Seventeen Not-So-Deadly Sins

By Vic Nikitin

Use copious amounts of greed together with an equal measure of envy. Next, add several heaped teaspoons of deceit, a modicum of desperation, a swirl of humour, a hefty dollop of satire, a generous coating of twist-in-the-tale endings and, finally, mix well.

This anthology of ‘Dahlesque’ short stories is a long-awaited sequel to the popular Seventeen Deadly Sins.

In this edition, ordinary people continue to behave in not-so-ordinary ways. However, it will keep you entertained and laughing until the very last sentence, and not a single individual dies!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vic Nikitin
• Release date: Jun 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463693438

Vic Nikitin

Vic Nikitin was born in the UK. He moved to London in the 1980s, to Johannesburg in 1992, and now lives in New Zealand. On this journey, he acquired an Honours degree in Modern Languages, a Teacher’s Diploma, and an MBA. He lectured extensively at the Tertiary level and consulted with corporations in South Africa.Vic is married, has two adult children, and combines teaching Digital Technology at secondary level with a passion for writing.While living in South Africa, he wrote his first novel, "Victim versus Villains." He has also published two short story anthologies, "Seventeen Deadly Sins" and "Seventeen-not-so-Deadly Sins", two police crime novels set in New Zealand, "There or not there" and "The Cronin Mementos." A second crime thriller "Some you win, some you lose" was published in 2022 and is now available.

Book preview

Seventeen not-so-deadly Sins

Vic Nikitin

Published by Vic Nikitin at Smashwords

Copyright Vic Nikitin, 2020

Other titles by the same author:

Victim versus Villains

Seventeen Deadly Sins

The Cronin Mementoes

There or not there

Some you win, some you lose

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It 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 recipient.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents Page

Pickpocket

The Flame of Rajpur

Pets Inc.

Revolution

The Ills of the World

Wines and Spirits

Swap, swap

Thermal

Flap and Bluster

Rooks, knights and electronics

Here is the news

A shriek of pleasure

A Sculptor’s Revenge

One good turn

Curiosity

Traffic Fine

The Crooks and the Submariner

Pickpocket

Ping Aspin had no idea why it wouldn’t start when turning the ignition key. Instead, it whirred for a second before fading away. After banging the steering wheel, he pulled on the bonnet catch and climbed out of his rental car. His frustration grew as he propped up the flimsy cover and peered at the engine. He was hoping it was a loose wire, but it wasn’t.

Scratching at the stubble on his cheeks, he looked at the fast emptying car park. The palm trees shading the bays were starting to look like the bars of a jail cell, and he was trapped inside. Puffing out his cheeks, he knew the venue would empty in an hour. First, he’d have to wait for a roadside mechanic to give him the bad news. Then, he’d have to kick his heels while someone fitted the parts. He knew he wasn’t departing anytime soon.

Weighing limited options, Ping left the engine exposed and looked around for inspiration. The warm Cape Town sun made him sweat; it was only nine am. Then, the squawk of a deactivating alarm and the clunk of central locks startled him.

‘Having problems, are we?’

‘I can’t get the bloody thing to start.’

‘Turn it over, one more time.’

Parking his suitcase next to his vehicle, he listened as Ping turned the key. Finally, the motor gave off a weak cough and died.

‘It looks like the starter’s packed up.’

‘Bloody rentals.’

Stick-thin, deeply tanned, worn cut-off shorts and a polo shirt, he slid his suitcase into the back seat. Then, skirting around his vehicle, he approached and lifted his Ray-Bans.

‘Where are you heading?’ he asked.

‘Joburg. I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow afternoon.’

‘I’m also heading that way.’

‘Spare a thought.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. I’d appreciate some company. It’s a long drive.’

Ping agreed that sixteen hundred kilometres was indeed that. It’d taken him twenty hours to get to the conference in the first place.

‘Are you sure? I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose.’

‘I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it, would I?’

