Crime After Crime

by Crime After Crime (v5. 0) (mobi)

  He grinned and there was a snide edge to his tone. I got the impression that the two weren’t as close as Albie had implied when he’d briefed me. I didn’t respond. Albie never makes a secret of the fact that he swings both ways. I’ve noticed that some of the gang bosses are bi or gay like that Kray twin, though not the small fry who make a big thing about being macho and straight. Protest a bit too much some of them. Who cares now? But it was probably different twenty odd years ago. Closet doors then were kept firmly shut and some of the foot soldiers still have an old East End approach to where sex is concerned. Strictly missionary position stuff. Keep your vest on and the light out.

  I kept my expression impassive. When he saw no response was forthcoming, he shrugged and went on a different tack.

  “Is your mother still alive?”

  “She died last year.”

  He paused for a moment and seemed unsure what to say. He held up one hand and gave a slight nod.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “What was her name? I might have come across her back then. Your father too,” he added, “if he was one of the firm.”

  I didn’t want to speak about my mother. I’d managed to shut out those last dreadful days at the hospice but Albie had said it was important to get him to talk. It seemed this was the only way to open him up.

  “Her name was Sandra Bates,” I said slowly. “My dad’s name was Bernie Flaxton. They weren’t married. That’s why I am Gordon Bates.”

  He frowned.

  “I don’t recall him but I think I do remember your mum, Gordon. A pretty blonde girl with one of those big beehive hairdos. Good legs too. All the guys were after her. A bit like Barbara Windsor in those Carry On films but with a lot more class.

  “Definitely a lot more class,” I agreed.

  He thought for a moment then put out his hand. His grip was weak and I could feel brittle bones under the skin.

  “You’ll do sonny,” he said.

  * * *

  In the taxi he explained.

  “Since I got out I’ve been followed. It may be the filth. I don’t know. Or it could be someone from the old days. They know the stash was never recovered. That’s why I arranged the meet with you at the café. I chose the café for old times’ sake. It’s out of the way. It was where Albie and I planned some of the jobs in the early days. I made sure I wasn’t tailed here. It’s important nobody sees you with me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “If they don’t know about you, then they won’t be on your arse when you do the job?”

  I frowned. I was tired of playing around.

  “And what is this job I may be leading them to?”

  “It’s a safety deposit box in a Merchant Bank in the city. I want you to get what’s inside.”

  “I presume this box contains stolen goods.”

  He laughed and the coughing started again. When he recovered he mimicked my prissy tones.

  “Stolen goods! Too right sonny. Lighten up. Don’t be so uptight. You work for Albie so don’t come the innocent with me. Stolen goods! That’s a good one.”

  He laughed and wheezed again.

  “I can’t believe Albie didn’t tell you all this.”

  I kept silent. He touched my arm.

  “There’s absolutely no risk to you. I’ve got all the documentation here and the key. You’ll have all the documentation from me. It’s simple. I’ve had years to work it all out.”

  He looked at me closely.

  “You are just right for the job. Albie chose you well. Not only do you look the part, you are the part. A tight arsed little brief who looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Perfect.”

  “I wanted a respectable solicitor with no previous and you are the spit for it. It’ll be over in no time. Albie said you were a good brief with no whiff of anything dodgy so the bank’ll let you take it without a quibble. Albie will get his cut and so will you. And if you pull it off the slice will be a big one.”

  He took a bulky envelope from his breast pocket.

  “It’s all here – the documents, my authorisation and the key.”

  He paused.

  “Well, are you up for it?”

  I pretended to hesitate. One of my first lessons was never to seem too eager when you are dealing with old cons. He grasped my wrist.

  “This is the easiest money you’ll ever make lad. Even with the percentage to the fence, and Albie has plenty of tame ones in his pocket, we’re looking to clear at least three million. You and Albie stand to get a quarter for a few minutes’ work. He drives a hard bargain that bastard.”

  I took the package and checked it. It was all there. My passport to the vault. He held up the key to the safety deposit box and a deep velvet bag.

  “Put the lot in there. I’ll stay in the taxi outside. Then we’ll go back to my gaff.”

  He patted my arm. I pulled away. I don’t like to be touched.

  He grinned and did it again.

  * * *

  It worked. Back in his hotel room, he emptied the bag on the bed. On the dark duvet, the stones shimmered, caught in a shaft of light through a gap in the closed curtains. Diamonds do nothing for me but I can see why some people get addicted. He was one of them and he gently touched the pile and moved the stones around as they glittered in the light. I watched his expression. It was like getting a fix or savouring a prolonged orgasm. He closed his eyes and caressed the stones.

  “They’re perfect,” he breathed.

  I opened the whisky bottle I’d got on my way back. It was a strong malt. I poured him a glass. He gulped it and I gave him another. He fingered the diamonds again.

  “These are what kept me going all the years inside.”

  He took the bottle and reached for a second glass. I shook my head.

  “Not for me. I don’t drink spirits.”

  “You really are little Master Perfect. You’re the only sodding brief I’ve known south of Watford who doesn’t drink like a fish. Still you handled it well. No complaints.”

  I clicked on my mobile phone.

  “Just letting Albie know we’ve done it.”

  “No.”

  “He took the phone from me and clicked it off.”

  “Let’s sit back and talk. I’ve been having a good think about things while you were in the bank.”

  “He sprawled in the chair and peered up at me over the rim of his glass.

  “You do realise that Albie has not been entirely frank with you,” he began slowly.

  “Well he never told me about the diamonds or the deposit box if that’s what you mean.”

  He waved his hand dismissively.

  “No, not that. Haven’t you asked yourself why he picked you for the job?”

  “You said so yourself. You wanted a brief with no previous.”

  He shook his head,

  “No. Albie has plenty of tame of tame older briefs he could choose from. Why pick you? A rosy arsed sprog. Mind you, I’m not carping. You did a good clean job but it could have turned out tricky. I’d have thought about having someone with more experience if I’d been Albie. He is always very careful. That’s why they have never managed to put him away.”

  He drank again and I noticed his speech was becoming slightly slurred. After his years inside, the strong malt was having an effect. He brushed aside drops of sweat beginning to form on his forehead. He pointed to the pile of diamonds and ran his fingers through them again. The sunlight had gone and they now looked like a pile of dirty melting ice.

  “Suppose I suggested that we split these two ways. Just between the two of us. No cut for Albie.”

  He saw my expression as I stiffened.

  “Now wait. Think about it. You won’t get an opportunity like this again for a long time.”

  “Albie’s done a lot for me. He’s been like a father to me.”

  “But he’s not your father.”

  His voice was harsh and he was now sweating heavily.

  “He’s not your fathe
r,” he repeated.

  I was angry.

  “My real father left us when I was a little kid, He’s dead. He was a shit. I never knew him.”

  “Did your mother tell you he was a shit?”

  I shook my head angrily.

  “If it hadn’t been for Albie—”

  He reached out and gripped my arm.

  “That’s why I’m offering you half of this.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “The name on the documents I gave you. It wasn’t my real name.”

  He didn’t bother to pour another glass but drank straight from the bottle. He began to cough again and gasped for air. He slumped in the chair, his eyes fixed on mine.”

  “My real name is Bernie Flaxton.”

  I stepped back. I shook my head. I didn’t want to know.

  “It’s true,” he said, his words now becoming more slurred. “I didn’t leave your mother. It was Albie. He wanted her, always had since we were kids. Always wanted what I had. I’d always got the women he fancied since our school days. He was jealous of me. He fixed it so that I got caught after the job when I stole those stones. He was the one who killed the Hatton garden dealer not me. I was set up from the start. The filth didn’t catch up with me for a few days after the robbery so I had time to arrange the deposit box. He knew I’d stashed them somewhere but didn’t know where. He couldn’t do anything till I was out. I guess your mother was too frightened of him to ever tell you the truth. Probably kept quiet to protect you. It must have amused the bastard to send my own lad to collect the stones. Just the sort of thing that sick bastard would do, He’s a psycho you know. Always was. I bet he gets a real hard on knowing you’re here with me. Did he tell you to get rid of me once you’d got the stones?”

  He sat up and looked at me closely.

  “He did didn’t he? I was to have an accident once you had got them.”

  He coughed again and this time the spasm was worse. He struggled for breath. He pointed to the diamonds which sparkled as another shaft of sunlight came through the curtain. He reached out and pushed them towards me.

  “Here take the lot if you like. I owe it to you.”

  He closed his eyes as the spasm suddenly got worse. He clutched his throat and struggled for breath. He began to choke.

  I knelt beside him and put my arms round his shoulders and held him tight as he began to shake. There was nothing I could do. The nerve agent I had put into the whisky bottle was now acting quickly. I held him until he was still.

  I knelt there for a while and thought about the situation. Then I eased back into the chair and gently closed the eyes of the man who said he was my father. Did I believe him? There was always something a little too pat about the story of my father abandoning us and recently I had begun to wonder. The last time I had seen my mother at the hospice I think she had been trying to tell me something about my father. I’d wondered at the time but done nothing. She had begun to talk about when I was a baby but at that moment Albie had entered the room and she had stopped when he had put his hand on my arm and promised to take care of me. I think she was frightened for me as the old man had said. It could be true. It all made sense. I knew Albie always got a perverted thrill when I described in detail the hits he sent me on.

  Until now his open sadistic pleasure at my description of the kills had amused me. It made me feel superior to him. I had prided myself on being ice cold, dispassionate, a professional. The targets were just objects to be eliminated. It was just business for me. This time the buzz for him would be overwhelming. I wonder if he would have told me what I had done, that I was just a pawn in his twisted game. Another to be manipulated. I think he would. I doubt if he could resist the perverted pleasure it would have given him. It was true. Albie was a psycho. It was never just business with him.

  I looked down at the corpse. The face was peaceful. I felt no emotion as I wiped the spittle from the side of his mouth. I had never known him. He was a stranger and his death meant nothing to me. Even if what he said was true, I wasn’t going to get screwed up by that old Oedipus guilt. Guilt was for losers. But I thought of the years my mother had been forced to keep silent and put up with Albie for my sake. The anger welled up inside me as I realised the life she had really had and for a moment I had difficulty breathing. I stood and gradually regained control.

  I checked the whisky bottle. There was half left. More than enough for Albie.

  ~~~~~~~~

  About the author

  Don Nixon is a writer living in Shropshire. He has had a number of short stories and poems published in magazines and anthologies in the UK and North America. In 2004 he won the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook short story competition and this encouraged him to write. He has won various competitions for short fiction and poetry and for the past two years has won the formal poetry category at the International Poetry Festival at Lake Orta in Italy of which Carol Ann Duffy is the patron. He won awards at the Deddington Festival and at the Liverpool Festival last year. This year he won the Leeds Peace Poetry Prize, gained a short story award at the Steyning Literature Festival and had a short story published by the HG Wells Society. He has had two short stories published by Bridge House in the Scream and Going Places anthologies. Poems were published later this year by Chester University Academic Press and Descant Magazine, Toronto. A film company has shown an interest in a crime short story – Santa’s Grotto – he wrote for Tindal Street Press in the anthology Birmingham Noir. Later this year his novel in the Western genre – Ransom – will be published.

  The Weapon

  L. A. Wilson, Jr.

  Riley Jacks watched as the car barrelled through the red light like a bat out of hell.

  Through his tranquilizer-induced calm, his eyes struggled to keep up with its motion. It side-swiped a parked car, jumped the curb and headed straight for Myron Edelman; the man he’d been following.

  Edelman just stood there frozen, his mouth wide open as the car bore down on him. The car’s rear end clipped a fire hydrant sending it into a spin. The passenger-side slammed into a young woman and knocked her seven or eight feet through the air before she landed face down on the pavement. Its nose crunched into a street lamp and climbed up a foot or two right in Edelman’s face. A man who looked to be in his mid-twenties jumped out of the car in a dead run and disappeared into the traffic and the crowd.

  It was happening so fast Jacks’ mind couldn’t keep up with it. The guy had tried to run Edelman down. Jacks thought about shooting him, but he wasn’t sure Edelman was worth it, and by the time he made up his mind the driver was gone.

  Edelman was shaking in his shoes. He stood there staring at the woman’s body before backing away. Jacks started across the street after him but Edelman was walking away, slowly at first, then briskly.

  Jacks crossed the street. He would have to run to catch Edelman now.

  But it was the woman who caught his eye. She was lying on her stomach with blood smeared across her face. Jacks looked back toward Edelman; he was merging with the crowd, getting away. The tranquilizer held Jacks still, made him think. He practiced being a callus son-of-a-bitch, but this was way too much, even for him. He pulled his attention away from Edelman and knelt beside the woman. She was alive. She groaned and rolled to her side as he touched her shoulder.

  “Hey. You all right?” he asked.

  But she didn’t answer.

  Her eyes rolled across their sockets, open but perhaps unseeing. She might have been pretty at another time, but there was a hard edge to her looks. She had a large raw abrasion on her forehead where the pavement had chewed up her skin.

  “Hey, lady!”

  He leaned forward and grasped her shoulders. He didn’t see her move, but he heard the click.

  “Get away from me!” she hissed followed by a string of obscenities. There was a pistol in her hand – a pea-shooter, a two shot derringer anchored to her wrist with a spring-clip.

  T
he soft wail of sirens crept into his ears.

  “Get away from me,” she warned again as she dragged herself backwards.

  His eyes locked onto hers. He had seen enough killing to know when somebody was serious about it. The sirens were getting louder.

  “I’ll kill you, you sonuvabitch! I’ll kill you!”

  She dragged herself to her feet and staggered away through the crowd of astonished onlookers.

  Jacks looked around. Edelman was gone. The driver was gone. Nothing was going right for him. The sirens were almost there. He faded into the crowd too. He wanted another dose of medicine, but his pillbox was empty.

  He looked for a bar as he left the scene.

  Any kind of medicine would do.

  * * *

  Myron Edelman liked black women, not that there was anything wrong with that. He even married one. The problem was, according to his wife, she wasn’t the only black woman he liked, so he kept on cohabitating with one after another until he gave his wife the gift of syphilis for Christmas. That was more of a mistake than any man needed to make during one lifetime.

  So Angela Edelman wanted to be rid of Myron, that’s what she told Jacks. Get rid of him and everything that reminded her of him, except for his money. Jacks had no problem with that, because she was willing to pay whatever it took to accumulate enough details of Myron’s infidelities to give her and her lawyer a walk in the park.

  Myron hadn’t been difficult to find again. All Jacks had to do was to station himself in a poor Atlanta neighbourhood and wait for him to surface once more.

  According to Angela Edelman, her husband fancied himself to be a record promoter. He had made some money back in the seventies pushing Motown wannabees. He probably would have had more success if he hadn’t spent more time seducing his talent than developing it. Now he was searching for the next great rap star, but his appetites kept getting in his way.

  Jacks huddled down in an alley next to a dumpster where he could watch the activities in the building across the street. He pulled his coat up around his neck to ward off the early October chill.