DEAD UNLUCKY: A Joe Box Story Read online

  DEAD UNLUCKY

  By

  James Reeves

  For Doreen

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 1

  Saturday night in Birmingham, close to midnight. The rain lashed down mercilessly, confining late night revellers indoors to the bars and clubs lining Broad Street and the surrounding area. Gutters and drains gushed and gurgled as they struggled to cope with the deluge. The wind whistled and howled through the streets. Pedestrians were few and far between. Taxis were even fewer. Traffic was sparse. In the summer people would have spilled out of the bars across the pavements and canal towpaths. On a cold and blustery February night only a few fools or drunks braved the conditions.

  Three guys huddled in a doorway taking turns to drag on a joint. Zac, at six feet four and two hundred and twenty pounds, the Titan of the trio snatched the joint. ‘Gimme that.’ His companions stared sullenly but made no attempt to resist. Zac, natural born bully, had long since established himself as leader of the pack. He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted. What he said went. No arguments. Zac wore heavy gold jewellery and an expensive full length leather coat. His two companions were wearing hooded jackets.

  Zac tilted his head back, closed his eyes and inhaled. ‘Hey, this is good stuff,’ he sighed contentedly. The other two looked on shivering nervously, waiting for their chance to visit Utopia.

  ‘Zac,’ one of his stooges whispered urgently. He nudged Zac and pointed at a hunched figure trudging by across the street. The trio watched as the sodden figure ducked to the right and descended steps leading to the canal towpath.

  Zac smiled slowly, stubbed out the joint and slipped it into a small tin. ‘I smell money,’ he whispered gleefully. ‘Danny, go meet him at the next bridge,’ he told the guy who had spotted the target. ‘Trev, you come with me.’

  The three reprobates hurried across the street and separated by the steps. Zac and Trev ran down the steps. Danny ran thirty yards further on and turned into a dark side street, still running. His footsteps were soon muffled by the heavy rain as he disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter 2

  Joe Box trudged down the steps to the towpath with his head bowed against the rain. His wet hair was plastered against his skull. His ancient raincoat offered little protection against the deluge and clung damply to his back. His shoulders were hunched and he paid little heed to the one or two pedestrians he encountered. Bloody weather, he lamented. Could’ve waited a couple of hours. Tired, weary, cold and wet. Fifty-three years old and asthmatic. Well past his sell-by date. Out of money and right then out of ideas. Occasional piano player at one of the clubs for little more than beer money. Occasional private detective. Anything that kept the bank manager at bay.

  Joe had hoped for a little fun time with Simone, one of the girls at the club but she hadn’t fancied playing games on that particularly night. Too tired, she had told him. How could she turn down a chance like that? He wondered incredulously. Must be losing my touch. His two ex-wives might have had a view on that but he had no plans to consult them.

  Joe hurried along the dimly lit towpath, cursing as he trod in occasional puddles. The lights of Broad Street receded behind him. The slick brown surface of the canal spluttered and spat under the deluge. He promised to wrap himself around a large whisky as soon as he reached his place just a few hundred yards away. Maybe for once he could have got a taxi but it would have knocked a big hole in his dwindling finances.

  This stretch of the canal was flanked by expensive apartments that had replaced old factories and warehouses that previously occupied the space. Muted lighting lit up some of the windows but the residents stayed snug inside. The canal bank was quiet and deserted. Joe’s place was a one bedroom studio flat that had seemed like a good idea when he had a day-job to pay the rent. Joe had always been the master of the understatement. Now, when he described finding the rent money as a bit of a struggle, he surpassed himself.

  Joe thought he heard a muffled scuffing sound behind him. Footsteps maybe? He paused and turned to look back but the blinding rain limited visibility and he saw nothing but the lights of Broad Street in the distance. He shrugged and continued on his way.

  As Joe approached the canal bridge he heard running footsteps ahead. Somebody’s in a hurry, he thought. Danny came down off the steps from the street above and skidded to a sudden halt on the towpath at the far end of the bridge. He was breathing heavily, shoulders sagging slightly. He walked slowly towards Joe.

  Joe sensed trouble but walked under the cover of the bridge and stepped to one side to pass by. Ignore the bugger, he decided. Probably all tanked up.

  Danny looked uncertainly at Joe and assumed what looked like a mildly offensive stance.

  ‘Hey Man,’ a voice called from behind. Joe turned to see Zac and Trev closing in fast, looking wet and bedraggled.

  ‘You talking to me?’

  ‘How you doing?’ asked Zac pleasantly, wiping rain from his face with a hand the size of a shovel as he approached.

  Trouble was brewing for sure but Joe decided he wasn’t going to be the one to initiate anything.

  ‘Apart from the weather, I’m doing pretty good,’ Joe told him as he eased past Danny, further under the cover of the low bridge.

  Zac followed him, moving in close. ‘You going to help us out Man?’

  ‘How would I do that?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Just a few quid.’ Zac smiled. ‘We’re cold and wet here.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ nodded Joe sympathetically. ‘But, I’m skint.’

  ‘No, come on,’ Zac said anxiously. ‘Night like this, we need to get us a warm drink.’ He crowded Joe forcing him to stumble backwards. ‘Just enough for a coffee, man.’

  Encouraged by Joe’s apparent timidness, Danny and Trev closed in and the trio jostled Joe, hemming him in against the wall under the bridge.

  ‘Old guy like you must have money.’ Zac leaned in close, still smiling pleasantly. Joe smelt the dope on his rancid breath.

  ‘You’d think so wouldn’t you,’ Joe agreed, turning his face to one side with a grimace.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ asked Zac.

  ‘Your breath stinks,’ Joe told him. ‘Your mates should’ve told you.’

  Zac looked taken aback by the reply and glanced at his two friends as he mulled it over. He couldn’t take that kind of crap with them listening that was for sure. No good for his street cred. H
e was going to have to slap this guy down good and hard.

  Joe stared silently at Zac waiting for his next move. A stand-off ensued. They stood eyeball to eyeball. Seconds ticked by but neither of them spoke. Joe heard his own ragged breathing as the cold damp air kicked off his asthma. He was not going to be the first one to speak, he was sure of that. He felt no fear. He was just mildly irritated at the delay in reaching the warmth of home and a longed for glass of malt.

  Water dripped off the underside of the bridge and ran down their faces. The wind whistled wildly and lashed rain at them even under the cover of the bridge. It was a bad night to be out on the streets. Danny and Trev stared open mouthed, no longer sure if they were taking part in the heist or not.

  Still, the seconds ticked by.

  Despite his resolve to stay silent, Joe shivered and coughed as the cold air pecked at his lungs but still, he didn’t speak.

  Finally, Zac made a decision. He nodded slowly and took a step back. ‘All right, enough,’ he growled. ‘I ain’t got all fucking night. I want your wallet, your phone and your watch. Now.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence,’ Joe told him pleasantly.

  ‘What’s a fucking coincidence?’ asked Zac, frowning.

  ‘You want my wallet, my phone and my watch. I want them as well.’ Joe’s wheezing voice hardened. ‘That’s what the coincidence is.’

  Zac pulled a switchblade knife from his pocket. The blade snapped open with a loud click. ‘You’re really starting to piss me off,’ he snarled at Joe, waving the knife close to his face. Joe ducked away and his head scuffed the wall. Trev and Danny looked on in awe as their mentor eased into action.

  Joe raised his hands in a placating gesture. ‘Look, no hard feelings. It’s been a long hard day. I’m tired, cold and wet and just a little pissed off myself. I just want to get home and get out of these wet clothes.’

  ‘So give me your stuff and you can be on your way,’ Zac told him with a smile.

  ‘We can all walk away from here and pretend this never happened,’ Joe said. ‘That way nobody has to get hurt.’ His voice rattled in the cold air. He looked a sorry sight, pinned against the wall, bedraggled, shivering and slightly hunched.

  ‘Are you for real?’ Zac asked, gurgling with laughter. ‘You guys hear that?’ He asked, turning to Trev and Danny. ‘He wants us to walk away.’ The other two laughed along with Zac who raised the knife threateningly in Joe’s face.

  ‘So tell me old man, who’s going to get hurt here?’

  Joe didn’t answer. He just stared at Zac, waiting.

  ‘I tell you one more time,’ Zac continued, pushing Joe so hard in the chest that his back scraped the wall and his legs buckled slightly. ‘Give me your stuff or I’ll carve my name where you won’t show your Momma.’

  Joe sighed, stifled a cough and straightened up, reaching inside his drenched raincoat. Zac, sensing victory, relaxed slightly and stepped back smiling, ready to receive his spoils. With a swift flourish Joe pulled a large handgun from under his raincoat and thrust it into Zac’s face. ‘You obviously want to die you piece of shit.’

  Zac stared wide-eyed at the gun. ‘What’s that?’ he stammered, backing off another couple of feet.

  ‘.44 Magnum. Dirty Harry’s favourite. The most powerful handgun in the world.’ Joe told Zac in a rasping whisper. ‘You like it?’

  Zac’s two compatriots backed away and looked ready to run until a warning glance from Joe told them it might not be the best idea they ever had.

  ‘Freeze,’ he advised. They stayed put.

  ‘That thing ain’t real,’ Zac muttered disbelievingly.

  ‘There’s one sure way to find out,’ Joe suggested, holding the gun at arm’s length and aiming between Zac’s eyes. ‘You could kill an elephant with one of these things. It’d take your head off from this range. Might leave your ears behind but your head’d be long gone.’ He lowered the gun and pointed it at Zac’s groin. ‘Unless you’ve got other preferences?’

  Zac fidgeted nervously from one foot to the other. ‘No, no,’ he stammered.

  ‘Drop the knife,’ Joe rasped.

  Zac dropped the knife and it clattered near Joe’s feet. He side-footed it across the towpath into the canal and it hit the water with a splash.

  ‘Hey man,’ Zac protested.

  Joe moved away from the wall so that he could cover all three of his would be assailants with the gun. He looked at Zac’s two companions and gestured with the gun. They got the message and moved, cowering, closer to the wall. Zac was standing with his back to the canal. Joe dug the gun hard into his throat and steered him around and backwards so that he was standing alongside his two friends. Zac’s eyes never left the gun.

