The original version of this piece was posted as part of Friday Flash Fiction
Valentine considered his alternatives. Zilch, diddly-squat and jack-shit came back to him as goose pimples rose on his naked, hairy backside in the cool night air.
Below him, sat on the bonnet of the BMW M5 saloon, the goon sparked a match and sucked hard on a cigarette. Unaware of Valentine PI perched precariously on the soil pipe.
Valentine’s fingers gripped the window ledge. His other hand, clutched to his chest, held trousers, boxers, shoes and a sticky, shrivelled latex condom.
Inside he could hear raised voices. Lily, adopting an affronted tone and wiping away crocodile tears as Pork Pie stalked, like a feral tomcat, from room to room.
Valentine’s brief was to watch and report any sign of Lily’s infidelity. She was a young, blue eyed, blonde haired beauty and recently married to violent gangster Pork Pie; nicknamed, not after the staple British meat pie but his love of Ska music, expensive tailored suits and flat top Trilby hats.
Good money and a straight forward case until Valentine’s dick started to do the thinking and Lily’s insatiable sex drive kick started like a Harley. She was all over him like a heat rash before he had a chance to flash his credentials. The PI’s ethical rule book went out the bedroom window and Valentine followed it when Pork Pie returned early from his Soho club.
The goon flipped the glowing butt and sauntered over to the shrubbery, stopping directly below Valentine. He unzipped his fly and let out a low sigh of relief as he splashed the flowerbed.
They were at the top of the stairs. Pork Pie, unaccustomed to being answered back, raised his voice and then his hand. Cold, harsh slaps made Valentine wince and then the front door slammed with enough ferocity to take it off the hinges.
“Put that away and zip up your strides,” barked Pork Pie, straightening his flat topped hat and crunching gravel on the driveway with his Italian leather brogues. “Think of the bleedin neighbours.”
The goon sniggered. “It’s supposed to be good for the roses boss.”
Pork Pie fired up a fat Cuban. “She’s hiding something.” He pulled a mobile phone from his suit jacket and blew a cloud of blue tinged smoke. “Where the fuck’s that half-arsed excuse for a Private Dick? I’m paying him to be on the job twenty four seven.”
Behind them the front door swung open. Lily was illuminated by the hallway light, looking bedraggled, bruised and bloody. A sports holdall, stuffed full, sat at her feet.
“Bastard!” she shouted. Her smudged makeup and ripped black lace babydoll nightie gave the impression that she had been dragged backwards, kicking and screaming, through a hedge. “At least that good looking snooper didn’t need a jar of Viagra and a couple of glasses of Dutch courage to get his pecker up.”
She then proceeded to Frisbee Pork Pie’s seven inch vinyl collection. Pork Pie watched, open mouthed, as one by one his precious records were plucked from the holdall and spun through the air.
“I’ll have Valentine’s balls in a fucking vice,” roared a furious Pork Pie as another rare 2 Tone disc splintered at his feet. His stubby, calloused fingers stabbed at the mobile phone.
Valentine felt his trousers vibrate in his hand and the condom shrivelled some more. He closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer as his ringtone greeted the night with a loud....
‘This one’s for the bouncers. Big, big... Monkey Man! Aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye!’
Alan Griffiths is a rookie writer, from London, England. He has a keen interest in reading and writing Crime Fiction, particularly Noir and Pulp. His short fiction can been found on A Twist of Noir, Blink-Ink, Pulp Pusher, Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Thrillers, Killers n Chillers and Six Sentences. He blogs here: http://britgrit.blogspot.com/