by Ken Bruen
‘It would be good to talk to someone.’
And then remembered that women loved this crap so he added the buzz word:
‘If only there was someone to share with?’
He was grinning now, this was how Brant operated and no doubt, Brant was a winner. He could already picture it, the black cow under him, as he plummeted into her, giving it large, and nearly laughed out loud. She took the bait:
‘Oh I know, that’s the worst bit, not having anyone to talk to, the isolation is desperate.’
He had to take a moment to stop himself from guffawing, then:
‘Would… would you talk to… me?’
And the crazy bitch jumped in:
‘I’d be honoured. Would you like to have a drink this evening?’
He let a break enter his voice and was amazed, he never knew he had this shit in him, said:
‘I’m… so grateful, thank you.’
Now he could hear her choking up, jeez, they’d have a bawl fest right here on the phone, sobbing like they were on Oprah. She said:
‘The Oval. It’s quiet on a Tuesday, say around eight, how would that be?’
‘Thank you, I can’t tell you what it means, I’ll never be able to articulate my gratitude.’
‘You’re welcome and call me Elizabeth, okay?’
He wanted to say:
‘Call me stud.’
It was a typical car service crew, evenly split between retired and retarded, with a few degenerate gamblers thrown in. Surprisingly, no drunks, but then maybe they’d hired me for my potential.
— Tim McLoughlin, Heart of the Old Country
24
This could be our last song together, oh yeah, I’m like history, I’ve enjoyed this diary but this is not only the final entry, it’s THE END OF THE AFFAIR. If you’ve gathered how much I liked The Killer Inside Me and, if you’ve been paying attention, Ford was fucked, and his enemies closing in. But did he have an ace up his sleeve.
READ THE GODDAM-BOOK.
I’m looking over my shoulder as I write as time is like, really on the out. The cop, Brant? The one I figured was a lot smarter than he played it, well he paid me a little visit, yeah, on his own docket so to speak, and guess what? He’s going to kill me! How fucking ironic is that? And yes, I believe him. You kind of had to be there. He’s a psycho, an out-and-out lunatic, and what’s worse, I think he’s going to enjoy the act. He
intends playing first, get me spooked, get me frantic, and he’s succeded. As the Americans say, WHO AM I GOING TO CALL?
I can’t believe it’s all gone so pear-shaped, I was on a roll, just taking it nice and easy and then the woman blew it to hell. Like the aforementioned book. So what am I going to do? I’m getting rid of this bloody diary is what, but I couldn’t resist a farewell entry. And like all the do-gooders ask, did I make a difference? Is this little corner of London more civilized, more considerate? I’m afraid not. Too little time, too many assholes. That’s all.
Last page of The Killer Inside Me says: ‘Yeah, I reckon that’s all unless our kind gets another chance in the Next Place. Our kind. Us people.’
— Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me
25
When Crew emerged from his office at the end of an exhausting day, Brant was leaning against a car, toothpick in his mouth. Crew didn’t know whether to ignore him but found himself drawn to approach. Brant didn’t move, simply adjusted the toothpick in his mouth. Crew asked:
‘Is this it, you’re going to harass me?’
‘Yup.’
Crew thought he detected a softening of Brant’s attitude, asked:
‘The other evening, what you said, you were messing with my head, yes?’
‘Nope.’
‘You can’t seriously think you’ll get away with that… that threat?’
‘Sure do.’
Then Brant’s phone rang and, almost lazily, without taking his eyes from Crew, he reached in his pocket, took it out, answered.
Crew took the moment to move away fast, looked back to see Brant listening intently. When he rounded a corner, he ran like hell.
Brant heard:
‘Sergeant Brant?’
‘Yeah?’
‘This is Linda Gillingham-Bowl, the agent, you sent me your opening chapter?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I love it and would like to talk to you about the manuscript.’
Brant thought, There is no manuscript, you got all there is, said:
‘Terrific’
‘Would Browns in Covent Garden be suitable, say this evening at 6.30?’
‘Great.’
‘I’ll leave your name with the doorman.’
‘No need.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Lady there isn’t a club in London I can’t get into.’
She gave a laugh of delicious fright, said:
‘Oh you sound so like your writing, I’m very excited about this.’
Brant had to know, asked:
Your name, you made it up, am I right?’
She laughed again, said:
‘Oh you are a card.’
Card. He’d been called all sorts of names and few of them flattering but a ‘card,’ no this was a first, he said:
‘See you anon.’
Click.
Crew had disappeared and Brant had to make a decision, fame or villainy? He considered and went with fame, got in his car, checked his watch, figured he’d have time to get home, spruce up, hit Covent Garden.
Back at his place, he selected a bespoke suit (muted navy), white shirt (Armani), police federation tie (stolen), and brown shoes by Loake (impressive). Splashed on some cologne, Tommy Hilfiger, that he’d liberated from a pimp, and poured a small brandy, toasted himself in a full-length mirror.
‘You writers, you just kill me.’
Called a cab as he figured he’d be putting away a fair amount of booze and the driver said:
‘Nice suit.’
