by Ken Bruen
Roberts said:
‘If she comes out, you think saving your ass is going to be her first concern?’
The door opened and McDonald heard the bolts on a 100 weapons rack, a sharp intake of breath seemed to course the street. Jamil was out first, his hands behind his back. Followed by Andrews.
McDonald had wanted to roar:
‘Shoot the fucker.’
Roberts was running to the house, shouting:
‘Hold your fire.’
Jamil was handcuffed, and Andrews gave Roberts a small smile.
In moments a wave of officers were all over Jamil, and Roberts led Andrews aside, asked:
‘You okay?’
She seemed composed, said:
‘Yeah, I think so. The gun was empty. He was so stoned, he’d forgotten to load it.’
Roberts looked at McDonald, who was hovering, asked:
‘Did he actually squeeze the trigger?’
She turned, stared at McDonald for a moment, then turned back to Roberts, said:
‘Yes, he did.’
Before Roberts could say anything, she said:
‘I’m okay, really, you don’t have to do anything.’
Roberts strode over to where the cops were holding Jamil and, without a word, kneed him in the balls. Then he returned to Andrews, and she asked:
‘Would that hurt him a lot?’
Roberts nodded and she smiled. When they were hauling Jamil away, he managed to croak:
‘Hoy you, dee geezer dat ran. Yo leave dee sister to fend alone, yo dee criminal, man.’
Was heard loud and clear by all. McDonald tried to appear as if the guy was off his tree, shook his head in dismissal. Roberts said to Andrews:
‘We’ve got to get you to the station. When a firearm is discharged, the brass want you to be debriefed. But I think a large scotch en route would go down nicely, what do you think?’
She seemed to be weighing this, then said:
‘Could I have a large Vodka, with lemonade?’
Roberts held the door for her, closed it, then went to get in the driver’s seat. McDonald was standing, at a loss, and Roberts beckoned him, said:
‘The door of the house is still open. Could you close it?’ When McDonald seemed uncertain, Roberts added: ‘You know, like closing the barn door after the fucking horse has gone.’
Then he slammed his door on McDonald and burned rubber out of there.
20
Brant and Porter crossed the street, saw the curtain move in the lower window of Crew’s house, and Brant said:
‘Someone’s home.’
Porter nodded, asked:
‘What’s your gut telling you, this the guy?’
‘Yeah, this is him.’
They rang the bell and almost immediately it was opened. A man in his forties stood there, dressed in a waistcoat, pants suit, white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He was plain looking, not one feature to distinguish him, a face in the crowd. Full head of neat brown hair, regular features, average height. Slim build and a tension now in his body. To be expected, anyone opens the door to cops, you’re tense. He said:
‘Yes?’
Polite quiet voice but with confidence in it. They showed their warrant cards, gave their names, said:
‘We’re looking to eliminate people from our enquires, and your name came up.’
He studied them then asked:
‘What enquiries are those?’
Porter looked back at the street, asked:
‘Sir, might we do this inside?’
He nodded, stood aside, and they went in. The main characteristic of the place was how silent it was. He led them into a study lined with books, hundreds of them, shelves covering every wall. Brant said:
‘You like to read.’
Crew put his hand through his hair, said:
‘Who’s got the time?’
His voice was subdued, cultured, but with a trace of authority. He indicated two armchairs, said:
‘Please, sit down. Get you a drink? I’m about to have something myself.’
They said no, without the thanks, and while he fixed himself a scotch and soda, Brant walked along the shelves and made small sounds like ‘Hah.’ It was impossible to tell if he approved or not. Porter asked:
‘You just finished work?’
Crew dragged his eyes from Brant, said:
Yes, I am, as they say, something in the city.’
Porter found that annoyingly smug and let it show a little, asked:
‘And that would be what exactly?’
Crew smiled, a smile of tolerance, asked:
You don’t already know?’
Porter was very testy now, said:
‘If I knew, would I be persisting?’
