The Grifter

Book summary

"In the snow-covered streets of Warsaw, Lee Case, a troubled English journalist harboring a secret, embarks on a perilous romance with a gangster's wife. Fleeing to the scorching Spanish sun, he crosses paths with a vivid array of characters, from a enigmatic torch singer to an ex-East End crook with a tempting criminal offer. As he finds himself in the tumultuous city of Toulouse, a surprising reunion from his past sends shockwaves through his life, forcing him to reevaluate his choices. 'The Grifter' by Paul D. Brazill is a darkly humorous dose of international noir."

Excerpt from The Grifter

A razor-sharp wind sliced through me as I waited dockside with Alan Savage, who was as glum and gloomy as ever. He could turn fresh milk sour, that bloke, he really could. And bejeezus but it was cold! It was so bloody freezing that even brass monkeys were keeping a tight grip on their family jewels.

It was a bitter dawn, and seagulls screeched and shrieked as a lone fishing trawler that was lit up by Christmas lights cut across the stormy, metallic sea. I glanced up at the death black clouds that looked like bullet holes in the granite grey sky, and I was soon draped in a cloak of gloom. I turned back to Alan, who’d been blathering on about something or other, though it was hard to pay attention. I could usually tolerate his soliloquies of shite when we were in a warm and comfy boozer, but I really wasn’t in the mood at that time of day.

‘So, what you’re trying to tell me is that this lizard part of the brain is responsible for all of our primitive, non-rational, and self-interested behaviour,’ I said, humouring the daft old soak.

‘Yes, exactement!’ said Alan, breaking into a grin of almost unbearable smugness. ‘The Triune brain is an essential part of human evolution. It consists of the more primitive, reptilian part of the brain, the limbic system- that control's our emotions- and the neocortex, which is in charge of rational, objective thoughts.’

‘So, then, according to you, it’s that lizard bit of the brain that’s responsible for us hanging around East London’s dockland at dawn’ crack, waiting for some dodgy Frenchman to turn up with a briefcase full of cash? And freezing our tits off in the bloody process?’

‘Oh, for sure. And, of course, the limbic system, which motivates our greed, is giving us a good shove, too.’

‘Well, I’m guessing the neocortex is on holiday at the moment then?’

‘For sure. Most probably got its feet up sipping Pina Coladas on a sunny beach somewhere, I shouldn’t wonder.’

I grunted.

‘Well, I bloody hell, wish this Jean-Luc bloke would get a bleedin’ move on,’ I said. ‘It’s colder than my ex-wife’s heart, I tell you.’

‘Well, stamp your feet, my dear boy,’ said Alan, glaring at me. ‘It’s all a matter of circulation, you know?’

‘Yes, I’ll be sure to follow health advice from you. You set such a great example.’

Alan was more than a tad overweight, wearing an expensive Hugo Boss suit and overcoat as well as a pair of massive Versace sunglasses. He looked ready to be crushed under their weight. He was in his mid-fifties with a complexion like a blackcurrant crumble and a permanently furrowed brow. Mind you, he had plenty to be worried about these days. His amusement arcades and slot machines had died a death with the birth of online gambling and the posh pizza joint he’d opened had crashed faster than the Hindenburg. He always seemed to miss the mark with his wheeling and dealing and he’s managed to accrue a fair number of debts to some very dodgy types indeed.

But at least he was dressed appropriately for the weather. I, on the other hand, had just grabbed a tracksuit, trainers, and a Nike baseball cap before I’d left my flat.

My sense of sartorial style wasn’t what I was there for, after all. Alan just wanted me to stand behind him and look big, scary, and more than a tad pissed off. Not too much of a stretch, to be honest. Jack Frost was really nosing at my nips, and I could feel the first bite of a hangover.

Alan took a packet of Red Apple cigarettes from his coat pocket and took out a cigarette. He lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo lighter, sucked it deeply, smiled and coughed. He offered the packet to me.

‘Do you want one, Lee? Or are you still on the wagon, or whatever they say about giving up cigarettes?’

‘Actually, I’m currently eight months nicotine-free,’ I said. Although, I avoided looking at the cigarette pack. Out of sight, out of mind and all that.

A shiny, black BMW suddenly pulled up close to where we stood and a bald and bearded man that was dressed like an undertaker got out of the car. He was carrying a stainless-steel briefcase. He walked over to us and scowled as a gust of wind battered him. He shook hands with my uncle.

‘It is good to see you again, Alan, mon ami,’ the man said, in a French accent that was as thick as treacle.

‘And it’s good to see you, too, Jean-Luc,’ said Alan.

The Frenchman handed the briefcase to Alan.

‘There you are. That is the first half of the payment,’ he said.

Alan nodded and handed a small, black package to Jean-Luc.

‘And there you are, my friend. Your first supply of our home-produced Fentanyl. There’s enough there to knock out a herd of elephants.’

We all grinned like idiots, and I rubbed my hands together.

‘Ok, so that’s all done and dusted, then. And we’ll meet here the same time and same place next week?’ I said.

‘If your product is as good as you say it is, then yes,’ said Jean-Luc. ‘Of course, if it is not, well … Au revoir.’ He winked and sauntered toward his car.

‘Toodle pip,’ said Alan.

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘See yer later, terminator.’

