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  THE LAST LAUGH

  Crime Stories

  Paul D. Brazill

  PRAISE FOR THE LAST LAUGH

  “If you took Ken Bruen’s candor, the best of Elmore Leonard’s dialogues, sprinkled in some Irvine Welsh, and dragged it all through the dirtiest ditch in South London, the result will be something akin to Brazill’s writing.” —Gabino Iglesias, author of Zero Saints and Gutmouth

  “A broad range of cultural strands come together in the melting pot and form a delicious stew of criminal adventure… The observations are sharp and the characters create small nuclear explosions as they collide with each other.” —Nigel Bird, author of Southsiders

  “Brazill isn’t just a writer; he’s a poet and you can take any of his stories and write a master’s thesis on just the language employed.” —Les Edgerton, author of The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping

  Copyright © 2015 by Paul D. Brazill

  First Down & Out Books Edition: Spring 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  All Due Respect

  an imprint of Down & Out Books

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Edited by Chris Black and Chris Rhatigan

  Cover design by Chris Rhatigan

  Visit the All Due Respect website to find lowlife literature.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Last Laugh: Crime Stories

  The Last Laugh

  The Luck of the Devil

  Route 66 & All That

  The Postman Cometh

  Up the Creek

  A Bit of a Pickle

  Red Esperanto

  One of Those Days in England

  Stop Me if You’ve Heard This One

  The Bucket List

  Dead Pimp in a Trunk

  A Tissue of Webs

  The Weather Prophet

  This Old House

  The Return of the Tingler

  Silver Dream Racer

  The Skull Ring

  The Lady & The Gimp

  Who Killed Skippy?

  The Tut

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  The Down & Out Books Publishing Family Library of Titles

  Preview from Dillo by Max Sheridan

  Preview from Accidental Outlaws by Matt Phillips

  Preview from May by Marietta Miles

  For Jason Michel

  THE LAST LAUGH

  He stalked the hillside like a shadow slicing through the swirling mist, his dark raincoat flapping behind him like a bat’s wings. The Glock felt hot and heavy in his clammy hand. He wiped his sweating, shaven head with a handkerchief as he stopped beside a black, mud splattered BMW. The car rocked from side to side, a strange, strangled, wailing sound and heavy thumping emanating from inside. He ripped the boot open to reveal three identical toy clowns grinning at him. He smiled briefly, filled with calm for a moment. A calm that soon disappeared like hot breath on a cold window pain. It’s come to this, he thought. He grimaced, pointed his gun and fired. Again and again until the roar of the gunshots enfolded him.

  Godard stumbled out of the boozy stew of dreams and memories, and tumbled into a scalding hot day. Gasped for breath, rubbed his red eyes and looked around, disorientated. The sunlight burnt his eyes. After a moment he realised he was slumped in the piss-stinking doorway of a secondhand record shop. The sound of a vaguely familiar Led Zeppelin song blasted out. Something about how crying won’t help you and praying won’t do you no good. The singer had a point, Godard thought.

  An emaciated Goth girl ran out of the shop, jumped over him and raced into the street, giggling as she tapped away on her smart phone. Godard wiped his forehead with a Pizza Hut napkin that he’d found on the pavement. He was sweating buckets. His once-white linen suit was soaked and grubby. His pink shirt was like a well-used dishcloth.

  It looked as if he was in Madrid, which was a relief. Although he couldn’t remember getting there. But then most of the last few days had been a blur. A downward spiral. He’d never been one to take bad news well, that was for sure.

  A large silhouette stepped in front of him. He lifted a hand and squinted through his shaking fingers. A tall Spanish policeman loomed over him, a massive paw tapping the gun in his holster, a wry grin on his face. The policeman took off his mirrored aviator sunglasses. Blue eyes twinkled.

  “Creo que debería empezar a moverse pronto, señor,” he said. “Tal vez volver a su hotel y la limpieza. Bebe un poco de agua. Tome una siesta.”

  Godard nodded and groaned as he struggled to his feet.

  “Por supuesto,” he rasped.

  The policeman nodded and watched as Godard staggered into the bustling street. The air was thick and heavy and it slammed into him like a sledgehammer. He was massively hungover and the ultra-high temperature began to choke him as he charged his massive form forward, ignorant of the crowds. People fired sharp looks at his lurching figure as he barged past them. A dwarf in a top hat and tails pulled at his trouser leg and asked for money. Godard sharply kicked him.

  “Bugger off!” he growled.

  The dwarf looked at the raging storm in Godard’s eyes and scuttled away.

  Godard paused and headed over to Fuente de Cibeles. He bathed his head and face in the water. The statue of Cybele, the Greek goddess of fertility on a chariot being pulled by two lions, loomed over him. He leaned against the fountain and steadied himself. Slowed his breathing. Adjusted his eyes, vision still blurred.

