Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

MAN ABOUT TOWN:

A Jonny Hustler Story by Alan Griffiths

I read about Archie Knox shortly after I’d put my papers in. Red-top headlines shouting:

“Macabre Slaying of Petty Thief”

“Crook’s Grisly End”

“’Armless Villain Left Legless”

Archie was a villain you see. A habitual criminal. A light-fingered Tea-Leaf who had a rap sheet that repeated like a scratched vinyl disc.

Me? Until recently I was a Detective Inspector in the Flying Squad. Archie was an underworld contact; an informant and a friend. What can I say? In the job sometimes demarcation lines get a little blurry.

Somebody had taken Archie for an early hours ride around the M25. Along the way the bastards chucked out bits of his body. Nice, eh.

Archie’s legs were discovered in Leatherhead. Arms in Watford. Torso in Romford. And his head, resembling a Halloween pumpkin with seven kinds of shit kicked out of it, rolled up in Sevenoaks.

You could say Archie was a Man About Town. Now there’s a headline.

Amid the tabloid brouhaha of Archie’s demise his daughter Lucy left a message on my ansaphone. Short and Sweet:

“Mr Hustler, my dad always said to call you if ever I was in trouble. I think I am…”

Needless to say she sounded lonely and frightened.

Lucy’s address is the arsehole end of South East London. If truth be told there’s no better end.

Parking my Ford I get out and survey my surroundings. A dull, drab and dilapidated concrete monstrosity rises above me. Hilton Heights is the pus-filled pimple on South East London’s rear-end and a million miles from the plush Mayfair hotel.

A bitter autumnal wind whips me like a cat o' nine tails as I approach the building. Storm clouds are brewing over the high-rise block; an omen for bad things to come.

The first heavy drops of rain fall, splattering the pavement as the piss-stained entrance doors suddenly swing open revealing two Neanderthals. Lucy is between them.

I flick the butt of my B &H, shouting “Lucy!”

I close on them fast as Lucy pluckily kicks out at the gorilla holding her, catching him on the shin. I pull a police issue truncheon from the inside Sky Rocket of my car coat. As Tweedledum prepares to backhand the struggling Lucy I crack it down hard on his elbow. He lets out a scream like a wonky fan belt. I cut it off by striking him again, across the throat.

Tweedledum gurgles like a blocked drain and collapses. His face mimics a traffic light, turning red, amber and green. He’s out of the game.

Tweedledee looks at his prone partner. Confusion is writ large across his Boat Race as if he’s attempting a junior crossword. He raises an eyebrow, grunts, and telegraphs a haymaker. I step inside the swinging fist and lift my knee into his groin. The grunt turns into a groan as the wind leaves his sails and he doubles over, comically cross-eyed. Then I kick his kneecap, hearing it pop. I wear Doc Martin steel toecap boots so it must’ve hurt. Tweedledee yelps like a schoolgirl as I grab his wrist, twist his arm sharply and spin him around. His pug ugly mug French kisses the entrance door, smudging badly spelt graffiti with claret.

Tweedledee is gonna be even uglier when he wakes up.

“C’mon,” I say.

Lucy holds my hand as we run to my Ford. The two hoods are out of action but I need to put distance between them and us before I start to ask questions.

So I gun the Ford’s engine, burning serious rubber and do just that.

By the time I get Lucy to my tiny bachelor flat her eyes are red from weeping. She sits on my sofa. Her face is pale. She’s petrified and as fragile as delicate porcelain. A fury towards the people who’ve done this twists my guts.

I get a bottle and two glass tumblers from a cabinet in the kitchen. Take them through to the living room and pour generous measures of malt.

“Here, sip this slowly,” I say.

I sit next to her on the sofa, drink some whisky and listen to her tale.

Her father’s death is a raw wound. She has no idea who killed him or why. She tells me after his demise she’d found a note from Archie saying that I could be trusted in the event of anything untoward happening.

Lucy gives me a smile for the first time. “Dad used to say Jonny Hustler, he likes to hunt with the hounds and run with the hares.”

It’s my turn to smile. That sounded like the old bugger.

“How long have those goons been harassing you?” I ask.

“They’ve been calling for the last few days.” Lucy blows her nose on a small, monogramed handkerchief. “I was at my wits end with worry. Then this afternoon they forced their way in.”