Brant appeared oblivious to their wrangling, continued to book crawl, taking a volume down, putting it back.
Crew said:
‘I’m an accountant, have a small office in the city. Here’s my card, with the address.’
Porter took it, didn’t look at it, asked:
‘You know why we’re here?’
Crew sat, took a slow sip of his scotch, seemed to enjoy it, then:
‘I feel sure you’ll get to it, lucky you guys don’t work on a rate.’
Brant took a book down, said:
‘Here’s an interesting title, “The Killer Inside Me,” think I might borrow it?’
Crew shook his head, said:
‘Breaks up my collection, so I don’t lend books.’
Brant seemed amused, went:
‘Ah, go on.’
Crew looked at Porter, said:
‘Your sergeant doesn’t seem to understand “no”.’
Finally Porter got to ease a bit, said:
‘Oh, he understands it, it’s just he never accepts it.’
Brant left the book on the table, and Crew said:
‘Could you put it back where it was?’
Brant fingered the spine, said:
‘Seems well-worn, well-thumbed as you book lovers say’
He put it back down. Crew waited and Porter said:
‘You keep a diary, Mr. Crew?’
‘Of course.’
They were surprised, had expected all sorts of denials, evasions, and for a moment, they were lost for a reply. Then Porter asked:
‘Mind if I see it, sir?’
Crew stood up, moved to the phone, said:
‘I wonder if I should perhaps call legal help?’
Brant was all charm, his voice friendly, went:
‘That is of course your right but you show us the diary, we clear up a misunderstanding, and we’re outa here. You go back to your scotch and soda and chill, no harm done.’
Crew frowned, asked:
‘What is the misunderstanding?’
Porter took up the flow:
‘A young lady, claims to be your… significant other, says she saw you mention an act of violence in your diary’
Crew seemed astounded, said:
‘Mandy, the… working girl I’ve had… am… recourse to… once or twice. That’s why you’re here. Good lord, clues must be scarce. The Met running out of actual crimes?’
Porter moved right up close to Crew, said:
‘Three years she says, and you move her in across the street, hardly a casual deal, is it, Mr Crew?’
Crew laughed, a short bark, said:
‘The word of a hooker, that’s going to be solid.’
Brant asked:
‘The diary?’
Crew went to his desk, a fine oak affair, and picked a leather volume up, tossed it to Porter, said,
‘Enjoy.’
Porter flicked through it, looked up, said:
‘This is your business diary; there’s nothing personal here.’
Crew fixed another drink, less soda, said:
‘For me, business is personal.’
Porter let that sit, then asked:
‘How do you feel about manners?’
Crew looked puzzled, said:
‘What on earth does that mean?’
Brant joined in, said:
‘It’s not a real difficult question, like, do you think they matter in the world, how we treat each other, is that a factor for you?’
Then Crew put his hand in the air, went:
‘As Oprah says, “I’m having a light bulb moment.” This is about that Manners guy, is that it? You think I might be the guy?’
Brant asked:
‘Are you?’
Crew said:
‘I’d like you to leave now. See, I’m asking politely, lots of manners, which is more than I can say for either of you.’
Porter moved towards the door, but Brant hadn’t moved. He stared at Crew, asked:
‘I can understand a guy using hookers, hell, it’s part of the whole consumer society. But what I don’t get is, you’ve got lots of cash. You look reasonably okay, yeah?’
Crew waited then asked:
‘Is there a question there?’
Brant now began to move towards Porter, nodding, said:
‘Well, it’s not really a question, but given all I’ve said, how the hell did you go and pick such an ugly cunt?’
Then they were outside, and the door closed behind them. Brant lit a cig, said:
‘You think he really watches Oprah?’
Porter was still looking at the door, said:
‘Lots of guys watch her.’
‘It’s a gay thing, right?’
They’d got to Clapham Common. Brant put his hand in his pocket, took out a book, said:
‘Now let’s see what the deal with this is, why he was so keen for us not to see it.’
