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  THE GOLDEN PIG

  Featuring Hymie Goldman, the defective detective

  BY

  THE PENNY BROTHERS

  KINDLE EDITION

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Lightning Press on Kindle

  The Golden Pig

  Copyright © 2009 by Mark Penny & Jonathan Penny

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Kindle Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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  Part One

  Hymie Goldman was a detective of no fixed abode, hairstyle, or opinions; they all came and went like the north wind. Unlike his name, he wasn’t Jewish; the closest he’d ever come to Judaism was walking past a synagogue in Golders Green. His real name was Artie Shaw, after the once-famous but now deceased Jazz clarinettist.As dead musicians weren’t noted for their investigative skills, and he was frequently skating on the thin ice of bankruptcy, he’d begun changing his name in a futile attempt to attract new clients and repel old creditors. It had worked in reverse and he was now on his third identity. At least it gave him the chance to advertise himself as being “under new management” from time to time.

  His last incarnation, as Jackson Pollock, man of mystery, had been selected by sticking a pin in an encyclopaedia of modern art he’d picked up at a garage sale. He should have foreseen its cockney rhyming-slang potential, but he frequently missed the blatantly obvious. The irony of choosing the name of a dead artist over that of a dead musician was entirely lost on him.

  He had never felt like a real detective; probably because he’d trained as an electrician. After his father died under the wheels of a bus; caught taking photographs of an unfaithful husband, in the nightclub Flagrante Delicto, he found himself running the family firm. He had tried to sell it, of course, but nobody wanted it.

  B. Shaw, Private Investigators: it was corny but catchy; much like the old man himself. He’d re-branded it “JP Confidential; no case too large or small” in the Pollock era, and invested blood, sweat and tears, not to mention his last penny in a sensational new website. He’d hoped it would bring in a tsunami of new business, but he was still waiting on the beach. His father, who’d had a saying for every occasion, had always told him “Life’s a beach, and then you die.” He had studiously avoided the seaside ever since.

  Everything about Goldman was a twenty-five carat fake: in his thirty-eight years on the planet he had pretended to be so many things to so many people, that he scarcely knew who he was any longer. His flat had been repossessed so many times that he kept a suitcase by the front door. Having recently been evicted, he now lived in his office, contrary to the terms of the lease. Most of his meagre possessions had to be hidden from the bailiffs when he wasn’t actually using them and even the clothes he stood up in bore the hallmark of the charity shop; a cut that didn’t flatter and a style that was last fashionable in 1986.

  Work had been thin on the ground of late, which suited his temperament, if not his desire to eat regularly. On the morning of 4 July he awoke, slumped across his desk, after another fitful night’s sleep in the swivel chair.

  Bleary-eyed, he surveyed his kingdom at 792A Finchley Road with the haunted look of one waking from a dream of Paradise, to find he had taken the wrong turn at the last roundabout and ended up in hell. Even in his dreams he should have known better than to buy a satnav from Dodgy Dave down the King’s Head.

  He stood up, stretched and farted. It helped him to limber up. He even made a valiant attempt to touch his toes, but he had been a stranger to exercise for so long that his body rejected the challenge: his toes remained distant and unattainable, while he descended into a fit of giddiness which caused him to head-butt a passing wall.

  “Ouch!”

  Returning to the vertical, he peered through the blinds to make sure he was alone before lifting the loose floorboard beneath his desk with an old screwdriver. He retrieved his laptop, logged on and checked his inbox. On quiet days he spent hours fiddling with his laptop. However, since Readers Digest had developed a way of tracking him in hyperspace and he didn’t need any more free business cards, he hurriedly logged off again. He completed his ablutions in his usual peremptory fashion and breakfasted on the remains of a packet of cornflakes and some long-life milk, which was nearing retirement.

  Downstairs the Black Kat café was just opening up, and on the mean streets of Finchley anarchy and chaos were pitching their stall for the day.

  An insistent burst of wood-splintering knocking sliced through the fug in his brain.

  “There’s no-one here but the cleaners,” he croaked, trying to sound like an old crone.

  He had just covered his laptop with an old copy of The Sun when the door flew open to reveal Janis, a world-weary seventeen-year-old he had recruited after that unfortunate incident involving, in no particular order, surveillance, beauty queens in Notting Hill, and his arrest for kerb-crawling. It had all been a ridiculous joke by some Jamaican taxi driver of doubtful paternity, but the police had been highly suspicious of him for months afterwards.

