FRIDAY FLASH FICTION

Beach Bum provided the starter sentence (in bold) for Friday Flash Fiction. The rest is me.

(DAWNING OF A) NEW ERA

"The old camera had been in a box for decades, the pictures never developed, and now with the prints in his hand his blood ran cold from looking at the images that came from it."

“Sit down Pork Pie,” said Valentine. “You’ve gone a funny colour.”

Pork Pie, ferocious South London, criminal kingpin, was seldom short of words. The sepia images had rendered him speechless and he had almost bitten through the cigar butt in his mouth.

Valentine went over to the drinks cabinet and poured malt whiskey.

“Drink that squire.” Valentine sat down on a leather chesterfield couch. The walls of Pork Pie’s study were covered in prints and pictures celebrating Ska music. Shelves held books, records, CD’s and memorabilia.

The two drank in silence until Pork Pie spat, in a low gravel voice, “From the beginning.”

***

“Mr Valentine?”

Valentine stopped watching the blonde gyrate around a shiny pole on the stage and turned on his barstool; she was late twenties, mixed race with smooth coffee coloured skin and brown eyes. She smiled and took his breath away.

The cat finally let go of his tongue. “Just Valentine. Ms....?”

“Agnes Ryan.” She sat down next to him. “I prefer Agie.”

The punters roared approval as the blonde smoothly unclipped her sparkly bikini top and tossed it across the stage.

Valentine drained his glass. “Let’s find somewhere a little quieter Agie.”

On the way out he admired her curvy figure. Her backside, he decided, could crack walnuts. A glimpse of a sexy Celtic cross tattoo on her lower back had his stomach turning nine point nine somersaults.

The coffee shop, Pascucci, was towards the better end of Clapham Junction. Valentine ordered and they moved towards the back. Settled in comfy armchairs she began to tell her story.

Agie wanted him to find her parents. Not the two people who had brought her up in East Anglia. She learnt at an early age that she had been adopted.

“It’s been an annoying itch that just won’t go away,” she said.

***

Pork Pie picked up the bottle of 12 year old malt. “She’s definitely my daughter?”

“I wouldn’t be here unless I was sure.” Valentine sipped his malt. “You recognize the lady in the photo?”

“Her name was Lola”. Pork Pie poured more whisky. “She was a showgirl.”

Valentine resisted the urge to break into song. “You had a relationship with her?”

Pork Pie nodded, “She couldn’t take the gangster lifestyle.”

“She was pregnant with your child.”

“I had no idea.” There was raw emotion in Pork Pie’s voice and he quickly swallowed whisky.

“What happened to Lola?”

“Drugs.” Valentine hesitated then continued. “She died eleven years ago in a hospice.”

The crystal tumbler in Pork Pie’s hand shattered. Glass splintered and expensive whisky soaked into the thick Persian rug. “Where’s the girl?” Blood trickled through his fingers like spilt claret wine.

“She’s waiting outside in my Saab.”

Pork Pie wrapped a handkerchief around his fingers. He snapped a Zippo and put the end of a fresh cigar into the flame. “Go and get her,” he said between plumes of blue smoke. “Then piss off.”

The study door clicked open. Agie’s face was wet from tears. Her braided, pony tailed hair was a sophisticated mess. Her right hand held a small silver pistol. She pointed it at Pork Pie and clicked off the safety.

“You killed her.” Her tone was almost a whisper.

“Agie no!” Valentine stepped forward.

Pork Pie looked her in the eye. “She was the only woman I ever loved.”

“My mother ended her days as a penniless junky.” She sniffed back tears. “You drove her too it.”

“I found something else out,” said Valentine, urgency in his voice. “Pull that trigger and you’ll regret it.”

Pork Pie pulled the snub nosed .45 from under his suit jacket with one slick movement.

“Put it down Pork Pie.” Valentine stayed in the centre as the three began to slowly circle the room in a Mexican standoff.

“Out of the way private eye or I’ll plug you as well.” Pork Pie had regained his swagger. “Let the lady have a shot at the title.”

Valentine raised his palms. “Put the guns down!”

Agie put her left hand over her right and steadied her hold on the pistol. “Valentine, you’re job's done.”

“No! Not yet.” Valentine turned to Pork Pie. “Let me tell you the rest.”

“Spit it out gumshoe.” Pork Pie looked at him along the barrel of the .45. “While you still can.”

“Agie’s not your only child.” Valentine spun round. “You have a brother”.

One, two, three beats passed before Valentine turned slowly towards Pork Pie. “Dad. This is the dawning of a new era.”

This time Pork Pie bit clean through the fat Cuban.

© 2009 Alan Griffiths

FRIDAY FLASH FICTION

Cormac decided to change the Friday Flash Fiction rules this week.

In lieu of a starter sentence, he posted four words, the idea being that you must incorporate the words into a story. It does not matter in what order they are used but all four have to be in there somewhere.

