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JACK OF DIAMONDS

Chapter 21 (part 3)

By ben woestenburgPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 4 min read
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JACK OF DIAMONDS
Photo by Max Titov on Unsplash

iii

It was the sensible thing to do, Nigel realized, because in the end it saved them a trip out to Marlborough Manor—not that he wouldn’t have minded a trip out to the countryside. But from what they were able to sort out, it seemed that Chernetsov’s son was undergoing surgery in London. It had something to do with the accident he’d had—Nigel remembered hearing something about the man being sent to the hospital before the ball they’d attended last week. He couldn’t remember all the details, but felt certain it would come to him eventually.

When Sonia pressed for more information, the voice on the other end of the line went silent—perhaps they were thinking they’d said too much—or maybe it was as simple as the person not understanding the questions? Ending the call seemed the best way of resolving the problem. As far as Sonia could understand, Chernetsov wasn’t expected to be in London for very long, or so the voice had said, adding that it was believed he’d be returning by the end of the week.

“Do you remember what happened to his son?” Sonia asked, as she put the phone down.

Nigel shook his head and offered up a shrug.

“So we have some dead Russians, more dead Italians, and a man—who for all intents and purposes should be innocent—and seemingly up to his balls in it—I mean, up to his neck in it,” Nigel smiled.

“Who are the Italians? Do you know anything about this…Sabini? Is that what you said his name was?” Sonia asked Rose, looking down at her notebook.

“Sabini. Charlie Sabini,” Rose added, picking up the file folder and skimming it. “He’s involved in the Game, I guess you’d call it. Heavy into the horses, extortion, fencing, runs a few girls, and some tables in and around Soho.”

“Tables?” Sonia asked.

“Gambling,” Nigel smiled.

“He’s got his hands in someone’s pockets, that’s for sure, because they leave him alone for the most part. He recently took over from the Jews, or so they think out there in London—but you know how much they like to think out there in London, so it was probably the simplest explanation. Anyway, his men are known to use hammers to get their point across. They say he’s got a few Sicilian hot shots working for him too, and they’re quick with the razor. He’s definitely a person of interest.”

“Hammers?” Charlie asked.

“That’s how they enforce their will on the innocent storekeepers of Soho. ‘Buy our goods, or we’ll break fingers.’ The next time it’s your hands, then your knees, or they’ll flatten your nose. Sometimes they crack skulls, I imagine.”

“And who are the Russians?”

“Aristos. They’re the ones the press call the Whites,” she said, closing the file.

“Why?” It was Charlie.

“Helps to differentiate them from the Reds, I suppose,” Rose smiled. It was forced.

“Suppose they wanted to buy the guns? Maybe they were hoping to send them off to Russia, in support of the dwindling counter-revolution,” Sonia smiled.

“And how would you know anything about that?” Charlie asked.

“What?”

“The counter-revolutionists, and all that rot?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re called revolutionaries, but all the same, you need only read a newspaper to know what’s going on in the world, Charlie.”

“Why do you say dwindling counter-revolution, then?” Charlie added.

“Have you not been reading about the Revolution? Seriously? In this day and age? There have been numerous accounts of it in a variety of newspapers.”

“I’ve got better things to do with my time than read about the fall of the Russian Empire.”

“Do you really think like that?”

“Why? What’s wrong with the way I think?”

“Do you know who the Berbers are?”

“The who?”

“It’s what’s wrong with the world today, isn’t it?” she said as she picked up her notebook, pen, and purse. “People don’t care what goes on in the rest of the world, as long as everything’s fine in their own little corner of it.”

“Who are the Berbers? And what’s wrong with not caring about what goes on in the rest of the world?”

“Nothing. And everything,” she added quickly.

“Well, make up you mind. Which one is it?”

“The Berbers are nomads. They live in the desert, so nobody really knows how many there are. Some people call them the Rifs. They have no real home, so they want to carve a piece of home away from the Spanish—or is it the French?—down there in the Arab world.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”
 “Absolutely nothing, Charlie. It means: ab-so-lute-ly nothing! I merely mean to point out that there are revolutions, and counter-revolutions, going on all over the world. Mexico just had one.”

“A what?”

“A revolution, you dolt!” Rose said.

“You have to choose whichever one appeals to your Romantic notion of what a revolution really is. You can’t pretend to take the high ground, either—not if you have an opinion.”

“I don’t have an opinion, so how can I even take the high road?”

“People might think you’re taking sides, and they’ll ask you, are you for, or against them?”

“I’m not for, or against, anyone.”

“Once you pick a side, or you listen to one side of an argument, but not the other, it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“To choose.”

“To choose what?”

“Sides,” she said, packing everything she needed into her purse and looking at Nigel. “Are you coming?”

“Where are you going?”

“We have a case to solve.”

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About the Creator

ben woestenburg

A blue-collar writer, I write stories to entertain myself. I have varied interests, and have a variety of stories. From dragons and dragonslayers, to saints, sinners and everything in between. But for now, I'm trying to build an audience...

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