‘I’m happy to split the petrol with you.’

‘My shout. It’s tax-deductible anyway.’

He closed the bonnet, puffed out his cheeks and sighed with relief.

‘That’d be great, thanks.’

‘You’re most welcome.’

‘I need to call the rental people and leave the keys at reception. Then, they can sort out their problem.

‘Cool, put your stuff in the back. I’ll warm her up while you do that.’

Ping headed for the main building at a run. Within a few minutes, he sat in the passenger seat, enjoying the air conditioning and heading toward the city.

‘I’m Ronnie Blumenthal,’ he said, crossing his right hand over his left shoulder. Ping accepted with a firm squeeze.

‘Ping Aspin, and thanks again. You’re a lifesaver.’

He studied the luxurious upholstery, handcrafted walnut and leather fittings, and the fantastic array of blue LED instruments. He could only guess what most of them did. He was relieved he didn’t have to share the cost of petrol.

Ronnie slid into slow-moving morning traffic, his long, tapered fingers resting on the steering wheel. Ping noticed his manicured and spotless nails. Unusual in a middle-aged man, he thought.

‘You have to be a concert pianist or a surgeon,’ he said to break the ice.

‘I get it. It’s the hands, hey?’ he replied, wriggling his fingers.

‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘I’m a neurosurgeon.’

‘Does that mean you dissect brains and the like?’

‘I mostly consult on injuries, rebuild skulls, and perform surgery.’

He pulled a glossy black business card from the ashtray and held it between two fingers.

Ping spent a moment studying it.

‘Why are you a mister and not a doctor?’ he asked.

‘When you reach a certain level, you revert to mister. It’s about status in the medical profession.’

‘I’ve never met a neurosurgeon before.’

‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’

He laughed as he turned his head. After glancing at his passenger, his lightning-quick mind had already generated a few assumptions.

‘I bet I can guess what you do.’

‘Go for it, but you’ll never get it.’

‘You’re an artist, aren’t you?’

‘I am, sort of.’

‘You’re on the stage, maybe an actor.’

‘Close, but not quite.’

Ping was surprised. He thought he looked more like a computer geek.

‘You’re a comedian?’

‘I tell a lousy joke.’

‘You must be a magician then.’

‘Bugger. Well done. How did you know?’

‘There’s a sticker on your suitcase,’ he replied, pointing a thumb. ‘I recently saw an ad for a magic show at the Apollo Theatre with the same logo.’

‘Very clever, I’m impressed.’

‘You did the evening shows at the conference, didn’t you?’

‘Guilty as charged.’

Ronnie focused on the road as it started to divide. He changed lanes and followed the ring road and northbound motorway signs. The single lane soon widened to three, and the Cape Town CBD fell away in the morning haze.

‘How do you do all that stuff?’ he asked.

‘Well, it’s a combination of things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, I use props and mirrors and throw in distraction and sleight of hand.’

‘I reckon it’s all a crock.’

‘What is?’

‘All that sleight of hand stuff is bullshit. The eye is faster than the hand, anytime.’

‘I’m not sure I agree.’

‘You’d need something really special to fool me, man,’ he snorted with derision.

‘Do you think so?’

‘I’ve spent years observing people and focusing on fine detail. So I reckon, yeah, I’d spot it a mile away.’

Smiling, Ping placed his left palm on the dashboard.

‘Tell me what you see,’ he said.

He knew it’d wipe away his smug attitude in an instant.

‘You’re pretty successful. Make plenty of money.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, that’s an expensive watch, just like mine.’

Noticing the band of pale skin around his wrist, he laughed.

‘Well, I’ll be.’

Sliding the Tag Heuer off his wrist, he placed it on the polished walnut console between their seats.

‘When did you do that?’

‘When we shook hands.’

Ping pulled an object from his pocket and produced a sheepish smile.

‘I suppose I’d better give this back,’ he added, placing a leather wallet next to the watch.

‘No way. How did you?’

‘It’s just a party trick.’

‘Alright, you win. I promise never to doubt you again.’

‘Don’t take it too seriously. It was just a bit of fun.’

He looked ahead as the car floated over a bumpy bridge and left behind a polluted industrial area. Flat, dusty scrubland appeared in the distance, and it would be hours before it changed.

‘Did you think of flying down?’ continued Ping after pausing.

‘I normally do, but I recently bought this and decided to give it a run. So I get a couple more days away from the office and a nagging wife.’

‘This car sure is something.’

‘This is a Bugatti Veyron, and it’s the only one in the country.’

It didn’t come as a surprise. Ping knew more than he was telling.

‘It has a thousand horsepower,’ he said with pride, ‘sixteen cylinders and is the fastest production car in the world.’

According to an article he'd read, this model produced anything between 1001 and 1020 brake horsepower.

‘It’ll do four hundred clicks an hour on the right road.’

He wanted to add that it could reach four hundred and eight kilometres per hour or two hundred and fifty-three miles per hour. He also knew very few roads where anyone could travel that fast.

‘That’s incredible, but isn’t the Koenigsegg faster?’ he said, hoping to goad his benefactor.

‘No way, it’s not even close, mate,’ he retorted, blood rising to his cheeks. ‘This is the best there is, and it doesn’t fall apart at high speed. I mean, the Koenigsegg sounds like a jet engine at three hundred an hour. The body panels rattle like crazy. But this baby’s as smooth as a Rolls on an Autobahn. I’ve driven the lot, and, I tell you, there’s no comparison.’

‘Is this faster than the McLaren F1?’

‘Didn’t you see the Top Gear drag race?’

He’d watched the clip many times. The Bugatti was left behind at the start and only caught up at the one-kilometre mark. After that, its massive torque pushed it past its rival and up to three hundred and twenty kilometres an hour on an arrow-straight Dubai road.

‘Oh, yeah, I remember,’ he replied after a pause. ‘The F1 ran out of steam, didn’t it?’

‘Bloody right it did. The Veyron has more power, better car, no contest. Take it from me.’

‘I give you that, but what about the acceleration then?’

‘What about it?’

‘I read the Venom GT gets to three hundred much quicker.’

‘That’s not a production car. It’s not even close,’ insisted Ronnie hotly. ‘It’s a racing machine, and they’re only making thirty anyway. Fifty is the lower limit for a legal production car.’

He was one out on the first and correct with the last.

‘I’ve seen one, and it doesn’t even look like a production car,’ he continued. ‘The Bugatti’s got air conditioning, stereo sound, windscreen wipers and bloody cup holders. So where does that leave the Venom then?’

‘You have a point.’

He allowed the exchange to settle. It was not confrontational, just meant to rattle his cage. Cape Town was soon far behind. The speed limit became an unending one hundred and twenty kilometres per hour.

Ronnie kept it there, but a tic on his left cheek showed his continuing agitation. Ping smiled at his uncomfortable expression as he stared into the haze.

‘You still don’t believe me, do you?’ he said after a grimace.

‘Of course I do. I was just yanking your chain. Everyone knows the Bugatti’s just about the fastest.’

Taking a deep breath, he looked across and smiled. Then, coming to a decision, he shifted his weight and looked ahead.

‘The Karoo’s up ahead. It’s flat and arrow-straight. Shall we see how fast she can really go?’

Ping was delighted and relieved to avoid splitting petrol costs. A top-speed run would empty the hundred-litre fuel tank in twelve minutes.

‘Are you sure?’

‘You bet. You’ll eat your words.’

A faded sign on a crooked post signalled its start. He took a deep breath and floored the accelerator.

Ping was glued to the speedometer as it climbed from one twenty to one fifty in the blink of an eye. The thousand horsepower rumbled like distant thunder as the car hit one-eighty. Gravity tightened his neck and compressed his face, but he kept grinning. Mesmerized by the rapidly rising needle, he saw it move to twelve o’clock and two hundred and ten kilometres per hour. It then began to fall as it hit two-fifty. A second later, Ronnie’s face contorted into a mask of ecstasy as the Veyron bulleted through the three hundred kilometres per hour mark.

