by Ken Bruen
‘That was evidence.’
Falls didn’t look at her, simply said:
‘No, that was ammunition.’
I wish I could write a book and not have to make a living.
— John W. Dean, Watergate conspirator
17
Andrews thought long and hard as to whether she should report Falls. She knew the code… never rat out another cop. You might not like your fellow officers and, right off the bat, she could bring to mind at least six she downright loathed but… you stuck by them. The enemy were civilians. On the other hand, Falls had treated her like shit, yeah, as if she couldn’t be trusted with seeing the photo of the rogue vigilante guy.
Fuck that!
And, if Falls were reported, she’d lose her stripes, that was for damn sure, be lucky to even stay on the force and that meant a vacancy. Andrews was still relatively new, but she knew one bloody thing, the powers that be would have a white face any day of the week.
Then she told herself, all of these considerations aside, morally she was obliged to do the right thing and that was shaft Falls.
Sorry, report the suppression of evidence.
Thus, ethically uplifted, she headed for the Super’s office and was dismayed to find he was golfing. She was moving away when she almost walked into Roberts. He asked:
‘What’s up?’
It was now or never, so she asked if she might have a word, a private one. He said sure and led her into his office, closed the door, indicated she should sit.
She did.
He sat on the edge of the desk, told her to fire away. She gave him the whole story. His expression remained neutral, and she was pretty sure he was. impressed. Such zeal as she was showing was out of the ordinary. She sat back, waiting for the heap of praise, perhaps even his backing for her nomination as acting sergeant.
He said,
‘You treacherous bitch.’
Forthe next ten minutes he lectured her about loyalty, snitch cops and what happened to them, and wound up with:
‘You want to stay being a policewoman?’
She assured him she did, and he snapped:
‘Then shut your fucking mouth. Now get out of my office.’
Crushed, she was in the corridor, Porter came by, asked:
‘You alright, love?’
She strode off without answering him. He knocked on Roberts door, heard:
‘Come in.’
Roberts was pouring a shot of whisky into a mug, asked:
‘Care to join me?’
Porter wanted to say it was a little early for him and certainly too early for a chief inspector, but the look on Robert’s face stopped that. He merely shook his head and Roberts asked:
‘You ever see Serpico? ’
Porter had, anything with Pacino, he’d seen a couple of times. He said he had and Roberts asked:
‘Did you agree with him, ratting out cops?’
Porter realized this was a loaded question, tried for:
‘We have to stick together.’
And got the look from Roberts, the one that said:
‘Are you shitting me?’
So he did the obvious, asked:
‘Were you thinking of giving someone up?’
Roberts gave him a glance of such withering contempt that he felt it all the way to his backbone. Roberts said:
‘I’d put a bullet in my head before I’d screw another cop.’
Porter hadn’t anything to reply to this. He felt as if Roberts was testing him, see if he was the type who, given the right circumstances, would fuck over another policeman. He settled his face in what he hoped was a look of… Me?… shit, I’d never give up one of our own.
Roberts said:
‘Andrews, she’s got a bee in her bonnet. She might be about to shop someone.’
Porter wanted to ask who but settled for:
‘She’s young, she’ll learn.’
Roberts face was a mask of restrained fury, he said:
‘She fucking better.’
There was an uneasy silence and Porter was unsure where to go. Roberts asked
‘What’s the story with Brant?’
So Porter filled him in, gave the breakdown on their encounter with Rodney Lewis.
Roberts was smiling, not a smile of warmth or humour but the one that said it was exactly what he expected from Brant. He said:
‘This Lewis, he has juice I’d say.’
Guys who worked in the city, they usually had an in with the Super: money, Freemasons, golf, all the usual old boys’ network. Porter said:
‘If he reports Brant and I’d imagine he will, Brant might be up the creek.’
Roberts mulled it over, said:
‘Brant is always up the creek.’
No argument there.
Roberts asked:
‘Your own instinct, is Lewis the guy, the one who contracted the shooting?’
Porter considered carefully. With Roberts, you committed yourself, he’d hold you to it. He said:
‘He sure has motive and certainly has the cash to hire a shooter.’
Roberts went through some files, said:
‘The dead shooter, Terry Dunne, he had a girlfriend. Go see her, find out what she knows, maybe she can shed some light on the deal.’
Porter thought it wasn’t a bad idea, and before he could say so, Roberts snapped:
‘You still here, she isn’t going to come and see you, get your arse in gear.’
Porter had a lot of responses to this but none that wouldn’t involve violence, he stood said:
‘Right away, sir.’
And he was at the door when Roberts added:
‘You see Andrews, you put her straight, got it.’
He did.
Outside, he muttered:
‘Fuck.’
The American cop, Wallace was striding down the corridor, a large Starbucks in his fist. He went:
‘Porter, what’s up?’
Porter looked at him and, on impulse, asked:
‘Want to see how we intimidate would be witnesses?’
Wallace lobbed his Styrofoam in a long wide arc and… slam dunk, it landed in the waste bin, he said:
‘What are we waiting for, intimidation is my speciality.’
They got a car from the pool, and to Porter’s disgust, only a Volvo was available. He said:
‘Might as well write Cops on the front.’
Wallace asked if he could drive.
He could.
He made a grinding mess of the gear shift, asked:
‘The fuck is the matter with you guys? Didn’t you ever hear of automatics?’
Porter was amused, said:
‘We heard of them, we just like to do things the hard way.’
Wallace finally got the swing of it, said:
‘Yeah, I’ve had piss you guys call beer.’
Wallace ’s bulk took up most of the front seats, and Porter had to squeeze himself against the window. He asked:
‘Shouldn’t you be doing counterintelligence stuff?’
Wallace gave him a look, impossible to read, asked:
‘What makes you think I amn’t?’
18
Falls paid a visit to McDonald, she’d checked the duty roster, it was his day off, she got to his place early, checked the names of the apartments, he was on the ground floor, she rang his bell and smiled, thinking:
I’ll be ringing his bell in more ways than one.
Her smile was grim, tinged with foreboding. She heard:
‘Yeah?’
He sounded half asleep, she said:
‘It’s Falls, I need to speak to you.’
A pause, then:
‘Can’t it wait?’
She said:
‘Only if you’re not worried about going to jail.’
He buzzed her in.
He opened his door, cautiously, looked her over, she registered the thin white line of powder on his upper lip, thought:
Uh-
oh.
He waved her in and looked down the corridor before closing the door. She asked:
‘How paranoid are you?’
His face was the ashen grey of the habitual coke fiend, the eyes but pinpoints, his movements jerky, and the set of his body wired. She knew it from bitter experience.
He was wearing track bottoms and a T-shirt that had the logo: THUGS GET LONELY TOO
Tupac.
She wondered if he knew that.
Then she noticed the Browning in his right hand, and chided herself, losing it. She should have spotted that right off. She asked:
‘Expecting company?’
He looked at the pistol as if seeing it for the first time, said:
‘They’re shooting cops out there.’
Theapartment was a tip, takeout food containers strewn everywhere, clothes on the floor, empty bottles lining the walls, and a smell of weed mixed with desperation. He said:
‘Take a seat.’
She perched precariously on the edge of a chair. He was pacing, asked:
‘Get you something?’
To buy some time, she said:
‘Tea, a nice pot of tea would be good.’
Hegave a crazed laugh, said:
‘How fucking British is that, and you… black as me boots. I love it, want a nice shot of rum?’
Where did he think she was from… fucking Jamaica.
The gun was still in his right hand, held loosely but there. She kept her tone neutral, said:
‘I’d be easier if you put the weapon away.’
He zoned out for a moment, his eyes with that lost look, and she considered taking the Browning from him. He clicked back, said:
‘Tea…, right, won’t be a mo.’
And disappeared into the kitchen. Newspapers were spread on the coffee table, to the Situations Vacant section. Ads for security personnel red lit.
She figured the only job he was getting was in the nick.
To her surprise, he returned with a tray, a clean cloth on it, and a pot of tea, two cleanish cups. He seemed more composed, and she reckoned he’d done a line… or two in the kitchen. He smiled, asked:
‘Whasssup?’
She levelled her eyes on him, said:
‘You’re in a shitload of trouble.’
Didn’t faze him, she knew the coke was whispering:
‘No biggie.’
She gave him the whole nine, the testimony of Tim Peters, the vigilante debacle, the seriousness of a charge of inciting vigilantes, and, worse, organizing and leading them. He listened, said:
‘They can’t prove shit.’
She leaned over, said:
‘You stupid prick. The guy got a photo of you.’
This got his attention, and he shouted:
‘Jesus, who’s seen it, where is it?’
She was tempted to let him sweat it, but he was far enough gone already. She said:
‘I got it and it’s at the bottom of the Thames.’
Took him a minute to digest that, then he asked:
‘Why would you help me out. You’ve always hated me.’
Hated.
She wanted to say:
‘Listen fuckhead, you’d have to get an awful lot more important for me to hate you.’
She said:
‘You’re a cop, I don’t want to see any of our own go down.’
The coke went to another level, and he sneered:
‘Mighty white of you.’
She thought she should just leave him to it, fuck him, but tried:
‘You’re not out of the woods yet. There’s going to be an investigation, your description has been given, and the duty roster has you outside the shopping centre the day Bill said he met you.’
His face took on a scared hue, but he fronted with:
‘Fuck ‘em, bring it on.’
She stood up, said:
‘I’ve covered for you, but if there’s a full investigation, I don’t know if anyone can save you.’
He waved her off. She knew he was already seeing the next line of coke, waiting in the kitchen, she knew that song, he said:
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, I can handle it.’
At the door she was going to offer for him to call her if he needed her but then she thought:
Screw it.
He was already in pre-coke preparation, said:
‘Mind how you go, darling.’
As she got outside, she wondered if she’d been as fucking stupid her own self in her nose-candied days.
Probably.
19
Porter was in a real black-dog mood, toying with a tepid cup of tea in the canteen, when Wallace breezed in, full of hearty bonhomie, Porter hadn’t been laid in like… six months… fuck.
He glared at Wallace, asked:
‘What is it exactly you do, besides swanning around, getting loaded, swaggering as if you owned the place?’
Wallace gave what the literary writers call, when they want to slum, a shit-eating grin, asked:
‘You wanna see what I do, get your ass in gear, buddy. I’ll show you.’
Porter thought:
What the hell.
And said:
‘I’m game.’
Wallace gave him a funny look, the one that read… Aren’t gays always, like… ‘game’?
Outside, Wallace had a black BMW idling, and Porter whistled, asked:
‘This your car?’
Wallace got in the driving seat, said:
‘Pimp my ride.’
Try answering that.
Porter didn’t.
Wallace said:
‘We got us a suspect, linked to what appears to be another plot to bomb this fair city of yours.’
Porter asked:
‘Shouldn’t we have backup?’
Wallace was driving fast and with an ease that personified his confidence, the big car purring under his control. He sliced through a traffic snarl up, then pulled back his jacket, revealing what looked like a fucking Magnum in his belt. He said:
‘I got you, buddy, right and this here little baby in my belt.’
Then he looked at Porter, asked:
‘You ain’t gonna punk out on me, bro?’
Before Porter could answer, Wallace said:
‘I had you pegged for a get go kind of guy. Don’t tell me I picked a putz, did I? You not up for this fellah, holler now and I’ll let you out right now, you hear what I’m saying?’
It was hard not to as he was practically bellowing, Porter said:
‘I’ m in.
Wallace gave a chuckle, one that came right up from his belly, said:
‘Sweetest lines a guy can say, yeah?’
Porter wished he were carrying more than his wallet.
Never stand beside another officer while searching a crime scene. By separating, you present a smaller target and can view the scene from two different perspectives.
— The Law Enforcement Handbook
20
Wallace pulled into a street just off Clapham Common, a quiet residential street, and Porter thought:
Isn’t it always so, the crazies find nice peaceful areas to reside.
And, he supposed, when you were wreaking havoc on the world, it was nice to have a decent home to return to after a busy day. You’re blowing the be-Jaysus out of folk, probably good to get back, have a nice cup of tea, watch one of the soaps. He had to catch himself on, he was worse than Brant, already figuring the guy/woman/suspect was guilty.
Wallace said:
‘Yo, earth to Nash, you coming or what?’
Porter asked:
‘You want to fill me in a bit, give me some bloody clue to who we’re… interviewing?
Wallace laughed, said:
‘You Brits, you sure talk funny, our guy is Shamar Olaf, how’s that for a game of fucking soldiers. He was born plain old Joe Donnell but he got turned round, spent some time in Pakistan and the training camps in Libya. He’s a doozy.’
Wallace was already getting out of the car, and Porter went:
‘We do have evidence, I mean we’re not just chancing our arm?’
Wallace closed the car door gently, said:
‘Informant… god bless the treacherous bastards, plus, I got a nose for these things, this guy is the real deal.’
They approached the third house, it had a nice, tended garden, newly painted front, and the curtains were drawn. Wallace said: ‘Follow my lead, you got that?’
He did.
Wallace produced a set of slim tools, and in a few seconds had the door opened and Porter suddenly grabbed Wallace’s arm, whispered:
‘We have a warrant right?’
Wallace said:
‘Don’t ever put a hand on me, and here’s my warrant.’
He took out the Magnum, the gun actually looking quite small in his massive fist, he indicated the stairs and pointed Porter to the two rooms on the bottom floor. Wallace began to glide up the stairs, Porter, his heart in overdrive, opened the first door, expecting to be blasted at any second, wishing he had Brant for backup. It was the kitchen and empty. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and went to the next room, took a deep breath, opened that door, again, empty. It was a living room, wide-screen TV, and lots of books. Before he could let out his breath, he heard an almighty thud and rushed out to see a body come hurtling down the stairs, to land in a heap at the bottom. The man whimpered. He was clad in pyjamas, groaned, and tried to sit up. He looked to be in his late thirties, lean with an average face. Wallace was coming down the stairs, said:
‘Meet Shamar, who has a bit of an attitude problem… that right, buddy?’
Wallace grabbed him by the hair, looked at Porter, asked:
‘There a kitchen?’
Porter nodded and led the way, Wallace dragged the moaning man along, and in the kitchen, lifted him, plopped him in a chair, said:
‘There you go. You had breakfast yet, Sha?’
He looked at Porter, said:
‘The fuck you standing there for, Jesus H. Christ, brew some coffee.’
Porter had a real bad feeling and worse, he noticed that Wallace was wearing those surgical gloves… how’d that happen… and when… and where the fuck were his?
He made the coffee, instant, three mugs and asked the guy, who was coming round: