Vixen ib-5

by Ken Bruen

  ‘On my way.’

  He stood up, stretched, and the hooker asked:

  ‘How long have we known each other?’

  ‘Whoa… who’s counting?’

  ‘So, did I ever ask you for anything? Not once, not even a few quid?’

  He mimed horror, said:

  ‘You mean you were faking, it wasn’t love?’

  ‘There’s a guy, name of Millovitz, some European geezer, he’s been beating the girls at the Oval, says they’ll get hurt bad if they don’t pay him weekly. One of the girls, he broke her nose and in this game, that drives value way down.’

  Brant selected a pair of tan cords and sparkling white shirt, pulled out a stolen police federation tie, did it up in a Windsor knot. He sat, pulled on heavy work boots then selected a short black raincoat. The wardrobe was open and she could see a ton of new clothes, still with tags on. She could see they were designer labels and what they said to her was money, lots of money. Brant smiled, said:

  ‘Fell off a lorry, know what I mean?’

  She didn’t answer, Brant did a twirl, asked:

  ‘What do you think? See me on the street, would you get hot?’

  She thought she’d get the hell away — everything about him screamed cop. She gave a weak smile, Brant reached down, touched his toes, said:

  ‘Listen.’

  He rapped his knuckle and a dull zing sounded. Straightening, he said:

  ‘Steel caps. So what time does this shithead usually make an appearance?’

  4

  Around the table were Porter Nash, PC McDonald, Brant, assorted plain-clothes officers and, at the top, Chief Inspector Roberts. One of the detectives asked:

  ‘What’s the PC doing here?’

  Roberts looked to Brant who gave a lazy smile, said:

  ‘You’ll be wanting tea, coffee…’

  The guy unsure, glanced round for help, none was forthcoming so he said:

  ‘Yes, sure… ‘course.’

  Brant nodded at McDonald, said:

  ‘There’s your tea-boy.’

  A round of sniggers and McDonald glared at Brant who winked. Roberts coughed, then:

  ‘Okay, settle down. We’ve got a bomber and according to the Bomb Squad, we’re dealing with an amateur. Which is not to say people might not get hurt. In fact, with them, it’s more dangerous than professionals as they don’t know what they’re doing. I want blanket door-to-door interviews, computer printout of any individual with any connection to dynamite or blasting, enquiries to building sites to see if any explosive’s been stolen. Get out on the street, get me something. Any questions?’

  Porter put up his hand, asked:

  ‘What’s the deal on the money demand?’

  ‘There’s no deal. The Super says no payment.’

  Porter raised his eyebrows, said:

  ‘Then we can expect another blast.’

  ‘Not if we catch them first, okay? Now let’s get moving. Sergeant Brant, a word please.’

  As they filed out, Brant said to McDonald:

  ‘Mug of tea, two sugars… oh, and a wedge of danish… that’s a good boy.’

  After they’d gone, Roberts shut the door, said:

  ‘The Super doesn’t want you in on this.’

  Brant looked round the room, studied the range of ‘No Smoking’ signs then pulled out his Weights, fired up, blew a cloud at them, answered:

  ‘So, what else is new?’

  ‘She hoped he was burning in hell. What she’d done, she’d done for Loretta and for the sake of having a little fun, a pretty scarce commodity for a woman with a small child and no husband.

  She wasn’t sorry for any of it. Not for one goddamn minute of it.

  Scott Phillips, The Walkaway.

  5

  Falls Had had a shitty day.

  As regards the bomber, which was currently A-list, she was out of the loop. Her past connections to the principals — Brant, Roberts, Porter Nash — hadn’t cut any ice. Even the mundane crap, the bottom-feeder stuff, like the door-to-door slog, didn’t include her.

  She’d managed to catch Roberts alone in the canteen, a rare moment for the man heading up the hunt and asked:

  ‘Join you for a sec, guv?’

  He hadn’t quite rebuffed her but it was in the neighbourhood, said:

  ‘I don’t have a whole load of time.’