Brant agreed and said:
‘Out of your league, pal.’
The driver thought ‘cop’ and ‘pig’ and was silent for the rest of the trip.
At Browns, Brant smiled at the doorman, said:
‘I’m expected.’
The guy recognized the heat though not usually so well dressed, stood aside, said:
‘Have a pleasant evening, sir.’
Brant decided this writing lark was paying dividends already. The lobby was as he’d hoped, full of old furniture, and he moved to the lounge where old people sat in older chairs, the smell of money underwriting all. A woman came towards him, and his spirits sank, she was in her fifties and how the hell could that be. She’d had a young voice on the phone. What kind of shit was that to pull? Dressed in an expensive suit, permed hair, and fuck it, goddam pearls. She gave a glorious smile, asked:
‘Sergeant Brant?’
Her hand outstretched, he reluctantly took it, said:
‘Yeah.’
He sounded as pissed off as he was. In addition to selling the book, which he hadn’t written, he was also expecting to get a leg over. She was delighted with his surliness, said:
‘You’re even better than I’d hoped.’
And, still holding his hand, she led him to some leather armchairs, sat him down, asked:
‘What would you like to drink?’
A waiter had materialized quietly, stood patiently.
‘Large scotch.’
The waiter seemed pleased at the rudeness, as if it was what he understood. The woman said:
You know what, I think I’ll have the same.’
She had finally released his hand but now looked for it again as she said:
‘I’m Linda.’
His last hope faded, the chance that maybe she was an associate and the real deal would show later. Brant studied her and was not encouraged. He’d poled some old broads but not this one, no way. Her face was like parchment and she’d had some plastic surgery, bad surgery, it gave h
er that ricktus smile. He said:
‘You sound younger on the phone.’
Needling her. Didn’t work, she said:
‘Why, thank you, young man. You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?’
Yeah.
The drinks came and he could only pray she wouldn’t say; ‘Bottoms up.’
She said:
‘Bottoms up.’
He didn’t answer, just sank the scotch. She settled herself, letting her skirt hike up, his stomach heaved and she said:
‘I don’t usually meet new clients myself, but your writing has such an immediacy, is so fresh that I had to meet you.’
She then rattled on about her A-list writers, which would have been impressive if Brant had ever heard of any of them. The waiter arrived with another drink, and she looked a tiny bit better to Brant. She asked:
‘I must know, who are your influences?’
‘My what?’
Oh, she adored him. He was so barbarian, so real, she said:
‘Who do you read? What writers have made the most impact on you?’
‘There’s only one. Though when I went to Australia, I read Bill Bryson.’
She thrilled:
‘Lovely man, Bill. Not as caustic as Paul.’
Brant ignored that, said:
‘Ed McBain.’
She waited, expecting a full explanation, but none came so she decided to get down to business, began:
‘Crime fiction is selling very well and the fact you’re a policeman, we should be able to market you without any trouble. When might I see the full manuscript?’
Brant sank the remains of his drink, definitely felt much better, said:
‘When do I see the money?’
She gave another full laugh, said:
‘I must say your directness is so refreshing. After I see the full work I’ll be able to pitch it to a top publisher, and I’m certain we’ll get a healthy advance.’
Brant was hoping to steer her away from the manuscript and asked:
‘No cash up front?’
She went into a long and detailed talk on how publishing worked and half-way through, Brant interrupted her, asked:
‘Why would I need you?’
She launched into the merits of having representation, and Brant let her wind down.
Said:
‘Sounds like money for old rope to me.’
Her laugh had lost a lot of its merriment, and she reached in her bag, produced a document, said:
‘This is the type of contract I’ll be proposing. This is of course only a rough estimation but perhaps you’d take a look, get an idea of what’s involved. I expect film rights will sell or at the very least, TV interest.’
Brant perked a little at this, but again she waffled on and finally concluded with:
‘So, Sergeant, when can I see the manuscript?’
Brant smiled, said:
‘If you’d like a nightcap, we can swing by my place, take a look at my opus.’
She thought that was super.
When Falls entered the Oval, she’d prepared herself for the worst. Expected to see a shattered McDonald, possibly cringing in the darkest corner, a hunted and haunted man. To her amazement, he was sitting at the bar, full of merriment, chatting and laughing with the barmaid. He was dressed in what appeared to be a new black tailored leather jacket, faded jeans, white shirt, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, was that a pimp bracelet on his wrist? What the hell was going on? He saw her, shouted:
‘Here’s my girl.’
The barmaid gave her a sour look and who could blame her. McDonald was positively shining, he asked:
‘Liz, what’cha having, babe?’
Liz!
She wanted to drag him off the stool and lash the bejaysus out of him. She said:
‘Mmm, a vodka and slimline tonic’
Could have bit her tongue to say ‘slimline’ in front of the barmaid who gave a sneering nod which echoed slimline, the subtext being, like, honey, you think that’s going to make the slightest difference?
McDonald, waving a fifty note, said:
‘Give my girl a large vodka, Stoli if you’ve got it, hit me again and, of course, one for your good self, bring ‘em on over to the table, there’s a sweetheart.’
