Sidney looked down at the broken glass and then back at the pub doorway. War had gone.
He took out his phone to contact Leslie and saw that the battery was dead.
“Excuse me, Wiktor,” he said to the barman, who was cleaning up the broken glass. “You don’t have a charger for one of these confounded things, do you?”
Wiktor smiled. He dug in a cupboard and took out a box. He put it on the bar. It was full of mobile phone chargers.
“Take your pick,” he said.
Sidney smiled.
“You’re a life saver,” he said.
“Nie ma za co,” said Wiktor.
Sidney charged the phone and saw a stream of text messages from Tosh, and a couple of missed calls from Jim McGuffin .
***
War’s racing bike pulled away from the car park and headed off into the traffic. Leslie stood in a charity shop doorway, sheltering from the snowstorm and drinking a lukewarm cup of Starbucks coffee.
She had spotted War following her a few days before. She’d decided to give him the slip today and see what he got up to. It was inevitable that he would follow Sidney when he went on one of his early morning wanderings. Satan’s Souls weren’t the sharpest tools in the box, for sure.
Sidney walked out of the pub and Leslie whistled the Coronation Street theme to catch his attention. He crossed the road.
“Have you been following the greasers?” he said.
“Indeed,” she said. “I’ve had more edifying moments.”
“I was trying to phone you,” said Sidney. “Your brother has been trying to contact us. He says it’s urgent.”
“He hasn’t found the damned ring already has he?”
“No such luck. He wanted to tell us that the Satan’s Souls biker gang have put a contract out on you.”
“Oh, is that all,” said Leslie. “I thought it might be something of import.”
***
The Ride Of The Valkyries filled Sir Kenneth’s darkened study. He had changed into his SS uniform and loaded his Luger. He took a bottle of Scotch from a desk drawer, unscrewed the top and swigged the whisky straight from the bottle. Swigged. It was his first alcoholic drink in years. It burnt. It felt dirty. It felt good.
His iPhone buzzed. He answered it.
“Sidney,” he said. “About bloody time!”
He waited for a moment and then hung up. He picked up his landline.
“Rossiter,” he said. “Contact Laurel and Hardy. Tell them I’ll need them tomorrow. I’m going to teach Sidney Hawkins a valuable lesson.”
***
An ageing faux folk duo were massacring Van Morrison’s Moondance but the crowd of Japanese tourists in King John’s Tavern in Acton were lapping it up. McGuffin walked up the bar and tapped Leslie on the shoulder.
“What’s wrong with your bloody iPhone?” he said.
“I forgot it. Left it at home. Have you been trying to get in touch, darling?” she said.
She kissed McGuffin on the cheek.
“Me and half of the world.”
She patted his arm.
“I know. Thank you for your concern. I know you really care. How and where’s your five foot Pole?”
“Anna’s fine. She’s working at The Maudsley Hospital today. Apparently some big–shot American movie star was sectioned this morning. It looks like he lost the plot and thinks he’s Batman.”
“Pow!” said Leslie as she punched McGuffin in the arm.
“Anyway, she wants us all to meet tomorrow. Anna says she has a plan to get us all out of this mess,” said McGuffin.
“Really? Resourceful girl,” said Leslie.
“Oh yes, and full of secrets, I reckon,” said McGuffin.
“Tell me more. I’m all Mick Hucknall,” said Leslie.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow at the South Bank,” said McGuffin.
“Are you sure you won’t be able to get your hands on the ring?”
“I’m sure. I know where it is but the owner has just been given a top job in the American government and his security will be too much even for me.”
“Not that orange clown?!”
“The self–same. Apparently he loves all that Nazi stuff.”
“It doesn’t exactly surprise me. Though even Hitler had a better haircut.”
The band left the stage and a short comedian wearing a convict’s uniform came on.
“A little poetry,” he said. “There was a young woman from Sydney/ Who liked it right up to her kidney/ Then a bloke from Quebec/ Put it up to her neck./ He had a big one/ Didn’t he?”
Nobody laughed.
There were a couple of chuckles.
“Okay,” he said. “The band you’ve been waiting for Billy Oblivion and the Legendary DNA Cowboys!”
A raggle–taggle band came onstage. The singer wore red leather and had died red hair.
“Don’t you think the singer looks a lot like Ziggy Kowalski?” said McGuffin.
Leslie laughed.
“Yes, but not as healthy looking,” she said.
***
“It must be the weather keeping people away,” said McGuffin.
He was sat with Anna and Leslie in the foyer of The Royal Festival Hall. A string quartet were playing Vaughan Williams’ The Lark Ascending. McGuffin thought they were pretty good but the Friday evening crowd was scarce. Outside a blizzard battered the window.
McGuffin was stretching his aching legs, sipping a half of Guinness. Leslie was halfway through a bottle of Chardonnay. Anna was drinking a cappuccino and looking through the day’s edition of The Evening Standard.
“It’s a dark, strange world but just listen to the music. Is it Vivaldi?” said Anna.
“Yes, this is my favourite,” said McGuffin
“Oh yes, Spring. I like spring.”
They kissed.
Leslie lifted her glass.
“To success,” she said.
“And about bloody time too,” said McGuffin.
McGuffin saw Sidney come through the door, wiping his sweaty brow and carrying a big black suitcase.
“What are you drinking?” said McGuffin.
“A half of London Pride will do the trick for now,” said Sidney. “I need to keep my head clear.”
“I’ll get them,” said Leslie.
She went over and ordered the drinks.
“So what’s the plan?” said Sidney.
McGuffin chuckled.
“You’re meeting Sir Kenneth,” he said. “He thinks you have the ring.”
“But I don’t,” said Sidney.
“No, but we have the fake and Anna has a plan,” said Leslie, putting down a tray of drinks.
“And what about Satan’s Souls?” said Sidney. “You know what they say about frying pans and fires.”
“Well, that’s the thing. You’re meeting Sir Kenneth in The Old Iron Horse,” said Anna.
“And your plan is?” said Sidney.
“Well, first off, I’m glad you brought the fancy dress,” said Anna, giving the suitcase to McGuffin.
***
Sir Kenneth used a napkin to shine his expensive cufflinks. He contemptuously sniffed the air in the rundown bar that Sidney had dragged him to. He tried to ignore the heavy metal that was playing but it was proving a tad difficult. He drank his water from the bottle, avoiding the dirty glass that had been placed in front of him. He assumed that the bar’s red lighting was meant to mask its grubbiness but it wasn’t succeeding. Two massive ex–SAS bodyguards with buzz cuts sat either side of Sir Kenneth. They both wore sunglasses identical to Sidney’s which quickly confirmed his decision to change his current appearance.
Sidney sipped his third brandy, looking smug.
“I must admit,” said Sir Kenneth “You’ve surprised me. You really have. I didn’t think you had it in you. Well, not anymore. I thought you were stringing me along. Leading me on a wild goose chase. ”
“Or a wild goose–step chase?” said Sidney.
He chuckled. Sir Kenneth didn�
��t.
“In fact, Leslie should be here with the ring any moment,” said Sidney.
He drained his drink and crunched the ice that remained.
“It’s a life of surprises, Sir Kenneth. Excuse me. I need to take a leak, as the colonials say.”
He got up and stormed through the graffiti–stained toilet door. As soon as it closed, a bald behemoth stepped in behind him.
“You must be on a fucking suicide trip,” said Big Bernie.
He pushed Sidney against the wall. “With what your wife did to my sister, I can’t believe you’d come into my local.”
Sidney smirked.
“Don’t you worry, young man,” he said. “You’ll be getting what you’re owed and more.”
“What are you talking about? Where is your fucking wife?”
“She should be outside just about now, actually,” said Sidney.
He pointed into the bar and stepped back into the toilets.
It all happened in a matter of minutes. Big Bernie turned and saw Leslie walk into the pub. She held out the fake Totenkopfring and walked towards Sir Kenneth who stood up to greet her. As she drew close Hattie rushed towards Leslie holding a claw hammer. Leslie stepped back, holding her hands up. The security guards stepped in, talking hold of Hattie. Bernie ran out of to the toilets screaming and waving a ball hammer. Leslie climbed under a table as McGuffin , dressed as one of Stan’s Soul’s, crashed through the pub window riding one of the Hell’s Angel’s bikes. He threw a Molotov cocktail behind the bar and it burst into flames.
“Frying tonight,” shouted McGuffin.
One of the bodyguards, smashed into Hattie, knocking her against the bar. She head–butted him, bursting his nose open. Big Bernie slammed the other bodyguard in head with his hammer. Sir Kenneth shot Hattie with his luger. McGuffin throttled Sir Kenneth with a thick bike chain and rode out of the pub dragging Sir Kenneth behind him.
Leslie shot a biker and Sidney shot one of Sir Kenneth’s security guards.
“Hold on,” said Leslie.
She pulled out a Molotov cocktail from her bag and gave it to Sidney.
“Two ticks,” she said.
She lit Sidney’s and he threw it across the room. Leslie did the same.
They sneaked out of the pub, laughing, as it burst into flames.
“Oh, it’s nice to get out of the house, once in a while, isn’t it?” said Leslie.
“Yes, nothing domestic about this!” said Sidney
They headed down a dark alley and saw McGuffin and Anna loading the motorbike into the back of a removal van. Sir Kenneth’s corpse had been dumped in a skip. His trousers were around his ankles revealing his swastika boxer shorts.
“Any room for us,” shouted Leslie.
“Hop in,” said McGuffin.
Anna got into the driver’s seat while Leslie and Sidney got into the back of the truck with McGuffin.
“I’m really enjoying being a bad guy for a change,” said Anna. “Maybe I’ll carry on with this life of crime.”
“Carry on,” said Sidney. “Carry on robbing!”
His yakking laugh echoed inside the van.
The End
Other Works
If you liked Too Many Crooks then you might be interested in the following work also published by Near To The Knuckle.
Tales From The Longcroft Estate Volumes 1,2 & 3
Darren Sant
A Dish Served Cold
B R Stateham
An Eye For An Eye
Paul Heatley
Back To The World
Jim Shaffer
Paladins
Various Authors
Marwick’s Reckoning
Gareth Spark
One Day In The Life Of Jason Dean
Ian Ayris
Bad Luck City
Matt Phillips
Down In The Devil Hole
David Jaggers
Rogue
An Anthology
Gloves Off
An Anthology
Too Many Crooks - Paul D Brazill Page 9
