly see that many, Ferrari’s in Seatown, do you?” said Mikey Mike. He tapped Howie’s head with his massive paw.

  “Not that many, no,” said Howie. “I’ll give you that.”

  “So how the fuck did you lose Big John Little? The friggin’ car stands out like Muslim in a Synagogue.”

  “I got my trousers caught in the bike chain, didn’t I?” said Howie. “Came a right cropper.”

  Mikey closed his eyes and then started to laugh.

  “It’s my own friggin’ fault, it really is,” he said.

  We were in Astros Wine Bar, an overpriced, up its own arse boozer on the edge of Seatown. All red leather and chrome, it looked like an ‘80s porn film set. The perfect place for a low–rent gangster with ideas above his station to flaunt his cash. Hence, Mikey Mike’s regular Sunday night visits, decked out in a fake white Armani suit and stinking of expensive aftershave. The suit was too tight for Mikey, of course, since he always bought clothes two sizes too small, refusing to confront his weight gain issues. So far in denial he was in the Suez, our Mikey. In fact, he wasn’t even that much of a gangster, truth be told. Money lending and dope dealing was as far as it went. But he was into the whole Tony Marino shtick.

  “Well, if Diggsy had lent me a decent bike ...” said Howie.

  “Don’t blame me,” I said. “I offered to lend you the van but you know you and your fear of driving.”

  Mikey picked up the bottle of chardonnay and topped up our glasses.

  “So what do we know so far?” he said.

  “Well, we know that every Thursday he pisses off down to the Marina and bonks that young Russian bird he has shacked up in one of them posh new flats,” I said.

  “And then?”

  “Well, that’s the weird bit. He leaves her place around ten and gets back home around midnight. So bugger knows what he does in the meantime.”

  “So?”

  “So, we wait until next Thursday and I’ll follow him in the van,” I said.

  “We all will,” said Mikey. “Safety in numbers.”

  “And in the meantime?” said Howie.

  “It’s your round,” said Mikey.

  Howie’s jaw dropped so much that you could have scraped carpet fluff from his chin.

  ***

  A cold dawn gasped for life. Seagulls screeched. A fishing trawler adorned with Xmas lights cut across the stormy, metallic sea. I glanced up at black clouds in the granite sky.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I said.

  Mikey Mike, Howie and I were sat freezing our collective bollocks off in my ex– post office van, which I’d bought for a song when it had failed its MOT. The heating was knackered but the radio worked. Seatown FM were playing back to back Chuck Berry so there was some consolation, at least.

  “I’ve always fancied that,” said Howie. “Pissing off across America like in that Jack Kerouac book ‘On Yer Bike.’ Or whatever it’s called. Route 66 and all that.”

  “You’ve never been out of Seatown,” I said.

  Howie shrugged.

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  We were parked close to the public toilets, on the piece of waste ground that had been given the nickname Dogging Lane. Dogging Lane had earned itself a bit of a national reputation recently via the very popular YouTube clip of a couple of well–known kids’ television presenters who were filmed there making a spit roast out of a six–foot–six transvestite known locally as Ella The Fella.

  The tide was out, revealing hundreds upon hundreds of chicken heads and feet. The Chunky Chicken factory’s waste disposal pipe had broken again.

  “Very picturesque,” I said.

  Mikey yawned.

  “Here’s a good one,” said Howie. He was sat in the back seat rubbing his hands together. “A Scotsman walks into a brothel and he asks to see the girls. The Madame brings in five of the most beautiful girls he’s ever seen in his life and he asks how much for a shag. Five hundred quid each, says the Madame. The Jock nearly faints. Got anything cheaper, he says. So, the Madame brings in another bunch, not bad looking at all. How much, asks the Jock? Two hundred quid, she says. He shakes his head. Anything cheaper? In come a couple more. One is tidy but a bit overweight and one has a fit body but she’s a bit of a butterface. How much? Says the Scotsman. Fifty quid. He shakes his head. Anything cheaper? The Madame is getting a bit pissed off so she asks him how much he has to spend. A tenner, he says. She shakes her head. Okay, she says, I have one for a tenner but the rule is you have to do it in the dark and wear a black condom. Okay, he says. He goes into a cold, darkened room and gropes around until he finds the bed and a well fit body. Does his stuff. Afterwards, he comes out. How was it says the Madame. She was a bit of an ironing board, he says, but it did the trick. As he was about to leave, he said. By the way, why did I have to wear a black condom? The Madame shrugs and says, well, you’ve got to have some respect for the dead.”

  Mikey grunted a half laugh and I said nothing.

  “Suit yourselves,” said Howie.

