by Ken Bruen
‘Memo to dumb-arse self, NEVER… like never, buy stuff from these guys, and Christ, never eat the crap.’
Judging by the pool of congealed vomit, near his head, he’d eaten it… some anyway, as he spotted some green-looking meat with thin bones near the door, unless he’d offed the woman.
The way he was acting these days, fuck, anything was possible. He pulled his jeans off and then had to throw up, still on the floor, said:
‘Nice… real class, wouldn’t Mum be proud now.’
He crawled on his belly to the press near the bed, ripped open the door, and thank fuck, the silver wrap was still there. He managed to organize a line, spilling white powder like dandruff, due to his shaking hands, and got a line or four done, if badly, kept saying:
‘So spill freely, we can inhale that later, just get the bastard thing into your system.’ Maybe being still half drunk helped, but the coke hit quick and the ice down his neck was a sign of better things to come. He lay on his back with a sigh of relief, vomit still on his chin, did he care?
Like fuck.
Shouted weakly:
‘I love nose candy.’
And he did.
Whether it loved him was a whole other metaphysical gig he wasn’t prepared to go into.
Ten minutes later, he did a few more, keep the am, lines of communication open, he was laughing intermittently now, knew it couldn’t be a healthy sign. AND AS COKE DICTATES, SOMETHING MAD, he went into his living room, which looked like the wreck of the Hesperus, rooted under some seat covers, and grabbed his newest possession.
A Makarov 9mm automatic, he’d bought it for what… ninety quid, from a Russkie he’d been drinking with, in some dive off the Railton Road. Ivan had told him it was the preferred weapon of the Eastern bloc agents.
Yada, yada, what the fuck ever, but did it work?
He’d meant to test it on the whore but kept getting wasted and forgetting.
The coke hit another level, of almost euphoria, and he said:
‘Happiness is a warm gun.’
Fucking Beatles, yeah. Even of Paul had his troubles, the wife having legged it.
Did he have any Beatles shit?
The phone rang, and he nearly shot himself in the foot, barely got his finger away from the release.
Picked up, it was Falls, and it flashed across his fevered brain, get her over, give her one, and then she told him:
He forgot all about the Beatles.
He was fucked, more so that McCartney and like bollocks, he never got to have a wife who could leg it.
Tears were running down his face. They were going to arrest him.
Him.
Once, the brightest star in the Met.
The Super had said so.
David Grey, on his album, had whined:
Something about where’d it all go wrong?
Ah, sweet Jesus.
He pleaded:
‘Falls, Liz, yeah, it’s Liz, right… what should I do, what can I do?’
He wanted her to save him, was that so damn hard?
There was a pause, and then she said:
‘Run’
He thought it must be the dope, he had music references littered all over his head. Wasn’t ‘Run,’ the title of that Snow Patrol song?
Falls gulping the dregs of her double had the mobile slightly down from her ear, but she still heard the sound of the shot.
She would hear it for the rest of her life.
25
As Falls stormed into the station, the cops got one look at her enraged expression and got out of her way.
Real fast.
Andrews, still smarting about the weight quip, got in her path and was literally shouldered aside.
The desk sergeant, never a Falls groupie, whispered:
‘On the rag, eh.’
If she’d heard that, he’d have eaten it.
Count on it
But perhaps there is karma, some kind of cosmic balance, as later that evening, watching his beloved Liverpool beat the shite outta Newcastle United, his telly blew up.
Go figure.
Falls didn’t knock on Roberts’s door, just barged in and before he could mutter:
‘What the… ’
She launched.
‘Well, Chief Inspector, I made the call, as you ordered, to McDonald, remember… he’s a cop.’
She paused, was that… is a cop or… was?
Roberts feigned indifference, his face showing, shit happens, he asked:
‘He want any help from you?’
She gave a smile, if a blend of rage and murderous intent can produce such, said:
‘I told him to run.’
