Another September

By Frank Wall

Many mistakes, few regrets, lessons learned and forgotten. Four men lie dead in a Bangkok morgue. Mike Dean feels it is not his fault in spite of what others might think. He holds up in his Goa hideaway craving the bliss of ignorance, hoping his troubles will somehow blow away. But he has it, and they want it. They won’t go away.
Mike Dean thought he’d left the seedy underworld behind in the East End of London when he moved to the East End of the World. But trouble follows wherever Mike goes. Fortunately, he has friends; men you don’t mess with, and the love of two women.
The Ricketts are nasty people. For two generations they’ve fed off the perversions of their blackmailed victims. Mike Dean has the means to put them away. That’s how his latest problem begins.
September is the month good things used to happen. This is Another September.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Wall
• Release date: Mar 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311791009

Frank Wall

Like his characters, Frank Wall imagines his life to be more exciting than it actually is. When it came to writing a biography he stated, “Make something up; I’ll go along with it.” This attitude has muddled him through life, 3 marriages and six wonderful children. That is the truth. Frank has been a writer since he became a grown up, not seeing the point when at school. For twenty years he wrote; mostly advertising copy and letters to creditors. He started using joined up letters at the turn of the century, producing five reams of manuscripts fit for the shredder. In 2013, Frank Wall introduced Featherstone, an affable young man who meets life in the mid 1960s. It is seen by some as an account of the author’s own experience. Sadly, that isn’t the case. FEATHERSTONE Rogue Tales is now available POD through CreateSpace and also Ebook at Amazon.com. Well, it’s a good place to start.

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A N O T H E R

S E P T E M B E R

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T h e M o n t h G o o d T h i n g s

U s e d t o H a p p e n

Smashwords edition

Copyright © 2014 by Frank Wall

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For further information contact the author direct at:

www.authorfrankwall.weebly.com

1

India – Today, September 6,, 2004

Mike Dean is a man of many mistakes and few regrets but to him they’re all lessons learned. He sits slouched in an old cane chair with his feet on the balcony wall wishing he’d learnt nothing, and wonders what the fuck he’s going to do now. A radio cracks to life in the village, and the scent of evening fires remind him he’s at least home and safe after five days on the run, covering his tracks, buying time. He hopes it’s enough as he looks at the gun.

It’s a Webley & Scott .455 six shot revolver, or so he’s been told. Mike had gone straight to see his old friend Francis D’Souza when he arrived in Goa early this morning. I need a gun, was all he had to say. I’ll see Fernandez, Francis simply replied.

Mike knows Fernandez, well, knows of him; knows the man to be not typical of police in this part of the world. A bit of baksheesh goes a long way for cops with small salaries and large families to feed. Mike can live with that. A greedy bastard like Fernandez with palms in constant need of greasing is a different matter, but Mike thinks his needs are greater than his prejudice. He needed a gun so shelved his contempt. If Fernandez is the man, then... Amen.

He lights a Gold Flake and pinches the bridge of his nose trying to squeeze out some sense. He doesn’t think it was his fault. Then again, he never does. The three men who lay dead in the Bangkok morgue had nothing to do with him in spite of what others might think. One he barely knew, the other two he’d never seen before. And still others come. Who are these people? What the fuck do they want with me? He takes a swig of Honeybee, wishing his troubles would all blow away; knowing deep inside they’re a long way from over.

Picking up the gun, he feels the weight and the coldness of the blue-black steel. What was it Francis had said? Fifty years old but probably never been used. It’s been sitting in storage since I was a babe. Sitting and waiting; waiting for what? He replaces it gently onto the small glass topped table beside him.

It cost five hundred pounds for Francis to grease the palms of Fernandez. A bit steep, but heck, everything’s gone up. Mike was happy to see Francis again, an old friend of the true kind; the kind who care but don’t ask too many questions. Five hundred quid, though, that’s a ‘monkey’ where I come from. It would certainly buy a lot of grease. He tilts his head sideways, examines his symbol of paranoia and chuckles, mumbling to himself what he thinks a clever play on words: "The Grease Monkey Gun."

