by Ken Bruen
‘That’ll do it.’
The waiter was approaching, hoping to hell she’d like this effort. I thought:
Worst case, she can zap the help.
14
Last year, she went to Dublin, stayed three months, made a packet along Leeson Street. Said: Catholics were always the best clients, paid double for the guilt factor, and that the club scene was seriously hot. Did I miss her? Some. She returned with, I kid you not, an Irish accent and a dose of the clap. Don’t know which was worse. To mark her return, we’d done the West End, some boring musical-one of Lloyd Webber’s inflictions-and then an overpriced supper at the Cafe Royal. I was locked into my American phase. You can imagine the horror, Mandy murdering the brogue and me doing a cracker from the woods of Tennessee. Add a batch of Tequila Slammers and you had medieval carnage.
15
I’ve added two since my last entry. Drowned a guy in his bath, had heard him in a shop giving large to a child who was crying, and followed him home. Checked him out for a few days then simply called at his house. He’d appeared in his bathrobe, going:
‘What the hell do you want, I’m trying to have a bath here.’
I gave him a bath.
The next was a woman who worked the till in the garage on the Clapham Road, as ugly a person as you’d ever meet. Lashing out at customers like some dervish. Watched her for a while and she took her lunch the same time every day, so I borrowed a car from the lot, plowed her down. She turned at the last moment, saw my face… and from her expression, she’d no idea who I was and I’m sure my smile didn’t help.
After that, to tell the truth, I got tired.
I’d been reckless, beginning to believe I could do whatever I liked, the sure way to get caught. I’d been incredibly lucky several times, and the cops only had to be lucky once.
So I backed off, concentrated on my work. I’m an accountant, can you credit it? My old man used all his savings to send me to college, figured I’d be the success he wasn’t. I’m very very good, found a knack for creative accountancy, crooked in other words, but smart with it. You want to hide money, I’m your man, you want to avoid the Inland Revenue (who doesn’t?), then I’m your guy. Started out with a large firm but got so busy I had to set up private practice. You’d think it was boring, but hell, it’s so exciting. Making money disappear is the ultimate trick. I’m an alchemist of the first order.
I was reading an article by Colin Wilson, he says that serial killers have an overwhelming sense of their own importance… Whoops!
He adds that after studying them for forty years, they have one thing in common: a very high level of dominance. Oh dear, has old Colin nailed me there. I have to admit I was a little down after reading him. It’s galling to be herded in with a group, and anyway, I’m pretty successful in both my areas of activity. But hey, hang on a mo… Shit, I’m doing it, trying to justify myself, a sure signal you’re wrong.
This writing game has got me knackered. I thought it would be easy. One thing is certain, if Mandy keeps up her current level of irritation, she’s history. If that’s anger, fuck it.
‘The only interesting people in the world are the losers,’ she said. ‘Or rather, those we call losers. Every type of deviation contains an element of rebellion. And I’ve never been able to understand a lack of rebelliousness.’
— Karin Fossum, He Who Fears the Wolf
16
Brant sat back in his swivel chair and admired the title of his proposed book. Good macho ring to it. It had taken him a week to get that far, but he figured the best writers took a time. Mind you, he wondered how the hell McBain had produced over eighty books. He’d reread the 87th Precinct ones and figured if he just copied that style, he’d have the book done in a week. It looked so simple, just fill the pages with dialogue. He had Irish blood, talk was as natural as breathing, but fuck, he couldn’t for the life of him get the shit down on paper.
Now that he was studying McBain, as opposed to just reading him, he noticed how very smart the man was. Brant had been raving for years about the books, but only now was he realizing how clever they were. The Q and A seemed to fill lots of pages in the book and didn’t take up much room, that’s what Brant liked best. He’d copied one of these, substituting Roberts and himself for Carella and Hawes, but it came off like a frigging kid’s essay. Brant was rarely disappointed with himself, self-belief was his strongest asset. He knew his strengths and ignored his failings. Most things he shrugged away, muttered ‘Kiss it off.’ His history was littered with darkness, and the way he’d survived that was to keep it locked up tight. But if he was to write this goddam thing, he’d have to use the cases he knew. And they were beauties. He’d read up on ‘Noir’ and called it ‘Nora.’ He’d gone so far as to buy a book on ‘Creative Writing’ and after twenty pages of concentrated reading, slung it across the room, going:
‘You’re bloody joking.’