  ‘You the main man here?’ Joe asked Zac as he withdrew the gun a few inches.

  Zac, trembling with a combination of suppressed rage and fear, stared defiantly at him. ‘You’re dead,’ he told Joe, matter-of-factly.

  Joe shook his head, smiling. ‘I always look a bit peaky when I get damp. I’ll be fine when I dry out.’ The damp air was doing its work and his voice was a low rasp.

  ‘I’m going to get you,’ warned Zac. ‘Bet on it.’

  ‘Maybe, but right now I’ve got you.’ Joe looked at Zac and the leather coat he was wearing. Sodden by the rain but obviously expensive.

  ‘Take your coat off,’ Joe told him.

  ‘What for man? It’s bloody freezing.’

  ‘Take it off.’

  Zac muttered under his breath as he took the coat off.

  ‘Throw it on the ground,’ ordered Joe.

  ‘What?’ Zac looked confused.

  ‘Do it,’ Joe rasped, staring down the sight of the Magnum.

  Zac threw the coat to the ground and stared balefully as it lay on the puddled cobbles.

  ‘Now piss on it.’ Joe stepped round to Zac’s right-hand side away from the coat, still pointing the gun at his head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Piss on it.’

  ‘Come on Man. That’s a good coat.’

  ‘You probably stole it,’ Joe pointed out.

  ‘No, I ain’t doing it,’ Zac told him. ‘I ain’t doing it.’

  ‘Piss on it,’ repeated Joe aiming the Magnum at Zac’s head. ‘Do it for me.’ He whispered the words softly, quietly, almost imploring.

  Zac felt cold fear clawing at his gut. Something he hadn’t experienced for a very long time. ‘I ain’t got a piss,’ he protested. ‘I done one half hour ago.’

  Joe cocked the Magnum with a loud click and pushed it hard against Zac’s ear. ‘Piss on it or bleed on it,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ’You choose.’

  Too late, Zac knew he had chosen the wrong man as his latest prey. He had figured the drenched old man trudging home in the late night deluge to be an easy hit. A pushover. He’d figured wrong. Something had flicked a switch in the old guy and he’d become some kind of super hero all of a sudden.

  What frightened Zac most of all was the complete lack of emotion, the ice-cold stare, the quiet voice. The stone-cold certainty the man had that Zac would do his bidding.

  Danny and Trev still cowered, open mouthed with disbelief. Zac stared wide-eyed at the gun then turned and looked towards his two friends by the wall. Danny was shaking visibly. Trev looked like he had soiled himself. Zac looked back along the towpath for possible salvation but it was still rain spattered and deserted. No help there. He stared at Joe again, almost distastefully, and then he unzipped his flies, strained hard and sent a steaming jet of urine splashing onto his leather coat. One of Zac’s mates sniggered incredulously. Joe turned his gaze towards him and he stopped abruptly.

  ‘You should’ve walked when you had the chance,’ Joe told Zac. He wondered about inflicting further humiliation, but that might push things too far. Zac might just bite back and that could be a problem. Joe didn’t need any problems. He had enough already. He was tired and he really did need the whisky he had promised himself. He stared hard into Zac’s eyes for several lo
ng seconds. Then he backed away several feet and slowly lowered the gun.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he told the trio with a smile and a brief salute. Then he turned quickly towards the steps leading up to the street.

  ‘I’ll get you, you bastard,’ Zac shrieked after him. ‘You’re dead!’

  Joe swung around with the gun held two handed at arm’s length. ‘Bang!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. Zac and his two skivvies ducked wildly, looking for non-existent cover. Joe turned again and ran up the steps. He slid the gun back inside his raincoat, laughing as he disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 3

  Two weeks earlier . . . . Things were winding down at the Blue Parrot night club. The Friday night crowd was thinning. Joe looked around. Most people were chatting amongst themselves. A few looked like maybe they’d had a drink too many. All seemed oblivious to his efforts to entertain. Whatever. He shrugged. Their loss. He ran his fingers across the piano keys and sang softly. He didn’t want to disturb anyone.

  I knew a man Bojangles and he’d dance for you.

  In worn out shoes.

  Joe saw his friend Fish arrive at the bar and order two pints of beer. Joe nodded a greeting as he continued to sing.

  The silver hair, a ragged shirt and baggy pants.

  That old soft shoe

  He’d jump so high, he’d jump so high.

  Then he’d lightly touch down.

  Mister Bojangles

  Mister Bojangles . . . . .

  Fish carried the two pints to the table that Joe used when he wasn’t singing. The end of the song was greeted with a smattering of applause. Joe stood and executed a slight bow before walking over to join Fish. Joe slid onto the bench seat opposite Fish, picked up one of the glasses and took a long drink. The hubbub of conversation drifted over them as they exchanged mournful glances.

  ‘I needed that,’ sighed Joe.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ asked Fish.

  ‘Women,’ Joe grunted.

  ‘Is that all? Thought it was something serious.’

  ‘Wife number one wants more money. Says she can’t manage on what I pay her. Wife number two thinks we should get together and give it another go.’