He had The Killer Inside Me in his hand. Porter yet again was astonished, went:
You nicked it, jeez. You think he won’t notice?’
Brant was flicking through the book, said:
‘I want him to notice.’
Porter said:
‘There’s a nice cafe down here, they do really good coffee, you coming?’
He was.
Porter ordered a decaff latte and looked to Brant, who ordered a double espresso. Said he’d have the caffeine that Porter was skipping, oh, and bring him some really disgusting sticky, creamy bun.
Porter said:
‘Are you serious about the pastry? The waitress doesn’t know whether you’re kidding or not.’
Brant, stuck in the book, said he was as serious as murder.
But little guys with wild hairs up their ass, there was no book on guys like that.
— Elmore Leonard, The Big Bounce
21
The cops were here. I fucked up and big time. Worse, I had a couple of scotches while they were interviewing me. And that blew my focus to shit. I got complacent, figured I could handle them easy. Two of them, Porter, the senior officer, and a sergeant named Brant. Porter I pegged as a fag. He had all that fussy manner, nice politeness, and the body language so I figured to concentrate on him. I figured the sergeant was just dumb. Figured wrong. If anything, he was the sharpest. Cultivates the animal persona. You reckon he’s just pig-ignorant and brute force is the only game he’s got. I should have known when he zoned in on the books. But no, I was busy playing mind-fuck with the fag. Next thing, Brant has “the book” in his hands, asks if he can borrow it? So I panicked and said he couldn’t. Big mistake, now it was the centre of attention. When they asked for the diary, I got very stupid, gave Porter my business diary and acted all innocent. Pissing them off was not ever going to be smart and I just went right ahead and did it. Brant managed to distract me, so I never saw him pocket the book. They know of course I’m going to miss it, and thus they manage a double whammy. Think, damn it, think. There is no physical evidence, no way to connect me to the murders. Hell, they can’t even prove the murders took place. A decent lawyer would blow them out of court. But I’ve got them interested in me now, and that’s a real bad place. I wanted to play, but not up close and personal. The double act they had going tells me these guys are good. And my intuition says if they want my ass, they’ll get it, one way or another.
So they read the book and, sure enough, it’s going to sway them towards me being the guy they want. Can’t be helped. I wish I could have gotten a few more killings under my belt before attracting notice. What’s to be salvaged? Mmm, at least I know not to play at silly buggers. And the uncanny thing is, Ford, in the book, starts off so smart, so sure and undetected then, of course, the woman screws the whole deal, sound familiar? Jeez, I love the book, but I don’t want to be the ending. What I want to do is get out there and off some fucker but tricky now my cover is blown to shit.
Brant put the book down, said:
‘This novel, the main character is a sheriff, he kills people, likes to fuck with them, acts down home, friendly, and is laughing at everybody. Want to hazard a guess as to his name?’
Porter didn’t take long, said:
‘Ford.’
Brant smiled, said:
‘No wonder he didn’t want to part with it.’
Porter thought about it, said:
‘Nothing we could bring into court.’
Brant had another look at the book, said:
‘Least the fuck gets his in the end.’
Porter signalled for the bill, knew Brant wouldn’t be paying, said:
‘The murders can’t be proved to be anything more than accidental, so what can we do?’
Brant was in no doubt, said:
‘Lean on him.’
Porter wanted something solid. They were on to the guy, but so what? There was nothing they could charge him with. He asked:
‘So we lean on him, what’s that going to do, he’s not going to confess.’
Brant was lighting a cig, blew the smoke out slowly, said:
‘You lean in the right way, things happen, always do.’
Porter put a few notes on the table, said:
‘I’m going to re-examine the killings, see if there’s anything to join the dots.”
Brant stood up, said:
‘He knows we know, that is something.’
‘But does it help us?’