Roberts gave a nasty chuckle and Falls wondered how she’d ever liked this prick. He said:
‘He’d be wise to take it.’
She had to physically rein herself in, a wave of bile rose in her gut, and she said, spinning on her heel:
‘Be a tad difficult with a fucking bullet in his skull.’
And she stormed out, slamming the door with all her might, hailed a cab, said to the driver:
‘Take me to The Clapham Arms.’
He wasn’t all that sure where it was, but something told him not to ask. He’d figure it out.
There were no smoking decals all over the taxi and as she put a cig between her lips, he ventured:
‘Wanna light?’
Little fanfare the exit make
Unheralded is the lone departure
26
These lines, from a little-known Irish poet, might well best describe McDonald’s exit from London.
The brass were quick to shut down the whole story, and a new terrorist alert kept the focus off some poor schmuck eating his gun.
Favours were called in, threats made, and the whole sorry episode was allowed to simper, slouch away.
McDonald ’s parents were told he was killed in a tragic accident, and they couldn’t afford to come down to London so the Met had him cremated and sent him by second-class mail from Paddington.
His mother put the urn over the fireplace, right beside a photo of Charles and Diana, no one had yet told her that Charles was married again, the odd visitor was a little startled to be told, that’s my boy there, on the mantelpiece.
Brant, on hearing the news, said:
‘Silly bugger.’
Roberts felt a daily sense of guilt.
Porter wished he’d known him better.
Falls, Falls went on a massive bender and midway through this, she was in a pub in Balham.
Balham?
Don’t ask.
It was a bender.
She’d hit that lucky third vodka where the hangover has abated and you’re even considering a touch of grub, considering, not actually going to eat.
A woman appeared, a young man in tow, said:
‘Hey, sweetie, might we join you?’
Angie.
The vixen.
And the young guy, Jesus, the bloke she’d framed for the Happy-Slapper gig. She was truly lost for words.
Angie was dressed to fuck, black leather mini, black boots, and a blouse that bore testament to the miracle of the Wonderbra.
Angie sat, said to the guy:
‘Be a dear, get some drinks in, and oh, a large vodka for our favourite policewoman.’
Falls rallied.
‘The fuck do you want, you crazy bitch?’
Angie laughed, nothing she liked better than warfare, she said:
‘To see you, darling. I get hot just remembering our love-making.’
And Falls felt her face burn. Must be the damn booze, does that to you. Before she could utter a scathing reply, Angie said:
‘The young dreamboat with me, you know him, or course, I was hoping we might work out something, make this whole silly charge… how should I put it… evaporate?’
Falls took a deep swallow of her almost neat vodka, then:
‘Never happen. He’s going down and with any luck, you’ll be joi
ning him.’
The guy was back, carrying a tray of drinks. He looked at Falls with pure hatred, plonked her drink down so it spilt, sat down, Angie cooed:
‘Liz, sugar, you remember John… John Coleman, the poor lamb you set up or do you set up so many you forget their names. He sure won’t forget yours.’
She squeezed his thigh, his eyes never left Falls, Angie continued:
‘We have a proposition for you, love. You drop this nonsense against John, and I won’t sell my night of torrid sex with black, recently promoted sergeant. Does that sound… reasonable?’
Falls was fucked, knew it, reacted by taking on the stare of Coleman, leaned over to him, said:
‘Keep looking at me like that and I’ll take your fucking sheep’s eyes out.’
He pulled back, way back.
Angie was thrilled.
‘See, John, didn’t I tell you she was a downright tigress?’
Angie raised her glass, asked:
‘So, let’s toast our deal, what do you say, Liz, cherry pip?’
Falls threw her vodka in her face, stood up, said to the guy:
‘You ever give me a fucking look again, I’ll cut your balls off.’
And she stormed off.
Angie, in a warm tone, shouted:
‘See you at your place soon. Drinks on me, darling.’