In the bookshop there were a heap of volumes with titles like How to Write a Bestseller, but he figured if they knew so much about it, how come they weren’t writing the winners. The authors who wrote them, he’d never heard of, and if he knew one thing, he knew a con. He’d gotten the name of an agent and sent her a letter, saying who he was and his proposal to be an English Wambaugh. He didn’t mention his real plan of wishing to be McBain. He knew most of these literary types were snobs; McBain wasn’t intellectual enough for them. He said aloud:
‘Gobshites.’
He’d had a reply and the agent said she was very excited about his project and could he send her a synopsis. What he wanted to reply was ‘lashings of violence, sex, and negroes.’
His doorbell went and he was relieved, anything to get away from the writing. Brant lived in Lorn Road, a quiet street, just a mugging from the Oval. Most people on hearing the name wanted to add ‘For’ but didn’t. He opened the door and there was Porter, looking the worst for wear.
Wearing one of those wax jackets that seemed a hundred years old, much favoured by the Royals. His suit looked like it had been slept in. Porter looked like he’d been slept in.
Brant asked:
‘Got a warrant?’
No smile from Porter, so Brant said:
‘Come in.’
Porter sat on the sofa, near sank in the depth, and gazed at the bookshelves, amazed at the amount of books. Brant and books didn’t seem to go together. Brant said:
‘McBain… I rebuilt my whole stock, took awhile.’
Porter was silent then asked:
‘Could I get some tea, some herbal if you have it?’
Brant stood over him, asked:
‘Do I look like a guy who keeps herbal tea?’
He went and got a pot of coffee going, added a little speed to the mix, just a tiny hit, get Porter cranking. Whenever Brant busted a dope dealer, he kept a little of their stock, and now had every pharmaceutical known to man. He found that a hint of amphetemine juiced up coffee like nothing else. Made some toast, piled on the marmalade, put the lot on a tray bearing the wedding of Charles and Lady Diana, then carried it to the living room. Porter had dozed off, so Brant kicked his ankle, said;
‘Hoy, no sleeping on the job.’
Porter came to with a small scream, and Brant said:
‘Incoming?’
Porter shook himself, and at Brant’s insistence, drank the coffee. He said:
‘I’m not really a caffeine fiend.’
Brant leaned over, said:
‘Yo, buddy, you’re fucked. Get some stimulant in you, that’s why they say “Wake up and smell the coffee.”’
Brant refilled the cup, asked:
‘What the hell have you been doing, cottaging?’
Porter’s eyes flashed. The notion that he’d trawl public toilets, though it was a fine British tradition, appalled him. He said:
‘I’ve been sleeping in my car, outside Trevor’s home, lest the guy comes after him.’
Brant waved his hand, went:
‘You can pack that in, I’ve got it co
vered.’
Porter was surprised, asked:
You have someone watching Trevor’s. How come I didn’t make them?’
Brant laughed, as if from resignation, said:
‘Well fuck, if you could see them, they wouldn’t be a whole lot of bloody use, would they?’
Porter considered-the caffeine and speed were racing along his veins, heading for a blitz on the brain-he was already sitting up, said:
‘Thanks, I mean, god, for looking out for us… for Trevor…’
Brant knocked it off, said in a Brooklyn accent:
‘Ain’t no big thing.’
Porter spotted the computer and the screen with ‘Calibre’ in huge letters, asked:
‘What’s with that?’
Brant explained about the book and Porter asked for a notebook and pen and began to jot rapidly… filling pages like a crazed secretary, then stopped, said:
‘Here’s a synopsis.’
