“Por supuesto!”
“Sounds convincing to me,” said Antoine.
He chuckled and stepped back into the shadows.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Solitaire heard the car start up and she stepped back into the street. She hoped wasn’t digging herself in too deep with Katherine Howard. Still, she was looking forward to a trip to Europe. She needed a break from New York City. A sedate trip around Europe would suit her just fine.
A Snitch In Time
London, England
A bunch of young guttersnipes had started a bonfire on a piece of waste ground near The Royal Oak pub. The pub had been boarded up for a long time after an arson attack and was stained with graffiti and peeling posters for punk rock gigs. The youths were guzzling White Lightning cider and barbecuing stolen sausages, using an upturned Tesco shopping trolley to cook them on.
Ronnie and Jola stepped out of the darkness and walked towards ‘Baghead’ Berry, who was drinking cheap Russian champagne and dancing to a Happy Monday’s song that leaked out of a battered old ghetto blaster.
“Friggin hell,” said Baghead. “It’s ‘Scott and Bailey’.”
He made an exaggerated bow, staggered and fell backwards into a pyramid of crushed beer cans.
“Who are ‘Scott and Bailey’?” quizzed Jola.
“Dunno. Maybe a firm of solicitors,” said Ronnie.
“Naw, it’s not. It’s ‘Burke and Her’,” said a fat biker that was sat on an upturned beer barrel, wearing a Viking helmet. “Get it?” He stuffed a sausage into his mouth.
‘Baghead’ giggled.
“Naw,” said Baghead. “Don’t get it.”
Baghead staggered to his feet.
“What can I do you for Sergeant Burke,” he asked.
“Not a lot. I just wanted see if you’d found out any more about ‘The Black Crow’?”
“Oh, yes,” said Baghead. His eyes widened, his voice softened. He waggled his fingers. “I’ve heard whispers. You know what they say? What they say about ‘The Black Crow’? They say she’s … she’s a … she’s a … spook.”
He flapped his arms, spun around and collapsed in a heap, giggling to himself.
“Spare us the cutter, spare us the cutter,” whispered ‘Baghead’. He farted loudly, closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Ronnie leaned over his body and checked him for any sign of life.
“He’s out for the count,” he said.
A firework exploded and filled the sky with colours, then another.
“Well that wasn’t exactly useful,” he said. “Let’s go for a drink.”
“Okay,” said Jola. “But what exactly is a spook?”
“I’d tell you but it might put the willies up you,” said Ronnie.
“Is that a good thing?” asked Jola.
“Oh, it has its moments,” said Ronnie.
Madrid, Spain
Solitaire stood outside The Quiet Man pub on Calle de Valverde — a faux Irish theme pub once beloved of Madrid’s ex–pat community and the tourists and businessmen that swarmed the city.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she said as she saw the graffiti–stained metal shutters pulled down over the windows and a ‘Closed Until Further’ notice on the front door.
She looked around and saw a saggy old man leaning over the balcony of one of the flats opposite. He was smoking a cigarette, swaying to the distant sounds of Salsa.
“¿Cuándo sucedió esto?” said Solitaire.
“About a year or so ago,” said the old man, with an Australian accent.
Solitaire shook her head.
“Things change, eh?” said the Australian. He sucked on his cigarette.
“Yeah,” said Solitaire. “Not always for the best. I was hoping to meet someone here. An old mate of mine. Used to drink here eight nights out of seven.”
The Australian’s piercing blue eyes surveyed Solitaire for a moment.
“Maybe you should head off to The James Joyce Pub. Have a gander there. Most of The Quiet Man’s former clientele congregate there these days.”
He finished his cigarette and lit another one.
“Where’s that?” said Solitaire. “I haven’t been out and about in Madrid for years.”
“Calle Alcala 59,” said the Australian. “Not far. Just round the corner, really. Looking for anyone in particular?”
“Yes,” said Solitaire. “Though he’s not that particular, from what I hear.”
The Australian chuckled.