Outside, Falls had to stand against the wall for a moment, try to get a grip on her world that was spiralling so far down the toilet, she didn’t even know if it was worth flushing. A homeless guy approached, asked in a concerned tone:
‘You okay, missus?’
‘Missus’?
She nearly laughed but was afraid if she started, she might never stop. She linked his arm, asked:
‘How about I buy you a big drink, mate, how would that be?’
He concurred it would be just dandy.
They were halfway down the street when he tried to put his hand up her skirt, and with almost reluctance, she broke his nose.
The Clock, chambered in 9mm, is capable of placing five-shot groups inside a 2.5-inch circle at a range of 25 yards
27
Porter Nash was sitting at home, and yeah, his place was immaculate, spotless in fact.
A gay thing?
No, he just hated dirt.
He was listening to Mozart, not that he’d be sharing that taste with the blokes at the station… they’d fucking love that.
Ask him.
‘Don’t you like to listen to Barbra Streisand?’
Right and still had his copy of ‘YMCA.’
Thing is, they’d buy it
He’d bought six bottles of that fine Belgian ale Duvel.
It sure tasted marvellous.
He needed some escape as his mind was a whirl of conflict, the nagging guilt over the death of the man at Wallace’s hand, the suicide of McDonald, Brant being shot and worse, what Brant would do in retaliation, it would definitely be biblical… and soon.
Too, his diabetes was raging unchecked, his glucose levels through the roof, and hey, who’d time to get it seen to.
Drinking… was that smart… take a wild frigging guess.
Reason it tasted so good and even… wicked.
The sex in the gay club had been a wondrous release, despite the guy asking him if he loved the New York Dolls?
Name one single by them, go on, dare you.
He’d nearly said that, but he was up to his groin in the guys arse, so it hadn’t seemed the time for a pop quiz.
He smiled.
The guy had come in a torrent and then asked:
‘Wanna do some E?’
His doorbell rang. The only caller he ever got was Brant, and he was kind of relieved. It would be good to get that lunatic to take on Wallace.
Wisn’t Brant.
Wallace.
All bonhomie, good cheer, etc. He held out a bottle of wine, said:
‘Peace?’
Porter didn’t move, snapped:
‘How’d you know where I live?’
Wallace gave that shit-eating grin, good ol boy, the gee shucks shite he did so well, said:
‘Bro, I’m in counterterror. I know where everybody lives, so do I get to come in?’
Reluctantly, Porter stood aside, nodded:
Wallace strode by, walking in as if he were the owner, but every inch the cop, his eyes checking exits, scanning the room, he set the bottle on the coffee table, said:
‘Wanna grab us some glasses. I don’t think we should drink it by the neck, and I bet you got real fine wine glasses.’
Wallace pulled off his duster, a long black one naturally, eased his huge frame into a chair, plonked his cowboy boots on the table, said:
‘This here is comfy, bit faggy but what the hell, man’s home is his castle, fairy or otherwise.’
Porter went to get some glasses and half wished they weren’t Waterford crystal, a tin cup would be more Wallace’s speed. He was arranging cheese spread on crackers and thought:
The hell am I doing, playing right into his stereotype?
He binned the crackers.
When he returned to the front room, Wallace was smoking a thin cigar, and a Glock sat on the table. Porter wondered if Wallace intended to kill him? He set the glasses and the wine bottle down carefully, asked:
‘What’s with the gun?’
Wallace was drinking one of the Belgian beers, smacking his lips in appreciation, said:
‘That brew has a bite, now see that there Glock, most folk, they figure it’s all plastic, but it’s only 17 per cent that, the barrel and the insides, they are solid steel, go on pick it up, see if I’m right?’
Not the hell sure what was going on, Porter picked it up, marvelled at how light it was, turned it over in his palms, and Wallace asked:
‘Wanna take a pop at me, Port?’