  The trawler docked and at the same time a black BMW pulled up outside the closed–down Las Vegas Amusement Arcade. A fat man in a dark leather overcoat and black leather gloves got out. He was carrying a black briefcase. Big John Little. He stood smoking cigarette after cigarette as crates were unload from the trawler and put into the back of his car by a couple of no–necked bullet heads.

  “Bingo,” I said. “Told you he wa
s headed here.”

  “What do you reckon it is he’s up to, then?” said Howie.

  “Russian ciggies seems the most likely bet,” said Mikey Mike. “What with him knocking off that Muscovite minge.”

  “I heard that she’s Ukrainian, actually,” I said.

  “Actually?” said Mikey.

  “Actually,” I said.

  We watched Big Little hand over a large brown envelope to one of Shrek lookalikes and get back into his car.

  “The game is afoot,” said Howie as we pulled out, following Big Little’s car from a safe distance.

  “You don’t half talk like a twat sometimes,” said Mikey to Howie.

  ***

  There weren’t too many fuck–off–expensive houses in Seatown these days, that was for sure, but the ones that did exist were located at the back of Ward Grayson Park, an area of town were the buses didn’t run. And what whoppers they were, too. Big Little’s house was a six bedroom mock–Tudor monstrosity that was currently adorned with every type of Christmas light imaginable. And quite a few that you really couldn’t imagine at all.

  We watched him drive into his garage and waited till the lights went on in the living room.

  “And now what?” said Howie. “What’s the plan, Stan?”

  “Well, one of us has to wait and keep an eye out until he drives his booty to his lock–up, or wherever he stashes it. Hide in them bushes over there, maybe. They’ll need to hide out for a bit, mind you, cos he’s probably going for a kip,” said Mikey.

  “He might even be waiting until nightfall,” I said.

  “Yes, nightfall,” said Mikey. “Good idea that.”

  Howie slumped forward over the back of the passenger sea. Banged his forehead against it.

  “It’s going to be me, isn’t it? Why the fuck is it always me?” he said.

  “Let’s just call it payback for the millions of rounds of drinks you haven’t paid for,” said Mikey.

  He handed Howie a hip–flask.

  “That should take the edge off the day but don’t overdo it. And whatever you do, don’t fall asleep or Freddy Kruger will be the least of your problems.”

  ***

  There was a time when Seatown had even more of an American theme going on than just the yellow taxi cabs that cluttered the town centre. Once upon a time, almost half of the bars and nightclubs in the town had been given names like 42nd Street, Times Square, Madison Avenue, Liberties and, unfortunately, The Bowery. There was even a greasy spoon called Hell’s Kitchen.

  They were all owned by Jordan Rivers, who was more commonly known as Captain Cutlass. Cutlass was a sea coal baron, which meant he regularly employed a motley crew to drive jeeps up and down the beach at low tide and dig up the coal. They then sold it door to door, back in the days when people had coal fires. He’d made a packet, too.

  After he’d gotten into the sea coal game, Cutlass also made a mint smuggling booze and cigarettes into the docks. He used to stand at the front of the boats waving a massive sword about. Hence the nickname, although I do believe the sword was actually a rapier.

  Indeed, Captain Cutlass was in the process of buying up all the slaver–palaces in Seatown until he mysteriously disappeared on a trip around the local brewery. His body was apparently found two days later, stuffed head first into a beer barrel. There were worse ways to die.

  So his properties were up for grabs and Harry Shand was pretty sharpish with the grabbing. Including a run–down windmill that he turned into a private members club.

  Harry Shand’s Bar was a smoky, pokey dive that had started to earn itself the nickname The Speakeasy although I suspect The Shithole may have been a more accurate description of the place.

  However, like some Prohibition–era gin joint, Shand’s was a place where businessmen and working girls, cops and robbers, actors and agents and all manner of assorted waifs and strays rubbed shoulders without getting each other’s backs up. Tonight, as usual, the place was littered with the cream of Seatown’s flotsam and jetsam.

  Big John Little sat at the bar arguing about football with Shand and an unshaven, long haired comedian that I’d occasionally seen on local television. He didn’t notice me as I walked in and sat down in the corner next to Mikey.

  “Any news from Howie?” said Mikey.

  “Yeah, I phoned him. Pneumonia, apparently,” I said. “They’re keeping him in the hospital for a few days for observation, apparently.”

  “Yeah, yeah, send him a bunch of grapes and a bottle of Lucozade but what about the stuff in Big Little’s lock up?”

  “Said he didn’t manage to follow him. He passed out in the street and was found by some old dear walking her dog. She was the one who called the ambulance.”

  I took a sip of my Guinness.

