Ex-soldier Birmingham-gangster bets his life on luck and illegalities, adroit wit and burning passion streaking his blood-stained fingertips as a dire quarrel commence between himself and the disturbed Dane who purloined his lover.
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LONG STORY SHORT
A PUFF OF THICK smoke exited his mouth and Nikolaj wet his lips, eyes squinting as he tilted his head to the side. Focusing on nothing in particular about the crack that sloppily ran down the wall, he realized it looked much like a bolt he had seen a few nights earlier in the cold night. When they first had bought the house, it had not been there. He wiped the contemplating thoughts from his mind and turned to Peter who had just entered his office.
His staunch and honorable lackey, Peter Karlsen had been at his side and ready for orders at any given time for years now, since childhood even, only it had not been until six years ago where he had officially gotten his name and good deeds on the payroll. Night and day Peter would run the city for Nik and Mr. Brogaard could not think of a better sycophant than Peter. Serving as just about all from running errands to accounting and as business bloomed and grew hostile with the opposition, he even served much to the likeness of a hired gun. Peter knew of all business Nikolaj had on his schedule.
What had made him travel to Frankfurt, for the time being, had made Nik wonder and he welcomed him, standing from his chair with his arms open with surprise.
"Peter! Hvad skylder jeg æren? Har du løbet her?" laughed Nik and padded Peter on his shoulder, taking notice of his hitching breath and heaving chest. <Peter! To what do I owe the honor? Did you run here?>
Peter stood for a brief moment and gained his breath, hand on heart and he served an odd grimace.
"Jeg gik ud fra du ville have mig her når brødrene kommer," said Peter with bemused eyes and tilted head. Peter had thought Nik would have heard by now. <I thought that you would want me here when the brothers arrived.>
Returning to his desk, Nik slumped back down in his seat and took a drag of the cigarette, utterly unprepared for what news was coming his way for they indeed were far from the good kind.
"Hvad taler du om? Hvis brødre?" <What are you talking about? Whose brothers?>
Peter released his thin, chapped bottom lip and his eyes widened, glad his boss was already sitting with a smoke in hand for this news were not in his favor.
. . .
UPON RECEIVING THE NEWS Thomas wanted a bath, he needed a bath. Then a drink and afterward he wanted to find Lizzy. She was always up for a good time and though Thomas would never admit to it, she did make him feel loved in ways no one else did. Like he mattered. It was subsequent to that, he was brave enough to accept the fact that he was in knee-deep trouble.
Sat back in the parlor of the betting shop, Thomas ruminated as he waited for the mass to congregate, his pocket watch dangling from its chain before his squinted eyes. They were getting worse, his eyes; his sight. Could it be stress? He wondered and reminded himself to fix himself one of these magical glasses Solomon's spoke so highly of. Although Thomas was certain the man was closer to deranged than sane, he did appear on top when it came to his bakery and for whatever reason, he blamed it all to that uncanny pair of spectacles.
"Goddamnit," cursed he in his exhale and sprung to his feet, his irk heard in his heavy breathing as he trooped to spin the numbers on the telephone but just as he did, the door swung open. Stopping abruptly, his face cut a disbelieving look, eyebrows heaved and eyes wide, nothing but incredulity in the lack of respect and his hands dropped to his side."Final-fucking-ly."
His seemingly acquiescent aunt Polly was still positioned by the fireplace, watching the embers burn out with the smoke burning down between her stiff, slender fingers. Her lips they were pointy in a demure and unpretentious pout, eyes blank of whatever emotions might hide behind the facade and she spared a glance across her shoulder, watching as the men entered. Dubious as ever, the band of boys' faces held smirks and laughs, in spite of the situation as well as the vast pile of shit that had to be handled.
She looked to Thomas whose lips parted but instead of words spilling, his face dropped and head shook and so he went for the whiskey instead, abandoning all hope of wading out of the inconvenience. It was always the whiskey and now it was Polly's turn to shake her head, herself much more obstinate from experiences of difficulty to last several lifetimes.
Tossing the smoke into the fireplace, Polly's shoes marched over the wooden floor. Capricious, asinine boys.
"Settle down, boys—we have a job to do!" spoke she alerting them with a mere glare that the happy charade was to be left outside the betting shop. Now was a time for reality and the Shelbys' future happened to interfere with the Butcher Brothers' business. Disseminating the syllabus, Polly provided the gang what information she deemed important for them to know in order to figure out how to deal with those Danes; all the more, if they even needed dealing.
Their official business began long ago in Denmark, two brothers serving as the offspring of a butcher whose father also happened to be occupied by said profession, however, it was not until the latest generation's influence the family business evolved. The backstory was not relevant for the Peaky Blinders, only the details on their illicit business and their potential involvement in the Birmingham pack dealings. From what they had heard, from which stories had traveled across Europe, the Butcher Brothers' line of work encompassed selling lawless indemnity, thriving in cutting, gutting; torturing and occasionally killing people for the provision of information they were paid to extract.
It was not until recently, say perhaps half a year ago, those two brothers had inaugurated the expansion of their métier thus up until the present time they were no more than a moderate family business. They had undergone some of a financial exertion at some point during the summer and were forced to discontinue operations. The one brother, Mark Brendtsen, was the passive one. Going with the flow, doing as told, obeying the rules, operating under and flexible to change whereas, with his younger brother, Bjørn Brendtsen, the case was another. Uppity and provocative to the point of it being lethal while capital in profiting the business—
"Long story short—Bjørn Brendtsen desperately signed over their name and are now intact and open for business," concluded Polly Shelby.
A short moment whirled the air for the shop to take in what information had been provided. Worn out as anyone, Polly's stance exhibited how little patience she had and snorted just as John opened his mouth. With a sly smirk and hung eyes, he hummed, "so they are gamblers?"
Regardless this meeting had been hasted, Polly deeply regretted calling them in at night time rather than the next morning. That, at least, would have given them time to sober up. It was difficult to believe that Thomas Shelby, for one and once, seemed to be the only ready to take matters into hands. He – on a personal level – thought it requisite to get acquainted with these brothers. But then there was the facts and prior arguments made that conduct should be discussed before implemented and so he went for the whiskey, accepting that he could do no more than plan rather than do. Briefly, Thomas constructed eye contact with his unquestionably vexed aunt and took a sip from his drink, shoving a hand down his pocket as he tipped on his heel.