The four words: LIES, COMPROMISE, DISGUISE AND REDEMPTION.

With words like that then it could only lead to another case for Valentine, my hapless South London PI to investigate…

TOO MUCH TOO YOUNG

Things might have turned out a lot different if I’d found Mickey Fallon when I was paid to.

The guy with the floppy hair sat down and pushed a folded copy of The Daily Mail across the table.

Maybe he had me down as a Tory in DISGUISE or had been reading too much Philip Marlowe.

I was in The Winchester and about to watch the football. I supped my pint of Stella. It wasn’t called ‘the old wife beater’ for nothing. I didn’t have a wife and after a couple more wouldn’t be able to beat the skin off a rice pudding.

“Mr Valentine?” Floppy hair cleared his throat nervously, “My name’s Frank Fields. You were recommended by a friend of a friend.”

I spend a small fortune, one I don’t have, on advertising but it’s always a friend of a friend.

I drained my glass. “Same again squire. Knock yourself out and have one as well.”

Frank returned with my pint and for him a small scotch with too much water.

Chelsea was already one nil down and The Daily Mail was still unopened. It’s a newspaper best left that way.

Frank’s sob story was his wife, Barbara, and how he suspected an affair with her boss. Frank said he wanted to save his marriage but he had to be sure.

It’s the small things that giveaway the LIES.

With Frank, it was his floppy hair, which was too long, too highlighted and the cut too fashionable. But his cash, between the folds of The Daily Mail, was cold, hard and much needed.

Frank was away for the week, on a training course in Warwickshire, while I snooped on Barbara.

After four days there was no sign of her amorous boss and I was thinking about those lies.

On the Thursday evening I boarded a number thirty eight bus behind Barbara. That was when I spotted Mickey, a fifteen year old runaway. When Mickey got off I followed.

Six months ago Mickey’s mother had paid me her government single parent allowance to find him. I miserably failed but lady luck had given me a chance of REDEMPTION. I trailed him across London to a seedy squat.

Curiosity then got the better of me. It usually does.

Early the next morning I was plotted up in my Saab. Four hours passed and my Farmers were starting to play up. Then Mickey and two other teenagers left the squat.

It was lunchtime and all hell let loose when Mickey’s gang snatched the handbag of an orange haired young lady and scarpered.

I should have given chase but I was more interested in the middle aged lothario consoling the redhead. Why was Floppy Frank sitting outside a trendy Tapas bar, looking too much too young in a tanned bomber jacket, stonewashed Levis’ and loafers?

Orange hair finally stopped blubbing and the manager waived the bill. I tailed Frank and his flame haired floozy back to a swanky apartment block.

I snapped away with my Sony Cybershot and waited until Frank left; carrying a suitcase and a guilty conscience.

Frank’s game, I was sure, was to use me to get some dirt on Barbara so that he could hit her with a quickie divorce and rob her of the family home.

Then move his young bit of crumpet in.

I put my foot through the backdoor of the squat and retrieved the handbag. Orange hair was Sally Reynolds a Learning & Development Executive at Frank’s Insurance Company. Sally’s mobile had enough steamy text messages to fill a Mills and Boon romance.

They’d been planning their weeklong session of hanky-panky for a while.

I confronted Frank at his office and he bleated like a lamb before the slaughter. There was more cold, hard cash on offer, to help me forget, but I was in no mood to COMPROMISE.

On the way out I slipped a piccie onto Sally’s desk. Her face turned the same shade as her hair, quicker than it took me to say, “How’s Yer Father!”

Barbara had asked me, over and over, “Why would Frank betray forty years of marriage?”

I couldn’t answer but had given her enough evidence that, with the help of a shit hot lawyer, would keep her in the four bed semi for the rest of her days and a hefty chunk of Frank’s money for good company.

Mickey was back at home but it was only a matter of time before he broke Mrs Fallon’s heart again. It’s what boys do and something we never grow out of.

Barbara was being consoled by her boss. Hannah seems to be a very nice boss and she’s discreet but, as I said, it’s the small things...

© 2009 Alan Griffiths

INFLUENCE AND INSPIRATION

This blogging lark has got me thinking about my own influences and inspirations within the crime genre.

First and foremost I’m a fan of the genre and this has lead to my own sporadic amateur writing. I’ve always been an avid reader but film and television has inevitably played a part.

I started giving some thought to my earliest, British TV crime drama, memories and came up with such names as Public Eye, Callan, Special Branch, Hazell, Fox and of course, The Sweeney.

Another vivid memory from my teenage years (and the original reason for this post) was a one-off miniseries called OUT.

I have OUT on DVD and watching it again has underlined, in my opinion, what an outstanding piece of television it is.