Alan slapped me on my back. I wheezed.

‘You see? Everything’s coming up roses, Lee,’ said Alan, looking more than a tad smug.

I was going to make a comment about manure being good for roses, but I bit my tongue. We’d be in the shit soon enough anyway, I was sure. Alan always had a shedload of ideas but most of them were about as much use as a condom in a convent.

‘Well, are we off to find The Prof now?’ I said.

‘Oh, yes, we most certainly are,’ said Alan, walking towards his shiny blue Mercedes.

‘It looks like pub crawl beckons, then,’ I said, rubbing my hands, stamping my feet, and smirking like Boris Johnson in a cake shop. ‘Yes, indeed. It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it.’

***

‘Buggeration, she’s completely bloody hammered,’ I said.

‘Oh, well that is a delightful sight, it really is,’ said Alan. ‘She seemed as right as rain when we last saw her. When was that? A week ago?’

I shrugged.

‘You know, a lot can happen in a drunk’s life in a week, Uncle Alan,’ I said.

‘Apparently bloody so.’

We’d spent the last few days trying to track down The Prof without a great deal of success. We’d been in every pub and bar in the area. From the most expensive hotels to the cheap dives near the docks that sold cans of smuggled beer. And now, one day before we were due to deliver a new batch of Fentanyl to Jean-Luc, we’d eventually found her. However, The Prof was slumped over a sticky table in a particularly, gloomy corner of The Orange Kipper while a wiry, folk singer on the small stage sang – probably rather aptly - about ‘Seven Drunken Nights’.

A lanky, straggly hippy bearing more than a slight resemblance to Shaggy from Scooby Doo stumbled out of the toilets and bumped into Alan. Taking in Alan’s attire the hippy said: ‘Oh, sorry Father forgive me.’

‘Spectacles, tentacles, wallet and watch,’ said Alan, making the sign of the cross. The hippy looked confused and staggered off.

‘Well, we are well and truly screwed,’ said Alan. He plucked a strand of Midas’ long, red hair from the small pool of lager it was soaking in.

And he was most certainly right. The Prof was a bit of a genius, a veritable modern-day Alchemist. She’d even been a senior Chemistry lecturer at Oxford University until her penchant for the booze and home produce had gotten the better of her.

‘I told you we shouldn’t have given her that cash advance,’ I said. ‘Didn’t I?’

‘Well, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, Lee but it’s far too bloody late now, isn’t it?’ said Alan. ‘What the bloody hell are we going to do?’

‘Let’s get her home and maybe see if we can sober her up.’

Alan laughed but it sounded forced.

‘I’m afraid it’s probably a tad too late for that,’ said Alan. ‘Even if we can get her sober and functional, how much stuff do you think we can get her to knock out before Friday?’

‘Not a lot, I suppose. I suspect your mate Jean-Luc will be most displeased.’

‘Oh, it’s not Jean-Luc that I’m particularly worried about. It’s his boss,’ said Alan.

‘He’s not still working for The Family Stone, is he?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid he is.’

He slumped down next to The Prof, looking drained.

‘Well, in lieu of a better idea, do you fancy a drink?’ I said.

Alan nodded; his eyes squinted like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. I went over to the bar and ordered two pints of Stella Artois. I gave the barman a tenner and didn’t wait for the change.

I gave Alan his drink and sat down next to him. We both gulped our lager. I burped.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Any cunning plans, Baldrick?’

‘I dunno. I suppose it’s just a case of sink or swim,’ I said.

‘Which means what exactly? As far as I can see, we’re so far up shit creek that an outboard motor wouldn’t help us, let alone a paddle.’

I looked around the pub. Despite the many years since the introduction of the smoking ban, the room still had a nicotine tinge to it. As did most of the customers. I suddenly felt envious of their life of lassitude.

‘I dunno, really. Maybe, another pint?’ I said, although my lizard brain was already working hard at formulating a get-out plan. And a particularly nefarious one at that.

Alan went to the bar and returned with the drinks. And we disappeared toward drunken oblivion like dirty dishwater down a plughole.

***

As the lights in The Orange Kipper faded, Alan’s ’s booming voice seemed to grow even louder.

‘Well, yes, you see, the really marvellous thing about social media is that it gives a voice to the average man on the street and, of course, the really terrible thing about social media is that it gives a voice to the average man on the street. And, yes, I am well aware that Facebook friends are just fair-weather friends for the most part,’ he slurred ‘But personally that’s just the way I like it. Just one bloody click and the bastards are cancelled.’

‘Sure, sure,’ said I said, though I was barely paying a jot of attention to anything my uncle was saying.

Alan banged against the bar as he held court and swayed backwards and forwards. His sweaty bald head glistened in the bar’s neon lights. He was unshaven. His eyes were red. His expensive double-breasted pin stripe suit was crumpled and stained with various liquids.

We both burst out laughing, Alan wiping the tears from his eyes. I groaned. No matter how much booze we’d consumed, I still couldn’t shake off the thought of being in the Stone family’s bad books.

I picked up a magazine from the sticky table and flicked through it. I was reading an article about whether or not Superman was a scab — how the Man of Steel’s habit of working for free was reducing the salaries of hard-working cops and firemen - when I heard a high-pitched laugh.