Porter put it down, opened another beer, sat down, and got ready for whatever it was was coming down the pike. Suddenly, Wallace was all motion, up, his hands holding a hanker-chief and he almost reverently wrapped the gun in it, put it in his duster, went:
‘Ah.’
Porter had a real sinking feeling, asked:
‘What’s happening here?’
Wallace drained the beer, belched, asked:
‘Got any snacks, pretzels, chips, like that?’
Porter ignored that, waited:
Wallace sighed, said:
‘Insurance, ol’ buddy, you see, you’re that rare kind of cop, don’t get me wrong, I respect it, but times, they are a-changing and thing is, I figure you might rat me out on that raghead whose ticket we punched. You can’t help it, you have morals and me, well, I got yer prints all over this here weapon, a certain scumbag gets offed, guess who’s in the frame. You keep your mouth shut, let me protect democracy, and hey, no problemo. You sure you don’t got any like, nuts or stuff, don’t faggots always have little dainty snacks and shit?’
Porter was on his feet, wondering if he could take him, get the Glock, and Wallace smiled, no warmth, the real hardarse showing, without moving a muscle, he said:
‘Forget it, bro, you wouldn’t get past the coffee table.’
Then he drained the beer, chucked the bottle on the carpet, said:
‘You pillow biters like to have crap to clean up, am I right?’
He flicked the stub of the cigar across the room, stood, said:
‘Hate to threaten and run but the enemy never sleeps. You free Friday night, I found me a club does line dancing, and serves ribs, have us a hoedown. Y’all take care now, hear.’ And he was gone.
He was right on one point, Porter was down on his knees, sweeping up the debris of the visit.
28
Brant had had him a fine ride, had rolled off Lynn, slapped ‘er on the arse, said:
‘You sure know what it’s for, girl.’
Lynn had made all the appropriate noises of delight as he’d gone at it, and she knew, Brant of all the men on the planet knew it was a crock but he didn�
��t, to coin a phase, give a fuck. He’d gone to the fridge, got some cold Heinkens, handed her one, and she chided:
‘No glass?’
He liked her, she had a lot of spunk, and it was one of the few qualities Brant appreciated, he said:
‘Fucksakes, you’ll want paying next?’
In all their time, he’d never actually given her cash for the deed, but in a hundred ways he’d paid her through other means. Having a lethal weapon like him in your corner… priceless.
Anxiety was still in his gut so he rifled through Lynn’s handbag, not even a moment’s hesitation. He wanted something, he went for it, and hookers, they always had some tranks.
Bingo, a sheet of Valium, he took two, 5mg, knocked them back with the beer. Would have killed for a pint of Guinness, he’d been to Galway once, and man, it was a work of art to watch them build a pint, get that creamy head, and all the time, giving you lots of friendly chat.
Way to live.
As he waited for the pills to crank, he knew, knew the only cure for the gut wrenching was to take out Rodney Lewis. The guy was definitely going to take another run at him, and if Brant wasn’t real careful, the bastard might get lucky. You didn’t get to be a rich bollix like him by being stupid. Thing was, he wasted the fucker now, they’d come right after him. Who else had motive.
He was letting the problem sit when the doorbell went. He had on a white robe he’d nicked from the hospital. It was warm and smelt of comfort, it had two big pockets, and he had the gun in the right one, gripped the butt, opened the door.
A seriously dishevelled Falls stood there, pleaded:
‘Could I get some coffee?’
Jesus, he’d seen her in some states, especially in the days when she’d been living on the nose candy but now, she looked like she’d been sleeping rough, he asked
‘What, you think this is bloody Starbucks?’
Then headed back inside, said:
‘Shut the door, there’s a draught.’
She did, came in, stood, looking like a lost cat. He made a cup of instant, added a generous dollop of his fine Jameson, handed it to her, lit a smoke, and gave her that too.
Her body was trembling, she gulped the coffee, asked:
‘Is there something in this?’