A Puff of Smoke and Leather Brogues

This and the post about Paul Dubois are extracts from a longer work “The Recreational Bandits”. To read go to new and click on the link.

A Puff of Smoke and Leather Brogues

Detective sergeant Micky Jones forty and a tall, well built rough diamond capable of real damage if pushed to it. One of those well used faces. A rough chin. Short dark hair and eyes that drill right through. Nose that had seen the wrong side of a fist a few too many times. Had a too much booze and not enough sleep look that was deceptive. He was all there, always. Right on the ball. One of the best right hand men in the business.

Micky is out and about poking in all the corners, touching nerves, applying pressure. It is his job, he is good at it and he likes it. The street work. Mixing it with the villains and the scum that follow them about. He is upsetting people, turning the screw, renewing enemies animosity. Making sure they know he’s on the prowl.

He turns the corner of a dirty backstreet around the back of Soho and slips into a seedy building advertising girls with all the comforts. Down some steps through a door into the basement and is stopped in front of an inner entrance by a tall bruiser with front teeth missing.
“Tell him I’m here Sid.”
“He’s at the bar. Go on through.” Sid opens the door.

Mick Martin is sat at the bar watching a nearly naked girl going in and out of all sorts of erotic positions as she negotiates a dodgy routine. Is forty five but looks every day of fifty five with one of those faces usually associated with a baker who has just shut the oven door after peering in. Red and suffering very much from an abusive life. Hair already white grey that looked surreal against his coloured face. A glass of something stiff in his hand even though it is only just past eleven. Cigarette burning in the other. Each side of him are two what used to be called tough guys but now politely referred to as minders. The intent the same though. Micky always refers to them as Bill and Ben, Mick’s hard men.

“Micky Jones you’ve been making all sorts of mischief on my patch. Not at all happy. Asking too many people questions about things that make them nervous. Things that will lead to breakages if words are inadvertently slipped. You on your own. Very brave. Where’s that gorgeous boss of yours? If she ever needs a job.”

“Don’t need anyone Mick they just get in my way. You might be curious about a crew that is anonymous. Might be taking your glory. Are you missing some big opportunities that aren’t coming your way. If you found them and wanted them gone you could give the word and hey presto.”
“If I found them I have my own magicians. They would be gone and no puff of smoke to be seen.”
“Are you protecting them Mick. What about your boy. He is up for a spot of skulduggery. Maybe I should have words. Work him over a bit.”
“You threatening my family you piece of copper filth? That would be a very, very stupid move. This conversation is over. See the bastard out there’s good lads.”

Bill on the left gets up and grabs Micky’s arm. Micky slaps it off and shoves him up against the bar.
“Don’t touch me when I'm wearing my best jacket.”
Ben is up and grabs Micky’s other arm. Micky twists lose and stands his ground. Ben straight at him swinging a solid punch. Micky leans back the punch missing. With Ben off balance slams the heel of his hand into his face instantly breaking his nose. Hits him hard in the stomach. Brings his knee onto the end of his chin as he doubles over in pain his head snapping back. Ben goes down. Can safely be ignored. Bill has now recovered and pulls out a cosh. A sock filled with coins. Micky is quicker and lands a solid kick onto his shin. Micky always wears his best leather brogues not to look smart but because of the quarter inch solid leather flange that runs round the toe. It delivers a wicked blow. That shin kick saving him many a time and sends Bill onto one knee low enough for another kick to the side of the head that sends him to sleep.

“You need better quality help Mick.” He turns and walks towards the door. Sid has come in protecting the exit. He looks at Mick still sitting at the bar who shakes his head. Standing aside Sid lets Micky past. On the street and walking west Micky is very pleased, the exact outcome he wanted. It would shake things up a lot. In fact quite a lot.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Chicken, White Tack and a Chimney Sweep

  Raphael Ravenscroft suddenly fires up and fills the speakers of the bedside digital clock. That riff. And what a riff. That infectious sound, a creation of pure genius by the coming together of one of the greatest saxophone players of the modern age and the burgeoning talent of ex busker and Steelers Wheel front man Gerry Rafferty. Eight in the morning and time to get up. Tommy Tucker, as is his usual practice, wakes but does not turn off the alarm. He always, most definitely always, listens to the entire track. Baker Street containing the best example of passionate saxophone playing. Ever. He bounces out of bed full of beans and into the shower. Then dressed. He wears his normal clothes which considering his natural buoyant exuberance are rather subdued. White T shirt with a motif of guess who, a young Raphael stencilled on the front. Black, white and a shade of grey. Hanging loose over a pair of everyday jeans, faded blue and part covering pale blue sneakers. The mop he calls hair
Read more

TAKING THE PLUNGE

My dad was a fella with an Einstein brain from a not so well off family. The way his brain worked was a wonder. It took him a while to gather his thoughts which kind of suggested he was indecisive which was not the case. When it came to it he made a choice and stuck right on with it. At fourteen he left school and worked as an apprentice bookbinder of all things. At fifteen he had enough to pay for night school. Electronics was the thing he thought. At sixteen his brother joined him. At eighteen they both qualified. At nineteen in 1940 he was in the RAF mending radios on bombers. His brother mended radios in tanks in the desert and Italy. In 1946 he got married on a whim to a nurse who nursed him. Nothing so romantic as a war wound. An in-growing toenail. In 1950 he was developing radar and early computers. His brother fixed TVs in South Africa after emigrating. What is all this about you might ask. A life history. In a way for sure but mostly it is about taking the plunge. In 1963 he
Read more

The Panama Hat

  The Panama Hat Walter Bobkin was an enigma, he disliked the name Walter so much he referred to himself as Bob. Just simply Bob. Bob Bobkin. That is unless he were to seek employment in which case he was determined to use Walter as he felt, even with his minimal qualifications, he would secure a much more professional position with such a title which is of course an incredibly snobbish attitude to have in this modern world. But then Bob is a snob, a person who lives in a superficial world on the periphery of reality. He is a man of independent means derived from his father's hard and industrious life so, barring investment disasters, it was unlikely that he would ever need to work anyway. A confirmed bachelor who had never really been interested in women, very set in his ways and a routine that was cast in stone. He was maybe about fifty, a tall man, perhaps as lofty as six foot four, but straight sided and spindly. He certainly did not have the physique or stature of a prize figh
Read more