  In retrospect, he could see how it might help an investigator following women around for a living to be female, so he hired Janis. He liked to refer to Janis as his apprentice, as though he had some higher level of knowledge to impart, and she was a dedicated student of the craft of investigation. In truth, he was still learning the job himself and she was employed on a government training scheme, if you could call poverty wages and brain-death work training.

  “What did you say about the cleaners?” asked Janis, binning the last of the junk-mail she’d retrieved from their letterbox.

  “I said it’s disgusting in here; just wait till I see those cleaners.”

  “I expect they’d be glad to see you. I can’t remember the last time you paid them.”

  “Yes, well, I can’t sit here all day discussing the decline of the great British cleaner; why don’t you pop out and get us two coffees?”

  “The Black Kat?” she queried.

  “Unfortunately that’s all there is, Jan. Perhaps one day there will be coffee shops on every corner where the coffee is actually drinkable, but for now, needs must. Oh, and get a couple of slices of toast while you’re at it.”

  He ushered her away with an imperious wave of his hand.

  “Is there anything in petty cash?”

  “Unless you count the pawn tickets, I fear not.”

  He sighed like a deflating beach-ball. The only appointment in his diary was with Barnet County Bailiffs. They were dropping by to collect what was left of his office furniture. Where were his clients going to sit? Th
e question was largely academic as they were increasingly an endangered species. It was all very well saying “it’s not over until the fat lady sings” but now that that pneumatic young opera singer from Cardiff had moved in next door, he was beginning to feel like an extra from Turandot.

  As the familiar strains of “Nessun Dorma” drifted through his keyhole, the green plastic, retro-styled, telephone on his desk began to trill. It was probably the Indian call-centre again, or the double-glazing salesman with the stammer, or that drug-crazed loony who just yelled a string of random numbers down the phone at him then rang off.

  “Twenty four, thirty six, forty two, don’t be late!”

  What could it mean? Was it the vital statistics of the girl in the “before” photo at the slimming club or just a series of menu items from the local Chinese takeaway? Special fried rice, sweet and sour pork balls or egg and chips in a black bean sauce perhaps? Ah well, that was the price you paid for advertising in Catering World. Still, it was cheaper than Yellow Pages.

  Janis returned with a cup of the black sludge sold as coffee to the regulars of the Black Kat and a small bottle of still water. Her complexion had improved dramatically since she’d stopped drinking the coffee. Still, what choice did he have? Without caffeine he’d have to face the world as it really was: scary. He couldn’t even brew his own sludge now that the kettle too had finally succumbed to repossession.

  “No toast, Jan?” He looked like a small child who had just been robbed of his bag of sweets.

  “Their toaster’s on the blink. It only does cremation.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “I know. Mr Goldman, your phone’s ringing.”

  Janis chivvied him, as ever, in her most apologetic tone. It wasn’t his fault he was a complete half-wit; he was a man.

  “Go and catch up with your filing”, he snapped, peevishly.

  His last resort was always to the absurd; since they hadn’t had a client in weeks, there was no filing. Perhaps he meant her nails.

  “It’s all up to date”, Janis said.

  “Well, go and play with the paperclips.”

  She smiled her patient smile and retrieved the Hendon and Finchley Times from her designer shoulder bag. He lifted the phone to his ear as if he half expected it to bite.

  “JP Confidential, no case too large…I’m sorry to have kept you, how may we help?”

  “How confidential are you?”

  “Oh great! Loonies!” he thought. He fought back the urge to drop the receiver, to scream obscenities into the mouthpiece, to ask “how long is a piece of string?” and settled for humility.

  “They don’t come any more confidential, madam,” he said. “I personally guarantee to take all my clients’ secrets to the grave.”

  “Whose grave?”

  “Anyone you care to mention.”

  “Who are you? The owner?”

  “Yes, Hymie Goldman.”

  “Are you Jewish?”

  “Is the pope Catholic? Look, I’m a busy man; do you need a detective or a telephone chat line?”

  “I may have a job for you. Meet me tonight and I’ll tell you what I want you to do.”

  “Sure. As long as it’s…” He was going to say “legal” but thought better of it. Surely rejecting a case for purely legal reasons was unethical.