Out was first broadcast in 1978 and was produced by Thames Television (Euston Films). A basic plot summary of OUT: Frank Ross (played by the excellent Tom Bell) returns to London after an eight-year prison sentence for robbery. The robbery was thwarted by the police because persons unknown had 'grassed'. Ross is determined to find out who the informant is and take his revenge. Over six episodes Frank Ross pieces things together...

I knew OUT was written by Trevor Preston who also worked on The Sweeney and later Minder but after I started to do a little bit of research for this post I soon realised that Trevor Preston also contributed to the other names listed at the beginning of this piece – Public Eye, Callan, Special Branch, Hazell and Fox.

As far as I am aware, Trevor Preston has only one published novel to his name, The Judas Crew, a paperback published by The No Exit Press. I said I was a fan and yes I have this in my collection. I read and enjoyed it a good few years ago when I first purchased it (oh how I miss Maxim Jakubowski’s Murder One bookshop on Charing Cross Road) but The Judas Crew will definitely now go back on my TBR pile so that I can refresh my memory once again.

If you remember these TV shows then please double digit on the links above folks and get some insightful information on all of this, which is much better than my off the cuff ramblings.

Trevor Preston is, in my opinion, a very talented, award winning writer. The following is from The No Exit Press website...

Trevor Preston has been involved with film and TV since the early sixties when he worked with Orson Welles, John Cage, Buckminster Fuller, Juliette Greco, Jean-Luc Godard, Jacques Tati and Alain Robbe-Grillet. He has written scripts for Callan, The Sweeney and Minder as well as for Ruth Rendell's work, and was the creator of Out and Fox. He has won many awards including a BAFTA.

FRIDAY FLASH FICTION

The starter sentence for Friday Flash Fiction is in bold. The rest is me, as my hapless South London gumshoe, Valentine, investigates.

It’s a bit longer than my first FFF effort. I’ve edited and edited but it kept getting away from me...

With thanks to Cormac Brown for Pork Pie’s new Titfer-tat.

RAT RACE

"The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda walked into the bar and demanded to know who had taken his pet iguana."

Saturday night and The Winchester was heaving. I guessed Carmen was another karaoke drunk. Drunk and heading for a beating as I watched Frank curse and put down his half eaten sandwich. Frank was, apart from being my friend and landlord, the owner cum bouncer. Six foot six and with hands like coal shovels. The only thing short about him was his temper.

I felt a paw grip my shoulder. A gorilla towered over me with a threatening bulge under his jacket.

Around us the punters roared as Frank began to frogmarch the pissed drag queen, minus iguana, towards the exit.

The gorilla leaned in close and I smelt his bad breath and cheap, spicy aftershave. “Backroom. Now!”

A cloud of blue tinged cigar smoke floated in the air of the back room like a menacing omen. Sitting under it Pork Pie looked immaculate. Black, three button, single breasted two piece suit. White shirt and a plain dark necktie. A powder blue handkerchief peaked from his suit breast pocket. He was puffing on his usual fat Cuban and idly twirling his leather flat topped hat.

“Sit,” Pork Pie commanded.

I sat.

Pork Pie was a vicious South London criminal kingpin; my cracked ribs were a testament to his ruthless reputation.

“You owe me Valentine,” Pork Pie continued, his voice full of gravel. “And this is the start of payback.”

“Sure Mr P.”

Pork Pie’s reptilian eyes locked onto mine. “I need you to find a man for me.”

“I know the number of a good dating agency.”

If Pork Pie gave a signal then I missed it. Or maybe the gorilla used his initiative. The punch to my gut was swift and ferocious. I fell off the chair and puked a beer and whisky mixture.

Pork Pie sighed impatiently, hunched down and gave me a close up of his highly polished brogues and a face full of smoke. “That smartarse mouth of yours...” He put the cigar down and grabbed my balls. “And your dick will be the death of you...” The brass knuckles on his other hand felt cold against my cheek. “Shut the fuck up gumshoe or that wisecrack will be your last.”

So Pork Pie talked and I listened.

Albie Perkins was Pork Pie’s bean counter. He was the magician behind the tricks and illusions that laundered Pork Pie’s fortune clean and out of the VAT-man’s clutches. Albie had disappeared three weeks ago. Taking a tidy little nest egg with him.

Pork Pie wanted Albie and the loot found.

***

It took me a week to find Albie; he was entering a dodgy health club called The Erogenous Zone, a spit away from The Oval tube station. Three hours later he left with a rake thin, dark haired, twentyish looking guy.

I guessed they’d found each other's zones.

I snapped some pictures and followed them back to a Bayswater hotel. Forty eight hours later and Pork Pie had Aaron Grant’s address in Vauxhall, bank account details, star sign and mother’s maiden name.

I’m good at my job and thorough.

I did the decent thing before I made that final call to Pork Pie and knocked on Albie’s hotel door.

