‘Wolfy, are you drunk?’
‘Extremely, and if you get off the phone I shall get drunker.’
‘Wolfy, they’ve kidnapped Mr Milkie.’
‘Don’t you mean catnapped?’
‘Wolfy, this is no laughing matter. Those Russians that shot up Leon’s have stolen the cat. They’re holding it for ransom. Bruny tried to stop them but he wasn’t strong enough.’
‘Bruny? The blue fireman?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s still at your house?’
‘Yes, he and Anna have become very close and she’s moved in because she doesn’t want to go home, and he’s still on holiday. That’s not what’s important. We need to get Cholera back.’
There was much laughing at our table as I had it on loud speaker.
‘That’s lovely, Muzzi. Blue firemen and catnapped cats. That’s lovely. Okay, then … bye! Cheers for the joke. That’s cheered me right up.’
‘Wolfy, I need your help. We have to get Cholera back. Mrs Milkie is distraught.’
‘Bonkers!’ Tabatha chipped in.
‘Exactly,’ I said.
‘Wolfy, please …’
‘Hold on, Muzzi, let me put this to a vote. Do we, my compadres, go to Muzzi’s and help him rescue a mangy moggy from some crazy Russians, accompanied by a blue fireman? Or do we get another drink?’
‘Wolfy ...’
‘Hold on, Muzzi, democracy moves slow. Now, shall we take a vote? All in favour of the cat say “meow.”’
‘Meow,’ Tabatha and Curtis slurred together.
‘Oh. Okay then. Did you hear, Muzzi? The cat wins. We’ll be there soon.’ I hung up. ‘Come on then. Let’s go.’
‘Where we going?’ Curtis asked.
‘That’s the problem with an uneducated electorate, they just don’t know the issues,’ Tabatha giggled. ‘Let’s go save a cat.’
With that we staggered out and jumped in Betsy. There was much swerving and reckless endangerment on the way, but somehow we reached Muzzi’s unscathed.
‘Wolfy to the rescue!’ I said as we staggered into Muzzi’s
‘You’re drunk,’ Muzzi replied disdainfully.
‘You knew that before we arrived,’ Curtis said.
‘Well, I need you sober. Here take this.’ Muzzi started handing round the black coffee.
We plonked ourselves down in the front room; Mrs Milkie was sitting there looking distraught. Somehow the sight of an old granny looking frightened had a sobering effect on us. It’s a bit hard to be a drunken arse in front of a pensioner. I sipped the coffee, and slowly reined myself back in.
‘So what’s going on, Muzzi?’
‘Here, read this.’ He handed me the note. The cat really had been kidnapped. The note read.
If you ever want to see your cat again,
meet us tomorrow at 1230, at 27 Warwick Road.
Bring the location of Tom Jones, or you will never see the cat again.
‘Tom Jones?’ I said looking at Muzzi.
‘They mean Mrs Milkie's son,’ Muzzi returned.
‘What son?’
‘Mrs Milkie’s,’ Muzzi replied, thoroughly understanding my shock. I didn’t know she had a son, nobody did. As far as we all knew, and considering Muzzi had known her since he was in nappies, she was a batty old widower.
‘Why do they want your son, Mrs Milkie?’ I asked, still shocked she had one.
‘I don’t know … something to do with popular music, I think.’
‘Eh?’
‘Yes my son is involved with some musicians. He’s involved in a band I think. My Kevin is in a … pop group, I think it’s called.’
‘Oh. And you’re sure it was those Russians, Muzzi? The one’s from Leon’s?’
‘For sure. I’ll never forget them. Bruny bravely tried to fight them but there were just too many.’ As he said this Bruny walked in with Anna. He was still blue but had faded considerably since we’d first met. Now he just looked cold.
‘Y’oright, Bruny?’ I asked, greeting him.
‘Holding up. Sorry, I couldn’t stop them.’ He was apologising to me like it was my cat.
‘No worries, mate, you did your best.’
‘I thought those Russians were after Longy,’ Tabatha observed wisely.
‘It would appear they now want Mrs Milkie's son … who would appear to be called Tom Jones.’ I stared at Tabatha.