Brant was amazed, read it slowly, said:
‘This is fucking brilliant. Was this one of your cases?’
Porter didn’t quite know himself how he’d done it but felt it had to be done, the primal urge of the speedhead. He was standing now, the energy galvanizing him, said:
‘No, it just came to me, to have a vigilante cop, you get him acting inside and outside the law.’
Brant read it again, asked:
‘The name for the cop, Steiner, is that like Jewish?’
Porter didn’t know, said:
‘Why not, you have to have an angle, right, so the whole anti-Semitism will add tension to the narrative.’
Brant thought Porter was beginning to sound a little like the writing books he’d binned, but what the hell, he’d got the outline. Maybe get Porter over regularly, slip him some speed, and get a chapter a week.
Porter said:
‘I’m nowhere on the Manners deal.’
Brant reluctantly put the manuscript aside, said:
‘You’ve got to keep plugging away, check out every tip, talk to snitches, and you know what?’
Porter didn’t, all he knew was he could run a mile, wanted to begin right now, could feel his feet moving. He asked:
‘What?’
‘Luck, pure dumb luck will probably break the case.’
Porter figured this was right but not something he could bring to the Super. He said:
‘I’d better get going. Thanks for the coffee and it is probably the best I ever had.’
Brant smiled, said:
‘Don’t be a stranger, drop over more often, we can shoot the breeze.’
After Porter left, Brant typed up the synopsis, sent it off to his agent, could already see himself on chat shows, telling where he’d gotten the inspiration for his masterpiece. They’d ask if he was going to quit being a cop, and he’d get that humble look, say quietly:
‘You don’t ever quit being a cop.’
Maybe they could put it on the front of the book, put it on posters when they sold the movie rights. Brant was as happy as if he’d already sold the whole lot.
Henry said, ‘I’m awfully short for a person. But I’m fun.’
— Robert B. Parker, Small Vices
17
Falls was being reassigned. Brant had pulled her off the decoy gig, it wasn’t working. She was before the duty sergeant, who said:
‘I don’t know how you got out of that basement. Once they go down there they’re gone.’
She smiled, didn’t answer. The sergeant figured she’d slept with somebody with juice and that might account for the smirk she was wearing. But he intended wiping that off, said:
‘You’re being partnered with Lane.’
PC Lane had been with the force two years, and his claim to fame or infamy was he’d been photographed with Tony Blair. That had looked like it might help his career, but recently it was a huge liability. Unless the Tories came back soon, he was doomed to obscurity, a pariah of New Labour proportions. His appearance didn’t help. He was very tall and lanky, with an expression of friendliness, the very worst thing for a cop. The duty sergeant waited for a response from Falls, but she was too experienced to go down that road, she simply asked:
‘What’s the assignment?’
Disappointed, he said:
‘There’s a domestic in Meadow Road, the neighbours have been calling it in, get over there pronto.’
Falls wasn’t wild about that ‘pronto’ but bit her lip. Lane was waiting outside, an umbrella up against a faint mist. Falls said:
‘Lose that, you want to have some cred. At least look like you can tolerate a little rain.’
Lane folded the brolly and thought:
She’s the ball-buster I heard about.
They didn’t speak until they reached Meadow Road. A neighbour walking up and down, near spat:
‘What the hell kept you, interrupted your coffee break, did we?’
Lane asked:
‘Where is the disturbance, sir?’
The guy looked at Lane, thinking, What a nerd, said:
‘ “Disturbance,” murder more like, it’s on the first floor, apartment 1a.’
Lane looked at Falls, asked the question that nervous cops the world over ask:
‘How do you want to play this?’
She was already in the zone, said:
‘Carefully’
They rang the bell, the silence from inside was ominous.
The door opened and a woman in her late twenties stood there, asked:
‘Help you?’
Lane said:
‘We’ve had a report of a disturbance, may we come in?’
She shrugged, said:
‘The place is a bit of a mess.’
She turned and they followed her in. A small living room was strewn with broken plates, upturned furniture. The woman was dressed in a long, black chemise, Doc Martens, and had a bandana in her hair. Grunge by default. Falls looked down and saw a carving knife in the woman’s left hand, held loosely. She nodded to Lane, said:
‘Could I please have the knife?’
The woman lifted it, stared at it as if she’d never seen it, said:
‘Sure.’
Handed it over, it was still wet with blood. Lane asked:
‘Who else is here, ma’am?’ he was already moving towards the bedroom. The woman said:
‘Just me now. I don’t think Duncan is a tenant anymore.’
In the bedroom a man was lying on his side, wounds all over his body. Lane felt for a pulse, radioed for back-up, came out and raised his eyes to Falls, who asked the woman:
‘What’s your name?’
‘Trish, though Duncan calls me “hon.” ‘
Falls sat down near her, said:
‘Trish, do you know what happened here?’
‘Oh yeah, Duncan was taking my money. I hate when they do that, steal what’s freely offered. So I stuck him.’
The coroner would reveal that she’d ‘stuck’ him fifty-six times. Falls asked:
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
She said she’d kill for one, which caused Lane to give Falls a worried look. Falls stood up, moved to Lane, said:
‘Make the tea.’
He was shaking his head, said:
‘Are you mad, she’s a lunatic, she didn’t stab that guy, she eviscerated him.’
Trish turned, said:
‘Two sugars, please.’
Lane said:
‘I’m going to cuff her.’
Falls moved in front of him, said:
‘No you’re not, you’re making tea, got it?’
He’d heard the rumours about Falls and, with a sigh, began to search for the teapot.
Falls want back to Trish, and the woman asked her:
‘What will happen to me?’
Bad things is what Falls wanted to answer, but said:
‘Self-defence, you might get probation.’
Thinking pigs might fly. Trish yawned, said:
‘I’ll be
glad to get a quiet night’s sleep. Duncan snores, it really gets on my wick.”
Lane brought the tea in a mug that had the logo
I’M A GAS.
After she took a sip, she asked Falls:
‘You have a fellah?’
Lane was making faces of disgust, and she answered:
‘No, not at the moment.’
Trish thought about that, then went:
‘Is it a black thing?’
Falls wanted to say, isn’t everything, but merely nodded. A few minutes later the heavy gang arrived and Trish was led away, calling:
‘Won’t you come and visit?’
Lane said:
‘You’ve made a friend.’
‘Fuck off’
Back at the station, they had to fill out the myriad of forms that a murder entailed. Lane finished first and asked her:
‘You want me to help you?’
She glared at him, went:
‘Is there something in my body language that says, “Help me?”’
He shuffled nervously, tried:
‘No, it’s just I have a knack for flying through those things.’
She sat back, wondering why she was so furious, and figured it was because she felt sorry for the poor bitch who was going down for a long time, another casualty of the sexes conflict. She said:
‘Fly through them, how about you take a flying fuck.’
He reeled back. He’d been warned she was lethal but felt their recent experience might have connected them. And worse, he fancied her so went for broke, asked:
‘You want to get a drink or something later?’
She laughed out loud, said:
‘Take a wild guess.’
He slouched away. Met Porter at the canteen, who asked:
‘You okay?’
‘Am, I think so. I’ve been partnered with WPC Falls and am trying to get a handle on her.’
Porter touched his arm, moved close, said:
‘Don’t bother.’
Porter bought him a cup of tea and asked:
‘So what’s this about you and Tony Blair?’
Lane sighed.
Brant had got a call from his informant, Caz, and met him in the Oval, across the road from the cricket ground. The sounds of the Test Series were a hum of comfort, if you liked the game, if not, it was solely annoyance. Brant had bought a copy of the Big Issue magazine from the regular vendor outside the tube station. Brant, still buzzing from his literary effort, gave the guy a five and said to keep the change. The guy asked: