Jim Grant Short Stories #1

by Colin Campbell

  ©Colin Campbell

  About the Author

  Ex-Army, retired cop, and former scenes-of-crime officer Colin Campbell is also the author of British crime novels Blue Knight, White Cross and Northern eX. His Jim Grant thrillers bring a rogue Yorkshire cop to America, where culture clash and violence ensue. For more information, visit www.campbellfiction.com.

  Copyright Information

  Jim Grant Short Stories #1 © 2014 Colin Campbell

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2014

  E-book ISBN: 9780738745671

  Cover design bye Kevin Brown

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  Contents

  Chasing Tail

  Granted

  Excerpt from Jamaica Plain

  Chasing Tail

  “Puts a whole new slant on Dog the Bounty Hunter, don’t it?”

  Julius Posey’s shiny bald pate reflected neon light back into the dark despite him being as black as the ace of spades. Jim Grant climbed through the broken window from the back alley and crouched behind the shop counter next to his accomplice.

  “Not the kind of chasing tail I’m used to.”

  “Yeah, man. You best keep that wrinkled hole puncher in your pants or you’s gonna be answering to bestiality charges.”

  Grant kept his voice low and serious. “Slept with a woman once who was a bit of a dog. Beer goggles polished her up for a while. Until I woke up.”

  “That don’t even come close to translating into American. When you gonna learn to speak English?”

  “I am English.”

  “But you’re in California. Adjust or die.”

  Grant scanned the counter. It was clean and tidy, with a display stand containing hair products and large-pronged combs. The cash register was open but empty to dissuade burglars from smashing it to steal the cash float.

  “Beats being a bank robber, though, doesn’t it?”

  “It does not. Anymore than it beats being a cop.”

  “I am a cop.”

  “Not in San Francisco.”

  Grant held up a hand, and they both fell silent. The shop was in darkness. Neon light from Amoeba Music across Haight Street came in through the wide front window, but nobody was moving outside. The only movement was inside the shop that smelled of dog hair and shampoo. Shuffling movement and strange noises. At least nothing had started barking. That surprised Grant as he read the sign in reverse on the shop window:

  ZEN DOG CHASING TAIL

  PET BOUTIQUE

  The longest shop name he’d ever seen. The strangest place to find a bank robber–turned–bounty hunter and a Yorkshire policeman–turned–Boston cop. A pet shop full of pampered dogs that were too scared to bark. He doubted anybody’d be shopping here for guard dogs, which brought him back to why they were here in the first place.

  Grant settled down with his back to the counter. “You sure his dog’s here? I pictured him as more of a pit bull kind of fella.”

  Posey looked offended. “You saying a man can’t pamper his pit bull?”

  Grant let out a sigh. “This is a fucking poodle parlor. Candyfloss on legs. Wash and blow dry and pretty in pink—not exactly pit bull kind of stuff.”

  Posey shook his head. “Well, he ain’t got no pit bull. This is a pet, not a status symbol.”

  “And he has it fluffed here?”

  “Fluffin’s what them girls do to studs on a porn set. Round here it’s a wash and blow dry. Throw in a few doggy chews.”

  Grant nodded toward the cages at the back of the shop. “His Pomeranian Shih Tzu in one of those?”

  Posey knelt beside Grant. “Pomeranian is one breed; Shih Tzu is another. He ain’t got neither one. He’s having his poodle pampered.”

  “Dickrooter’s got a poodle? I’ve heard everything now.”

  “Dagreuter. And it’s ’cause he loves that dog he’ll let his guard down when he comes to pick it up.”

  “As opposed to us simply going round to his house.”

  Posey felt the need to explain.

  “Retired drug dealers don’t have no house. He moves around a lot. But he’ll be here when the shop opens. Nine o’clock sharp.”

  “Armed?”

  “Most likely.”

  “I hate guns.”

  “Give him a doggy chew.”

  “Distraction?”

  “Right on.”

  Grant poked his head above the counter and surveyed the shop area. The advantage of being first at the scene was getting the lay of the land. The front of the shop had large, clear windows. There wasn’t much cover from the street apart from the ornate door frame and a refrigerated vending machine next to the door. That would be the place to hide when Rafael Dagreuter arrived. Posey at the counter. Grant at the vending machine. Shut the door and cut off Dagreuter’s backup.

  “The papers you’ve got on him. They from before he retired?”

  Posey shook his head. “This is a different gig. Heir hunters.”

  “Like finding a wig?”

  “Like inheritance.”

  Grant shuffled sideways to get comfortable. “Somebody left him money in their will?”

  Posey lowered his voice. “Not just anybody. His mother died.”

