by J B Raphael
Rome
Driving in from the north, the other six hills were clearly visible, and in a strange way, majestic and beautiful. His route in to the city took him past the Coliseum which was smaller than he imagined, my lord, the things that went on there, he thought. Going through the inner busy part of the city, he started looking for a nondescript small hotel, and suddenly there it was, the ‘Angelo’. Just right, he thought, with a small car park at the front, he manoeuvered the car so that it could hardly be seen from the thoroughfare. The unexpected happened when he tried to check in, he was asked for his passport. Thinking quickly, he said, “I don’t have one, my car was stolen with my luggage in Rimini, but I will be paying cash,” he explained, “Oh, by the way, this is for you,” he passed the young man 50 euros, and winked.
The youngster’s eyes lit up as he took the note, “ Si signore, no problem!” he said, with a smile on his face, “ grazie,” he added and gave him the key to room 90.
Jon paid for the room four days in advance, 500 euros, room only. “Where can I do some shopping?” he asked Antonio.
“There is the market behind the hotel street, that’s the nearest place,” he explained.
He thanked the receptionist and went up to his room, he needed sleep and threw himself on to the double bed and almost immediately fell asleep. It was hot, three hours later he awoke in an extreme sweat. In his dreams he had re-lived the last few weeks, Helen, Viktor, Anna, Katti etc. Helen’s face once again appeared above the ship’s balcony rail and called for him to join her in the water. He rushed to the shower-only bathroom discarding his clothes quickly on the floor and was soon dousing himself in cold water. Out of the shower he wondered if he was still shown on television, he switched it on and laid back on the bed wondering if he was still news, on the ‘wanted’ list of Europe. He only had to wait about twenty minutes before the image appeared of his old persona, he looked nothing like the tele picture, he was pleased, and went to compare his now face to what he had seen, nothing fucking like it! he almost shouted at the mirror, nothing fucking like me! He rejoiced again, and danced around the room. He suddenly thought about money and he decided to have a ‘roll call’ of the cash that he had. $45,000 and 160,000 euros, in sterling that came to £182,000, he would have to tone down his spending a little. After 6 o’clock he ventured out to the car to retrieve his case from the boot, there was an older man on the reception desk who just nodded when Jon waved his room card on the way back in to the hotel with his large case. He hung his clothes in the wardrobe and caught sight of a bulge in his white linen jacket. Reaching in, he found $10,000 which he had forgotten as winnings at the casino, with Katti. ‘Now there’s a nice bonus’ he said, ‘very nice, and laughed. ‘Bless you Katti!’ Little knowing what her brothers had in store for him.
Yonkers - New York
“Sorry, sir,” the young lady florist said, “I’ve run out of roses.”
Novak said, “You’ve done what?” But he said it with a smile on his face, “what am I going to do?” He did a Groucho Marx walk around the shop, with his hand on his forehead, “Okay, okay,” he said, laughing, “just do me a mixed bouquet.” The girl laughed, thinking, he’s nuts!
The door of Mary-Lou’s house opened before he reached it, “Honee-e-e!” she said, and kissed him passionately, “don’t stand there, the neighbours can see!”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “they’ve got no idea that I visit here!” They laughed, and went inside to continue their passion.
“Are you staying tonight?” she asked.
“If you want me to I will,” he answered.
“Is the President, Obama?” she almost shouted, and started fondling his genitals.
“Hey, not yet baby, I’m starving,” he said, and started to explain the difference in the bouquet.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, and went to find a vase. After some very noisy love making, she suddenly blurted out, “I think we should get married.”
Novak’s eyes opened wide, staring at the ceiling, he said,” So do I.”
“I’m free tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he added, “thanks for asking!” They laughed, and sealed the proposal with more passion. Novak had thought about his position for a long time, the Captain was still reasonably young, it would be a long time before he would move upstairs. He made up his mind in a few seconds, he would ask for a transfer to a closer district to Yonkers, perhaps even Yonkers itself.