“Why Albie?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Albie looked haunted, his face covered in salt n pepper stubble. “I thought I’d found love Val,” he said, full of melancholy.

***

Frank had closed early. I was alone, sat at the bar, with a guilty conscience and a bottle of Chivas Regal for company. I'd already drunk down to the label.

The South London Press lay open on the varnished bar top. I’d read the article umpteen times. Aaron Grant’s body had been found in his Vauxhall bedsit. The smell had finally become too much for the neighbours and they’d called Plod. Another, unsolved, murder statistic.

Albie was counting beans again and making them disappear. Safe until his usefulness to Pork Pie waned. A harsh lesson learned that love, of any persuasion, played no part in Pork Pie’s villainous empire.

I poured another hefty shot of whisky and savoured the aroma and taste while I contemplated a change of scene and profession.

I dropped a couple of pound coins into the jukebox and after a few beats I drunkenly joined in. “Working for the rat race. You know you’re wasting your time. Working for the rat race. Your no friend of mine”.

I turned quickly at the sound of scratching. A large green, spiky backed, lizard flashed a tongue at me. It’s long, black striped and whip-like, tail snaked behind it as it quickly scuttled away.

“Well I’ll be fucked,” I said.

Albie Perkins certainly was.

© 2009 Alan Griffiths

MONKEY MAN AT THRILLERS KILLERS ‘N’ CHILLERS

I’m delighted that the terrific webzine Thrillers Killers ‘N’ Chillers has accepted and posted my latest flash story Monkey Man.

My thanks go to Matt Hilton and Col Bury. I really like the accompanying photo, which sort of sums up the piece – nice one Col!

The original version of this piece was posted as part of Friday Flash Fiction.

OLD AGE AND TREACHERY – A REVIEW

My flash piece Old Age and Treachery posted at The Flash Fiction Offensive picked up another review earlier this week – this one by Col Bury at his blog.

My thanks go to Col, who apart from being a fine writer is the co-editor of the excellent Thrillers, Killers ‘N’ Chillers.

GETTING A READ ON MY READING

I came across the following meme on the excellent The Rap Sheet and I thought it would be fun to participate.

Anyone else who’d like to take up the challenge of answering the questions below is encouraged to add a link in the comments section of the original post over at The Rap Sheet, a double digit gets you there folks but please leave a comment on Brit Grit if you wish.

Do you snack while you read?
Yes. My day job is in a busy office and I try to take a lunchtime break away from the PC and read in the canteen while tucking into my sarnies.

Do you tend to mark your books as you read, or does the idea of writing in books horrify you?
I hate marking or damaging books that’s why Post It notes were invented.

How do you keep your place while reading a book? Bookmark? Dog-ears?
Bookmark - usually with old train tickets. I never dog ear.

Laying the book flat open?
I always close the book and try to avoid over stretching the spine.

Fiction, non-fiction, or both?
95% fiction. Any non-fiction tends to be sports bios. I’ll read author interviews on the web or in a newspaper and nosing around favourite blog sites takes up a lot of my time.

Hard copy or audiobooks?
Paperback, particularly mass market format. I’ve never tried audiobooks but I’m sure I will someday. There is a tremendous amount of great short fiction available from Webzines such as A Twist of Noir, Beat to a Pulp, Blink-Ink, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Plots with Guns, Powder Burn Flash, Pulp Pusher, Six Sentences and Thrillers, Killers ‘N’ Chillers. I thoroughly recommend anyone to pay these sites a regular visit.

Are you a person who tends to read to the end of chapters, or are you able to put a book down at any point?
I’ll always read to the end of a chapter but as much of my reading is on the train I have to stop when the journey ends – if it is at a crucial part of the story you will often find me hanging about on the platform reading to the end of that part.

If you come across an unfamiliar word, do you stop to look it up right away?
I’ll make a note and look it up later. Usually the context of the storyline will help explain.

Are you the type of person who only reads one book at a time, or can you read more than one at a time?
One at a time but my TBR pile is getting so high I think I might have to have two on the go at the same time.

What are you currently reading? Crime fiction:
Just finished (today) James Crumley’s Bordersnakes.

What is the last book you bought?
The Dirty South by Alex Wheatle, which I bought after one of his book readings and signings. I’m attending one of his creative writing workshops this weekend.

Do you have a favorite time of day and/or place to read?
My lunchtime canteen haven. A comfy chair or sofa in a nice coffee shop is always good.

Do you prefer series books or standalone books?
I read and enjoy both. If I can I’ll read a series in the correct order but that’s difficult to do.

Is there a specific book or author that you find yourself recommending over and over?
Ken Bruen – the man is a genius.

How do you organize your books? (By genre, title, author’s last name, etc.?)
Shelved and also in a bookcase. Alphabetical by author’s last name but the shelves are a bit messy, in particular that TBR pile.