Bad II the Bone (26 page)

Well that’s what they thought.

Thomas ‘Gatling Gun’ Gardener was found on the recreation grounds after a late evening exercise session. He died from massive unexplained body trauma. The other two were attacked and almost eaten alive by rabid animals - rats it was thought – from the safety of their cells. Preliminary forensic notes showed the MO was identical to the other murders linked with this case. Dawson had made a footnote explaining that all forensic reports that involved the case had been transferred to another department. He seemed worried and concerned.

“Jesas,” Shaft whispered to himself. “What the rass is going on?”

He made a note on his smartphone to call Wormwood Scrubs again to book an appointment to see Enoch Lacombe. Only he could shine some light on this situation.

Or could this be the doing of Jimmy Éclair who they had thought had been killed but had acquired a new identity? Appea
ring now from wherever he was to settle old scores.

But why?

Shaft’s theory had Jimmy Éclair being the recipient of a treasure that the Darkman had stolen and murdered for. If a failed robbery attempt by Deacon’s men as Jimmy was transporting the booty to a safe holding company had not brought this situation to the police’s attention then none of this would be an issue. Just another unknown network in the tangled web of the London underworld. But a shootout in North London tended to pique Scotland Yard’s attention. Jimmy had escaped the ambush and the empty truck was found in a scrap-yard with his blood all over the front seat.

If he survived this, what kind of lingering grudge would he harbor for men who tried to kill him and with the kind of money at his
disposal; the creative ways for revenge would be myriad.

Murder just did not seem like one of the things on your mind if you were living it up in South America.

And committing murders that could only be achieved if you were the Amazing Spider man, Jack the Ripper and some mutant with teleportation powers all rolled into one just was not sensible.

He was missing something here, something crucial.

And that bugged the hell out of him.

He closed the file and stuffed it in his drawer. Looking up from his task to check out what was happening around him, he started rummaging through his tray. A
pin stuck him in his finger tip and he swore. Being more careful this time he waded through rusty paper clips, furry magnets and a myriad of exotic stationery items until he pulled out a flaking black combination padlock.

He secured the draw.

At that moment he thought of Y and strangely how she and the girls could be inadvertently involved in this case. How a random fact he discovered had their new client actually knowing Jimmy Éclair.

Now, wasn’t that a coincidence?

Shaft was experienced enough to know that a break in a case could come from the most off centre of sources. So why not the girls?

Stranger things have happened.

1
7
.

Crypt Nightclub

Central London

Monday July 22nd

13.11

S
pokes was drumming his fingers on the ornate desk, waiting impatiently for talks to reconvene on the subject of essential renovation that he needed to do before the Council’s Building Enforcement office closed down the nightclub for non-compliance. Little did the blood sucking, South American,
blouse an’ skirt
he called his business partner realize that it was an elaborate sham.

The Dance was a week away and Spokes had to set some well placed lies in position to facilitate his permanent exit from this rat race. His frustration was real though and that came as a natural consequence of being in spitting distance of his partner.

You work dat out.

They had been business associates for four years and promo
ted some of the most profitable music promotions in London together. Carlos’ love of money above all else never sat well with Spokes but it had been a marriage of convenience. This is what Carlos thrived on and Spokes encouraged him along so the illusion that things were as always was reinforced. But Spokes wanted out and this was a part of his exit strategy. The story was he wanted the revenue from the bar and the door, altering the usual way things ran between them. And Spokes didn’t care that Carlos sensed a change in his attitude, this would be his swan song.

He had obviously come on too strong in the initial negotiations because Carlos - the leech – suspected that something was not quite the same about this promotion. Spokes was too intense about it and from experience his Jamaican partner did not do i
ntense. Spokes promised himself to tone down on the melodramatics.

When he met Carlos four years ago, the man from Sao Paolo was in serious financial difficulty but he had a creative mind and ambition and with his promises and big plans he convinced Spokes to work on the nightclub’s structure and redecoration at a su
bstantially reduced charge. Both their lives changed around about that time in ways Carlos would never truly understand. What he did understand without question was that they had been on a winning streak for the last four years, every promotion a smash hit and their partnership seemed to have the Midas touch.

All good things mus come to an end, pardy.

Carlos Velors - who had been called away from the discussion for the fourth time by the ringing phone - was not the easiest man to hold down. And even when you did have his attention, every sentence was punctuated by his incessant questions or the ring of the phone.

Why even go through this shit?

Well, it was this thing Carlos had about the etiquette of behavior between business partners. This was a gesture of respect that was being exploited by the trumped up little Napoleon for his own self aggrandizement. So Spokes felt it was his duty to make the exercise as uncomfortable for him as possible.

He rose himself off the leather seat slightly, grimaced and broke wind.

“Irritable bowels,” he muttered as a means of apology.

Velors looked over to him from the phone and Spokes smiled brightly, trying to wrinkle his nose at the stench and seem un
aware at the same time.

Velors smiled back, brushing air from his nose.

A combination of stress, the red peas and pork tail soup did not help his constitution.

He belched next.

Damn.

What the hell was he doing on the phone for so long?

The goddamn man was like an eel, unable to sit still for a moment without some erratic movement on his part. From a twitch of his eyelid, to suddenly jumping up out of his seat scattering whatever was in his way to the carpet.

He was like some uncoordinated puppet unable to control basic movement. Spokes had to have his wits about him to not be
pummeled by flying furniture or a flailing arm. Thankfully a meter of wood separated them but still it was an exhausting exercise to watch him.

One more week of this to endure and it would all be over.

He reached into his attaché case and slid one of the promotional flyers, a list of advertising sources and the fake Building Inspector’s report over to where his business partner was seated. The dummy Building Inspector’s report he had had done by a girlfriend in the council just as a smokescreen for Carlos’ attention. Not that he would question his need to smash through the wall in his office, that was his trade after all, but he just felt better covering all bases.

Even showing him the flyers and the promotional pack was just a courtesy because Carlos had nothing to do with marketing and wouldn’t know the first thing that was required to arrange an event like this successfully. He just counted the chips and acco
mmodated his requests. What made their unlikely pairing even remotely possible was steeped in the power of magic, witchcraft and Obeah. The Brazilian was sitting on top of forces that consistently bent and broke scientific laws and commonsense. Ancient trinkets and oddities collected by an Obeah man from around the world, stored below where they sat in a Roman crypt he had accidently stumbled upon while renovating the place four years ago and which he used as the perfect hiding place for Darkman’s ill gotten gains. He had used some of the more obvious wealth himself and made sure Jimmy’s family was looked after. The remainder he had buried, recorded and studied. He used his new found wealth not just to make himself comfortable but began to research and consult experts who could identify and unravel their secrets. Darkman returning to the scene had altered his plans but the results would be the same - a new life.

And something as important as this could not be left to chance. The date of the dance just hadn’t been guessed upon but had been divined by men and women who knew these things.

Finally Bagga John, Father Fowl, Diamond Ruff and even Anthony Gee would be able to regain their positions that had been taken from them by his secret treasure trove in the basement.

This would all be over soon, once he got the key to Carlos’ o
ffice - the only entrance into the Crypt through the walls. He could work without disturbance getting in and out with the treasure and nobody would be the wiser.

Make no mistake, this was a courtesy extended to Carlos b
ecause with or without his authority or help he would be demolishing his wall to get into the catacombs.

The phone slammed down on its cradle and Spokes looked up from his thoughts.

Velors had finished his conversation finally and was grinning in his direction.

“Señor Spokes, apologies for the interruptions. Where were we?”

“Someting to do with why the figure we agreed on keeps going up,” Spokes said sarcastically.

“Ah yes. I‘m happy with what we‘ve finally agreed on. Your proposal is a good one don‘t worry.”

“Mi looked worried to you, rudy?”

“You do actually. What can I do to relieve some of that stress?”

“Feh starters you can reconsider changing our sixty-forty deal to fifty-fifty. Then while you’re at it give me access keys and magnetic cards to all the rooms so on the night I can give deh council surveyors access to every nook and cranny.”

“Sure. I‘ll have them ready for you,” he said. “And let me sleep on the profit split. Nothing should come between us and the healthy profits we’re making, right?”

His face lit up with the wattage of his greed at the thought of the profits to come.

The phone rang.

Spokes kissed his teeth.

But Velors flashed his veneered gnashers, his jaw angled to profile his good side. His eyes twinkled artificially, savoring the sense of importance it made him feel, he paused before answe
ring.

“Have a drink, relax,” he pointed to the drinks cabinet, “I’ve been expecting this call,” he said. “Two minutes, tops.”

