Ken Bruen - The Max

He needed an infusion of cash, a rather large one. He took out his remaining bottle of Gordon’s Gin – was there any other? – and drat, no tonic or bitters, really, he’d have to take stock. There was a miniature mountain of bills that had accumulated in his absence, and he threw them in the garbage. The upper classes didn’t actually pay for stuff. Really, did anyone ever see Prince Charles worry about the light bill?

He tossed back the gin, said, “Hits the spot, ye gads.”

And went to the bathroom. It was about the size of his cupboard. Shame about the hot water. There is a slight downside to not paying the utilities. He’d have to ring ol’ Mum, get her to post some cheques to these various chappies. He splashed on some Hugo Boss, a fellow had to smell right, and then as he peed, he went, “The bloody hell is that?”

Couldn’t be. But it looked like… were those blisters?

He stood stock still, thinking, Herpes? Him?

“The bitch,” he said, and he slammed his fist into the wall, hurting his knuckles. Then he shouted, “This is just too bloody rich! ”

And in his rage, he made a decision that, by day’s end, would in fact lead to his killing somebody.

He went back to the tiny front room, drank off rather a large measure of neat gin and in a lightbulb moment thought, Hampstead, by golly. Somebody is going to pay for this injustice, this travesty of life.

He went to the pub first, see if any of the chaps were around, maybe hit them for a rapid fifty for cab fare. You didn’t think he was going to ride the tube, now did you? Come on, really, get with the cricket, old bean.

The usual suspects were lined up along the bar and greeted him less with warmth than expectation, expecting that for once he might be flush and stand a round of drinks, they admired his tan, and when he shouted to the bartender, “Pint of your best bitter, my good fellow,” they shrugged, collectively, same old, same old.

It was the kind of pub where everything was for sale, even your mother, well, your mother’s pension, anyway. There was a quite a brisk trade in old age pensioners’ pension books, and of course there was always someone cashing some unfortunate Australian backpacker’s travelers cheques. You recommended a good cheap hostel to them, clean and friendly, and while they went off to make the call, you relieved them of their belongings.

Doing the chaps and gells a favour, actually. Now they’d really have an adventure, see how friendly London was when you were skint. Which is why all the bar staff in Earls Court had Aussie accents, the trips to Italy, etc., shall we say, um, deferred.

Sebastian managed to bum a twenty from an Irish guy who was three sheets to the wind and got the hell out of there. The black cab to Hampstead cost most of the borrowed dosh but ah, glorious Hampstead, where Sebastian felt he belonged – that, or of course, Windsor.

He paid the driver and gazed in wonder at the address. It was a semi-detached in a nice leafy lane. Whistling a few bars from Bridge on the River Kwai, he let himself in, hoping to fuck she didn’t have a dog.

Cash, the house reeked of it. Flokati shag rugs on the floor and paintings, dammit all, one of them looked like a, golly gosh, a Constable. And the decoration, even to his untrained eye, had obviously cost a bundle, all that posh leather furniture that creaked when you sat in it but looked good in the glossy mags. First things first, he found the drinks cabinet, found, ah yes, Gordon’s and mixers. Then he found a nice large Gucci holdall and began to fill it with swag.

Then upstairs and women, ha, so predictable. Under her rather dainty lingerie he found nigh on five large in notes and nearly had a coronary when he found, in a leather pouch, a roll of Krugerrands, with a note: Love from Daddykins Xxxxxx

He was toasting Daddykins when a voice asked, “Who the hell are you?”

Turned to see a woman in her fifties, with a cleaning brush and apron. He was startled, then tried, “Golly, one wasn’t expecting the char to arrive.”

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the name of the bloody cow who lived here. Meanwhile, the cleaning woman was like all her class, suspicious, and accused, “You’re a burglar.”

In his agitation, he thought she called him a bugger. Now I mean, steady on, a chap had some horseplay with the rugger boys in boarding school, it was part of being English, but to be actually called a homo…

She picked up the phone near the bed, said, “I’m calling the coppers.”

A combination of herpes shock, bugger accusation, gin, and Ripley’s Game meshed and he had the phone cord round her neck in no time. She fought like a demon, they fell over the bed, but he held on for grim life and even began to laugh hysterically, shouting, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”

Took a time and she managed to scrape his face, hurt like a… a bugger? The cord was near embedded in her throat when she finally gave out and went limp.

He was shaking, rose off her. He got all his loot together, too drunk to realize his prints were all over the place. He didn’t dare call a cab, so he legged it down the leafy lane, found a tube station and, loath as he was to use that service, he did. On the train, a wino asked him for a contribution and he answered, “Bugger off.”

When he finally got to Earls Court, he was seriously knackered, the adrenaline long gone, and his hangover had kicked in with a serious intent. Probably explains why he didn’t notice his door had been forced. He just wanted to have a shower and count the loot and oh, have a large gin. Killing people was harder work than they led you to believe. He’d done it twice, and you know, it didn’t get easier.

He was reaching for the light switch when he got a massive wallop to the head that sent him sprawling across his tiny living room, the bag of swag spilling every which way, a rainbow of miniature paintings, jewelry, Krugerrands, cash, a few pair of the girl’s lace panties he’d grabbed, even one of the flokati rugs.

He turned to see Georgios standing over him. Georgios, how the fuck could that be? The guy was fish meat off the cliffs of Santorini. Jesus, how rough was his hangover? Hallucinating already?

Georgios hissed, “I’m going to cut your balls off, mallakas, for the death of my cousin.”

Good to his word, he had a very lethal looking knife in his right hand. Sebastian held up a hand, asked, “You’re his cousin?”

He didn’t know whether to feel relief or fear. He ranted, “I tried to save Georgios. It was that crazy American bitch killed him. Why do you think I left her behind? She’s completely mad.”

The knife was raised, and Sebastian had an inspiration that saved his balls and his life.

He said, “See all this treasure, we can use it to track her down, extract proper vengeance for your noble cousin.”

Noble certainly stopped the mad bastard in his knife tracks. He asked, “Why should I believe you, mallakas?”

Sebastian was on his feet now, grabbed the gin bottle, poured two large measures and, with a shaking hand, offered it to the guy, who grabbed it, tried it, made a face. Sebastian knocked his back like a drowning man, said, “I was living on Santorini for months, I never even heard of your noble cousin, why would I kill him? But this crazy woman, she owed him rent, she stole from me, she is truly demented.”

The guy had put the knife down, thank God, and was looking at all the cash and goodies lying on the floor.

Sebastian quickly added, the gin urging him on, “My parents are rich and this is my inheritance.”

Why they would have given him some rather delicate items of lingerie was tricky but the Greeks knew all about the, um, peccadillos of the Brits.

The guy said, “I found your credit card in Georgios’ home.”