  She wanted to shout:

  ‘You shithead, when your wife died and you climbed into a vat of red wine, who pulled you out… who had a whole lot of time then?’

  But went with:

  ‘I won’t keep you, sir.’

  As she sat, he glanced at his watch. There are many ways to say Hey, you’re no longer a player but this has the benefit of being the shortest. You also get to see the time. Nervous, she almost unconsciously reached for her smokes and he asked:

  ‘You’re not thinking of smoking are you, not into my face?’

  Closed her bag, said:

  “Course not, sir.’

  Wondering when exactly he’d made the leap to complete prick. Worse, he was tapping the fingers of his right hand on the table and snapped:

  ‘What is it, Falls? I’m not a mind reader.’

  ‘Ahm, yes… right, I was wondering… if I might, er, help in the current investigation?’

  He stared at her, appeared truly astonished, said:

  ‘Don’t you know you’re under a cloud? I mean, surely you realise your very job is hanging by a thread?’

  ‘I thought, sir, that… thought all that was behind me.’

  He stood up, straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair and without looking at her, said:

  ‘You thought wrong.’

  And was gone.

  6

  Brant checked his watch: ten after ten. He was parked about a hundred yards from the Oval tube in a side road to the left of St Mark’s Church. During the day, a drinking school holds sway. Bottles of ‘white lady’ are the drink, if not of choice, definitely of necessity. Usually pure methylated spirit, sometimes it’s spiked with cider. Get a blend of tastes going. Come night, the hookers set up shop and a steady stream of cars cruise the patch. Though not on the scale of King’s Cross, it’s a steady enterprise.

  Brant clocked the makes of cars, almost all in good condition. Not hurting for cash but obviously lacking in balance. Few things as hazardous as street sex and not just the risk of diseases but, he supposed, it all added to the rush.

  Around eleven, a van pulled up, parked on the kerb. A white van, not unlike the one every American law enforcement agency was looking for in the Washington sniper case a few years back. A tall blond guy wearing a cream leather jacket (to accessorise the van?) and black combat pants climbed out. His hair thick and long, poured over his upturned collar. Brant muttered:

  ‘General fucking Custer.’

  The guy’s back was pumped, muscles showing through the leather: steroids and gym, the new addiction. He approached the hookers, said a few words then backhanded one. Another started to shout and he punched her in the stomach. Brant reached for a tyre iron, paused, saying, ‘Naw…’ and let it be. He got out and slammed his car door but if the guy heard, he didn’t care. Brant was delighted, he loved the stupid ones.

  The guy was raising his hands again and Brant shouted:

  ‘Yo, Custer?’

  The guy turned, in no hurry. Whatever was coming, he could deal with it. He looked at Brant, asked:

  ‘You calling me, prick-face?’

  Brant smiled, this was better than he’d hoped. Moved to within a cigarette of the guy, said:

  ‘I’m Sergeant Brant. Due to recent public concern, we have to identify ourselves from the off. My name mean anything to you?’

  The guy dredged up phlegm from deep in his chest, sampled it, then brought it up, letting his head back, he hawked the full load, then spat it to an inch of Brant’s left shoe, said:

  ‘That name don’t mean shit to me.’

  Brant didn’t mov
e, which set off an alarm in the guy’s confidence.

  Brant said:

  ‘Oh, that’s not very nice. Watch out, she’s behind you.’

  Almost never failed, the oldest ruse in the book and the shitheads went for it every time. The guy turned and Brant hit him with the low kidney shot, felling him like a sack of Galway potatoes. He moved round then with the steel caps, delivered a staccato of kicks to the body. A small cheer went up from the girls. Brant hunkered down, grabbed the blond hair with his left hand and dragged the guy’s face up, said:

  ‘You gotta be hurting, am I right?… No, no, don’t answer ‘cos I still have to break your nose… shshhhhhh, be done before you can shout “police intimidation”.’

  And it was.

  Brant straightened up, reached for his cigs, fired up, finally turned to the hookers who were gaping at him. No strangers to violence, they were stunned at the casual ferocity. Brant gave his wolf smile, said:

  ‘Nice evening for it.’

  Then nudging the guy with the tip of his shoe, he said:

  ‘I see you again, you’re history.’

  As he got back in the car, he enjoyed the sight of the women rolling the guy.

  Falls wanted a drink; she wanted a lot of drinks. The Roebuck was usually quiet midweek and on her way to the bar she clocked a few lone drinkers. A surly barman slapped her drink on the counter. She was preparing to have his ass when a customer banged into her, said:

  ‘Sorry, lost my balance.’

  And he veered away, heading for the door. A young woman rose from a table, grabbed him and got his arm midway on his back, put her hand in his pocket then shoved him away, snarling

  ‘Now, fuck off.’

  He made for the door and was gone. The woman walked to Falls, held out a purse, said:

  ‘He dipped you.’

  Falls stared at her purse in astonishment, thinking, I never felt him, then asked:

  ‘Can I buy you a drink? It’s the very least I can do.’

  The woman, blonde, pretty, in expensive clothes gave a radiant smile, said:

  ‘Sure, large vodka, loads of ice.’

  Falls signalled to the barman, asked her:

  ‘Justice?’

  ‘Yeah, why fuck it up?’

  Falls liked her already. They moved to a table and Falls raised her glass, said:

  ‘Thanks so much.’

  She said, ‘No big thing,’ and sank the double like a docker, raised her finger, said:

  ‘Yo, bar-person. Hit us again.’

  Then she produced a pack of Rothmans, asked:

  ‘Hope you don’t mind?’

  Falls couldn’t believe she’d found a kindred spirit, put out her hand, went:

  ‘I’m Elizabeth.’

  And was amazed with herself as she never normally gave her first name.

  The woman took her hand, said:

  ‘I’m happy to meet you.’

  After another round, Falls was seriously wrecked, said:

  ‘I’m a cop.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Not interested, cool about it. Falls continued:

  ‘And I’ve got to say you handled that guy like you were a cop yourself.’

  The woman flashed the smile, said:

  ‘I work the clubs. Bit of dancing, some hostessing, and a whole pile of assholes.’

  Falls got out some paper, wrote her number down, said:

  ‘Listen, let’s get together again, my treat.’

  The woman nodded and glanced at her watch, said:

  ‘Got to run.’

  Falls went to stand, staggered, then:

  ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  Over her shoulder, as she left, the woman said:

  ‘Angie.’

  A car was parked up the street and Angie got in, the two brothers waiting. One asked:

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Piece of cake, she’s a lush.’

  Ray, the smart one, asked:

  ‘Why did you have to be so rough when you grabbed me?’

  ‘Make it look real. She’s a cop, she’d smell a bogus stunt.’

  Jimmy, the muscle, asked:

  ‘What do you want to meet a cop for?’

  Angie tapped her forehead, said:

  ‘We want to know how the investigation is going, who better to tell us than a cop?’

  Ray, negotiating traffic, was shaking his head, went:

  ‘Seems risky to me.’

  “Course it’s risky, that’s the fucking rush.’

  7

  The second explosion was at a teenage disco, situated off Coldharbour Lane. A large hall had been converted by local builders, its aim to keep teenagers away from the main strip in Brixton. So now the kids hit the strip first, scored the dope, then went to the disco. Parents, delighted at the lack of booze, congratulated themselves on their efforts.

  Two parents, acting as bouncers, were injured in the blast. The dynamite had been placed in a litter bin sited conveniently at the main entrance. The victims, covered in blood, were on the front page of all the papers with screaming headlines:

  BOMBER TARGETS TEENS

  Roberts, all control gone, was shouting:

  ‘They didn’t phone… why didn’t they bloody phone? I mean, play fucking fair, we never even got a chance to answer the ransom demand. What the hell is going on?’

  No one knew. Roberts glared at his team. Porter Nash, clearing his throat, began:

  ‘I met with the Bomb Squad.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s the same outfit, same MO. A few sticks of dynamite and the crude timer.’