Spokes stood up and unruffled his linen suit. He made his way out of the office where his protective angels would be waiting for him. The door sucked shut behind him and the only thought that made him feel good was him being out of the picture and a crazed Velors, having spent thousands on a party standing in the middle of the venue thinking he had the Midas touch and realizing that he was alone and useless. All the greedy, gravoliscious, vindictive, tight-fisted son-of-a-bitch deserved.

He smiled fleetingly and played the mind movie in his head again.

His smile broadened.

Westfield Shopping Centre, Shepherds Bush

Tuesday 23rd July

12.51

Shaft inhaled the aroma of his cappuccino as it wafted up from his cup and continued to massage Y’s feet under the table with his free hand. A grin, surgically attached to his face by a skilled Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, stood triumphant for all to see as he contemplated how great life was, amidst the Tuesday scrum of intelligent shoppers.

They were sitting in one of these conveyors belt type resta
urants with staff who by rights should be mucky while preparing the food but pranced about in immaculately white smocks and with eager grins only he could appreciate in his present good mood.

And this good mood was fuelled by the adolescent exhilaration of being around not just one but three painfully sexy women,
who made him feel like some Hip Hop mogul on a video shoot. A sigh of contentment came from his lips like an inadvertent belch.

Why women thought men were a Rubik cube-type puzzle
s to be solved with nagging and tears was a mystery he couldn’t understand. Men were simple creatures. Feed them, stroke their egos - and anywhere else that needed attention - and you would have a friend for however long it took him to get bored.

Strangely enough though, he never did fe
el out of place around them. And the subject of boredom was as alien to these three as work to a benefit cheat. Bad II the Bone’s exploits were nudging precariously close to the excitement levels of the Flying Squad in his opinion. One or two gun battles over a few months and they would nearly be there.

Y looked over her magazine with a little smile on her face after reading her horoscope. She caught Shaft either reading the front page of the Pride or looking at her through the magazine. Her eyes didn’t linger with his for too long but that did not stop her from trying to figure out from his expression of total cool and his delightful thumb movements over her feet what was going on in that handsome head of his.

Carefully, she closed the magazine and placed it on the table. It was time to give up the struggle, having skimmed a sentence four times and still not understood a word she had read.

“Let’s go and rejoin the girls at Prada,” Y said suddenly.

“Not when I’m getting into the swing of tings,” Shaft’s voice had taken on the chocolaty undertones of Barry White, “I can still feel areas of tension, here, here and here.” He pointed.

Y shivered deliciously as he trailed his finger up her calf.

And if you continue doing that I will not be held responsible for my actions, Y thought. Then she swung her legs out from under the table and picked up the bunch of designer named shopping bags beside her chair.

“What is it about men and shopping that gets them all jittery and frightened?”

Shaft slurped the remainder of his coffee as he stood up and glared at her, a smile not too far from his lips.

“I resent that generalization,” he said with his corny voice of authority. “But I can briefly say by way of explanation, that a man’s aversion to shopping is a primal response that is triggered when the male of the species back in the day saw the imminent collapse of his tribe through his mate’s carelessness. Translated into layman’s terms shopping equates to possible bankruptcy, collapse of a man’s tribe. You see?”

“Do you know, you are a chauvinist dawg?”

Shaft howled and grinned broadly.

“I prefer to see myself as a wolf, baby. A chauvinist wolf.”

Shaft and Y walked down the busy shopping mall arm in arm. She was chatting away about how predictable most men were while the detective was occupied with a strand of information left over from the discussion they had the last time they met.

He wished he didn’t have to bring it up now but he felt it i
mportant enough to run the risk of placing a damper on the fantastic time he was having. And for a detective there was nothing worse than having unresolved questions lurking around in your head.

Y preferred the direct approach anyway, so he laid it on the line. He stopped, squeezing her hand gently and pulled her in to face him.

“Remember I said I’d look into the client you’re working for, some background stuff that could prove to be useful? Well I found something peculiar.”

Y maintained her smile but her body betrayed her deep seated worry by the tautness exhibited in her neck and shoulders. Shaft pulled her in closer.

“You okay?”

“I’m good, let’s talk here.” They shuffled over to a length of balcony and made it their own; the exquisite perfume of savory crepe teased them from the restaurant across the way. Shaft leaned on the cool brushed aluminum tubes and looked down at the milling shoppers below. Y leaned her backside on it with fol
ded arms, ready to hear what he had to say.