  “What a useless twat,” said Mikey.

  “I reckon it’s down to us, then,” I said.

  “I reckon it is.”

  ***

  Donald Amerigo liked to be referred to as Don as it made him think he was some sort of Italian mafia head. He owned a pizza restaurant called Goodfellas and spent most nights sat at the bar dressed in Hugo Boss and drinking Chianti, though he’d never set foot in Italy and as far as I was aware he had rarely been out of Seatown.

  I was sat next to Mikey Mike in Astros Wine Bar when he came in with a couple of slightly smaller but equally intimidating clones.

  “So, you, I believe are Mr Derek Digson,” he said in an upper–class English accent so sharp you could shave with it.

  “Aye,” I said.

  “Postman, erstwhile husband of my employer’s current fiancé and, if the former Mrs Digson is to be believed, possessed of ‘a dick so small you …”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said.

  “And you are Mr ‘Mikey’ Mike Calloway. ‘Small time crook with a big time arse.’ it seems.”

  “Steady on,” said Mikey.

  Don sat down in front of us. Took off his glasses. His eyes were like bullet holes.

  “I am interested in finding out the whereabouts off an associate of yours. Mr Howard White.”

  “He’s in hospital, mate,” said Mikey.

  Don leaned close to Mikey.

  “I’m most certainly not your mate, Mr Calloway, and Mr White most certainly isn’t in hospital.”

  We looked at each other.

  “But, I spoke …”

  Don stood up.

  “Your cohort was caught on camera two nights ago breaking into Mr Little’s premises and loading boxes of contraband into a former post office van that belongs to you, Mr Digson.”

  “He what? The cheeky twat,” I said. “He nicked my van.”

  “Indeed,” said Don.

  “I thought he couldn’t drive?” said Mikey.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “Have you checked his mother?” said Mikey.

  “Oh, yes. She was very forthcoming. Readily gave us your names, for example. Lovely woman. Any suggestions?”

  “Not a clue,” I said.

  Don stared at us both, taking stock of what we were saying, and he seemed to accept that we were telling the truth. He handed us a pair of business cards,

  “If you hear from him or have any ideas, call me. Okay?”

  “Will do,” I said. “You can count on it.”

  We sat in silence as they left. Finished our drinks.

  “Something stronger,” I said, as I got up to go to the bar. “I can’t believe we’ve been ripped off by Howie White, I really can’t.”

  Mikey grabbed my arm.

  “Mind you, say what you like,” said Mikey. “It was a bloody good plan, eh?”

  DOING PRINCE

  Richard Godwin

  “He wears these cream–coloured shorts, high up on his thighs, even in the winter,” Mandy said to Trudy over a glass of vodka, “but they’re like stained, not really cream, you know, unwashed, dirty. He doesn’t wear a T–shirt, like some guys do in all seasons, you know, the macho ones who want to ma
ke a point, no, this guy wears a lumberjack shirt, and tiny shorts showing his outline. Remember me telling you about him?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “He makes me feel like washing. Guess what he wears on his feet?”

  “Stilettos.”

  “Boots, and thick socks. He has this dog, small thing on a leash, made of rope, and he’s got this pony tail, he stands there, one leg up on the wall as I come round the corner leering at me, this knowing grin on his face, eyeing me as I walk past. He’s disgusting, with his thick thighs he’s so proud of.”

  “Weirdo,” Trudy said, pouring some more Smirnoff.

  “Well, get this, he says my name today as I walk past.”

  “What?”

  “‘Mandy, right?’ he says.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Are you following me? ‘I got a job for you,’ he says.”

  “What job?”

  “He lowers the foot he has up on the wall, adjusts his shorts, and comes real close. ‘Good money, I hear you’re handy.’”

  “Sex?”

  Mandy shook her head and lit a Players from the packet on the table, taking a deep drag.

  “Why d’you smoke these things Trudy?”

  “They make me feel butch, now what did creepoid say?”

  “Said he’s a go–between. Knows a bloke called Gary Mayers, said he’s heard I’ve done break–ins.”

  “You think he’s a pig?”

  “Na.” Mandy stuck out her tongue and removed a bit of tobacco. “Said he knew me from a place I used to work at, remember when I used to dance.”

  “Sure. You remember him?”

  “I never looked at their faces, I just used to shove my ass at them and take the money. But he said he knew the guy who owned The Cage, Mickey the wanker I used to call him, said he liked my rendition of Prince’s song ‘Cream,’ that I used to get real dirty on stage, which I did.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He must’ve seen me dance, he remembered what I used to do with a coke bottle. He said this guy Gary wants a painting stolen, and he’ll pay ten k.”

  “What sort of painting?”