The Final

This story is purely fictional - any resemblance to real and existing persons or events are purely coincidental.
‘Fuck’ said Ricardo Pinto, as he watched the number 11 hammer home the winning penalty sending Argentina into the World Cup Final, ‘Fuck’ he repeated again and then buried his head in his hands, barely able to watch the blue and white clad players celebrating their achievements.

Ricardo Pinto was probably the only person in the whole of Brazil who wasn’t into football; he just didn’t get it, thought it was pointless, grown men running around after a ball. Because of that or maybe for other reasons he might well have been the only person in the whole of Brazil who didn’t hate Argentina. So he wasn’t swearing at the injustice of Argentina succeeding where his native Brazil had failed. No Pinto had far more serious reasons for his expletives.

The reason that Pinto was swearing was the he had it on good authority that if Argentina won the World Cup on Brazilian soil, then Brazil would spontaneously go in to meltdown. The anger that had lead to violent protests before the tournament still simmered beneath the surface but had been controlled and contained whilst Brazil were doing okay. He had feared the response to the semi final defeat, but in many ways the drubbing had worked in his favour; his countrymen were too shocked to act. The sporadic acts of violence that followed that loss were easily contained and covered up. But for the President’s shady security advisor an Argentinian win would be a disaster. He was convinced that if Argentina managed to beat the Germans on Sunday night then all of that resentment, all of that hatred would erupt like a samba soaked volcano and his forces would be powerless to act.

Maybe he was overreacting, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad, he was tired, it had been a long hard month; he needed to get some sleep. He’d think about it again in the morning.

The morning came after a fitful night’s sleep and arrived armed with bad news. Missives from agents across the country suggested that agent provocateurs were ready to light the blue touch paper, Brazil was a tinderbox and an Argentinian win was all it would take to set it off. Pinto was going to have to act.

The head of the organising committee started at Pinto with a look of horror on his face.

‘You want us to fix the final?’ He said with a tone of disbelief.

Pinto nodded, he was careful not to say yes to this. He’d explained the situation to the man in front of him, making it clear what he wanted without actually saying it. 

‘Impossible.’ He said defiantly. ‘We can’t do it, this has to be fair, we did this for you for the first game, but this is the final. No, no way.’

‘Then the final doesn’t go ahead.’ said Pinto matter of factly.

‘You can’t cancel the World Cup Final.’ said the man, ‘the whole bloody world would riot.’

‘Well, we wouldn’t cancel it, we’d make it unplayable.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A bomb at the German team hotel, a fatal robbery on the Argentinian team bus, an outbreak of  Small pox at the stadium. These things would surely mean the game had to be called off.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘The very survival of my country is at stake here, the loss of a few over paid footballers would be a small price to pay. So please don’t doubt me.’

The head of the organising committee looked forlorn as he walked out of Pinto’s office. He was in shock but he had no choice. He found his phone and called up the Ref who so controversially took charge of the first game and announced the news he had been rewarded with the final.

The Cupcakes Murder part 3

This is part three of the Cupcakes Murder for part one click here and part two here

I found Andrews as usual propping up the bar in Copelands, he looked the worse for wear. I ordered a drink for me and refill for the cop. He nodded his thanks waiting for me to speak.

‘What do you know about the Cupcakes murder?’ I asked him.

‘Nothing.’ he slurred back. I slid a note across the bar, he took it but stayed silent.

I waited.

‘Still nothing,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to know. No leads, no clues, no one’s giving us anything, the whores were about as observant as a three blind mice.’ I noted he didn’t say anything about the barman and the sparkling tooth.

‘Forensics?’ I asked.

‘The bullet was clean, no records of the gun being used before. And Santa wears gloves so nothing on him from the perp. As I said we’ve drawn a blank.’

‘And that suits you?’

Andrews shrugged his indifference.

‘You think it’s an inside job?’ I asked.

He shrugged again, ‘word is that it isn’t someone close to Hristov, but it certainly was a hit. This was no accident, someone wanted Santa dead.’

Andrews finished his drink, I ordered a top up for him, left money on the bar and turned to go. I decided to keep the information Pete had told me about the tooth to myself for now.

Jenkins was a dirty, low down two-bit drug dealer, he was as bent as the day was long. God knows how he was still alive, he must have ripped off every hoodlum in town. He was the kind of guy that nobody talks to unless they want something and who speaks to no one unless there’s something in it for him. I wanted something.

‘What do you want Archer?’ He spat as soon as he saw me.

‘Good day to you too.’ I said, mostly because I knew it would piss him off.

‘I don’t have time for games,’ he said, which was a game in itself as he had more time than anyone.

‘What do you know about the Cupcakes murder?’ I smiled at him, watching his calculate the price. I handed him a note, he hesitated deciding if it was enough, then spoke.

‘Only that it has baffled everyone.’ he said. ‘Usually when this happens some big shot boasts about it to their mates but with this, there’s a stony silence. No one knows a thing.’ I looked at him, he seemed to be telling the truth, he had a habit of scratching his head when he was lying but now his hands were in his pockets.

‘So no word of a motive? No dispute between gangs?’

Jenkins shook his dirty head, I could almost see the lice crawling on his greasy hair.

‘Okay’ I said ‘but if you hear anything you tell me, okay.’

Jenkins was scum but actually was loyal, I knew he’d get in touch if anything happened but I didn’t expect it to, nothing was going to happen in this case.

I could see why the police had put in minimal effort, this was a piece of scum murdered by one of his own, it was already a cold case and getting colder by the minute. I’d sniff around a bit more but basically I’d have to tell Hristov that nothing’s doing.

I decided to head back to the office to pick up Molly. I’d take her for a drink, I liked talking cases over with her, she was a good listener and it helped me sort out my thoughts. But when I walked in to the office, I could tell there was something wrong.

Her smile was not quite her smile. She nodded towards the corner and there sat a tall, wiry man, a slightly gaunt look, a pistol in his hand and a smile that revealed his trademark diamond.

for part 4 click here

Shoe Shopping - A Steve Rant

‘New Shoes?’ Johnny said looking at Steve’s new wheels.

‘Don’t talk to me about these bloody shoes.’ Steve shook his head as he sat down and then took a swig of his beer.

‘Rubbing you?’

‘Nah it’s not that, have you been shoe shopping recently?’ Johnny shook his head. ‘Well don’t’, I can’t believe how bad the staff were. They seem to consider themselves to be some kind of benevolent royals, who should be treated with the utmost respect at all times and are only working there out of their altruism.’

Johnny smiled. ‘What happened?’

‘Well, I tried on the left one, like you do, and it was perfect and I wanted to try the other.  I must have stood there with a shoe in my hand for at least 15 minutes looking for a shop assistant to help me, but nothing.’

‘Fifteen minutes?’

‘Okay it was probably more like three minutes but it felt like 15 and I felt like a bloody idiot. Surely if you stand in a shoe shop holding one shoe you are signalling that you need assistance but the staff in this particular branch of Shoeworld were obviously inept at reading the signs.’

Johnny smiled at his friend’s misfortune.

‘I tell you if eye contact avoidance was an Olympic sport, I could have been looking at the synchronised threesome Olympic champions, so adept were they at looking in different directions as soon as I thought I'd caught their eye.’

Steve took another long swig of beer.

'Honestly I was beginning to think. I was dead but didn't know it. I looked around for Haley Joel Osment thinking that maybe he would speak to me, but where was the star of The Sixth Sense when you need him?'

Johnny smiled again.

 ‘I don't want anything special, I’m not asking for the world, I don't want to be treated like a VIP, I just want people to do their job and assist me. After all the clue is in the name, assistants, they are not shop loungers or shop gossipers are they?’

‘So what did you do?’
‘I um….’

‘What did you do Steve?

‘Well, I …um…’

‘Spit it out.’

‘I threw the shoe down and stormed out.’

Johnny laughed. ‘So where did you buy those from?’

‘Well I knew the left one fitted so I ordered them online.

‘Genius’ said Johnny. ‘Now how about trying to walk them in and go to the bar to get us another beer.’

Steve collected the empties as did as he was told.

The Cupcakes Murder Part 2

This is part two of the Cupcakes Murder for part 1 click here
You should’ve seen the looks on the girls' faces when I walked into Cupcakes.

I was the guy who had given Molly her freedom, suddenly they were all smiling at me, wanting to be the next Molly. But they weren’t genuine smiles, no one could smile like Molly.

Hristov met me with a sombre look on his face, he was genuinely upset. He told the new barman Pete to fix us some drinks and then led us into his office.  As we sat down, I honestly thought Hristov was about to cry.  

‘I know he wasn’t a very nice man Mr Stanley but Todor was my friend, had been since childhood. Now he’s dead and I want you to find who killed him.’ It was the first time I had heard Santa’s real name.

‘How about the police?’ I said, feeling genuine sympathy.

‘They don’t care about us, Mr Stanley, you know how it works.’ I did know how it worked. The police let places like Cupcakes operate freely, as long as they didn’t have to get involved to sort out the inevitable mess.

‘What about your “friends"?’ Hristov was well connected, he pulled strings all ovet this town.

‘No one knows anything Mr Stanley and you know people talk to me.’

‘So that makes you think they’ll talk to me?’ I asked.

‘They won’t, but you’re good, you’ll find the answer.’

I wasn’t so sure, but it was nice that someone had trust in me.

‘Tell me what happened’ I said.

‘A punter comes in, starts taking it a bit too far with one of the girls, so Todor takes him out back to sort him out. But Todor never came back.’

‘CCTV?’ I asked

Hristov looked at me like I was mad.

‘Would punters come in here if I was filming them?’

‘I dunno. Maybe you want it for blackmail?’

‘Mr Stanley, I run a legitimate business, my customers need to know they can be discreet.’

‘Cause of death?’ I said getting back to the case.

‘Gunshot wound to the chest, one bullet.’

This was beginning to look like a hit rather than a random act of self-defence. Normal people don’t take guns into brothels.

‘Did Santa have any enemies? I asked.

‘He’s my muscles,’ he stopped himself. ‘was my muscles, he made enemies, it was a perk of the job.’

‘A perk?’

‘He liked his job Mr Stanley.’ He said with a sad smile.

So for the second time that month I sat interviewing girls in a brothel. They were still trying to give me the glad eye but it wasn’t working on me.  Their memories were hazy, the guy was tall, short, bald, mulleted, he was fifty and he was 25, good looking and ugly. Even the girl he was groping failed to remember him. Pete the barman was a little more forthcoming, he remembered a wiry looking guy, an arrogant eye, drank bourbon, smoked heavily, didn’t say much.

‘I  felt sorry for him when Santa had dragged him out the back.’ Pete said ‘I thought it would be an unfair contest, thought Santa would kill him.’

 I took a sip of my drink and sat in silence for a while. This was either an organised hit or some disgruntled punter who had been dealt with by Santa before. Coming back for a spot of revenge.

‘You ever seen him before?’ I asked Pete.

‘No, but I haven’t worked here long, you should ask the guy before me.’

‘Easier said than done.’ I mumbled. ‘Easier said than done.’

‘Just one thing,’ the barman said ‘I think he might have had a gold tooth or something, maybe a diamond, something that sparkled when he spoke.’ He said it like it was nothing, but to me it was everything.

For Part three click here