  Dawn crept in two hours before the shop was due to open. It gave Grant a chance to take stock before the staff arrived. The cages weren’t along the back of the shop, as he’d first suspected; they were in a room accessed from the back of the shop. It ran the full width of the boutique and had two doors, one on either end. That gave Grant a couple of options.

  Catch Dagreuter coming in the front door.

  Wait for him to come through the back for his dog.

  Grant discarded the second option. Dagreuter might not go in the back room; a member of the staff might bring the dog out. They’d have to ask what the procedure was when the first beautician arrived—when G
rant identified himself as a police officer and glossed over the breaking and entering. They’d have to follow the normal routine or risk alerting Dagreuter that something was wrong. Drug dealers, even retired ones, were usually sensitive to change. Grant didn’t want a gunfight when all they were trying to do was execute a mother’s will.

  Half of the cages were occupied.

  None of the dogs were bigger than a pile of fluff with legs.

  Except one.

  “Got to be this one. Right?”

  Posey nodded. Grant smiled. Dagreuter’s poodle wasn’t the miniature kind. If it was candyfloss on legs, it was a big fuckoff candyfloss. The French poodle was as tall as a German shepherd and built like a brick shithouse. All muscle. Short hair apart from the afro on the head and ankles. A mouthful of razor teeth and a snarl that said it had been waiting for someone to come close enough to snarl at. The other dogs backed off into the corners of their cages.

  “I think it wants more than doggy chews.”

  Posey looked in the cage. “I think it likes you.”

  Grant saw what Posey was looking at. The poodle’s excitement was obvious.

  “Damn. Thing’s got balls like a buffalo and a wang like an ox.”

  Posey tapped the side of his head with one finger. “Bestiality charges.”

  The dog stopped growling. The other dogs stopped whimpering. Quiet suddenly filled the room like an unspoken threat. Grant heard the key in the lock and nodded for Posey to stay in the back room. Not because he was black, but Posey was big and fearsome and still looked like a bank robber. The girl opening the shop needed to see a smile and a badge. Grant could provide both.

  The bell above the front door tinkled as the door opened and shut. Manicured fingers danced over the alarm keypad, then stopped. The girl had her back to Grant but he could see she was wondering why the alarm was turned off. He stepped out from behind the counter.

  “We used the code when we came in.”

  The girl spun toward his voice. Grant held up his police badge and smiled. “Let me explain.”

  Monica Fedrick was more understanding than Grant could have wished for. He reckoned she probably watched Cops or America’s Most Wanted and saw this as her chance to be part of that world. Grant glossed over the inheritance angle and let her believe this was part of a major police operation. In exchange, Monica answered all his questions and built up a picture of the pet boutique’s routine.

  Customers picking up their dogs would pay at the counter and then follow the girl through the right-hand door. Zen Dog Chasing Tail prided itself on keeping its charges calm and well adjusted; part of that was letting the owners collect their own dogs. Soft music and waterfall noises playing through hidden speakers. The shop ran a one-way system: in through the right-hand door and out through the left. Like Santa’s Grotto in Scarborough. You come in one side, get your present, then leave out the other. Grant hoped the dogs didn’t leave any presents but couldn’t discount the possibility. Especially when Grant and Posey fronted the drug dealer until he was calm enough to accept his inheritance.

  Death of a mother.

  Man with a gun.

  Not a good combination.

  Monica wiggled her beautiful backside as she made a couple of coffees and a tea. They didn’t do lattes here, the only coffee Grant could stomach, so she brewed him a sachet of English Breakfast Tea and had a coffee herself.

  The other girls weren’t due in until later, so that made it simple. The fewer staff, the better if this turned into the shootout at the Zen Dog corral. Grant didn’t think it would come to that. He settled down with his cup of tea and enjoyed the view. The last time he’d been attended to by a woman in a white smock had been a massage parlor in Yorkshire. He let nostalgia for the old country wash over him. Posey was busy feeding doggy chews to some kind of hairy rat that had taken his fancy. Monica checked the clock on the wall and jerked a thumb toward the front door.

  “Time to open.”

  Five to nine. Standard procedure for being ready bang on nine. Monica sprayed the counter with air freshener and turned on the CD. Gentle music began to drift out of the ceiling-mounted speakers. Water tumbled down a rocky fall. Panpipes and birdsong floated on the air. This was getting more like the massage parlor by the minute. It helped keep Posey calm. Grant was always calm. He nodded for Monica to unlock the front door.

  Haight Street came to life slowly outside. A woman walked past the window carrying two coffees from Starbucks next door. A man folded his newspaper so he could read the sports page as he crossed the road. California sunshine painted the street with bright colors that reflected off Amoeba Music opposite. It appeared the hippy revolution had never left San Francisco.

  The scene was tranquil and pleasant. It should have built confidence in this being a successful operation. When Rafael Dagreuter came to the door, it seemed that was going to be the case. He was alone. No backup. No bodyguards hiding their hands under their coats. Just a slim Latino looking forward to collecting his poodle. French, not miniature. Doggy chews optional.

  Grant put some coins in the vending machine as the front door opened.

  Posey hid behind the opening to the kennels.

  Monica smiled and prepared to take payment.

  That was how it started. Calm and pleasant. Until the car screeched to a stop outside and three men got out. They weren’t here for their dog. They were here for Rafael Dagreuter.

  The can of Pepsi dropped into the collection tray with a heavy rattle and a thump. The three men came through the door with a heavier rattle and thump; the door rattled in its frame, and Rafael Dagreuter thumped to the ground. The door slammed shut. Game over.

  Except the game wasn’t over. It had only just begun. Grant picked up the Pepsi and checked the coin return for change. There wasn’t any. Pet shops were obviously expensive places to buy a Pepsi. Dagreuter didn’t try to get up. He simply shuffled into a sitting position and waited. Cool head. Grant was impressed. Monica brought her hands to her face but didn’t scream. She looked at the man who’d shown her his police badge, and Grant shook his head. She kept her cool. Grant was impressed again. He turned his attention to the three men.

  That wasn’t as comforting. They all had greasy hair and long coats. Despite living in California, they were pale and sickly and didn’t even have the beginnings of a tan. They looked like Whitby Goths without the vampire makeup. The biggest man stood with his back to the door, blocking the exit. The other two stood over Dagreuter, throwing twitchy looks at each other as if they didn’t know whose turn it was to speak.

  The smallest one got his act together first. He braced his shoulders and jutted his chin out. “Stay down.”

  A redundant command since Dagreuter had no intention of getting up.

  Grant checked the trio’s hands. They were all empty. No guns being waved around. That was good. But this was America. He doubted they’d attack the Bay Area’s biggest drug dealer unarmed. If Grant had to guess, he’d reckon the big fella at the door didn’t need a gun, but the two small fries would almost certainly be packing. The fact that they weren’t threatening to shoot Dagreuter gave Grant hope. Whatever they were into, he didn’t think violence was their first recourse. They were twitching, though. People on a comedown were unpredictable. Grant decided to play it cool. Like Dagreuter and Fedrick.

  The small one wagged a finger at Dagreuter. “We need it, man. We need it now.”

  Dagreuter drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “I told you, Spider. I’m out of the game.”

  Spider twitched. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped it off with the back of one hand. “You still got connections. I’m hurtin’, man.”

  The other lightweight chipped in. “We’re all hurting. Don’t make us hurt you.”

  Dagreuter concentrated on Spider. “I can stop the hurt. Get you straight.”

&nb
sp; Spider’s voice betrayed pain and panic. “I don’t want straight. I want some shit.”

  Dagreuter shook his head. “Not gonna happen. I don’t have it anymore.”

  That’s when the guns came out. Spider stopped twitching and pulled an ugly black automatic from under his coat. His hand was steady and his aim true. Straight at Dagreuter’s chest. Lightweight number two drew his gun as well. Monica let out an involuntary squeal.

  Spider controlled his voice. “Then we’ll take your money. Buy our own shit.”

  Dagreuter let out a sigh. His face showed disappointment and sadness, as if he’d been waiting for this moment a long time and knew it was all his fault.

  “My money’s gone from building the rehab clinic.”

  Spider jabbed the gun forward. “Don’t give me that crap. I don’t buy all that drug dealer–turned–counselor bullshit. Save it for the papers, man.”

  The sadness on Dagreuter’s face looked to go deeper than his sorrow at Spider’s plight. Grant wondered what the backstory was for him starting up a rehab clinic.

  Spider wasn’t interested in back-story. He racked the slide for emphasis, ejecting a gleaming brass cartridge across the room. “Then we’ll hold you for ransom. You mom must still be worth a fortune.”

  That got Dagreuter’s attention. He unfolded his arms and lowered his knees. “Does your mom throw money your way whenever you need it?”

  Spider snorted his disdain. “My mom don’t even like me.”

  “There’s your answer, then.”

  “But yours is wealthy.”

  Grant could sense things beginning to spiral out of control. It was time to cool the situation down. He glanced at the door to the kennels, then gave a calming nod to Monica. He raised the Pepsi to his chest and tugged the ring pull. The can let out a pffft and a hiss. Five pairs of eyes swung toward the noise.

  “Can I make a suggestion?”

  The guns swung between Dagreuter and Grant, then back again, in various combinations. Both guns pointing at Grant. Both at Dagreuter. One each way. The only thing for certain was that confusion reigned. Confusion was dangerous when it came to guns. Grant decided to clear the air.