The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series)

The Tale of the Wolf

by

Cyrus Chainey

Cyrus Chainey was born and brought up in London,

where he still lives. His writing is an expression of the love for the city that has always been his home.

The Tale of the Wolf is the first novel in the Kenino Wolf series, and the first in that expression.

Praise for Cyrus Chainey

and The Tale of the Wolf

“
Are you having a laugh?”

• says angry Northern woman.
  

“
A marvellous book full of wit, charm, and panache.”

• says geezer, possibly famous
  

... at the very least alive.

“
This book will change your life ... if you wrote it.”

• says Author.
  

“
Make mine a double!”

• says pub landlord.
  

“
It’s full of words and stuff.”

• says an expert in such things.
  

Published in the United Kingdom in 2011

by Chiaroscuro Books Ltd,

Suite 36, 88-90 Hatton Garden
, L
ondon.
EC1N 8PN

www.chiaroscurobooks.com

Text copyright
©
2011 Cyrus Chainey.

Cover design by Felicity Nash.

The moral right of Cyrus Chainey
to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording or by information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher.

Epub: ISBN
978-1-908794-01-7
Version 1.0

All characters and situations appearing in this

book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Dedicated to

Gale & Dee Tóth-Jones,

without whom I doubt this would exist.

Wednesday 2:45 p.m.

So there I was, sitting on my oldest friend's sofa, clutching a pock-marked pepperoni, and waiting for the impending arrival of the police. Not exactly how I'd planned my Wednesday afternoon if I’m being honest. The police, who I'd called, would no doubt, when they arrived, have numerous questions that they'd expect me to answer. Who was the guy in the gimp suit with a plastic bag over his head and a banana up his arse, swinging from the light fitting? Why was the front door to the flat I was sitting in broken off its hinges? And why was most of the glass in the front room window smashed to pieces? They may even enquire why I was holding a large pepperoni as though my life depended on it. All of these questions I'd be able to answer, and depending on which policeman arrived, there was even a chance they'd believe me.

Unfortunately, coming towards me down the corridor, accompanied by two unknown constables, was an all too familiar wheezing figure, mopping the sweat from his brow and smiling the instant his gaze caught mine.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Wolf.’

‘Bollocks!’ It really was going to be one of those days … and it had all started so well.

Wednesday 11:00 a.m.

I'd got up bright and early and was feeling in a particularly chipper mood, I’d spent most of the morning down in Wandsworth with a southern Italian guy called Puglia. His daughter Anna was getting married
and he'd asked me to help out with the supplies. Being a clam-fisted old goat, Puglia wanted to spend as little as possible while, of course, maintaining the pretence of spending as much as possible … which is where yours truly came in. I have a knack of knowing people who know people; the kind of people who acquire things and the kind of people who want things. I help facilitate the interaction of these two states of being,
want
and
have,
and take a management fee in the process. A little ‘Wolfy’ tax, if you will. And this job for Puglia was turning out to be a very profitable enterprise which, frankly, couldn't have come at a more opportune moment, as Old Lady London had been a little reluctant releasing the folding from her steely grasp. As such my pocket was feeling decidedly empty.

I had a few hours to spare before I had to meet Tabatha at three o'clock. I already had a meeting with her in the evening, but her body builder brother would be there then. The afternoon assignation was something entirely different. She'd called me the night before and asked if I would meet her at the Peace Pagoda in Battersea Park. Said she had a business proposition to talk to me about. It caught me a bit unawares, but it certainly piqued my interest. In fairness, if she'd told me she had a cup of tea and a cream cracker to offer, I was still turning up.

I'd known Tabatha since we were kids. She'd been a tomboy up until her mid-twenties: baggy clothes, trainers, scrapping and fighting as well as her brother. She'd always been my friend, but one day the tomboy went away and some kind of wily sex kitten turned up instead.

She blew me away, truly she did. Looking back now I'd probably always loved her. I should have said something years ago really, but life is full of missed opportunities, regrets and the such like, and with Tabatha I had a fair few regrets. It wasn't her brother that put me off, although I knew I was at the very top of the unsuitable suitors list.