Hi, Mike. How you doing? How long you been back? His attention gets a slap. His grin disappears. It’s his neighbor, Perpet, calling up to the balcony from the garden below. Her greeting is warm and he feels he ought to speak, but knows she’ll want to ask why he’s suddenly returned after so long without a word. He sits up and waves a hello back. Her questions will have to wait until I’ve answered my own.

He leans back into his familiar chair, positioned to the left of where Allan used to sit. His old partner’s chair remains where it has always been. It stays shrine like and empty since Allan had gone. Cassidy was the only other person allowed to sit there. She too is no longer in Mike’s life. He sits alone. Just me, with my Grease Monkey Gun.

Cassidy left his life four years ago, slowly; the same way she had entered it. Allan went out with a bang two years before that, with a heart attack, in that very chair, in mid-sentence; something to do with the ice in his drink and how it tasted funny.

Mike takes another swig from the bottle. What’s the point of pouring into a glass, only to be swallowed in one gulp? What’s the point of sipping, knowing there will be a fly in the next mouthful? He pictures Cassidy, in the clouds, just to the left of the coconut tree. A dusty plastic carrier bag floats past, lifting and dropping in the warm evening breeze as his thoughts slide back to a day remembered from the thousand he’s forgotten.

It was in London. Another September; the month good things used to happen. The first time he saw her. She’s standing at the door; a pint pot of talent and mischief wrapped in a royal blue raincoat, topped with a cherry red beret: Cassidy with her beautiful green eyes, pretty little nose pinked from the first chills of autumn, and rose red cheeks. I could lick cream off that face all day long and still want more. He recalls snatches of their life together, her wit and lively zest, remembering the first time they made love. The perfect union, they called it when they made oaths that they’d never part. But that’s as he’s learned to recall events. He knows it wasn’t quite like that.

Things were going well back then. He was diversifying his business. He’d just opened a nightclub in the basement of the Chrisostomou family restaurant in Drury Lane and was looking for staff. Mike liked to think of it as a nightclub, it sounded classier than drinking den, which it really was. His club did most of its business in the afternoon. It was in the days when public bars closed after lunch and re-opened in the evening. The den became a nightclub for a few hours after the bars shut again at eleven, but by then the customers would be too pissed to be considered clientele of the class establishment he wanted to create.

Cassidy presented her references, but Allan had sent her so that was good enough for him. A slight smile reappears as his mind replays the worn out tape: His cursory glance at her resume before introducing her to Melanie who worked the bar, and needed help.

What’s your name again? Mike said with his mind somewhere else. Ah yes, Cassidy. Well hop along, Cassidy, Mel will show you the ropes.

What about the interview? she asked.

Yes, yes, you’ve got the job. Now it’s already past noon. We’ll be busy soon.

But I can’t start now; I’ve booked a holiday.

Mike’s normal good nature was missing that day; he was feeling the pressure of a hundred things to do. When are you going on holiday? he asked impatiently.

First thing in the morning, she replied.

That’s okay then, I won’t be needing you after six.

Cassidy worked that shift and Mike was surprised to see her again when she returned a week later. She stayed and the rest, as they say, is history.

He pours another Honeybee, in the glass this time, takes a sip and places a coaster on top. Somehow he can’t think of Cassidy and swig from the bottle. She wouldn’t like to see that. She has class.

Shutting his eyes, trying to blot out the events that had chased him back to Goa, Mike dwells on what he chooses to remember of the past. Things were definitely better in the old days. Better for him at any rate; they were the days when you worked your own little racket and didn’t tread on too many toes; kept your nose clean and a mind to your own business. You knew who the villains were then. Keep them sweet and they’d leave you be.

He thought he’d left all that behind in the East End of London when he moved out to the East End of the World. He knew nothing then of the gambling dens, gangsters and gun dealers of Asia. Now he knows too much. It’s a burden, and he desperately craves the bliss of ignorance.

He feels the need to pee but can’t find the impetus to get up. Is this going to be my future? Sitting on a wet cushion because I can’t get my act together to even make it to the bathroom for a piss? Mike Dean with my big black gun, king of the wild frontier, what a joke.