  Brant, lit a cig, exhaled, asked:

  ‘Any luck on the usual suspects?’

  ‘No, seems to be a new operator.’

  Roberts slammed his hand on the table, said:

  ‘I’ve to meet the Super in ten minutes… is that what I tell him…? That we figure it’s a new operator? He’s going to fucking lap that up, bound to be commendations all round.’

  Porter Nash felt he should say something further, tried:

  ‘The victims are doing well, the injuries looked worse than they actually were.’

  Roberts wasn’t placated

  ‘Take a look at the bloody tabloids, the damage is already done.’

  A silence descended and the atmosphere was thick with recrimination.

  The phone rang.

  ‘I ran a tape I’d rented on the way back, Jennifer

  Jason Leigh in Rush. I felt like watching cops get fucked up.’

  Matthew Stokoe, High Life

  8

  Roberts grabbed the phone, said:

  ‘Yes?’

  A robotic tone, speaking through one of those voicechangers, asked:

  ‘You in charge of the bomber case?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Chief Inspector Roberts.’

  ‘Impressive title, you like to use that, I’d say. What you’d do, kiss some major ass to get there?’

  ‘Is that a question?’

  Heard a snigger, someone in the background, then:

  ‘Naw, I like fucking with you. Lighten up, pal, these are the jokes. You’ll have had a second explosion?’

  Roberts was furious, he felt chest pains, asked:

  ‘What happened to a warning? What happened to you calling about the money?’

  More sniggers, then:

  ‘Tell you the truth, Rob, it got away from us. That ever happen to you? The truth is, we changed the rules. You want to know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos we can.’

  Roberts glanced round the room, saw the stone expressions, said:

  ‘You want payment, you’ll have to play by some rules.’

  Silence and he thought the call had ended, then a harsher tone:

  ‘You fuck-face, you mind if I call you that? Not that it matters, you’re a messenger boy, got it? Your function is to act as bagman. We want six large.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Two explosion
s — this shit is expensive. Time and money, you get my meaning? But hey, I can lighten up, cut you some slack. How would it be if I give you 48 hours, say Friday evening, round 6.00? I’ll give you a bell, that help at all?’

  Roberts took a deep breath, tried to rein in his rage, said:

  ‘I’ll need more time.’

  ‘No can do, fellah.’

  Click.

  Roberts put the phone down, said:

  ‘See if there’s any hope of a trace. Not that I expect one.’

  No trace.

  9

  Falls came to with a bad hangover. She was wearing a long old Snoopy T-shirt that had been washed so often the dog was no longer distinguishable. Her mouth was like a desert and she went to the kitchen, gulped a glass of water. It hit her stomach like ice and she retched, said:

  ‘That’s it, I’m never drinking again, least not on week nights.’

  This was a familiar mantra: as comfortable as it was bogus. She began to boil some water, thinking tea would help, at least wake her up.

  She was up for a new assignment. Word was that a new WPC was coming on board and Falls would be nursemaiding her. Of all the duties she loathed, this was the one she loathed most. All that enthusiasm, the high ideals and the spirit of camaraderie they expected. It was so fucking wearing. Then came the gradual erosion of energy and an initial disbelief that developed into full-blown cynicism. When they asked with that bright, fresh tone: ‘What am I to do?’ Falls longed to scream: ‘QUIT!’

  Yeah, like they were ever going to believe her. Then Brant would come sniffing as he always did with the new ones and he’d turn on the full Celtic charm. Few could charm like that devil. She’d succumbed herself and more than once. He’d fuck them over every which way till Tuesday and they’d come back for more.

  She dressed in her uniform and stood back to survey what she saw. A black woman dressed in the clothes of the enemy, that’s what a black man had told her in Brixton market. She’d tried to rationalise it, told him that at least this way they had help in the ranks, knew how weak she sounded and saw his lip curl with disdain. He rapped:

  ‘Yo be fooling your own self, girl.’