  From out of a crowd of leering, jeering English football hooligans a young woman walked towards him as if she were in slow motion. Black dress. Black stiletto heel shoes. Black sunglasses. Blood red lipstick, alabaster skin and white hair. Her parasol was held aloft like a big black bat flapping towards the sun. He reached out a shaking hand. A chill sliced through Godard as she smiled, passed him by and walked over to shake hands with a dishevelled man in a saggy suit.

  Godard shook his head and staggered toward Real Casa de Correos, where he paused to catch his breath. He stood on the stone slab that marked Kilometre Zero. Gazed up at the famous clock tower where every New Year’s Eve at the stroke of midnight, thousands of Spaniards gathered and tried to see how many grapes they could stuff down their throats without choking. He wandered onwards until, at last, he stumbled into the Bodega de la Ardosa, panting like a beaten mongrel.

  Luis, the skeletal barman, sat at the end of the bar reading a well-thumbed P.G. Wodehouse novel.

  Luis had a hand-held, battery-operated fan pointed at his saggy face and an unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The sounds of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of The Moon drifted through the room.

  In a sandpaper voice, Godard ordered a Tinto de Verano and sat down near the doorway. Luis sighed and grudgingly shuffled behind the bar to make the drink. He brought over the drink and a small plate of chorizo sausages. He dramatically splashed the room with cologne and went back to reading his book.

  A signed photograph of Frank Sinatra with the bar owner was hung on the wall amongst the collecti
on of old beer bottles and the pencil drawing of Goya’s Los Caprichos. The bar’s dark wood and dim lighting, along with the drink, was slowly giving Godard a glow. Taking the edge off his earlier anxiety attack. There was something magical about the place. Dreamlike.

  Godard closed his eyes until the waves of panic subsided. He was suddenly very hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He picked up a spicy chorizo sausage, stuffed it into his mouth and closed his eyes again. Fanned himself with a copy of the Expansion Directo. He swatted a fly that crawled across the table towards his plate and threw the newspaper onto the floor. He gestured for another drink and took out the soggy brown envelope from his pocket, his hands shaking like a chainsaw.

  “It’s come to this,” he muttered to himself as he reread the contents.

  He took out a soggy packet of Marlborough cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Tapped the packet. Frowned and replaced them.

  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” said Luis, as he put down the drink. His Spanish accent was as thick as treacle.

  Godard caught his pallid reflection in the window.

  “Oh, I have,” he said. “I most certainly have.”

  Calle de Fuencarral was claustrophobic and bursting with raucous revellers, even though it was long after midnight. Godard limped down the street towards the Sol district. A skinny, rat-faced punk rocker on a skateboard sped by and narrowly missed him, spinning him around so that Godard stumbled into a group of braying businessmen.

  “Fuck you, buddy,” said a tall American. “You better…”

  Godard’s arm shot out and grasped him by the throat.

  “I think it’s time that you learned some fucking manners son! But luckily for you, time is something I don’t have a great abundance of at the moment,” he said.

  He kneed the man in the groin and hurled him into a shuttered butcher’s shop doorway, which rattled with the impact. Godard jabbed a finger at the American’s forehead.

  “Be quiet,” he said. “Learn the value of silence.”

  Godard turned sharply as two other men rushed at him.

  “You fucker, I’ll…” said a well-sozzled Scotsman.

  One blow to the Adam’s apple and the Scotsman gasped. A few fast punches and he was on the pavement. Godard gave the other man a hard kick between the legs and he was down, screaming in pain.

  Godard turned and continued on his way, ignoring the threatening yells of the men’s companions.

  He eventually stood outside The Quiet Man pub on Calle de Valverde—a faux Irish theme pub once beloved of Madrid’s ex-pat community and the tourists and businessmen that swarmed the city.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he said, as he saw the graffiti-stained metal shutters pulled down over the windows and a ‘Closed Until Further’ notice on the front door.

  He looked around and saw a saggy old man leaning over the balcony of one of the flats opposite. He was smoking a cigarette, swaying to the distant sounds of Salsa.

  “¿Cuándo sucedió esto?” said Godard.

  “About a year or so ago,” said the old man, with an Australian accent.

  Godard shook his head.

  “Things change, eh?” said the Australian. He sucked on his cigarette.

  “Yeah,” said Godard. “Not always for the best. I was hoping to meet someone here. An old mate of mine. Used to drink here eight nights out of seven.”

  The Australian’s piercing blue eyes surveyed Godard for a moment.

  “Maybe you should head off to The James Joyce Pub. Have a gander there. Most of The Quiet Man’s former clientele congregate there these days.”

  He finished his cigarette and lit another one.

  “Where’s that?” said Godard. “I haven’t been out and about in Madrid for years.”

  “Calle Alcala 59,” said the Australian. “Not far. Just round the corner, really. Looking for anyone in particular?”

  “Yes,” said Godard. “Though he’s not that particular, as it happens.”

  A bland, muzak version of ‘The Irish Rover’ segued into ‘Carrickfergus’ which faded into ‘Dirty Old Town.’ The music was the stock in trade for every plastic paddy pub around the world, along with an elaborately drawn shamrock on the Guinness by an overly jocular barman. Godard didn’t mind the faux-Irish shtick himself, though. Maybe it was because he wasn’t Irish, but it was one of the many things about The James Joyce Pub that drove Brendan Macavoy up the wall.