Mike Dean knows he’s no gunman. He’s rarely violent. In the past, a stern letter from his lawyers would usually do the trick. "Dear Sirs, You will desist harassing our client forthwith or we will have no option than to pursue this matter with full vigor." Yeah, that should do the trick all right. He has no doubt that the people he’s dealing with now use letters from lawyers as toilet paper. Whoever these people are, they resolve disputes in a more direct manner.

Returning from the bathroom, Mike sits in Allan’s chair, subconsciously trying to gain some kind of karmic relief, lights another Gold Flake and pours a Honeybee. What the fuck am I doing with a gun? But it does give him some comfort he supposes.

A brown cardboard box also sits on the table. He lifts and shakes it to the rattle of two dozen extra rounds. He removes the lid to inspect the contents for the umpteenth time since he took delivery. That’s plenty; I’m not planning to start a war. The gun’s for self defense. He figures if anyone should come after him, they’ll be armed. If he’s going down, it won’t be without taking someone with him. Assuming the bloody thing doesn’t blow my hand off in the attempt.

He’s thinking if things go well it will take them a long time, if ever, to track him to Goa. Who knows of the place? I’ve not been here for years myself.

The Honeybee is having a calming effect. It says Brandy under the brand name on the label. It’s like no other brandy he’s experienced. It’s twice as good, and only two quid a bottle. Whatever it is, and however it’s made, makes no difference. He’s just grateful for its company, to relieve a little of the loneliness now firmly entrenched. The loneliness he’s going to have to live with; that is if he’s to stay alive.

2

Thailand – Ten Days Before

A spotlight of sun crept its way across the wall, eventually reaching his sleeping face. It reamed his eyes open, erasing a drunken dream in a start. Mike Dean woke on the futon. It was the only thing he owned in the two miserable ten by eight rooms in the cheap Banglamphu district of Bangkok. He’d crashed out only a few hours before and now wished he hadn’t indulged so heavily in the Sang Som rum, again. It wasn’t his fault of course, it never is. He touched his smarting face. Who started the fight anyway?

His mind groaned as he summoned will power from god knows where, pushed himself up off the mattress and dragged his feet to the bathroom. Bathroom, that’s a laugh, he muttered, shuffling towards it. Two square meters of tiles curtained off in a corner, a hosepipe hanging by a twisted wire coat hanger, and a hole in the floor as a toilet. Call that a bathroom?

Jasmine stood under the trickling shower. Mike felt a flicker of arousal as he looked at her flawless naked body. Her skin glistened from the reflected light of a single un-shaded 40-watt bulb. He watched the water trickle down her back, run through the valley of her small, tight buttocks, down her thighs and over her calves. He stared as the water ran onto the tiles into the drain. The essence of Jasmine carried off to some small way dilute the turbid river that flowed constantly in the sewers of Bangkok.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled. The smile said, well are you coming in or not? An invitation Mike Dean would normally have accepted. He was semi-hard, but that was more from an urge to pee. He denied himself the pleasure of her body in favor of the hole in the floor. She wasn’t offended and didn’t feel rejected, she’d have obliged if he’d wanted. It was his loss.

With gremlins banging on their anvil in the centre of his brain, he left to get dressed while Jasmine finished her shower. He glanced into the spare room. Samani lay asleep. As beautiful, if not more so than Jasmine, she too was naked, no doubt. She lay with the sheet tucked under her arm, just covering her breasts and most of her body. She twitched and began to wake, rolling onto her side with the sheet rolling with her. Yes, she is naked. The cover slipped off her back, revealing the soft globes of her buttocks and teasing glimpse of sensual joy between.

The urge to join her was strong; feel her warm skin against the coolness of his, snuggle Samani awake in time for Jasmine to join them. But the gremlins hammered their anvil so loudly that he went instead to the coffee maker. A film of dust floated on the dregs of yesterday’s brew. He needed a quick caffeine fix, so flicked on the kettle and grabbed a sachet of instant 3-in-1.