He positively leapt off the stool, waved Falls ahead of him, and followed. Falls had done enough nose candy to know the signs and especially the behaviour when you poured booze on the mix. She sat and he sat opposite, a grin plastered on his face. She noticed the line of perspiration on his brow.
He produced a pack of Dunhill Luxury filters. She didn’t know he smoked and thought this brand had disappeared, said:
‘I didn’t know you smoked?’
He winked, said:
‘There’s a lot you don’t know, babe.’
She leaned over and, to her horror, he seemed to think she was going to kiss him. How much of the white powder had he snorted? She said:
‘Don’t call me babe, don’t call me Liz, okay?’
His smile faltered but the shit in his system took it in stride, and he laughed:
‘Whatever you say toots… whoops, sorry, it’s just I’m so up.’
She stared at him, said:
‘Yeah, I noticed.’
The barmaid brought the drinks, leaned over to let McDonald see cleavage, put the change on the table, smiled, and said:
‘You need me, just whistle.’
That cracked him up, he looked like he was about to give her a slap on the rump, but she bounced away. Falls thought she’d throw up but instead picked up her glass and before she could get a sip, he raised his. Clinked her glass, said:
‘To fallen angels and their triumphant return.’
She shuddered and knocked back a healthy amount. As he raised his glass, his jacket opened, and she saw the gun butt in the side of his belt. She asked quietly:
‘Are you packing?’
Took him a moment to grasp the meaning then nodded solemnly, said:
‘The fuckers are after me.’
No need to ask who they were, on coke, it was the world and any attendant demons.
His face was now deeply flushed and he rushed on:
‘Bastards won’t catch me napping. I’m frigging tooled.’
She stared at the bracelet, asked:
‘What’s with the jewellery, I didn’t have you down as the type.’
He raised his arm, let the thing slide up and down his wrist, obviously an action he’d practiced, said:
‘A soul brother gave it to me.’
She had no idea who this new McDonald was save he was out of his tree on dope. He suddenly jumped up, said:
‘Whoa, gotta pee.’
And was gone like a bolt. Falls knew that deal, you were cruising on the coke and suddenly it roared, MORE. You rushed for the nearest toilet to refuel. He was awhile and she finished her drink, was considering a second, when McDonald returned, lit up like Piccadilly Circus. He signalled to the barmaid for more drinks, said:
‘Your money’s no good here, this is my show.’
He sat, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Falls leaned over, wiped a smudge of powder from his nostril, said:
You missed some.’
A moment as he watched her, then:
‘A little something to help me out, you know how it goes. Shit, you wrote the book on the marching powder, am I right? You wanna do a little toot? Get you up to speed. I’m a bit ahead of you here and I need you up to gauge.’
He couldn’t shut it, verbal diarrhoea poured out as the drug lashed through his system. He was off again:
‘See, Elizabeth, I’ve a master plan, and I want you in on it, get you some kudos too, gonna like share.”
She sighed and the barmaid brought the drinks, a regular tonic, said:
‘Oops, I forgot you were watching your weight, maybe you’ll get away with one, live a little.’
Falls gave her the fish-eye and she took off. McDonald said:
‘Gee, I don’t think she likes you, how can that be?’
‘Maybe because she’s a stupid bitch.’
McDonald smiled, asked:
‘A touch of the green-eyed monster, eh?’
Falls was all out of patience, said:
‘Listen up, you’re way off the chart here.’
‘Alistair.’
‘What?’
‘My first name, it’s Alistair.’
Falls sighed, she of all people should know you can’t reason with a cokehead, stood up, said:
‘You’re seriously fucked. You get your act together, give me a call.’
He appeared stunned, whined:
You’re leaving, how can you be leaving, what about our sharing?’
Falls threw a poisonous glance at the barmaid, said:
‘Tell her, she’s interested.’
McDonald stood, went:
‘But my plan, it’s a winner.’
Falls shook her head and headed for the door. The barmaid shouted:
You come back soon, hear?’
I have since learned that in the terminology of the recovery movement this is called ‘being really fucked up.’
— John Straley, The Curious Eat Themselves
26
Roberts was assigned forgery detail. He was standing before Brown, the Super, and moaned:
‘But, sir, isn’t this territory for the fraud squad?’ Brown was having his morning tea, replete with a digestive biscuit. This was a ritual of horrendous proportion. He dipped the biscuit in the tea, then let it dribble into his mouth, a feat that required contortions that would have put off a lesser man. And the slurping sounds that attended this were enough to warrant justifiable homicide. Usually he performed this act in private but if he wanted to annoy an officer, he allowed them to share the spectacle. He really wanted to annoy Roberts. He felt the chief inspector was getting uppity; since he’d solved so many cases, he’d developed an air of superiority. Time to let him know who had the real juice. Brown said:
‘There’s been a rash of dodgy fifty notes circulating, and the brass want this sorted quickly. Since you’re the whiz kid of the moment, I said you’d be glad to help. You are glad, aren’t you?’