Brant had no idea, said:
‘I’ve no idea, but be sure of one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll get this guy, you can put that in the bank.’
Porter didn’t like the sound of this, emphasized:
‘You mean “we,” right? We’re going to get him?’
Brant hesitated, then:
‘Sure.’
22
Andrews was being touted as a hero, the papers had got hold of the story and the headlines went: PETITE WPC TACKLES ARMED DRUG DEALER.
The gist of the story dwelt heavily on how pretty she was and how, facing down a crazed gun-man, she’d not only taken the gun off him but arrested him and prevented a siege. A photo made her look shy and vulnerable. The Super was over the moon. He’d had a call from the home secretary and the George Medal was being hinted at. Brown took it as a personal vindication. He lined up the whole force and gave a speech extolling Andrews’s outstanding valour. She was more than a little mortified at how it was getting so large, but secretly delighted, who wouldn’t be. Dunphy, a hack from the tabloid, got a call from Jamil’s brief,
heard about the officer who legged it. His story got the front page next day: HERO COP LEFT IN THE LURCH BY YELLOW COMRADE.
It made no concessions and stated that McDonald turned and ran when Jamil produced the weapon.
Brown, trying to stem this, had McDonald in his office, asked:
‘What the hell happened?’
McDonald, sweating freely, tried:
‘I felt it was best to try and avoid a siege developing and grabbed an opportunity to fetch back-up.’
Brown stared at him, asked:
‘That’s it, that’s your story?’
‘I know it doesn’t sound good, sir, but in the heat of the encounter…’
Brown cut him off, said:
You cowardly bastard.’
McDonald had rehearsed this moment a hundred times, but in none of the scenarios was he out-and-out called a coward, the worst nightmare for a cop. Especially when another cop was involved, a woman. He tried to find some plausible line to get him off the hook but the word COWARD hung in the air like a death sentence. He remembered the movie The Three Feathers and against all the odds, the hero came back from such a charge and saved his mates. All this flew through his mind as he squirmed to find an answer. Realized the Super was speaking, heard:
‘And not only are you suspended forthwith, but pending a hearing, I’m recommending you be thrown off the force as soon as possible. Now get the hell out of my sight and out of my station; you have a stink of weakness all over your miserable hide.’
McDonald heard himself say:
‘Yes, sir, and thank you, sir.’
Jesus, he hadn’t even the balls to tell him get stuffed. And as the man sunk his whole life, he was thanking him! He edged out of the office to find a bunch of officers outside, obviously having heard every word. He had to move through them, not one of them moving an inch. He got elbowed and pushed and was afraid to respond lest it get even uglier. The atmosphere was deadly, and he knew a lynching wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. He got to his locker, his mind in tatters, opened the door, and recoiled. A dead rat hung there with the note ‘Born to run.’ He felt bile in his throat and thought he was going to throw up. Slammed the door and headed for the exit, a line of cops along the corridor, hissing quietly. He managed to get through the gauntlet, closing his ears to the taunts and jeers.
Outside, he took a deep breath. Roberts was coming up the steps, and before he could say anything, McDonald rushed down the steps, running as fast as he was able, doing the very thing that had landed him in all this hell. The lines of The Gingerbread Man echoed in his head, and he knew madness was detonating in his brain. He got to the pub, burst through the doors, said to a startled barman:
‘Gimme a large Teachers and not one word of shit, you hear me?’
He heard him, it was hard not to.
The rest of the day was a haze to him, he moved from pub to pub and, odd times, he’d spy a cop on traffic duty or walking the beat, and he wanted to hide. The irony of his position wasn’t lost on him, and it fuelled his rage. Instead of getting some understanding of how criminals felt all the time, he ranted in his mind at the injustice of it. If he could just perform one act that would catapult him into glory He replayed the scene with Jamil a thousand times and always it came down to the barrels of the shotgun and the awful panic. He’d muttered to himself out loud a few times and noticed punters move away. He wanted to shout: