by Ken Bruen
‘East 33rd?’
‘Jaysus … the other bit.’
‘Oh … Kips Bay.’
‘Screw that babe, I’m for The Village.’
‘But it’s been arranged by the Department.’
Brant gave her his full smile, said, ‘Fuck ’em, eh? I want to stay in a ‘Y’ in The Village.’
She looked for an exit on the ramp and thought, ‘Could be worse — he might have had a hard-on for The Bronx, and then what?’
Brant watched her drive and asked, ‘This is an automatic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stick-shift?’
‘What?’
‘Four wheel drive?’
She glanced at him and he slapped her knee. ‘Just winding yah up, babe.’
Gritting her teeth, she said, ‘I’m a sergeant in Homicide … do you have any idea of what it takes to make detective, to get my shield?’
Brant said, ‘It takes a babe … am I right?’
The Band-Aider, Josie O’Brien as she was now officially identified, was being held in the psycho ward. ‘Why?’ asked Brant.
Nancy gave the department answer. ‘Suicide watch.’
Brant gave an ugly snort. ‘She kills other people — not a snowball’s chance of her hurting herself.’
Nancy agreed but continued, ‘She saw her boyfriend shot in the face and had to beg for her own life … she could slip into depression.’
Brant shook his head, then asked, ‘So … can I see her?’
Incarceration had suited Josie. Being off the streets, a bath, nutrition, had transformed her. Her dirty blond hair was now shining and looked high-lighted. The previously scabbed, worn face was now scrubbed clean and her eyes had a sparkle.
As Brant prepared to enter the room, he turned to Nancy. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m to be present. It’s …
‘Department Regulations. Christ, will yah learn a new tune? Look, I’ll buy yah dinner if yah fuck off for ten minutes.’
Nancy, who thought she’d gotten some sort of handle on Brant, asked, ‘Ever hear of Popeye Doyle?’
‘Nope.’
‘That figures. Get it straight, I’m with you all the way.’
Brant decided to roll with it, said, ‘Yah dirty article.’
When Brant walked into the room, Josie appeared almost shy. On their previous meeting, her partner had sunk a knife in Brant’s back. She said, ‘Hiya.’
He didn’t answer, took the chair on the other side of the table. The hospital guard gave Nancy an expectant look, like, what’s going down?
She had no idea.
Brant reached in his pocket and everybody jumped. He took out his Weights and Zippo, placed them on the table.
The guard said, ‘This is a NO SMOKING ZONE,’ as if noticing him for the first time.
Brant gave him a brief glance. ‘Fuck off.’
Nancy signalled to the guard — ‘Cool it’. He tried.
Brant tapped the cigs. ‘Want one?’
‘Oh, yes please.’
He shook two free and Josie took one. As he cranked the Zippo, he seized her wrist, the flame in her face, asked, ‘Why’d ya kill the young copper?’
If Josie was spooked, she stifled it. ‘Gis a cup o’ tea, cunt.’
Brant let her go and asked, ‘What’s she on?’
Nancy looked to the guard, ‘The methadone program.’
Brant shrugged, asked Josie, ‘Why’d you want to go back?’
‘I’m homesick.’
He laughed out loud and she added, ‘I’m going to be in a mini-series, maybe Winona Ryder will play me. I’d let Brad Pitt play Sean.’
Brant played along, ‘Gonna be famous, that it?’
‘I’ve got an agent.’
‘You’ve got a hell of an imagination. You’re going to Holloway, not Hollywood. The only stars you’ll see are when the bull dykes ram yer head against the bars.’
Josie looked to Nancy, panic writ large. ‘Tell him to shut his mouth!’
Brant stood up. ‘When can I have her?’
Nancy consulted the paperwork. ‘She’s waived all extradition, so the day after tomorrow, I guess.’
Brant looked at Josie. ‘How’s that, eh? Wanna take a ride with me?’
Josie was pulling it back, spat, ‘I’ve ridden worse.’
He was delighted. ‘I believe you … do I ever!’
Back in the squad room, Nancy checked her desk for messages. Brant asked, ‘Can I use the phone?’
‘Sure.’
