‘I’d like to say the same thing,’ he said, laughing. ‘But you know how it is.’
‘I do.’ I’d used Sid in the past. As well as second-hand furniture, he also bought and sold electronic equipment, DVDs and computer games. And that brought in a certain type of clientele. It made him a valuable source of information, not that it was necessarily easy to get it out of him. I was here because he’d also developed a line in local sporting memorabilia. If I was selling a rugby league medal, this was the only place I’d go. I told him what I wanted.
‘I’d rather buy some of your dad’s stuff off you, Joe.’
I shook my head. We’d had this conversation several times before. My dad had played for the club before the start of their glory days, but his medals and shirts were still in demand. His record spoke for itself. He’d been a club legend. Sid had never asked for any of my stuff, not that I had much to offer. All I had to show for my rugby career was a handful of games before my knee exploded on a pitch far from home. But I knew how I’d feel if I lost a medal. It wasn’t right. I gave him what I had. Aimee-Leigh had described the tobacco tin the medal had been stored in.
Sid sniffed. ‘It’s obviously a pretty rare piece you’re looking for.’
I held my hand up to stop him. I had no idea if he was spinning me a line or not, but I wasn’t interested. ‘If you’ve got it, we need to sort something out.’
‘Not seen it, mate. Honestly.’
I tried a different tactic. ‘Do you know Jimmy Dench?’
He nodded slowly. ‘His mates call him Jimmy Jazz. You should keep clear of that lad. Nothing but trouble.’
It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. ‘It’s his grandad’s medal,’ I said. ‘He’s disappeared with it.’
Sid shook his head. ‘Little bastard.’ He took another hit on the asthma pump. For all his dubious ethics, I knew Sid was a decent bloke. His love for that side of the business was genuine. His mobile started to sound. He told me he needed to take the call. ‘I’ll ring you if I hear anything.’
Aimee-Leigh had also given me her brother’s address. He lived in a bedsit not far from Sid’s shop. I decided to walk, needing time to think. Talking about my dad and rugby league always made me feel this way. I wasn’t bitter. Not now. I’d spent too long blaming everyone else for my misfortunate, but mainly my dad. I’d thought he didn’t understand my anger and resentment, but I’d eventually come to understand it all too well. My dad had given me a job in his pub as his way of making sure I didn’t let my bitterness fester. But it had been a hard lesson to learn at the time. I used to think he didn’t care, but it had been nothing of the sort. Life sometimes deals you a shit hand. You have to learn how to play it to the best way you can.
Looking at the row of buzzers, Jimmy’s bedsit was one of ten in the house I was stood outside of. Jimmy’s bedsit was on the ground floor. I stepped away from the door and attempted to look in through the window. The curtains were closed, so I moved back to the buzzer, pressed and waited. I didn’t get an answer, so I moved on to his neighbour.
A voice crackled through the intercom. ‘Is it the police?’
I’d been caught off guard. I wondered why the police were expected, but was happy to see where things led. ‘Can I come in?’ I said, ignoring the question.
A man was waiting for me in the hallway as I closed the door behind me. He was young, most likely a student. I held my hands up. ‘I’m not the police,’ I said to him. There was no way I going to misrepresent myself to him. Not if the police were likely to turn up at any moment.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
I couldn’t blame him for being wary of me. ‘I’m looking for Jimmy,’ I said. ‘His sister sent me.’ I looked at Jimmy’s front door. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Only to say hello to, really.’
His accent was generic home counties. ‘Are you mates?’
He looked down at the floor. I took that as my answer. ‘He’s not a great neighbour?’
‘Not really.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘A couple of days ago. His sister came round and they argued. I remember it because I was trying to work on an essay. All I wanted was a bit of peace and quiet so I could concentrate.’
‘What happened?’
‘I gave him a knock and asked if the noise could be kept down a bit, but his sister answered. Frankly, she was quite rude to me.’
Having met Aimee-Leigh, I didn’t doubt it. I peered at Jimmy’s door again and noticed the marks around the lock where someone had tried to force an entry. I walked across to it for closer for a look, but didn’t touch. ‘When did this happen?’ I said, turning back to the neighbour.
‘Last night.’
‘Didn’t you speak to him about it?’
He looked down at the floor again. I understood. He hadn’t wanted to get involved in any trouble. ‘What happened?’
‘There was a lot of shouting. I saw two men leave after I heard him say he’d sort it.’
‘Sort what?’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned away from me. ‘You know what he is.’
‘Why don’t you spell it out for me?’
‘He’s a drug dealer.’
I returned to my car and checked my mobile for messages, getting a clearer picture of what was going on. Sid had already done the business for me. He’d found out that Jimmy had sold some items in a shop on Holderness Road. I headed straight there, knowing I owed Sid a favour for his help. All I could think about was my dad’s old team-mate sitting in his chair watching shitty daytime television. It was no way to live. I wondered if my dad would be doing the same if he was still alive. I hoped not.
The shop was owned by a woman called Bettina and she had the items waiting for me. Jimmy had sold her some DVDs, a handful of computer games and a Nintendo console.
‘That’s it?’ I said to her.
She nodded. ‘That’s it.’
‘I assume you took an address from him?’
She folded her arms and looked at me expectantly. ‘I did.’
I took out a £20 note and passed it over. She took the paperwork out of her pocket and passed it to me. It was a fair swap. I glanced down at it, knowing it was close-by.
‘It’s his mate’s house,’ she said. ‘Another scumbag. Mark Whitaker.’ She said it with disdain. ‘Wiz to his friends.’
Sometimes it’s that easy. I pulled up a hundred yards away from the house, watched and watched. The street was quiet with just a handful of cars passing by. The house I wanted was in the middle of a long line of terraced properties. It was an unremarkable area. An elderly lady made her way past me pulling a shopping trolley behind her.
I wasn’t sure how long I was prepared to wait, but the decision was made for me when I saw a teenager enter the house. He didn’t match the photograph I’d seen of Jimmy, so I assumed it was Wiz. I got out of my car, walked over, knocked on the door and waited. Eventually, the teenager I’d just seen enter the house opened up. He stared at me like I was a piece of shit.
‘I need a word with Jimmy,’ I told him.
‘I don’t talk to the pigs,’ he said, about to shut the door on me.
I stopped him with my foot. ‘I’m not the police.’ I pushed the door back. ‘And I’m not going anywhere until I’ve spoken to him.’
The teenager squared up to me. I wasn’t in the mood for a kid pretending to be a gangster. A shove to the chest and I was past him and walking into the living room. The curtains were still closed, the room dark. The only light came from the large television screen in the corner, hooked into some kind of console, a war game in progress. Jimmy was hunched over with a controller, firing at the screen. I walked over to the television, bent down and unplugged it.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Jimmy shouted, jumping up.
I told him to sit back down and shut his mouth. ‘We need to have a chat.’
His mate walked into the room and pointed at me. ‘Who the fuck’s this?’
‘I’ve been speaking to your sister,’ I said to Jimmy. ‘About your granddad’s medal.’
Jimmy threw the controller down and mumbled something I didn’t catch. I turned to his mate and told him to put the kettle on. ‘Black with one sugar, Wiz.’ He was surprised I knew his name, but he did as he was told. Once he was out of the room, I closed the door behind him and opened the curtains. Jimmy shielded his eyes from the sunlight. I got my first proper look at him. His face was covered in cuts and bruises.
‘Who did it?’ I said, pointing to the damage.
‘No one.’
‘Walked into a door, did you?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Your sister isn’t best happy with you.’
He snorted. ‘Fuck her.’
‘What about your granddad and his medal?’
Jimmy’s mobile rang. He turned away from me and put it to his ear, mumbling something to the caller. I took my chance to look around the room. The tobacco tin Aimee-Leigh had described to me was on top of a bookcase. I quickly grabbed it, though it didn’t matter, as Jimmy was engrossed in his call. I opened it and stared at the medal. It was exactly how I remembered my dad’s. I ran my fingers around the lining of the tin until I found what I was looking for. I pushed it back and pulled out a small packet of pills. I was no expert, but it was Ecstasy or something similar.
I walked across to Jimmy and ripped the phone out of his hand, tossing it to the floor. I threw the packet of drugs at him. ‘They’re Aimee-Leigh’s drugs, aren’t they?’ He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. He’d sold some DVDs and a console at a pawnbroker’s. He was keeping hold of the medal. I thought about the argument he’d had at his flat, leaving him with the injuries. He’d been protecting his sister. And she’d given me £50. How many kids of her age had access to that kind of money? She’d played me.
‘I was trying to help,’ he said, lowering his voice. ’I don’t want her dealing, do I? I don’t want her going down the same road as me.’ He stared at me, daring me to say something. ‘What would you do if it was your sister? Just let her get on with it?’ He stood up and looked me in the eye. ‘Do you really think I would have pawned my granddad’s medal?’
I felt a pang of sympathy for him, but I wanted no part of this. I walked back to where I’d put the medal, took it out of the tin and put it in my pocket. The rest was none of my business. ‘I’ll make sure he gets it back,’ I said, heading for the door.
Nick Quantrill was born and raised in Hull, an isolated industrial city in the north east of England. His Joe Geraghty novels are published by Caffeine Nights. A prolific short story writer, Nick’s work has appeared in various volumes of “The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime”. www.nickquantrill.co.uk
The Season of Brotherly Love
by
Michael Koenig
An original tale in an original voice, this is one that will stay with you after reading for sure… And who cannot love a PI that shares a name with an old popular wrestler….
My morning began the way most mornings begin—sitting in a dingy alcove inside a dingy office in a dingy strip mall, two blocks from the jail, pondering the quirks of fate as the phone remains ostentatiously silent. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the last thing in the world I needed was more time off. It just leaves more time for worry.
It wasn’t as if I was unemployed; I still had several unpaid invoices out, some of them more than 60 days old. Everybody tells me times are tough; they’re tougher when people expect you to work for free. I’m not sure if there’s much future in being a private detective anymore, especially a mediocre one like me, in a world where you can do a comprehensive background check on the internet for $49.95. As far as my customers are concerned I’m just a hired flunky, running errands too odious for them to do themselves. I spend most of my time looking up stuff at the Hall of Records.
I’d just wrapped a tense and exciting worker’s comp case in which the big twist was that the claimant’s leg wasn’t hurt enough to prevent him from taking up rock climbing. Even though I got all the pictures and video I needed, I felt terrible about it. I’d always rather be on the side of the working man, even if he is a cheat. The people who don’t sweat for a living cheat bigger.
I’d recently given up my office downtown and was leasing a desk from a bail bondsman who calls himself Free Willie. He must have weighed at least 350 pounds, but it probably woulda been more if he hadn’t been on a diet. He was wearing a bootleg tee-shirt that he bought at a rock concert thirty years ago. It clung to, but did not entirely envelop the slope of his generous belly and bore the partially flaked off logo of a band called The Eagles. (I wonder whatever happened to them.)
Take it easy, Willie. You get it? It’s the name of an Eagles song.
Fuck you, Snake.
I’d already spent most of the morning hanging around in Willie’s office, feet perched on his desk, sipping percolated sludge from a Styrofoam cup.
I’m thinking of evacuating out of this line of work.
You’ve been sayin’ that for years. What else can you do?
Maybe become a security guard or a greeter at the mall…
The perfect job for a misanthrope. You should just go out and get laid. It’ll make you feel better.
Five minutes of joy, a lifetime of misery.
Shit, most of the time it don’t even last that long.
I’d kill for a juicy missing persons case right about now.
So kill somebody. That’s the only way you’re gonna get one.
A few hours later, right on cue, this skinny kid walks into the office and loiters at the front desk, tip-tapping the rusty call bell, waiting to be waited on. One look makes you want to slap the shit out of him: polo shirt, khakis, yachtsman’s tan, anemic little mustache. Willie hasn’t even had a receptionist in years, even though there’s a green copper nameplate that says Gloria; everyone else just barges right in.
When Willie finally makes his way over, letting out an asthmatic wheeze, the kid says he needs help bailing his sister out of jail. Willie gives him a look like Duh, what the fuck did you think a bail bondsman does?
How’d you find us?
First place I saw after exiting the freeway. (That’s how Willie gets most of his business. That and the painting of a whale in handcuffs on the front window.)
Sure, Willie says. And maybe you’d like some help from my friend Snake here, he’s a detective for hire.
My name’s Jake Roberts. Everybody calls me “Jake the Snake,” a nickname I hate. I just happen to have the same given name as a professional wrestler from the 1980s who pranced around the ring in neon pants vowing to have his pet snake bite his opponent’s heads off. I never particularly liked the guy, and no one under 40 gets the reference anymore, but I can’t get my so-called friends to stop calling me that. Apparently the concept of a name that rhymes is irresistible.
The guy asks Willie if I’m any good; Willie laughs and says sure, so the kid starts regurgitating his own family history.
My sister’s in jail for vehicular manslaughter, half a million dollars bail.
Did she do it?
Yeah she’s guilty.
So what do you want me for?
Prove me wrong.
Maybe you need a good lawyer instead.
We’ve got the best. Now we need you.
I charge $100 per hour.
My father’s Charles Faulkner.
Not sure I’ve heard of him.
In other words, don’t worry about it. Just send me the bill.
If you’re so rich, why don’t you just put up the bail yourselves?
Our dad’s out of town, and I can’t sign for anything that big. He’s a very busy man.
In other words, don’t tell daddy.
Look, Mr. Snake, Becka and I are inseparable. You simply must find a way to keep her out of prison.
I’ll do my best.
Do better.
The kid took my contact information and said he’d be in touch. Willie let out a h
uge belly laugh as soon as the kid walked away.
Since when you been charging $100 an hour, Snake?
Since that rich asshole walked in the door.
Twenty-five years ago, I had my life all mapped out. I was newly married, a young patrolman with the reputation for writing the best reports on the force; other officers would ask me to wordsmith theirs. I’d stay on until my pension kicked in, then retire to a life of tennis and club sandwiches, with Veronica by my side. Maybe a couple of kids.
Everyone said I was an idiot to give up a steady career for the life of an itinerant snoop. Lenny was the only person in the world who could’ve convinced me to do it. In five years of sharing a squad car, he’d constantly pestered me with his dream of opening a detective agency. I simply could not refuse him.
Of course I didn’t know that he’d suffer a stroke within a year of putting out our shingle, after thriving for so long on a diet of cigarettes and whisky. Lenny lives in an assisted care facility now, paralyzed, drooling, unable to speak. I’m a stupid son of a bitch; I’ve only gone to visit him a few times. I see my future, and I don’t like its smile.
When Lenny went down, Veronica encouraged me to apply for my old job on the force. How could I possibly tell her that they were probably glad to be rid of me? I was young and dumb and teeming with idealism, so whenever I saw one of my brothers cutting corners, I was the first to report it to Internal Affairs. Even they got sick of me after awhile.
The Shamus Sampler II Page 9