Lucy reminds me of my own estranged daughter. The Met always came first and my family paid a high price. I know I have to help Lucy; if only to exorcise a few personal demons.

“Did they say what they wanted?”

She shakes her head.

“Did they say where they were taking you?”

“No,” Lucy dabs her nose with the handkerchief again, thinking… ”But I did overhear one of them mention something when he was talking on his mobile.”

“Go on,” I say.

“The Black Mamba Club.”

I pour myself two fingers of whisky. Sit back and light a B &H, thinking things through. I was going to need another motor, clean hardware and a pair of balls the size of grapefruits.

I’d arrested Sylvester Pope on numerous occasions. He’s a career criminal with a vicious reputation. Sylvester is notorious, ruthless and as slippery as an eel. Each time I’d felt his expensive tailored collar a fast-talking lawyer found a legal loophole for him to slip through. The prerequisite of a successful gangster is highly paid legal expertise that’s as bent as a nine-bob note.

But this time it was just me and him and I was operating outside the law and its asshole regulations.

The Black Mamba Club is a glitzy West End casino and Sylvester’s centre of operations. Luckily for me viciousness and ruthlessness has led to over confidence and carelessness.

Security at The Black Mamba Club is sloppy. The alarm system is outdated and piss-poor. Before dawn breaks over the capital I break into the basement through the delivery entrance and quietly make my way up to the living quarters. Exhilaration and adrenalin flushes through my veins. I feel alive, taking the bad guys down while the due’s still on; just like the good old days.

In a dimly lit hallway I wait, as patient as a saint, as still as a statue, while Joe Vincent, Pope’s master of arms and enforcer takes a four thirty a.m. pee.

Through the half open bathroom door and jamb I watch Vincent, a steroid popping bodybuilder with a tattooed body shaped like a sparkplug. He yawns, squeezes out a fart and stoops to pull up his big white baggy Y-Fronts. I ease the door open with my Doc Martin boot. The door hinges creak and as Vincent turns towards the sound I club him across his close-cropped head. Two quick blows with the truncheon in my gloved right hand: Thwack! Thwack!

The fat lady sings her song for Joe. He slumps and falls off his throne. I lower him onto the tiled bathroom floor and pull a length of nylon rope from my backpack. Within a few minutes I have him trussed up like a turkey ready for Christmas. As I shut the karzie door and continue along the hallway the irony is not lost on me. The feared, big Joe Vincent caught with his pants down.

I switch on a bedside lamp. Sylvester Pope rouses from his slumber with a start. Not surprising really. I’m a big angry bastard and pointing a Smith & Wesson.38 revolver.

“Jesus Christ,” Pope hisses.

Lizard eyes blaze. Pope raises himself on one elbow and the king size duvet falls away revealing a mass of grey chest hair. Stomach muscle turning to flab sags above the waistband of his boxers. His washboard stomach is washed up. Sylvester has been enjoying a touch too much of the good life.

“Sylvester.” I stick the.38 into his mush. “Tell me everything you know, and I mean everything, about Archie Knox.”

Lizard eyes give me the stone-eye.

I crack him across the mouth with the barrel of the.38. I’m not taking prisoners and need to loosen his tongue sharpish.

He curses and drips blood onto the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets.

“You’re not the law anymore, Hustler.” Pope spits broken teeth and, “Your Sweeney Todd days are long gone.”

I place the muzzle of the.38 on his forehead. His eyes grow big. “Not the law, Pope but judge and jury all rolled into one.” My finger caresses the trigger.

He cracks, starts to blub and spills the beans. They always do.

Pope denies anything to do with Archie’s gruesome demise. He throws me a curve ball saying Archie had recently pulled off an audacious robbery, way out of his league.

He’s got my attention. “Tell me more.”

“I’m talking about a half a million pounds worth of jewels,” Pope says through puffy lips. “Knox plundered the treasure from an East European geezer called Kozlov. A real heavy bastard.”

I can’t believe it. Had Archie really hit the big time?

“Then why sic your two dogs on his daughter?” Touching the shooter against his busted lips I add, “I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“I was after the bloody Tom Foolery, Hustler!” Pope pleads. “I wanted the friggin’ gems.”