It took a time but eventually he was connected to Roberts. The squad room fell silent as Brant’s London accent rang loud and entrancing. To them, he sounded sooo English.
‘Guv, that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Brant, I’m in New York.’
‘And like it, do you?’
‘I met with the Band-Aider, she’s a piece of work.’
‘Any problems?’
‘Naw. What news of The Alien?’
Roberts knew he had to proceed carefully. He hedged, and as he did, a radio kicked into loud, sudden life with ‘Don’t Blame It On Me’ by Stevie Nicks. Nancy went to turn it down.
Roberts said, ‘Fenton’s ex-wife has been murdered.’
Deep intake of breath, then Brant said, ‘He bloody dun it … jeez!’
‘Well, he’s long gone, vanished without trace.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Falls went after that arsonist.’
‘On her lonesome?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Is she OK?’
Time to lie … ‘Yes.’
A moment as Brant tasted the answer, decided it could suffice, then asked, ‘Did you get the fuck?’
To the assembled detectives it sounded like — ‘Did yah get the fok?’ — and they loved it. In cop bars all over Manhattan, it had a brief shelf-life as the catch-phrase of the moment.
Roberts decided to play it a little humble and answered, ‘We got him.’
‘Who, exactly?’
‘Ahm … McDonald.’
Brant gave a bitter laugh. ‘You’ll get the credit, I suppose?’
Refute that.
Before Roberts knew how to answer, Brant said, ‘Well, some of us have a job to do.’
And rang off.
Nancy took Brant to Choc Full O’ Nuts. She asked for: ‘Double decaffeinated latte,’ and looked to Brant. He said, ‘Jaysus, I’d settle for a coffee.’
The waitress and Nancy exchanged a look that read: ‘English … right!’ At least he hadn’t asked for tea.
Brant reached for his best Hollywood accent, said, ‘I’ll need your shield and weapon.’
‘What?’
‘Gis a look.’
Suspicious, she took out the blue and gold shield.
He said, ‘It looks like tin.’
‘It is tin.’
‘All we have is a warrant card … it doesn’t quite have the same effect. Show me your weapon.’ This with a leer.
She exclaimed, ‘I can’t figure you!’
‘Don’t bother. So, what are you carrying? Some dinky 22 with a mother of pearl handle?’ The coffee came and Brant stared at the double latte. ‘Looks like cappuccino with an inflated ego.’
She took a sip, went, ‘Mmmmm … I carry a 38.’
Brant had moved on, asked, ‘What’s yer full name?’
‘Jesus H Christ, you jump all over the place. It’s D’Agostino.’
He tasted the word then asked, ‘Are you connected?’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘What are ye calling it now … mob … family … crime syndicate?’
Nancy shook her head. The man was beyond help. She tried for a total shift, said, ‘I have a list here, look … it’s the places you’ll probably want to see.’
The list:
Empire State
UN Building
Chrysler Building
Statue of Liberty
Macys.
&nbs
p; He looked at it. ‘What’s this shit?’
‘It’s the sights.’
‘Spare me the tourist crap. I want to see the Dakota building and the Chelsea Hotel.’
‘Why?’
‘Where John Lennon lived and then where Sid and Nancy crashed. Plus, Bob Dylan wrote ‘Sad-Eyed of the Lowlands’ in the Chelsea.’
Nancy was intrigued. ‘Did you know they used the Dakota in Rosemary’s Baby?’
‘Who gives a fuck?’
Nancy followed after him trying not to feel crushed, when he suddenly turned. ‘You know what the best sight would be?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You … without a stitch on.’
Nancy D’Agostino’s husband had been killed in an auto smash.
His bad luck.
Nancy had survived. She called that her bad luck.
The sole passion of Brant’s life had been his Ed McBain collection. He’d had the early green Penguin editions at 2/6 a throw. On through the author’s outings as Evan Hunter and the Matthew Hope series. Of the nigh eighty titles produced by McBain, he had close to the full collection.
For some reason, the police procedures struck a chord with Brant. As if the boys of the 87th came closest to what in his heart he believed a cop should be. When Nancy asked him, ‘Is there anything you value?’ he nearly told her.
But the Band-Aiders — Josie and Sean O’Brien — had broken into Brant’s flat, trashed it and his book collection. Thus had begun his pursuit of them which ended in the death of a young policeman and Brant’s own narrow escape.
It crossed Brant’s mind that the whole story might get him a sympathetic fuck, but he decided to forego the telling.
For his last night in New York, Nancy had taken him to the restaurant on top of the World Trade Centre. On the elevator up, he’d bitched about the SMOKE FREE ZONE. As they were seated, Nancy said, ‘Some view, huh?’
‘Better through a nicotine haze.’
Nancy ordered seafood chowder and Brant ordered steak. Rare and bleeding.
Nancy said, ‘That man you bumped into on the way in … it was Ed McBain.’
She couldn’t believe his reaction, as if he’d had a prod in the ass. ‘What? Are you serious? … Oh shit! … Is he gone?’
Like that.
When he finally calmed, he shook his head, muttering, ‘Ed McBain … Jesus!’
Nancy took a sip of her Tom Collins. ‘It was him or Elmore Leonard … I always get them crime writers confused.’
Brant was beyond comment; took out his Weights, lit one and exhaled: ‘Ah …
Naturally, the Maitre d’ came scurrying over but Nancy flashed the tin. He wasn’t impressed. ‘There are rules.’
Brant smiled and said, ‘Hey pal, want to step outside and discuss procedure?’
He didn’t.
After, they stood outside and Nancy wondered what now? Brant flagged a cab and held the door for her. Yet again, he’d taken her off balance. Manners were the very last thing she’d anticipated. He said to the cabbie, ‘Take the lady home,’ and they were peeling rubber. She looked back through the window to wave, or … But Brant was staring up at the World Trade.
Applicant
Bill was interviewing killers. Well, would-be or wannabe ones. As usual, he held court in the end section of The Greyhound. Situated at The Oval, it’s a bar that restores pride in the business, and for as long as Bill had been kingpin in south-east London, he’d treated it as his office.
What to look for in a potential hit man.
1. Patience
2. Cool
3. Absolute ruthlessness
A hard man who’d never have to shout the odds. You didn’t ask about his rep, it had already reached you. Word was out that Fenton, The Alien, had lost it or gone to the US. Which amounted to the same thing if you clubbed in Clapham. (No, not night discos but crash-yer-skull clubs.)
Bill had already seen four guys. All young and all bananas. They wanted to be on the front page of the tabloids. Trainee psychos and apprentice sociopaths. They’d call attention. Sipping from a Ballygowan, Bill said to one of his minders, ‘I miss the old days.’
‘Guv?’
‘Get the motor, we’ll call it a day.’
‘Call it what, Guv?’
He sighed. With the Russian villains making in-roads, maybe it was time to head for the Costa and listen to Phil Collins albums. Or album. Seeing how he simply recorded the same one each time.
The minder said, ‘Guv, there’s one other bloke.’
‘Yeah?’
‘That’s him by the cider pump.’
Bill saw a guy in his early twenties, leather jacket, faded jeans, trainers. The urban uniform. There were half a million right outside the door. Nothing to distinguish him, which was a huge plus.
Bill said, ‘Send him over.’
The guy moved easily, no wasted energy.
Bill nodded, said, ‘Take a stool.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Another plus. The last time Bill had heard ‘sir’ was in an Elvis interview. He offered a drink, got, ‘No, sir.’
‘Shit,’ thought Bill. ‘This kid could surprise a bloke to death.’ He asked, ‘You got a name, son?’
‘Collie. It’s Collie, sir.’
‘What, cos you like dogs, is it?’ And got to see the kid’s eyes. Dark eyes that were ever so slightly out of alignment. They gave the sense of relief that you weren’t their focus. Nor would you ever want to be.
Now the kid smiled, almost shyly. ‘Something that happened when I was young.’
Bill smiled, like the kid had to be all of twenty three. ‘Tell me.’ Not a request.
‘Our neighbour had a dog; every time you passed he threw himself against the gate. People got a fright regular as clockwork. Like, one minute there wasn’t a sign of him, then as you passed, he’d jump snarling and barking.’ Bill didn’t comment, so the kid continued. ‘The dog got off on it.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, he got his jollies from it.’ He pronounced the word ‘yollies’, giving it a resonance of distance and disease.
Bill had to ask — ‘How did you know that?’
Now the kid gave a shrug, said, ‘I looked into his eyes.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, before I strangled him, I took a good look.’
Bill decided to ask the important question. ‘What is it you want, son?’
‘To work for you, sir.’
‘And what do you want, to be famous, get yourself a rep?’
Now the kid looked irritated, said, ‘I’m not stupid, sir.’
‘Done time, ’ave you?’
‘Once. I won’t be going back.’
Bill believed him. ‘OK … I’ll give you a trial.’ Now he reached in his jacket, took out a black and white photo, pushed it across the table. ‘Know him?’
‘No, sir.’
It showed Brant, resplendent in his Aran sweater as he boarded a flight. His face to the camera, he looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. Bill stared at it for a while then, back to biz, said, ‘That’s Detective Sergeant Brant. Due back from America any day.’ The kid waited. ‘Your predecessor, The Alien, was supposed to put some pressure on the man, persuade him to drop his interest in me. But … he fucked it up. And Brant not only didn’t lose interest, he paid me a visit.’ Bill’s face was bright red. Famous for his cool, he was close to losing it. ‘What I want is to hit him where it hurts. Not him — too much attention if he’s damaged personally. But if something he cared for got nobbled … He stopped, asked, ‘Do you follow me, son?’
‘Yes, sir. Damage where he’ll feel it.’
‘That’s it. Think you can handle it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bill reached again in his pocket, took out a thin wedge. It had the glow of fifties. He nudged it across the table. ‘To get you started; a bit of walking round money.’
The kid didn’t touch it. ‘I haven’t earned it yet.’
‘That�
��s what you think.’
Something in the way she moves
Falls finally crashed through the surface and immediately wished she hadn’t. As soon as she opened her eyes she knew the baby was gone.
Then the event of the pool hall returned and her whole body shook. She knew if she called, a gaggle of help would arrive. Instead, she cried silently … and as the tears coursed down her face she remembered the fourth Teletubby.
Po.
The very name raised her to new heights of anguish. Finally, she stirred and sat up. Looking down to the IV, she tore it from her arm and pulled the needle from the monitor. A wave of nausea engulfed her, but she weathered it. Got her feet on the floor and felt the room heave.
A nurse came rushing. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
Falls slowly raised her head and tried to focus. She gave a sad bitter laugh, answered, ‘Now, isn’t that a good question?’
At almost the same time, an impromptu party had begun in the police canteen. Roberts was being toasted with beer and cider.
The duty sergeant raised a glass. ‘Let’s hear it for DI Roberts … hip, hip!’
Roberts acknowledged the toast and then indicated McDonald. ‘I had help.’
More cheers. More booze.
The Super dropped in for a moment, gave Roberts a gruff nod. ‘Well done, laddie.’ Which was rich, him being five years younger. As these events go, it was tame — muted, even — due to Falls still being in hospital.
The duty sergeant, by way of conversation, said to Roberts, ‘You’ll ’ave heard about the new Mickey Finn the buggers are using?’
He hadn’t, said, ‘I haven’t.’
‘Aye, they meet a young girl in the pub or a club and buy her a drink, slip Rohypnol into it and the poor lass blacks out. Comes to next day after five of them have raped her.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Aye, that too.’
Roberts wondered if anything like that had happened with his daughter. Fear and rage crept along his spine. Finishing a pale ale, he resolved to turn everything round. He’d go home, say to the missus, ‘Listen honey, let’s have a fresh start. I have skin cancer, I’m skint too (a little humour), and let’s talk about our daughter. Who banged her up?’ It would need work but it was nearly there. He had the drive home to polish it …
With his career now having a shot of adrenalin, he felt downright optimistic. Parked the car and stood for a moment outside his house, thought: ‘OK, we’re mortgaged to the bloody hilt but we’ve still got it. Hell, I’ve still got it.’