The welt on his face throbbed. He went to the refrigerator. There was plenty of ice. There’s always plenty of ice in Thailand. Mike wished he had as much of a memory as Thailand had ice. He did vaguely remember an argument. Whether he’d won it or not was a different matter. He remembered being whisked away by Jasmine and Samani. Charlie and Jim came to mind. Images of them stumbling around looking for the legs they’d been knocked off came into focus. Who laid them out like that? Was that when I got this crack in the face? Some other bar, somewhere came to mind, and a bottle of Sang Som rum, but that was about all he could recall.

There wasn’t much Mike had to do that day. He figured he should pop into Whiskey-a-Go-Go; the bar where he guessed it all started. Try and square things with Moo, the mama-san who ran the place. The bar wasn’t anything special, just one of a dozen similar on a side street in the centre of Bangkok’s red light district. He wasn’t even that frequent a customer, but Whiskey G.G. would be the place he’d usually favor. Moo’s bargirls didn’t pester him. They knew he knew they were available if he was in the mood, or more to the point; in the money. And Moo mothered him in a way someone would; if they suspected he might just be, in spite of appearances, an eccentric millionaire. Mike liked her too and always tipped well to keep up her misconception.

* * *

Moo stepped back away from the counter when she saw Mike walk into the bar. She returned his smile nervously as he pulled out a stool and sat.

Mike raised his eyebrows, urging her to open the conversation.

Why fluck you have kill him? she said, holding a towel to her chest in defense of his reply.

"Sawat dii khrap to you too, Moo. Kill who?"

"Jim, Jim dead, for what? Sawng meun Baht? You should no give him anyways. That bum have no way pay you, you should know it."

Mike had no argument with that. He’d been a soft touch, he always was, but the shock that Jim was dead, and he might have killed him left Mike stunned. He didn’t remember events turning out that way, but wasn’t convinced of his absolute innocence.

Things had started out business like enough. All Mike wanted was his money back. Jim was taking the piss; it was four months after being promised repayment, In two weeks tops. He’d been too soft before so thought he’d try harder. Oh, he knew it wouldn’t get his money back any quicker, if at all, but thought he might at least regain some respect.

Jim wasn’t a bad man, just incredibly thick. Sandwich spread was more intelligent by comparison. Jim had befriended Mike because Mike listened. Mike listened because Jim seemed to be honest, a rare quality in this shit hole part of the world. Jim had said himself; If I was middle class, nowadays I’d be called dicslectiff, as it is; I’m just a thick Cockney. Jim endeared himself with his mindless, open drivel to the point of distraction. It may have crossed Mike’s mind a few times to kill Jim, just to shut him up, but it would only have been a fancy. Killing Jim for any reason was never a serious thought.

If Moo was correct though, Jim was dead. And Mike Dean was, at least assumed by her, the killer. Slow down Moo, let me get this straight. I came in here last night, had a few drinks, saw that little shit, Jim, asked for my 20,000 Baht, and killed him?

You tell me, Moo replied. "You give them both good boxing, I no see who start. Jasmine and Samani were talk to farang from German, then you fluck off with them and I tell Jim and Charlie fluck off too. She continued in fairly good bar English, Me no want trouble, this good bar."

Mike was confused. The hangover wasn’t any help so his mind was struggling on two fronts: Clearing some space in the fog and searching for images of his own. Moo was not making any sense. First she tells me I killed Jim, and then she’s saying she’d slung him out herself?

Moo filled his glass with neat gin as he’d ordered and poured one for herself but added tonic water. Mike had never liked the taste of tonic. He was not mad on gin for that matter, but was after effect rather than enjoyment.

Look Moo, I’m a little slow this morning. What’s all this shit you’re giving me about killing Jim. Or anyone else for that matter? The gin was kicking in, he’d figured out some questions, and now wanted answers. Maybe Charlie could throw some light on it. Where’s Charlie? It was coming back, piece by piece. He’d sat with the two of them. It was the end of the month, Jim’s money had obviously come through; scumbag Charlie was cadging drinks that Jim was happy to pay for. Mike felt it reasonable to suggest it was time Jim settled his debts. He’d have been happy for part of it, a token of respect. It wasn’t the money so much, though Mike was by no means flush enough to write off four hundred quid. He was getting pissed off being thought a mug. No act of kindness goes un-revenged. Is that what they say? My softness had saved Jim severe damage, and is now being thought the reason for killing him?

* * *

Jim was a ‘mug punter’. One of the most dangerous places to gamble is in Thailand. Everyone but Jim knew that. The organizers of the illegal games are the easiest people to get credit from. They are also the most difficult to avoid repaying. Mike knew that. He also knew that the games would usually be fixed, so never gambled, but Jim was a mug. He knew nothing.

Mike had been with Jim four months earlier, when they came for their money. They wanted 20,000 Baht, or at least the 10,000 interest.

Fuck off, I only owed you 10,000 and I paid that last month. You know it, Jim said to the pair of slight-in-stature but serious looking collectors.

No, you lose 10,000, you pay per cent, you no pay 10,000 you owe, one of them replied.

Mike could do the math. At 20 per cent a week it doesn’t take long for a small debt to get out of hand. He knew it was the same with all moneylenders; from platinum card issuers to the gutters of gambling dens in downtown Bangkok. They’re happy not to get the original debt back. So long as the interest is paid, and paid promptly.

Jim’s two visitors never needed to use threats, they didn’t threaten. Everyone knew that if you didn’t pay, you got hurt. Jim was ready to argue and stall until threats were made.

You’re not dealing with ordinary bookies here, Jim. They don’t look to me like they’re going away without Baht in their pockets or blood on their hands.

The poetry of Mike’s statement went unnoticed as Jim added his own comment: Fuck ‘em.

The two men sat patiently in their matching black suits and eyed Mike while he tried again to explain simple arithmetic to the man who thought IQ was a Swedish furniture store. Jim, give them 20,000 fucking Baht or spend it on a wheelchair.

I ain’t got no fuckin’ 20,000 Baht, I don’t get me money ‘til the end of the month. Jim’s position had at last begun to sink in, and he sounded a little more than nervous.

The situation needed resolving. Mike always carried his ‘wedge’ on him. It was a habit he’d picked up in his youth, often every penny he had, but always there, like a comfort blanket; a big roll of money stuffed into his shirt pocket. Okay, now listen to me. I’ll pay them off, you settle with me at the end of the month.

Yeah, Mike, will you do that? Ta, two weeks tops.

Four months later, Mike Dean was at the same table, in the same bar trying to get the same amount out of Jim. The events of the previous night were slowly returning. The 20,000 Baht I was owed. No per cent, no thanks, no chance of seeing the money again.

Look, I’ve got money coming, Jim had said. I’m owed big time. Geezer in London, loaded, owes me a favor. I’ve put a call out for him; he’ll do anything for me. I’m waiting for him to ring back any time now.

You’re taking the piss, Jim. I’ve waited four months already, now you want me to wait, how long? On the off chance there may be a fairy godfather out there who owes you a favor? No one owes you anything but a good hiding. I want my money and I want it now. Mike thought he was being reasonable.

Look, you gave ‘em the money, I didn’t ask you to, there was no way I would’ve given ‘em a fucking penny if you ‘adn’t butted in. Jim was being unreasonable.

Mike sat and fumed in frustration. If Bangkok’s worst can’t faze the fucker, what chance does ol’ soft heart have?

Yeah, why don’t you fuck off and ask the Chinks for your money back if you’re so desperate for it, Charlie chipped in.

Charlie had obviously been on the ya baa, a heroin based methamphetamine with a tendency to aggravate violent tendencies. The symptoms manifested themselves with an explosion. Charlie jumped up, grabbed a bottle, and brought it swiftly down into Mike’s face. The action caught him completely unaware.

His senses were startled back to full alert as Charlie brought the bottle down for a second strike. Mike slapped it away with his left hand as he rose, bringing his right fist sharply up and under Charlie’s chin lifting him almost off his feet with the force. It was a good punch all right. Mike’s temper snapped at that point. He grabbed hold of Jim, lifted him off his seat and slammed him down again adding an almighty blow to the back of his head.

The scene had naturally drawn attention from the crowded bar; Charlie stumbling back onto his feet, but failing to find them, Mike raining blows on Jim’s head. His blood was up and he