  “As long as it’s what?” she queried.

  “It will keep till we meet, lady. When and where did you have in mind?” he asked.

  “Eleven sharp at Ritzy’s nightclub. You know it, I presume? Let’s say the Glitter Lounge…no, better make it outside.” She didn’t want to be seen with him and she hadn’t even met him. He had always been a fast worker, he reflected ruefully.

  “Certainly, but how will I know you?” he continued.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find you.”

  The line died.

  Hymie was already fantasizing about fat fees and how he was going to spend them, when the doorbell rang downstairs, shattering his reverie.

  “Your nine-thirty is here, Mr Goldman,” announced Janis, efficiently.

  “Who or what is a nine-thirty, Jan?” he responded with vague bemusement.

  “Why, an appointment, of course.”

  “Are you sure? An appointment? But the bailiffs aren’t due until later. Who’s it with?”

  “A lady called Sarah Chandar.”

  “Sorry, Jan, she means nothing to me. Have I ever met her?”

  “She seemed to know you. She said she’d seen the website and was most impressed. She said she could help us grow the business, so I thought that as your diary was fairly free, you might as well listen to what she had to say.”

  He pondered. “Thank you, Janis, I know you mean well, but next time, please discuss it with me first. I may have had an important meeting planned.”

  “Yeah, right,” she thought, and only said, “Yes, of course, Mr Goldman.” She remained the consummate professional, even if she was working for a rank amateur.

  Janis pressed a button on her switchboard, triggering the door release, and invited their visitor to join them.

  “Hello, you must be Mr Goldman. I’m Sarah Chandar from Ceefer Capital. It’s good of you to see me.”

  She was Indian, maybe thirty years old, pretty but forbiddingly professional and polished in her manner, like the younger daughter of a millionaire industrialist.

  “Not at all, Sarah, I’m glad I could fit you into my busy schedule,” lied the man from Finchley, as Janis hovered attentively at the door.

  “Please, have a seat. Can I offer you a drink?” He was determined to maintain the illusion that this was a real business.

  “Oh, just a still water, please.”

  Janis eyed her bottle of water with regret before twisting off the cap, pouring it into the office glass and proffering it to their guest.

  “Thanks, Jan.” he said, as she left his office.

  “I expect you’re wondering what I’m doing here, Mr Goldman?”

  “Yes,” he thought. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s always a pleasure to network with the wider business community. You never know, one day you may be coming to see me as a client. Am I right?”

  “Exactly, Mr Goldman, you are clearly a shrewd businessman. I knew you would be.”

  “Thank you.” She seemed harmless enough, but he couldn’t help wondering what she wanted. Surely not money?

  “Which is why I won’t beat about the bush any longer.”

  “I’m afraid I make it a habit never to contribute to…”

  “I’d like to buy a stake in your business.”

  “Ahem,” said Hymie, choking in surprise.

  Life never ceased to amaze him. Just when you thought it was all over; that there was nothing left to play for, the game of chance was at its most dangerous. Who would have thought it? People wanted to give him money. It was priceless. It was plainly ludicrous.

  “What interests you in JP Confidential, Sarah?” he said at last, as though it were the most natural question in the world.

  “Its potential, Mr Goldman.”

  “Oh yes, we have plenty of that,” he said, smiling to himself. Potential was the flipside of what he generally called probleMs

  “I have examined your website in some detail, and have to say it is one of the best I have ever seen. Your case histories are almost too good to be true, you are looking to the future and you appear to have a strong brand. With a backer like Ceefer Capital you could turn “JP Confidential, no case too large or small” into a world-class business.”

  “How much of the business do you want then, ten percent? Twenty?”

  She smiled for the first time. It belied the earnestness in her face.

  “All of it, of course, Mr Goldman. We would, naturally enough, incentivize you to stay on.”

  There was always a catch.

  “And how much will you pay me for it, Sarah?”

  He found it difficult to suppress his mounting excitement. Could it be real? Or was he b
eing set up for some new TV reality show where she would either offer him millions, only to pull the rug out from under him and leave him looking like a credulous fool, or offer him the fifty pence it was really worth, to uproarious laughter from a studio audience?

  “It depends on your trading performance, business plan and cash-flow projections, but perhaps as much as half a million.”

  He had begun to glaze over, when the “m” word revived him with a start.