Take the A-Train (Nick Sharman, Book 4)

Take the A-Train (Nick Sharman, Book 4)

Mark Timlin

Language: English

Pages: 133


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

First published in the UK in 1991 by No Exit Press

Nick Sharman is in traction, hospitalised for four months, and desperate for a distraction. Then Fiona arrives – a topless model for the tabloids who bullies him into convalescing in her flat in Camberwell... After his last disaster-ridden case, Sharman has promised himself a quiet life. What he gets – almost the minute his leg is out of the plaster – is more trouble. Emerald Watkins, king of a black south London 'firm', has received a tip-off that he's about to be arrested after a large stash of cocaine is found in one of his lock-ups. He wants Sharman to help his nephew Teddy find out who's stitched him up. As Sharman roams the urban mayhem of South London in search of his mystery man, he is in turn bribed, shot at and set up for a particularly gruesome murder... All in a night's work.

















match the Christmas tree set on the lawn in front of the main door to the hotel. The place had all the signs. A tasty little crib for villains to cut the mustard. Straights also served as camouflage, of course. Teddy followed the signs to the car park. I’d gone right off them after my last little excursion and told him so. He told me to relax and drove to the farthest corner, away from the lights and at least thirty feet from the nearest motor. Right then I wished I hadn’t thrown the Browning in

Dark a little closer. He had a face like a weasel on heat with cheeks and chin shaved as smooth as the inside of a tin can even at that late hour of the day. He was wearing a black, roll-neck sweater under a blue double-breasted blazer with fine hand stitching on the lapels and gold buttons that gleamed like miniature suns under the spotlights in the restaurant. With it he wore houndstooth check grey trousers that he’d probably picked up in a little boutique in Romford or Ilford with just one

that, Jack, I thought. As we ate, he chatted away like we were old friends. He told me about his wife and daughters, but I really didn’t listen. When his plate was empty and carefully wiped with a piece of nan bread, he looked up. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you say? Do you want the job?’ ‘No, Jack,’ I said back. ‘It’s a nice offer but I think I’ll pass. I’ve got other things to do and I wouldn’t be able to give you the sort of attention you need. No hard feelings, I hope?’ It occurred to me that

jacket open, both sides, slowly.’ He did. No weapon. ‘Get it,’ I said, and he tugged a wallet from his inside pocket. He pushed it across the table and I flipped it open. Money, plenty, which I left untouched. Credit cards, lots, in clear plastic holders that opened like a concertina. MR JACK P. DARK was embossed on the front of each one. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘At least the name’s the same.’ I found business cards in a pocket under a flap. On the front was his name, the name of the jeweller’s and an

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