THE BIG GUY
Short Story/Flash Fiction
Richard Fleming
Phil fell for the coat the moment he saw it. Luxurious chestnut leather
in a style that could only be Italian: Armani perhaps, maybe Gucci. And
extra-large, Phil’s own size. He absolutely had to have it.
It hung on a retro-style coat stand beside the maitre-d’s desk right there beside his own battered topcoat.
Phil reached out to stroke the soft leather and knew he was in love.
The bill had been paid, cash as always, and the desk was unattended. It
was his last night in Bangkok. On impulse, he
grabbed the leather coat, slipped it on and headed for the restaurant’s revolving doors.
Outside, the oriental night was a kaleidoscope of neon: a frantic
cacophony of noise and hustle. Phil hailed a passing taxi and ordered the
driver to take him to the airport.
Phil levered his bulky frame into the rear seat of the Toyota and replayed the events of the last three weeks: a crazy
roller-coaster of wins and losses, but mostly wins and lucrative ones at that.
A natural-born scammer, Phil saw other people’s money as his for the taking and if that left them penniless,
well, tough shit, no one said that life was fair.
That elderly couple he’d met in the bar of the St Regis: English, like himself, but alien as
Martians. They’d taken to him right away: clearly saw him as a local character, a big
guy, full of smiles and ex-pat bonhomie. They were old-school, superior, patronising and greedy: the marks were always greedy when you got down to
it. And their greed was the key, that magic key to unlock their wallets, bank
accounts, the lot.
He’d scored on that one and no mistake. They’d be lucky, when they discovered just how thoroughly he’d cleaned them out, if they could even afford a weekend in Skegness.
At Suvarnabhumi airport, Phil checked his ticket and admired his
profile in a washroom mirror. The richness of the leather looked fabulous and
the coat fitted him perfectly. Its former owner must have been a big guy too,
broad across the shoulders. It was in great condition, so the punter must have taken
care of his clothes. The only flaw was a small tear in the lining of the left
side pocket, but that could be sorted when he got back to London.
Checking his watch, Phil, joined the queue at Security. With only a
laptop as luggage, he knew he’d be through in no time.
Security was visibly high with groups of Thai military stationed at every
turn and uniformed police working the concourse and seating areas with
sniffer-dogs.
Slinging his laptop and leather into a waiting tray, Phil, stepped
through the metal-detector arch and collected his possessions when they’d passed through the scanner.
He was coming out of Duty Free when two
Thai policemen approached him with a black Labrador. Phil relaxed and stood
still while one of them walked the animal around him. When the dog abruptly sat
down, he was nonplussed. He never touched drugs and certainly wasn’t a terrorist, so what the hell was this about?
Twenty minutes later, Phil knew the answer. Two small sachets of pure
heroin had been retrieved from the lining of the leather coat. They had
evidently slipped through a tear in the lining of the left pocket.
Phil was a big guy and the shiny Thai handcuffs felt uncomfortably tight.
Richard Fleming is an Irish-born poet and short story writer currently
living on the small island of Guernsey, which is located in the channel between
England and France.
He has written material for the BBC and various mainstream publications,
and has two poetry collections in print: the more recent one,
Stone Witness, is available online at https://www.blueormer.co.uk/?page_id=611
More of his poems and short stories can be found at his blog, Bard at Bay, http://redhandwriter.blogspot.com
or on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564
Brilliant story with a clever ending. Hope to see more from this writer.
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