“You’ll be Antoine Solitaire’s daughter, then?” he said.
“And you’re Liam?”
“Non other than. Hold on a moment and I’ll welcome you into my humble abode.”
Solitaire walked toward the apartment block. Heard the door buzz and stepped into a darkened hallway.
London, England
The early evening crowd had eased out of The Essex Arms, leaving only the usual suspects – Ronnie Burke and Leapy Lee Winspear. They were both dressed in identical black, knock–off, Adidas track suits and trainers. Ronnie was waning and sleepy. He was almost ready to head off home and watch East Enders, but Lee had started on the shorts and was catching his second wind. Ronnie started surfing the net on his Smartphone.
“What I don’t understand is why bloody students need a union anyway?” said Lee. “They don’t bleedin’ work, do they? Just sit at home all day flickin’ the bean to Owen Jones videos, signin’ online petitions and eating tofu.”
“Yeah, fair point,” said Ronnie, stifling a yawn.
Ronnie tapped his Smartphone and frowned. “You know, there’s an American bird on YouTube who posts videos of herself playing with toys,” he said. “And she made $24 million last year in advertising revenue. Can you imagine that?”
Lee shook his head. Dandruff flecked his shoulders.
“We’re in the wrong game,” he said.
“Too right we are,” said Ronnie. “How did she come up with that daft idea anyway? I’ve been racking my brains for a get rich scheme for years.”
“She was in the right place at the right time,” said Lee.
“Anyway, most of these get rich schemes come a cropper.”
“True. True. Did I ever tell you about Trevor Spinks?” said, Lee.
Ronnie yawned. “Maybe,” he said.
He grunted and continued to tap his Smartphone.
“Well, here’s a yarn,” said Lee. He took a gulp of his pint of Murphey’s and a sip of his Jim Beam chaser.
The music seemed to fade, the lights dimmed and Lee’s eyes sparkled as he spoke.
“You do remember Clever Trevor?” he said.
“How could I forget him?” said Ronnie. “A perennial fuck up, that bloke.”
“Which is how he ended up lumbered with Tariq.”
“Tariq Ali?” said Ronnie, looking up from his phone.
“Yeah, but not that one,” said Lee.
“Which one, then?” said Ronnie.
“The wrestler,” said Lee.
“That’s the one I meant,” said Ronnie.
He grunted and went back to his phone.
“So, Trevor was a wrestler?” said Ronnie.
“Well, after a fashion. Sort of,” said Lee. “But not really.”
Ronnie harrumphed.
“So, that would be a no, then?” he said.
“Yes, it would be a no. But there were plenty of people who believed him when he told them he’d worked with Jacky Pallo, Mick McManus, Kendo Nagasaki, and even Giant Haystacks,” said Lee.
“I heard he was the nice guy, Giant Haystacks. In real life, that is. Even though he played the bad guy in the ring. And that Big Daddy was a wife beating twat,” said Ronnie.
“Well, thanks for that information, mate,” said Lee. “Made my bloody day, that has. And now back to my story.”
“Go on then,” urged Ronnie. He finished his pint of Carling, caught Donna the stumpy barmaid’s eye and tapped his empty glass. She nodded and poured him anoth
er pint.
“So, Trevor and Tariq set themselves up as a tag team. Called themselves Tn’T.”
“Very clever, that,” said Ronnie.
Donna picked up a remote control and turned on the television. The East Enders theme played.
Lee harrumphed.
“Yeah, so, they were doing quite well for themselves, supplementing a copper’s paltry income and the like. But then they did a charity show in Doncaster and it all went to pot,” he said.
“It’s grim up north,” said Ronnie.
“Well, it was a lot grimmer when Tariq got hammered and told Trevor he was gay,” said Lee.
“I thought Tariq was a Muslim? Didn’t drink or do … that sort of thing,” said Ronnie.
“Yes, that was a bit of change in direction. Turned out he was so far in the closet, he was in Narnia,” said Lee.
“So, what did Trevor do?” said Ronnie.
“Oh, he kept shtum until one night when he got drunk and told the world and it’s mother down the boozer,” said Lee.
“What happened to Tariq?” said Ronnie.
“He moved to Brighton. Him and Trevor are running a wine bar there. They have live music and the like. Jazz, blues, folk ...”
“Well, you know what they say,” said Ronnie. “There’s nowt as queer as …”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Lee. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Ronnie’s Smartphone buzzed and he tapped the screen. He smirked as he read the text message.
“Well, Lee,” he said. “It looks like I’m now officially on sick leave.”
“Jammy twat,” said Lee. “How did you angle that?”
“Ours is not to reason why, ours is to do or die,” said Ronnie.
He tapped the side of his nose.
“Which means?” said Lee.
“It’s time to get another round in,” said Ronnie. “Medicinal purposes only, of course.”
***
The early morning had been a bright as a brandy Alexander but the day soon faded to grey when heavy rainfall ripped the sky open. The gift shops on Oxford Street quickly changed their signs so that umbrellas that were once a pound now cost a fiver and Jacqui King chuckled. She didn’t care about the rain, though. She stalked the streets of Soho in her red leather dress and PVC raincoat. Her black Jimmy Choo shoes click–clacked on the rain soaked pavement. She was oblivious to the elements. She was on a mission. She was in control.
A group of soaked, babbling Italian students stepped in front of her as she walked down Old Compton Street. Some of them seemed to be crying. Jacqui pushed through them and turned onto Dean Street.
She stood in front of The French House and took out her iPhone. She dialled a number. A moment later she heard the sounds of the Star Wars theme coming from inside the bar, followed by shouts of ‘Off! Off! Off!’ A red–haired and red–faced American rushed out of The French House. Jacqui chuckled.
“I told you when we met that you had to switch your phone off before you went in there,” she said. “They have their traditions you know.”
The gangling, red–haired American stood in front of her, exasperated. His baggy Sonic Youth t–shirt was stained down the front.
“What sort of bullshit is this place?” asked Mikey Howard. “You can’t use a cell phone, there’s no WiFi and they don’t even serve beer in pints. Just these Euroweenie little glasses.”
Jacqui took him by the arm. “Vive la difference! Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you somewhere more colonial friendly.”
A few minutes later, they were sat in Tiger trying to hear each other over the sounds of U2’s The Joshua Tree, which Mikey had deemed ‘rad’. Jacqui sipped her large glass of Blossom Hill while Mikey struggled over a pint of Boddingtons.
“Is this more too your liking?” said Jacqui.
Mikey shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said. “Sorry for being an asshole. I guess I can’t keep up with all of this drinking. I know writers are supposed to be heavy drinkers but I …”
He paused as he felt a sharp pain in his thigh.
Jacqui smirked as she stopped pushing the knitting needle into Mikey’s flesh and pushed it back into her bag.
“It’s only a little prick,” she said.
“What was that?” said Mikey.
“Probably an insect,” said Jacqui.
She moved closer.
“So, tell me about this writing of yours,” she said.
***
“You do know that statistically, you’re more likely to die of a heart attack in bed than die in a plane crash,” said Jola.
They were stood outside Victoria Coach Station wearing identical tattered parkas, trying to look homeless. The snow had turned to sleet. Jola and Ronnie were both puffing away on cigarettes.
“Well, both of my parents died of heart attacks, but I’m still not flying,” said Ronnie.
“So, you’re an … orphan too,” said Jola.
Ronnie looked uncomfortable.
“Only joking,” he said. “They’re both retired. They live in Spain.”
“That’s a sick joke,” said Jola.
“Sorry,” said Ronnie. “So, your parents are dead?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
She looked at her Rolex and tapped the face. “We have fifteen minutes before the coach leaves, so you have time for another cigarette and I’ll get some supplies for the night.”
“Such as?”
“Sandwiches... Vodka. I’ll for sure need a drink to tolerate a thirty hour bus journey.”
“You can’t drink booze in the coach station,” said Ronnie.
“I have my ways,” said Jola. She winked and headed off into Costcutter.
Ronnie took out his smartphone and phoned Niki.
“Alright boss. Yeah, much as I enjoy all this ‘cloak and dagger’ stuff and enjoy my free holiday it wouldn’t hurt if I had the name of my contact,” he said.
Niki replied.
“Okay,” said Ronnie. “But do I need to wear a pink carnation when we meet?”
Niki replied.
“Oh, I could possibly plant it there, boss. The sun does shine there of occasion.”
Jola returned laden with plastic carrier bags. They took the seats at the back of the coach station.
She sipped from a bottle of Diet Coke that she’d spiked with Finlandia vodka.
“Well, this is going to be fun,” she said.
“I’ll cheer you up by telling you a couple of jokes,” said Ronnie.
Jola didn’t look too impressed with that idea.
“What’s the difference between a pickpocket and a peeping Tom?”
“I don’t know.”
“A pickpocket snatches watches.”
Jola shrugged.
“A centurion walked to a bar and asked for a martinus. The barman said, ‘Don’t you mean martini?’, and the centurion said ‘No just the one’.”
Jola looked in pain.
“It’s awful,” she said.
“The seven dwarves were all in the bath together feeling Happy,” said Ronnie. “Then Happy got out and they all felt Grumpy.”
“I don’t get it,” said Jola.
“Well Happy did.”
She forced a smile.
“Tell me another one. Maybe the drink will help.”
She swigged from the cola bottle and offered it to Ronnie. He shook his head.
“Two prostitutes were talking on a street corner. One said to the other, ‘Have you ever been picked up by the fuzz?’ and the other one said, ‘No but I’ve been swung around by the tits’.”
He grinned.
Jola said nothing.
“Suit yourself,” said Ronnie. He looked out of the window. The streetlights were smudged by the rain.
“My mother was a prostitute,” said Jola.
“Oh, shit,” said Ronnie. “Sorry, I was just …”
Jola winked.
“Only joking,” she said.
“Ha!” I
asked for that.
He turned to Jola.
“What happened to your parents?” he said.
“A car crash. On New Year’s Day. They were heading back from a ski trip in the mountains.”
“How old were you?”
“I was a teenager.”
“Do you have any other family? Brothers or sisters?”
“A younger sister, yes. Greta. She’s my twin, actually.”
“The good twin or the bad twin?”
“A little of both,” said Jola.
She smiled. “I also have a husband.”
Ronnie grimaced.
“Is that another sick joke?”
Jola smiled. “It’s not a joke, I’m afraid.”
She rubbed her ring finger.
“We’re separated, though,” she said.
“Oh. What does your husband do?” said Ronnie.
“He’s a gangster.”
“Oh, really?” said Ronnie, smirking.
“Oh, yes. Very really. Bronek is a very violent and very dangerous gangster.”
“Could you pass me that vodka?” said Ronnie.
***
The early morning train was cramped and Jacqui ignored the giggling French teens cluttering the aisle. She focused on the man that sat across from her. He was the archetypal bit of rough, broken nose and scar running down the side of his face. Just her type. The train journey to London was going to be a long and tedious drag, but maybe this brute could liven things up. She’d decided to spare the American the night before, thinking he may come in useful another time. She tapped her shiny black Jimmy Choo shoes together to get the brute’s attention. When he didn’t respond, she kicked his shin.
He turned and glared at her.
“Co?” he said.
Oh, goody, thought Jacqui. A ‘foreigner’.
“Your zip is undone,” she said, looking at his crotch.
“Co?” said the brute again.
He looked into his lap, sighed and looked back at Jacqui.
“It is not,” he said.
“Well, it will be, if you’re a good boy,” she said. “Or if you’re a very bad boy.”
She winked, got up from her seat and headed off down the aisle, stopping in front of the toilet door. She turned to the brute and blew him a kiss. Waited for him to get up from his seat and went into the toilets.
Big City Blues - Paul D Brazill Page 7