“Okay Novak,” the Captain said, without looking up from his paperwork, “what do you want to see me about, eh?” he asked.
“I’m getting married and want a transfer to Yonkers, or close by,” he said, quietly.
The Captain dropped his pen and looked up, open mouthed, “You want what?” the Captain shouted. Mel repeated his request again. “Why, for pete’s sake? you can be married and stay here,” the captain said.
“I don’t want to, my intended has got a beautiful house, and I live in a down-town pigeon coop. I want to get closer, it’s nothing personal Captain, I just want to move on with my life.”
“What about the Weston case?” the Captain asked.
“It’s gone stale,” Mel replied, “he’s gone to ground somewhere in Europe. Chief Inspector Lloyd’s intelligence have even found out that the Russian mafia are looking for him.”
“Okay, okay,” the Captain said, “put your request in writing and I’ll put it to the Commissioner’s office, but I don’t hold out much hope,” he added. He picked up his pen and went back to his paperwork.
Rome
Jon was settling into the Roman way of life, he had come to an arrangement with the hotel management to live there as a permanent guest at a very low rent per month. He had even found himself a girl friend, a Swedish student studying ‘Roman art of the Caesars’. Tall blonde with blue eyes, a typical Swedish beauty, she had been attracted to his fair hair and beard, little did she know what lurked underneath the disguise. she was lucky, she had no diamonds and lived off of her parents and a student grant from the University of Stockholm.
Jon had thoughts of going to London, but first he must see about his passport. How would he find someone to get him one? He decided to go to St Peters Square, around the cafés he could probably find the person to help him. He chose a pavement cafe in a corner at the bottom of the square. Looking around, he was glad to see the lack of CCTV cameras, in fact, Rome didn’t have many, just one or two near banks and important buildings. There weren’t even any speed cameras on the main thoroughfares, good! he mused, Orwell’s ‘1984’ hadn’t quite reached Rome, he thought again, but it will, one day! Sitting sipping his chianti he noticed two men lurking by a fountain, wearing black leather jackets. He guessed that they were Romanian possibly, and watched as they went up to a tourist with a map open, to ask him directions. As one kept him busy the other one easily picked his pocket very skilfully, he then passed the wallet on to a young girl who just walked on, not even faltering her pace. Bingo! he thought. The tourist walked on completely unaware that he had been robbed. Jon decided to follow the older looking map-man, who eventually sat on a low wall and mopped his brow with a dirty handkerchief. Jon sat on the wall about six feet away from him and said, “Do you speak any English?”
The man turned, and said nervously, “Yes, I used to live in Slough, but I was deported last year. Are you the police?” he asked.
“Good lord, no, I’m on your side, almost a fugitive,” he added, “I need a passport,” he confided, “do you know of a way I can get one?” he asked.
The man looked around, and said, “That could be expensive, do you have money?”
“Yes,” Jon answered.
“Meet me at 6 o’clock, but not here, over at the last table at the far cafe on the square. I will be with a friend,” the Romanian said.
When 6 o’clock came, Jon was seated at the table. He was suddenly confronted by three men, all obviously Roma’s, “You wish for a passport?” one of them said. He was huge, over 6ft and almost as br
oad. “We hef Irish or German only, and they are 5,000 euros,” he said, as they all sat down.
“Good,” said Jon, “I’ll go for Irish,” he answered. The big man held out his hand as if for the money, “No, my friend, cash on delivery I’m afraid.”
“Okay,” the big Roma said. Obviously another deportee from Slough. “But I will need a photograph, and no dark glasses. We will be here again at noon, tomorrow,” he said quietly, through his yellow teeth.
Jon was in the same seat at noon the next day and true to their word, the Roma’s were on time. The large man produced an Irish Republic passport. “What name do you want on this?” Jon had thought about this and came up with the name ‘Keiron Robert Pearce’. He wrote it on a small part of a wine list, and tore it off. “Okay, we will want the photograph today at 6 o’clock, here.”
Jon walked around the shops outside the square until he found a pharmacy, and inside, at the back was a photographic booth. It took only ten minutes for the image to drop through the slot, good he thought, whatever happened to Jon Weston? he laughed. Six o’clock arrived and so did the big Roma, only. “Do you have the money?” he asked
“Yes,” answered Jon.
“Give me the photograph, I will be back in 10 minutes,” said the Roma.
Jon ordered some chianti, his drink had just arrived, as did the passport. The big Roma pushed the passport across the table, under his huge hand. It was then that Jon realised that the other two ‘gentlemen’ were standing behind him. Kieron Robert Pearce opened the passport and looked at the main page containing his image. Fucking hell! he thought, this is perfect! How do they do it?
“Now, my friend, the money,” demanded the giant. Jon pointed to a magazine laying on the table. The Roma opened the pages to find 10 x 500 euro notes, he took the cash and put it his inside jacket pocket.
Offering his hand, Jon shook it and said, “It’s been nice doing business with you.”
“Goodbye,” they said simultaneously.
It had been 3 or 4 weeks since the last bulletin showing his old persona as Europe’s most wanted man, it seemed that it was old news and that he was yesterday’s chip paper. So, he decided to book a flight to London.
London
Having been on remand pending investigations, Lorna Harper was finally called to trial at the Old Bailey. The evidence was not as solid as C I Lloyd had originally thought, her barrister was good, very good, and pointed out that she did not know what Jonathan Weston was doing, she didn’t know that he had actually murdered the women in question. She thought that he had only robbed them. The trial lasted three days, and Lorna was found ‘not guilty’, she left court. She was broke, homeless and jobless, really just another victim of Jonathan Weston. Of course, she had perjured herself, and would have to live with that for the rest of her life. After all she hadn’t the power to stop him, and the thought of a wealthy life-style appealed to her bad side, and anyway she was a looker and would easily climb the ladder of well-being again. She phoned her sister in Brighton and told he that she had been found innocent, “I know,” her sister said, “it was on TV news.”
“Can I stay with you for a while, I’ve got nowhere to go, plee-e-ez?”
“Okay, but you must find a job and flat as soon as,” her sister said, “Jack likes his privacy and the flat isn’t that big.”
“Bless you,” Lorna almost shouted, “I’ll be down about tea time,” she added. “How much to Hove?” she said to the cab driver at Brighton station.
“What street?” the driver asked.
“Wordsworth street,” she replied.
“About £7.50, depending on the traffic,” he answered.
“Okay, yes please,” she replied. The cabbie put her roller case in the boot.
Rome
Jon went to the nearest travel shop to find out about dates and fares. Via Dublin looked good, any official eyes might not be looking at any passengers landing in London from there. He booked through Ryanair, who seemed to be the cheapest. Of course, he could afford schedule flights, but this way he thought he was safer. It had been many months since he had been to London, and hoped his trail was completely cold. Landing at Dublin airport, this would be the first real test of his new passport. He walked through passport control with no problems, the desk officer hardly looked at it, but his bag, only one, went through the x-ray machine. One bag was all he needed, he wanted to travel light. He crossed the concourse to book to Gatwick, also with Ryanair. His flight was in one hour’s time, just long enough to have a sandwich and a beer. His flight was on time at Gatwick, through passport control, on English soil, made his heart pound in his chest, but there again the desk controller hardly looked at it. He did notice a police presence at the customs ‘out’ door in to the main concourse, but they may or may not be looking for him. Jonathan Weston, definitely not Keiron Pearce, a blond man with a beard.
The next part of his visit would be tricky, the safety deposit box. He looked at the key in his hand and turned it over and over, £320,000 in there, just waiting for him! It’s just opening time at Barclays branch at Marble Arch, oh well! Shit or bust, he thought and crossed the street to enter through the automatic doors. Walking across to the safety box counter, he said to the desk clerk, “I’d like to access my box please,” he held up the key.
“Yes, sir,” the young man said, “please follow me.” He was led through a glass door, down a short corridor and shown in to the large heavy-doored room containing hundreds of boxes, all in numerical order. He soon found 0771 and pulled out the box from the aperture. He opened the box and there it was, 320 grand in euros and dollars. He loaded the lot into his bag, pushed the box back and locked it again. Walking out, he sighed a huge sigh of relief and thanked the desk clerk, handing him the key, “I won’t be needing it again,” he said and walked out. He hailed a cab and said, “Gatwick airport please, oh, and do you take US dollars?”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply, “it’s a fixed fare, $120.”
“Okay,” Jon said, “let’s go.” Arriving at the north terminal, he passed $150 to the driver.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, after hearing the magical phrase ‘keep the change’.
His cab journey from London had been a little fraught, traffic was thick but it was a comfortable trip. He sat back in the seat and watched the rolling hills of Surrey, were they called the North Downs? He thought it would be a long time before he would see them again. A very long time. Jon sat in the main hall thinking about his next move, should he fly direct to Rome, or go via Dublin again? No, it’s probably better to go direct, he thought, I’ll be well out of the area in a few hours.
Rome
His Ryanair flight landed on time at Rome airport, he had gone through passport control and customs without a hitch. Leaving the airport, he hailed a cab back to his hotel. He was greeted by Gretta with a passionate kiss. They went up to Jon’s room and did what Romans had been doing for centuries ....... “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” she almost shouted as she reached her orgasm.
They wandered from the hotel, hand in hand, down to the small shopping area and found a bistro, typically Italian, and sat at a corner table. They ordered canneloni and a bottle of chianti.
Yonkers - New York
The wedding was to take place at the Town Hall Registery office, Mel being Jewish and Mary-Lou being Christian, a religious service would not be possible in the time allotted. Either one would have to go through changing their religion and they felt that that wasn’t necessary. There were about 50 guests including Mel’s widowed mother who did nothing but cry! still, she enjoyed it! Mel had managed to get a transfer to New Rochelle, just a 30 minute drive away. His new life and bride had turned him into a new man, completely, “Thank you Lord,” he said quietly as the newly married couple walked past their family and friends outside the civic office and were covered in rice and confetti. Unfortunately, being the new boy on the job, and Mary-Lou being snowed under with law work, their honeymoon would have to wait, but that didn
’t matter, they were well engulfed with what newly-weds do, anyway!
St Petersburg
Vasili sat at his huge desk with six of his ‘agents’ almost standing to attention in front of him, (in Russian) “What the fuck is going on? Do you not care that my Anna has been killed, why have you not found this animal yet, and presented him to me to deal with? Does any of you know where he is?” They looked at each other nervously.
“WELL?” he screamed.
A brave young one said, “He was last seen in Stuttgart, where he changed his car, but has not been seen since.”
Vasili thought, if he went from Amsterdam to Stuttgart, he must have travelled south. “Okay,” he said, “I want that you should concentrate on Austria and through to Italy, get more agents on the trail, AND FIND THE WHORESON,” he screamed.
Vasili and his colleagues were well used to ‘dealing’ with people, many had suffered at their hands. A quick bullet in the head wasn’t their way, garrotting with piano wire and the use of blow torches were only some of the deaths that Jon could expect after being castrated, had his tongue torn out and his eyes and teeth removed.
London
Chief Inspector Lloyd received a call from Barclays Safety Deposit branch, telling him that the box of Jonathan Weston had been emptied and that they were sorry the police were not informed at the time because the young man on the desk was covering for the usual operative who had phoned in sick. “Wasn’t the instruction spread to all bank staff?” Lloyd asked.
“Yes,” said the bank man, “but the bank has a policy of rotating staff every four months and the meeting with the instruction hadn’t happened at that time.” The instruction being that Jon’s request was ‘stalled’ on an excuse, and the police called, but it all went wrong.