‘His name's not Tom Jones. It is Kevin Joseph Milkie. He was born Kevin Milkie and he will die Kevin Milkie. Tom Jones indeed! What kind of name is Tom Jones anyway? Kevin Milkie was good enough for his father and it should be good enough for him. He can pretend all he wants. Tom Jones, Tommy Thumb, whatever silly thing he wants. He is Kevin Joseph Milkie.’
‘But he calls himself Tom Jones?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but I never will. How you can ask a mother to call her son a name different from the one she gave him?’
‘Indeed,’ I replied. A light had flickered on inside my head. It had sparked in Tabatha’s and Curtis’ too.
‘Have you ever heard of the Tomsians, Mrs Milkie?’ I said gently.
‘That's the name of his band,’ she replied smiling.
‘The other church!’ Tabatha said, staring straight at me.
‘The other church,’ I returned, staring back at her. ‘Do you have his address, Mrs Milkie?’ I continued.
‘Oh yes, he lives near Machynlleth in Wales, by the mountains. That’s where his pop group is based. Hmmph! Pop group! He can call it any name he likes, but as far as I’m concerned it’s a bad crowd. I’ve told him many a time. Kevin, I’ve said, what kind of people would make you change your own name, make you deny your own mother? But does he listen? No. He thinks he knows it all. And now look … this crowd of his has got his father kidnapped by communists.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Milkie. We’ll get Mr Milkie back,’ Muzzi said comfortingly. ‘Wolfy’s a very resourceful man. He’ll help us.’ Muzzi had both volunteered me and complimented me. I didn’t know whether to slap him or thank him. Both crossed my mind.
‘Do you have his full address, Mrs Milkie?’ I asked.
‘Yes. You’re not going to give it to the Communists are you, because they can’t have it? Mr Milkie understands about sacrificing his life for his country, but we cannot help the Reds. They want to destroy our way of life. If he was here now he’d tell you the same. Better to be dead than under the heel of Lenin and his Bolshis.’
‘No, Mrs Milkie, we won’t give it to the Communists, I promise.’ Being half-cut made talking to Mrs Milkie somehow sensible.
She pulled out a piece of paper from her carpet bag and handed it to me.
‘Thanks for that. Do you have a picture of your son?’
She reached into her giant carpet bag and pulled out a one-foot square, framed picture.
‘Here.’
It was a black and white photo of a baby maybe a year old lying on a sheepskin rug, with all his glory on full display.
‘Anything a bit more recent, Mrs Milkie?’
‘I think I have one from when he was seven. It’s a very nice picture. He’s wearing a very natty pair of blue dungarees.’
‘I think this one will do. Okay now, don’t you worry. We’ll get this sorted tomorrow for you. Probably best if you get some sleep now.’
‘Come on, Mrs Milkie, I’ll walk you home.’ Muzzi said.
Once they were outside I turned to Tabatha and said, ‘Well, that’s interesting.’
‘Very. So what are we going to do?’
‘We’ve got two choices. We can go and save the cat and then go to Wales to see Tom Jones. Or we can get drunk and wait for Magenta Devine’s people to find us.’
‘Cat and Wales it is then!’
‘Curt?’
‘Cat and Wales.’ He shrugged.
Muzzi walked back in and said. ‘Thank you, Wolfy. I owe you. I know she’s a little odd, but she’s very kind and she’s all alone with no one to help her. And I’ve known her si
nce I was small and ...’
‘Stop, Muzzi. You’ll make me change my mind.’
‘Yes sorry. What are you going to do?’
‘Have a kip and work it out in the morning. Any chance I can borrow one of your spare rooms.’
‘Of course, Wolfy.’
‘Cheers. G’night.’
Friday 10:30 a.m.
It was a strangely enjoyable sleep. Muzzi had one of those mattresses that moulds round your body, like sleeping in jelly. I didn’t really have a plan for how to retrieve the cat. If I’m honest, I wasn’t overly sure I was going to bother. I had the address for Kevin Milkie, and was considering just driving to Wales, grabbing him by the neck and shaking the remaining answers out of him. Muzzi, alas, was holding me to my cat rescue agreement. I entered the kitchen to find him dressed in camouflage gear and army boots. All he was missing was the black boot polish under his eyes.
‘What’s with the get-up?’ I said pouring out some coffee.
‘I thought it best to dress correctly.’
‘For what? Vietnam? Muzzi, you’re dressed for jungle warfare. We’re going to Kensington. There’s no jungles in Kensington.’
‘Shall I get changed?’
‘Nah. What the hell. Leave it.’
‘Where’s Muzzi going?’ Tabatha asked, coming into the kitchen.’
‘With us.’
‘Why’s he dressed like that?’
‘He’s gonna outflank the Russians through Kensington Jungle.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah. He’s gonna hide in the bushes and then leap out like Rambo. He was just about to put his war paint on … bit of black under the eyes.’
‘Morning everybody.’ Curtis strolled in, rubbing his eyes. ‘Muzzi, why you dressed like that?’
‘I made a mistake, Curtis, okay? A small mistake and I’ll thank you not to mention it again.’ With that he stormed out of the kitchen.
‘What did I say?’ Curtis uttered confused.
‘I dunno mate, you just offended him somehow.’
‘But I didn’t say anything.’
‘I dunno, mate. Something about the Viet Cong. I dunno … I weren’t really paying attention. I was just drinking my coffee.’ I feigned innocence.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Curtis asked.
‘I thought we’d stake out the house. The Russians are expecting a granny so I doubt they’ll be barricaded in there. I was thinking, maybe shoot them with the tranq gun, grab the cat and run away. But if anyone has a better plan please volunteer it.’
‘It’s a bit short on details.’
‘It’s not a very big cat.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘What? I ain’t Monty and we ain’t taking North Africa, no matter what Muzzi thinks. It’s a cat and a few Russians. We got three tranq guns. I’ll have one, you have one and Tabs can have one. I’ll go in the front and you two can sneak round the back. And what you worrying for? Action Man’s upstairs. He’s got the jungle covered.’ I said, indicating Muzzi, who still hadn’t reappeared.
‘How the hell did I end up in this craziness?’ Curtis mumbled, staring at the sky.
‘That’s what happens when you make doilies. It starts with doilies, then it’s knitting, then it’s cats and Russians. Soft craft … just don’t start … just say no.’
‘You can fuck off, you piss-taking bastard.’
‘Don’t be like that. I was hoping for a nice scarf for Christmas.’
‘Only if I can choke you with it.’
‘Ouch, Curtis. Where’s your Christmas spirit?’
‘It ain’t Christmas. It’s July.’
‘Now that’s no way to be. You should have Christmas in your heart all year round; the spirit of giving.’
‘I’ll give you something in a minute.’
‘Sorry, Curt, I’m going to have to decline, I’m happily entangled, although you do have very nice hair,’ I said in my best camp accent.
‘Fuck off, Wolfy! Can we just get going?’
‘Oh alright, spoilsport. Call GI Joe. Tell him we’re leaving.’
Curtis was just about to call out ‘GI Joe’ when, remembering Muzzi’s reaction, he restrained himself and instead went with, ‘Muzzi, we’re leaving.’
‘Coward,’ I said, clocking his reticence.
Muzzi came down the stairs, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.
‘Muzzi, you got changed. What you get changed for? Was it something Curtis said?’
‘I’m not talking about it. Can we just leave?’
We jumped into Betsy and Tabatha started the engine, she started first time as always. It wasn’t as rewarding a feeling being in the passenger seat as it was when I drove her.
I sniffed the air and in my best Robert Duval said. ‘I love the smell of cat piss in the morning.’
‘Right look I got a little carried away. I admit I may have been a little overexuberant in my clothing, but can we please just drop it.’
‘Yes, Muzzi, sorry. I couldn’t help it.’
‘I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously. These are dangerous people. They have guns.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ Curtis piped in, expressing the attitude that the three of us had. We were so deep in a hole that ‘fuck it’ was all we had left.
‘Yes, well. That’s as may be, but it’s not something I’m overly comfortable about.’
‘Sorry, Muzzi. Come on, Tabs. Let’s go.’
We headed off to Warwick Road. It was only a little drive away from Muzzi’s house, didn’t take more than ten minutes to get there. Well, Tabatha was driving. It was just after ten. We parked up nearby across the road from number 27 and started our stake out.