‘There’s more, man,’ he screamed like an overexcited schoolboy, ‘tons more.’

Both saw the flashing blue light of a motorbike cop simultaneously.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he said after glancing in his rear mirror.

Puffing out his cheeks, he slowed down and pulled over. Ping took deep breaths to lower his out-of-control heart rate. He closed his eyes to savour the experience but knew it wouldn’t end well.

The BMW motorbike stopped thirty metres away, needing a full minute to catch up. Then, kicking the parking support, the colossus eased off the black leather seat. He flicked off the stud on his holster and reached for a pen.

Leaving his traffic ticket book clipped to his belt, he inched off his helmet and gloves and lay them on the seat. Shiny knee boots and a gold badge glinted on his pristine khaki uniform. Then, grim-faced, he approached the driver’s side, watching for unusual activity.

‘Good morning,’ he rumbled in heavily accented English. His lapel badge said Groot. It was indeed fitting.

‘Morning, officer,’ replied Ronnie, trying to sound apologetic.

‘Can I see your driver’s license and insurance, please?’

‘It’s in my wallet, right here.’

Groot tensed as he reached between the seats. Then, opening it, he slipped out a worn, plastic card.

Gripping it between thumb and forefinger, he retreated without turning his back. Returning to his bike, he began speaking into a radio mike. Ping read his lips as he dictated the vehicle registration and the driver’s name. Finally, the radio crackled, and the cop nodded.

He returned with the same unhurried stride and took off his aviators while returning the license. His cold blue eyes bored into Ronnie.

‘Just over three hundred kilos an hour, meneer,’ he said with a sneer.

‘I don’t know what to say, officer.’

‘You don’t need to say anything, sir,’ he replied as he began scribbling on the tablet-sized ticket book. Then, signing it with a flourish, he removed the top copy and offered it between two fingers. A smug grin didn’t leave his tanned features.

‘There must be some mistake, officer,’ he protested after glancing at it. ‘The fine’s twenty-nine thousand.’

‘That’s the correct amount, as per local guidelines.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘There’s no mistake here, Mr Blumenthal,’ he replied, his patience growing thin. ‘The fine’s correct and payable. You’re lucky our tow truck’s broken down. Otherwise, I’d impound your vehicle right now.’

‘This is outrageous.’

‘Rules is rules, meneer,’ he continued, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

‘I’m going to complain to your superior officer.’

Tensing at the challenge, Groot clipped the ticket book onto his belt but made no move to leave.

‘Mr Blumenthal, it’s Sergeant Groot, and I am the senior officer in this district. You need to move on before this goes any further.’

Taking a deep breath, Ronnie grinned and took the plunge.

‘Sergeant, I’d like to see your laser's calibration and service date.’

‘You’d like to do what?’ he replied in amazement. A frown, deep breath and flared nostrils indicated he’d gone too far, but he chose to ignore them.

‘Move on, meneer or I will be forced to take further action.’

‘I have a Constitutional right to see your equipment’s certificate of service and its calibration,’ he insisted without turning his head.

The end of Groot’s patience was silent but palpable. Both felt its full force. Then, he stepped back with a grimace and a hand on his gun.

‘Step out of the car,’ he barked, ‘both of you, now.’

Both rushed to obey. He’d gone too far, and they were about to pay the price.

‘Palms flat on the bonnet,’ he ordered as he tracked their every move, ‘spread your legs.’

Ping did as asked while Ronnie thought about protesting. A sideways look convinced him to obey. Groot patted them both down with a hint of a smile, clearly enjoying exerting his authority.

He relaxed his shoulders but kept one hand on the butt of his pistol. He was taking no chances, no matter what the perpetrators looked like or what they were driving.

‘Now, Mr Blumenthal,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘you’ll receive a reminder in thirty days. The fine will be due thirty days after that. Is that clear? Have a great day, gentlemen.’

He turned on his heel and strode away.

‘And don’t forget to keep to the speed limit, hey?’

Jumping onto his bike, he put on his helmet and took off in a cloud of dust. They watched him disappear before climbing back into the Veyron and setting off. Unfortunately, the mood changed, and the journey wasn’t as fun as before.

‘The wife will not be happy,’ began Ronnie, ‘she’s already nagging me about the car. But, boy, it’s not going to be fun explaining it.’

‘I’m really sorry, Ronnie.’ It was my fault. I got you into it.’

‘No, you didn’t. It was my decision, and it’s my car, so no fault of yours.’

‘Are you sure? I feel bad.’

‘It’s not about the money. It’s just that smug cop. I’d love to bring him down a peg or two.’

‘Do you think this would do the trick?’ asked Ping, holding up a traffic ticket book between thumb and forefinger.

‘Holy shit, you didn’t?’

‘He had it coming,’ he added with a laugh, ‘and he deserves everything he gets.’

‘I don’t want to be there when he realises he’s lost it.’

Laughter erupted as the pair vented their frustration. Then, after cranking up the air conditioning, they accelerated away, and the journey was fun.

A roadblock over the next rise was a surprise. Two patrol cars were fishtailed across the tarmac, and two stern-looking officers with shotguns weren’t there to direct traffic. Ronnie slowed the vehicle and stopped short. Then, after a gesture from the elder, he switched off the engine. The silence was broken only by the ticking of the cooling sixteen cylinders.

‘Step out of the car, gentlemen,’ he said as he inched closer, ‘and keep those hands where we can see them.’

They complied with shotguns pointed at their midriff, hoping no one had an itchy trigger finger. After a second pat-down, they entered a building that resembled a mobile classroom. The younger officer held up the ticket book after looking in the vehicle.

‘You’re both under arrest for theft of police property,’ he said, ‘and for perverting the course of justice. Someone will read you your rights inside.’

Iron grills over the windows left no doubt about its purpose. After exchanging glances, they climbed the wooden steps and entered a bare room. A battered table and four chairs were the only items of furniture.

‘Magistrate Dembele will be along shortly.’

Sitting on the hard wooden chairs, they looked around.

‘Any thoughts about how we get out of this?’ asked Ronnie.

‘It’s funny you should ask.’

A figure entered the room cradling manila folders. His slight frame seemed to glide across the floor before he made a show of sitting down. Horn-rimmed spectacles and a blinding white shirt made him look like a headmaster.

‘I am Magistrate Dembele,’ he began in a high-pitched voice. ‘Now, you, I presume, are Meneer Blumenthal?’

‘I am, your Worship, yes.’

‘And that leaves Ping Aspin, yes?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘The charges against you are very serious,’ he continued. ‘Theft of police property is a grave offence and carries severe penalties. Oh, yes, and there is also the matter of a speeding fine.’

Ronnie looked on but held his peace. Ping relaxed and took a deep breath as Dembele brought the required folder to the top of his pile. He tidied the others and began to leaf through its contents.

After examining the original speeding ticket, he studied official-looking documents and a carbon copy stapled to a docket. Ping paled at an arrest warrant.

‘Let’s deal with the speeding fine first,’ he continued. ‘Mr Blumenthal, as the driver and owner of the vehicle, you must settle the outstanding amount. Are you able to pay it today?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I have a credit card.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he replied with a shake of his head, ‘but we no longer accept them. It has to be cash or a bank-guaranteed cheque. There’s so much fraud these days.’

Ronnie looked away as he scribbled on a stamped document. He was caught, hook, line and sinker.

‘Can I go to the bank and get cash?’

‘You will have to be released on bail.’

‘And how does that work?’

‘You must surrender something of value as collateral.’

‘Such as?’

‘The car would