Newly Dead

The top floor of the building of Moss and Rose had a room the two antique dealers liked to call the Overgrown Patch. Pete Moss and Herb Rose were hard at work in OP trying to organise the unwanted clutter into some semblance of order. A table was littered with dozens of copies of Shakespeare first folios. To give them some work space, Pistol Pete, with a sweeping backhand toppled the books to the floor creasing the pages. Managing to survive this manuscript massacre was a key. It sparkled amidst the dust on the table.

“Any idea what this key is for, Pete?”

“I’ve not seen that before. I wonder how long the key’s been there and more importantly what it’s for.”

When antique dealers are stumped they don’t walk, they like to sit down and think. They both sat on some Thomas Chippendale armchairs that were lying idly amongst the rubble. Herb, deep in thought, tapped the key on the side of a chair not knowing that he was chipping away at that rare brand of mahogany wood native to Chippendale furniture disfiguring it permanently. Suddenly, Herb rose and exclaimed sagely.

“I’ve got it!”

Extreme joy beamed from the faces of the dealers as if they’d been handed an ace. Selling worthless scrap is not a happy profession so anything that brings a modicum of pleasure is savoured to the full. This rush of delight turned into a busted flush when Herb added. “No, I haven’t.”

“I need some fresh air to try and unlock this mystery. I’m away to weed the garden.” said Pete. He looked around and saw a garden fork embedded in a painting by Da Vinci called The Battle of Anghiari. He pulled the fork straight from one of the horse’s mouth. Coincidentally, a pair of chop sticks protruded from the mouth of another horse. The mangled painting was giving truth to the idiom, eat like a horse.

There was a huge garden at the back of the building where Pete loved to weed. He agreed with Robert Louis Stevenson that there is nothing more interesting than weeding. He preferred weeding to antique dealing. This garden exercise is a healthy way to keep fit. The gym is for poseurs while natural back-breaking work is more rewarding. Pete began to uproot the trespassing plants.

An hour had passed before Pete made a discovery even more mysterious than Herb’s key. A human form was lying in the grass partly covered as if it were in a shallow grave. Black humour is a mechanism that helps in situations like this. Pete thought of weed killers. Beside the skull of the body was a paper bag shaped like a football. Pete peeped in it. It was full of cash in unmarked bills. Finding this haul of money was good, not so good was finding a dead body beside it. That was bad.

Pete thought about the consequences of keeping the money. There are always consequences. There’s no such thing as a clean get away. For sure, before long someone would come looking for the money. They always do. And they would not be nice people. Unless, unless, could it be possible that the dead body in his garden died of natural causes? Or an accident? If that were so there was a possibility he could make off with the cash. Pete shifted the corpse looking for blood. There was nothing except more weeds. A weeder’s job is never done and he pulled up another clump of turf.

He was about to resume weeding when he remembered about the bag of money. This was more than he or Herb had ever had in their lives. Their business showroom was full of old junk that nobody wanted: Timex grandfather clocks and Pushkin sideboards. With this new-found loot the partners could start somewhere afresh in a new industry. But, but, they’d be looking over their shoulders every day. For sure someone would come calling. The dead body was obviously a cardiac arrest and they could not be arrested for that. It was the money. The curse of money. When money’s involved, some one will always come calling.

“Hey you.” Pete’s money problems were interrupted by the shouts of a huge man who was climbing over the garden fence. In fact, he practically jumped the fence. “How have you got my money? Are you in cahoots with Mahoney?”

Pete was puzzled. “Cahoots? Did you say cahoots? Nobody says cahoots any more.”

“Listen up. My name’s Zed the bookie and Mahoney’s just held up one of my shops. The old “I’ve got a gun in my pocket trick” that fooled one of my new workers. That one’s as old as Mahoney is as old as the hills. Well give that bag back, it’s mine.”

Zed lunged at Pete though because of the long weeds he failed to spot Mahoney lying on the ground. Zed tripped over the dead body landing on it with a clash of heads. He was out cold. Zed and Mahoney lay together making a Z shape. A kind of zed-bed. The silence of the prairie was broken by the sounds of a motor cycle. The bike was riding round the side of the building toward Pete. Skidding a few yards from Pete and slicing a few weeds in the process, the rider was Herb who said.

“Can you believe this? That key was for this old 1972 Norton Commando.”

Pete said. “I’ve got a big bag of money, let’s get out of here. Give me a backy.”

“Whose money is that?

“Zed’s.”

“Who’s Zed?”

“Zed’s not dead so full steam ahead.”