After about half an hour during which there was much ribbing of Muzzi, stuff about hiding in bushes, and how he was to go up the river in a little boat and find Colonel Kurtz, Curtis noticed something.
‘Is that Leon’s van?’ It was; Leon’s battered old black-market butchery van, it was parking up a little bit in front of us.
‘What’s that doing here?’
‘Boom-Boom phoned and I told him where we were going,’ Muzzi announced innocently.
‘What did you do that for?’
‘I didn’t know I wasn’t meant to.’
‘Is that Boom?’ Tabatha had noticed her brother.
‘Shit! He’s gonna fuck everything up,’ I said jumping out.
The Russians had only ever seen us in fancy dress so the likelihood was that they wouldn’t recognise us, but Boom-Boom, being rather uniquely proportioned, was unforgettable. If they looked out and saw him, I doubted they’d come out with tea and biccies.
Tabatha jumped out behind me. ‘I better come with you. He’s probably come to kill you.’
‘You know you’re a high maintenance woman.’
‘I know. That’s why you love me.’ She was right. Boom-Boom was definitely not on a social visit.
He took one look at me walking over with Tabatha and the blood rushed straight to his head. In the old days I would’ve probably been panicking, but as I was thoroughly immersed in the ‘fuck it’ mentality, what could he do? He steamed towards us.
‘What the hell have you got my sister involved in?’
‘Boom-Boom, what the fuck are you doing here?’
‘I’m here to protect my sister from the likes of you … fucking dead bodies, people trying to kill her … What the fuck have you involved her in?’
‘Boom, I ain’t got no time for you and your fucking madness. We can talk about this later.’
‘We gonna talk about it now, not fucking later. Right now. Right fucking now!’
‘Boom we need to get the fuck out the road and behind the van.’ We were on full display.
Leon appeared from the driver’s seat. ‘Boom, we need to go. The tranquilisers won’t last long. They’re going to wake up,’ Leon said.
‘Leon this is more important than some fucking cow, okay? Even you said they’d turned into Bonnie and Clyde.’
I shot Leon a look. He lowered his eyes guiltily. ‘This fucker’s gonna get my sister killed.’
‘No, he ain’t, you moron.’ Tabatha had now joined in.
‘Tabatha, stay out of this.’
‘What do you mean, stay out of it? It’s my fucking life and you’re telling me stay out of it, you fucking halfwit. The only person who needs to stay out of it is you.’ Curtis and Muzzi had come across to be part of our High Street domestic.
‘We need to get out of the fucking road. The Russians who shot up the club live over there and if they look out and see us, they are going to come out and shoot us all, you dim fucker.’
‘You see what I mean? You see what I mean, Leon? The fuckers that blew up the club, this idiot’s parked outside their house!’
‘Boom, we need to go now. I have no tranqs and they’re all waking up. You know the door’s not secure.’ Leon was imploring.
‘Leon, will you fuck off about your cows! It’s not important. What matters is how this jackarse is trying to get my sister killed. What’s wrong with you, Tabatha? You don’t think I don’t know how you knocked off some house, and now people are coming for ya?’ There was a rumble from the van, the scraping of hooves on metal.
‘That was my fault, not Wolfy’s … not that it’s any business of yours.’ Tabatha shouted back at her brother.
‘Oh please. I know it was one of his schemes.’
‘No, it wasn’t. It was my scheme. Wolfy didn’t want to do it. I dragged him into it.’
‘And me,’ Curtis chipped in, then instantly regretted it.
‘Fuck off Tabs! Stop trying to protect him.’ More scraping of hooves and rumbling from the van.
I turned round and thought I saw the curtains twitch at number 27.
‘Boom, they’re awake. They’re moving around. I can hear them.’
‘Then go, Leon. I can’t go till this shit’s sorted out.’
‘What’s there to sort out, Boom?’ I’d decided to apply my ‘fuck it’ mentality. ‘What needs sorting? What? Come on, ’cos as far as I can tell, we don’t need your help. I love your sister and your sister loves me. So where do you come in? What the fuck does any of this got to do with you? I’m with Tabatha ... You want to be with me?’ I directed the question at Tabatha. I heard a thud on the back door of Leon’s van. Leon was still there, unable to abandon his friends.
The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series) Page 18