It was just something that never happened. We'd never risked it, that loss of friendship, the danger of the extra step, but that was then. Lately, I'd been wondering whether to take the risk. Life's too short to live with ifs, and I wanted to know whether there was even half a chance. But that was the afternoon. I still had some hours to spare and some cash in my pocket.

So I decided to treat myself to a bit of a luxury fry-up at The Hanging Man; a sort of social club drinking den type affair. One of those places where no matter what time, day or night, you could get a drink and a munch. It was owned by a friend of mine called Geronimo. It wasn't really a general public type establishment. You certainly weren't going to find it advertised. It was a nondescript door and secret knock type place. To say
dodgy
would probably be a bit of understatement. But regardless of its legitimacy, it did one of the finest fry-ups south of the river. The produce was absolutely out of this world. I should know … I'm the one that supplied it.

I strolled up to the big black door and gave the required knock. The flap clanked back and a pair of blue-grey eyes stared out at me from the gap in the door; cold emotionless eyes. They scanned me up and down, not revealing whether I’d been approved or not. The flap closed and the eyes disappeared. A few moments later followed the familiar clunks of the numerous locks that secured the heavy iron entrance to The Hanging Man.

I stepped through the door, into the dimly lit foyer. The foyer was a rather garish affair; gold lamps and leopard skin as well as a full size wooden statue of Geronimo, the Navajo Chief; my friend’s namesake. For all intents and purposes The Hanging Man was set up like a strip joint. There was a small raised stage at the far end and a long hard wooden bar on the left with roughly twelve stools running alongside. A series of semi-enclosed booths on the right surrounded the stage, and in the centre were about twenty-five tables with two chairs on either side. Still much too much gold and leopard skin for my liking, but Geronimo liked it, and as he paid for it he got what he wanted. In addition, scattered about the place, were large amounts of Native American paraphernalia, including a real stuffed buffalo head on the wall near the entrance; an odd addition to a London drinking den. But then The Hanging Man was a bit of an odd place, not just the decor, but the clientele
too.

The couple of waitresses that Geronimo employed were wandering around, picking up glasses and other refuse that had been left behind. It wasn't that busy; fifteen people tops, but then it was still early and ‘the Man’ (as we called it) didn't really pick up until the evening. Geronimo was standing behind the bar and the minute he saw me a wry smile rose on his face. I plunked myself down in front of him. Geronimo's 5'8” and practically square, with a natural intensity that exuded from every inch of him; an intimidating character on first impression, but a truly decent guy once you knew him.

‘Good morning, sir. Your first time here, is it?’ he asked sarcastically. Due to my recent shortness of funds my appearances at The Hanging Man had been less than frequent.

'Morning, Mo.' I replied grinning.

'So I take it from the fact you're darkening my door you made a bob or two?'

'Or three,' I replied, grinning like a fool.

I explained to Geronimo about my bit of business with Puglia and the wedding saga, made sure to explain how I'd got paid up front, which I knew would make him laugh. Getting money out of Puglia when you'd actually done something was hard enough, but up front was practically a red letter day. When I'd finished I ordered the fry-up and took a seat at one of the tables in the middle.

I'd just started eating my food, when I noticed Tommy-Two-Tooth in the farthest booth from the entrance, sitting with some guy who was gesticulating wildly and seemingly pleading with Tommy-Two-Tooth for something. I signalled Geronimo to come across

‘
What's all that about?’ I enquired, pointing at the animated conversation.

‘
No idea,’ Geronimo replied nonchalantly. ‘Him and Longy been going at it for about an hour.’

‘
That’s Longy?’ I couldn’t believe it. Although the young man had looked familiar, there was no way I would ever have known it was Longy. First of all, this man was
thin.
Longy, when I had last seen him, weighed in at least sixteen stone and, secondly, this man had short grey hair. The Longy I remembered had had a thick blue-black quiff.

‘
I know,’ Geronimo said, as surprised as I was by Longy’s appearance. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I first saw him. I tell you something, Wolfy, I damn well ain’t going where he’s been.’

‘
I don’t think I’ll be rushing over there either,’ I concurred.