That figures. This bastard would steal the gold from his late grandmother’s teeth before she’d gone cold in her coffin.

“Tell me more about this Kozlov character?”

I listen as Pope blubs and spills more beans.

The mysterious Kozlov likes to play the casino tables. Albeit badly; owing Pope a small mountain of rubles.

“I can show you.” Pope points a shaky finger. “His I-O-U is in the safe.” He spits blood and, “I only wanted what was rightfully mine.”

“Where’s the safe?” I ask.

“In the study.”

I drag Sylvester through to the study. He lifts a mirror down from the wall and I cover him with the.38 as he spins the dial of the safe backwards and forwards.

“Here it is,” he says excitedly, reaching into the safe.

Pope turns with a Browning 9mm semi-automatic silenced pistol in his right hand. Instinctively I grab his wrist and the.38 falls to the floor. We sashay together like a couple of poncy ballroom dancers, doing the hokey-cokey back and forth until I put my right foot in and stamp a Doc Martin down hard on his bare foot. The Browning coughs once. Something wet and warm splatters my cheek. Pope falls to the floor, minus half his kisser. I can tell it’s gonna take a lot of scrubbing to get the goo out of the shag-pile.

Kozlov’s I-O-U is in the safe as well as a few grand in cash and if I’m not mistaken a large quantity of Bolivian marching powder.

Pulling a hole in the wrapping around the Charlie I sprinkle nose powder across Pope’s body and the blood stained carpet. For good measure I scatter a few crisp fifty-pound notes. That should muddy the waters nicely.

I stuff the I-O-U into my backpack, along with the remaining readies, the rest of the cocaine and the Browning.

Then I get the hell out of there.

I’ve been Kozlov’s second shadow for the last three days. Bodyguards have chauffeured him around London in a rented Mercedes. I watch as dodgy low-life faces are leaned on and dirty coppers oiled with rolls of greasy bank notes. Kozlov is hunting something or someone.

A little digging reveals Kozlov is ex-military with a murky, chequered past. A reputation for slaughter and pillage kept strictly on the QT. The jewels rumoured to be the ill-gotten gain of a hushed up Eastern European war crime atrocity.

Kozlov and the bodyguards are staying at a Knightsbridge hotel. It’s gone nine o’clock in the evening when Kozlov returns to his first floor room. I’m behind the bathroom door, peaking through the crack. He takes off his jacket and hangs it up inside a closet. Then he works the combination lock on a black Samsonite trunk and rummages inside.

Two strides across the carpet and I clasp my gloved left hand over Kozlov’s mouth, feeling his body stiffen, like a coiled spring. I put the.38 against his lughole. The cold steel barrel keeps him quiet.

I count the beating of my heart, loud as a drum inside my chest until I reach one hundred and twenty then ease the Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol from Kozlov’s waistband. The bodyguards are now out of earshot.

I shove Kozlov into the main area of the plush suite, throwing the Glock onto the bed out of reach.

Kozlov is tall, blond and muscular with a confident military swagger. He’s casually dressed in a pale blue denim shirt and Chinos. A smile doesn’t get close to reaching blue grey eyes that show no fear and are as cold as a freshly cut grave.

“I assume you’re the gentleman that killed Sylvester Pope,” he says in impeccable English.

“I’m no gentleman, squire.” I point the.38 at his chiselled face, “And I’m asking the questions. Now, did you slice and dice Archie Knox?”

“HA-HA. HA-HA, HA-HA, HA-HA!”

His laugh is loud and spontaneous, taking me by surprise. He shakes his head, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“You idiot! Knox stole something very valuable from me.” He spreads his arms wide, “Why kill him before I got it back?”

I’m thinking he’s got a bloody good point when the telephone, sitting on a writing desk, suddenly chirp, chirp, chirps into life. Half a heartbeat passes as my eyes flick towards the sound and back again. Kozlov moves like greased lightning. My gun hand is knocked aside. Straightened fingers stab my throat. A blur of a fist loosens my front teeth and a Karate chop sends the.38 flying from my grip.

Kozlov is all over me like a cheap nineteen seventies splash on lotion. I’m no match for his fancy Kung Fu moves. Martial art blows reign down and a ferocious roundhouse kick, à la Jean-Claude Van Damme, puts me on the deck. I taste blood, my strength ebbing away.

Kozlov moves in close. Too close.

I grab a hold of his face and dig both of my thumbs into his eyes and gouge. He swears and flails blindly. I launch myself up and my forehead kisses him Glaswegian style. Cartilage snaps. Blood and snot flows from his hooter. The Ruski son of a bitch is stunned for sure.

But, as I reach down towards my ankle, his hands snake out, gripping my throat like a vice.

The fingers of my right hand touch the handle of the switchblade tucked inside my Doc Martin boot. I pull it free. One click and the blade springs smoothly out. I sweep it through the air. The tip finds the fleshy corner of Kozlov’s mouth. I jerk the blade and Kozlov’s teeth and gums are bloodily exposed giving him a ghoulish jack-o-lantern leer.

He wails like a siren in an electric storm until I silence him by sliding the blade under his ribs and up into his heart.

I push Kozlov’s dead body away, saying aloud, “Never under estimate a dirty street fighter!”

My body aches like an octogenarian’s. I pick up the.38 and the Glock and retrieve my backpack from the bathroom. Pope’s Browning 9mm, the cash, the drugs and the I-O-U go into the Samsonite trunk. I spin the combination lock, hearing footsteps pound the corridor.

As I reach the French doors to the balcony a size eleven boot kicks the suite door open. I turn and in a split second hear a pistol crack, a whoosh of air and white heat scorches my left shoulder. The bullet continues its trajectory splintering the wooden doorframe beside my head. Ignoring the pain washing over me I drop to one knee, take a bead with the.38 and squeeze the trigger. Bullet one clips the bodyguard’s right shoulder, knocking him back against the shattered door. Bullets two and three each punch holes the size of a fist in the centre of his wife beater tee shirt raising a plume of claret that splatters the pristine suite wall like an abstract red on white piece of modern art.

The gunshots and a deathly cry are still ringing in my ears as I tumble over the parapet into the shrubbery below.

My shoulder hurts like hell. My heart, hammering like an over worked piston, is trying to escape from under my ribcage. Perspiration soaks my back and forehead, dripping down my face as I take the stairs two at a time to the hotel underground car park.

The BMW I’ve been using for the past week is “on loan” from a longstanding and trustworthy contact in the motor trade. It’s as moody as an acne-riddled teenager. The plates are false and the chassis number obliterated. As soon as this is over it’ll be crushed and scrapped. Shame really, the Beamer’s a lovely motor but needs must when the devil drives.

The parking area is dimly lit and deserted but I know I’m not out of the woods yet. I take deep breaths, willing myself to ignore the red-hot poker burning my left shoulder. My entire body throbs painfully but I need to stay calm.

I approach the BMW and trigger the key fob; the central locking system clunks. I slip behind the wheel. The Beamer’s engine purrs into life like a fat contented cat. I put the transmission into drive, settle myself on the leather seat and slowly pull away, singing softly, “Nice n’ easy does it, every time.”

Fifty yards ahead a side door to the left bursts open. Kozlov’s second heavy rushes into view. He’s dressed in Caterpillar boots, combats and a dark hoody. Slung over his shoulder is a lethal looking machine pistol. Oh shit!

He sprints, barking out something indistinguishable, pulling the gun around and up into a firing position.

“Shit or bust!” I say aloud, putting pedal to metal and flicking the headlamps onto full beam. The BMW speeds forward. The fat pussy stops purring and begins to roar. Tyres find traction, squealing on the slick concrete floor.

I see salt ‘n’ pepper stubble on the heavy’s chin and the white of his eyes. The machine pistol explodes wickedly into life. Red-hot lead slugs clatter, ricochet and sing off the Beamers paintwork. The windscreen pops and cracks then splinters as I duck below the dashboard. I step further on the gas and the BMW moves smoothly through the gears. A crescendo of bullets pockmark and shred the Beamer’s metalwork. Amid the cacophony I hold my nerve and the steering wheel steady for an eternity until I hear an anguished cry and a sickening thud. A dead weight bounces onto the BMW’s bonnet and up and over the speeding motor. I punch a hole through the mosaic, spider-webbed windscreen as the Beamer ploughs through the exit barrier. The rear-view gives a fleeting glimpse of a prone crumpled figure, like a pile of old soiled rags.

I can’t resist shouting manically, “Jonny Hustler three, Ruski bastards nil!”

I’m bone-weary with the blood of too many men on my hands to count them properly. I need to get rid of the BMW and the.38. Hole up and lick my wounds until the heat dies down. With Pope and Kozlov dead, all leads to Archie’s killer have evaporated like spittle on a hot London pavement.

Ten days later my sources tell me the police are connecting the Pope and Kozlov murders but have nothing else to go on. I’m seemingly in the clear but arrive home with a strange sense of foreboding. This macabre business is far from over.

Amongst the assorted pile of bills, junk mail and fast food flyers is a Royal Mail docket for a registered delivery. My sixth sense itches like a dose of hives. I’m up to my bollocks in a case that sucks like a nymphomaniac on death row.

I return to my flat from the local sorting office with a tightly wrapped package. Sitting on the sofa I pull bubble wrap away, revealing a six by six inch box. I fire up a B&H, suck hard on the snout until my lungs crackle. I flip the lid on the box.

A multitude of precious stones shimmer like cats’ eyes and sparkle like distant stars. I’m mesmerised by a mass of translucent gemstones.

I whistle and say aloud, “Jeez!”

“Hello Jonny Boy.”

I turn. Archie Knox is framed in the doorway. He’s dressed in navy blue corduroy slacks, roll neck sweater and a hound’s tooth check blazer; just like your favourite uncle.

My mouth gapes. An eternity passes until I manage to say, “What the fuck…”

“I’ve led you a merry dance my old son.” Archie tries for a grin, holding up both hands, palms forward. “What can I say…”

I’m speechless. You try talking to a ghost.

I get up and grab a hold of his lapels to check he’s for real. He is. Anger replaces shock.

“The chopped up corpse?” I ask.

“One of Kozlov’s boys.” Archie shrugs, “He was about the same size and build as me.” Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Didn’t know I had it in me…”

My mind flashes back to the news items; the hands, the feet and teeth were all missing from the dismembered cadaver.

“You sicko.” I lift Archie from the ground. “Does Lucy know?”

“Too dangerous.” Archie shakes his head, “She’s the only decent thing in my life, Jonny Boy.”

I put a hand around Archie’s scrawny turkey neck and squeeze his windpipe a little. “I should throttle you for putting on this bloody charade.”

“Think of the money,” Archie gasps.

“The money!” I rage.

“The jewels! The jewels!” My fingers tighten a little more. Archie struggles for air, his feet kicking mid-air. “I… I’ve got the c… co…contacts…,” he croaks. “You’ve got the b… br… brawn… The b… bb… bottle.”

The jigsaw starts to come together in my muddled brain. I loosen my grip a little. Archie gulps air like it’s going out of fashion.

“A fortune split down the middle, fifty-fifty,” Archie wheezes, winking at me. “C’mon what do you say, Jonny Boy?”

“I’ll split you down the middle.” I bounce the back of his head off the wall a few times but not enough to do damage. Not that there’s anything inside his canister to damage. “You trusted jewellery, worth five hundred grand, to the Royal bloody Mail!”

“I posted the gems before you offed Kozlov.” Archie puts his hands to his head, feeling for bumps and lumps. “He was getting close. Too close for comfort. Then you put the cat well and truly amongst the pigeons.”

I let go. Archie falls into a heap.

“Your little game has made me very angry.” I pull Kozlov’s Glock 19 from my waistband. “And I’m a nasty bastard when I’m angry.”

“Sixty-forty?” Archie whispers. “In your favour.”

I place the muzzle of the Glock on his forehead. His eyes grow big. My finger caresses the trigger.

A long beat passes. Archie looks like death warmed up; forgive the pun.

“Seventy-thirty,” I finally say.

BIO:

Alan Griffiths, a rookie writer, hails from the badlands of South London. His criminal writing can be found in the e-book anthology Discount Noir published by Untreed Reads. The Byker Books anthologies: Radgepacket – Tales from the Inner Cities Volumes 5 and 6. Also, in the Near to the Knuckle anthology: Gloves Off. His literary hero is Ernie Wise; nuff said really!