  “It’s like that big idiot over there,” said Brendan, gesturing towards the opposite end of the crowded oak bar that he and Godard leaned against. “I mean, look at the fucker.”

  A massive bull-headed man with curly red hair was balancing a pint of Guinness on his head in an attempt to impress a small group of scantily dressed Spanish girls.

  “He only left Boston six months ago and now he’s playing the professional Irishman all over Madrid, living off his daddy’s money, dancing to all this diddly-dee crap. Young dumb and full of come is the expression, I believe. Whinging on about the potato famine when he could do with a famine himself. And Jesus, the amount of shags he gets! Tells them all he’s related to The Pogues, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I thought The Pogues were English,” said Godard, wiping Guinness froth from his top lip.

  “Exactly!” said Brendan. “And here’s me as Irish as St Patrick and I can’t get a fuck for love nor money. Well, okay, money. If I ever have any.”

  “St Patrick was English, too. And you grew up in Liverpool.”

  “Aye, well you know what I mean.”

  Godard smiled for the first time in days. Brendan had never changed in all the years he’d known him. He was, as always, pug-ugly, badly dressed—crumpled, beer-stained Hawaiian shirt, long shorts—and eternally unlucky in love. Rubbish at cards, too. And if bullshitting was an Olympic sport, Brendan would get a gold medal without breaking a sweat.

  “It’s good to see you Bren. Been too long.”

  They chinked glasses.

  “So it has. Though you being officially dead didn’t exactly help matters. I almost croaked on the spot myself when you walked through the door.”

  “Well, that’s the point of having a new identity. A new life,” said Godard. “Clean slate and all that. It may not have been the Witness Protection Program but it did the trick.”

  They sat at a small round table beneath a sepia photograph of James Joyce’s funeral.

  “Ever read any of his stuff?” said Godard, gesturing to the photo.

  “Naw. Never met anyone who has, either. You?”

  Godard shook his head.

  “Joyce probably never even read his stuff himself. Anyway, where the hell have you been holed up, then?” said Brendan.

  “I’ve been taking it easy in Andalucía. Seville, to be precise. Had my own photography business that was ticking over quite nicely.”

  “Have you been in touch with any of the old crew?”

  “Nope. I kept my head down. Learned the lingo. Kept away from the Brit ex-pat arseholes. Melted away to oblivion, or as near as damn it.”

  “So, what brings you back to life then, Lazarus? Won the Lotto? Still not found what you’re looking for, like Bonzo?”

  Godard grimaced. Took a long drink.

  “Ah, well…you see, reports of my death weren’t all that exaggerated after all, it seems,” said Godard.

  Brendan frowned and finished his drink.

  “Well, I’d best get another round in, then, eh? This is a three-pint problem, I assume.”

  Godard nodded.

  “It is. And a couple of chasers wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

  Brendan went to the bar and Godard watched the big American attempt to do a Riverdance to ‘Seven Drunken Nights.’ It was painful to watch. He knew he should have pitied the poor boy but the desperate clowning was making him angry, although his temper was well frayed most of the time, these days.

  “Jesus, isn’t that a disgusting sight,” said Brendan, putting down a tray which
contained two pints of Guinness and two double Johnnie Walker’s.

  “It certainly is. I’ve been through some shite in my time,” said Godard. “But that is one of the most painful experiences I’ve had in donkey’s years.”

  “So, what’s the deal, big feller?” said Brendan.

  The music changed to Van Morrison’s ‘Tore Down A La Rimbaud’ and Brendan blew a kiss to the barman. Gave him a thumbs up.

  “Are you and he an item?” said Godard.

  “In his dreams,” said Brendan. “Anyway, back on topic. So…”

  “So…”

  Godard took out the grubby, torn envelope and handed it to Brendan.

  “It’s come to this,” said Godard, tapping the envelope.

  Brendan squinted as he read it in the dark pub’s wan light. Godard resisted the urge to go over and smack the American, who was berating the barman for changing the music. He focused on his drinks. Patted the still unopened cigarette packet in his jacket pocket.

  “That fucker,” said Brendan. “I can’t believe she’s marrying him. Damon Ryan for fuck’s sake. I bet that smarts.”

  “It does at that,” said Godard.

  They drank in silence until Brendan broke it. He cleared his throat.

  “That twat’s expiration date ran out a long time ago,” he said.

  Godard nodded. They chinked glasses.

  Thin Lizzy’s ‘The Boys Are Back in Town’ broke the silence.

  “So, what’s the plan,” said Brendan.

  “Well, actually, a certain retired Detective Inspector of our acquaintance is said to be residing in some ex-pat enclave in the Costa Blanca. A place called Javea, just outside Alicante, to be more precise. Apparently he’s got himself a nice little villa there and a little Spanish popsie to do his dusting for him. So I think first off I’ll pop down and have a word with him. Maybe drag a bit of information from him.”