by Ken Bruen
As he sank half his pint, his eyes focused on a painting on the wall. Ray knew nothing about art but this transfixed him. It was a vixen, caught as if about to take flight. She had a look of:
Danger
Sleekness
Intelligence
Sensuality.
Ray went up to the bar, asked the guy about it.
The guy was a thick fuck, said:
‘I don’t know shit, it’s been hanging there for years.’
Ray considered, then said:
‘I’ll give you twenty for it.’
The guy was instantly suspicious, but pound signs were flashing in his eyes. He asked:
‘How do I know the price? It might be pretty valuable, lots of people want to buy it.’
Ray finished his drink, ordered another, said:
‘Have something yourself.’
The fuck took a whiskey and kept the change. As he raised his glass, he said:
‘I might be tempted to let it go for?100.’
As the Americans say, Ray did the math. He’d be out the ton but he could return, in the early hours of the morning, knock the kip over, get compensated. True, he’d have to go alone as Jimmy was now a working stiff. The barman was staring intently, said:
‘I know you, I mean you look like that actor, shit, what’s his name?’
Ray decided to help him out, hinted
‘Salvador ring any bells?’
‘Yeah, I got it — James Belushi.’
Ray hated Belushi, took out his wallet, laid the hundred down. The guy finished his drink, said:
‘Don’t know about you but I could go another.’
Ray ignored him, went over, took the painting down and left without a backward glance.
Next morning, he gathered Angie and Jimmy, said:
‘I want to show you something.’
Led them to the bedroom, went:
‘Whatcha fink?’
Angie hated it when he spoke common. Jimmy asked:
‘Is it a ferret? Why did you hang a ferret up?’
Angie gave a small smile, said:
‘It’s a vixen.’
Ray could tell by her face that she was pleased. She gave him the full look, asked:
‘What’s the story, Ray?’
He was hoping she’d ask, had been working on his answer all night and now, oh so casual, as if he’d just thought of it, went:
“Cos you’re a fox.’
Angie kept a separate bedroom, said she couldn’t bear to actually sleep with a person. She’d service Ray and, no matter how he coaxed, she’d leave right after. That night she gave him a sensational blow job and, as he dozed off, she went to her own room. Climbing between the sheets — it was her favourite part of the day — she could be truly alone and dream of Florida and endless days of sun and clothes.
Mostly, she found people a drag; they whined on about money and about the weather and worse, politics. All such trivial shit. What she liked was to see how they reacted to pain. Ray was okay and she didn’t mind the sex. It amazed her that men would do just about anything for it. Jimmy meant as much to her as a dog she might pass in the street.
After she blew them off — and blow them she fully intended to do — she wouldn’t give them another thought. First, Jimmy would be sacrificed, then Ray. She might do something special for him, take him out in a painless way. He’d bought her that dumb painting and seemed to think that mangy fox was her. She played him along, kept him sweet as he was especially good on the phone. Had those cops doing somersaults. Under her pillow she kept a Browning automatic, primed and ready to lock and load. Before sleep took her, she wondered if she’d use a head or body shot on Ray. It interested her to see how the head would look if she put two into it at close range. Fuck him first then whip out the gun, say:
‘Now you’ve come and hey, here you’re gone.’
She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
Jimmy was watching the best-ever episode of The Office. He didn’t fully understand it but now he was a working guy, he felt a kinship with it. He laughed out loud without fully understanding the humour but in the morning, when the guys mentioned bits, he’d be able to laugh all over again. Jimmy wasn’t happy that it was only a temporary position, but maybe after, when they’d got the money, Ray might allow him to do a few days a week.
He’d really stayed up to watch a lezzie drama that was getting lots of publicity. Called Tipping the Velvet, it starred Diana Rigg’s daughter. This would have impressed him more if he knew who Diana Rigg was. A big deal was being made of the fact that BBC 2 was showing it.
Ray said:
‘It’s porn. Just because that BBC crowd made it, doesn’t change the fact that they’re peddling porn. Oh, be sure to tape it, yeah?’
Jimmy was disappointed. It was tame and he had to wade through loads of waffle for what action there was. He opened a bottle of Tequila and drank from the neck. It hit him like thunder, he was pissed before he knew it and decided to rewind the tape — maybe the show needed booze. The women looked better already.
12
Falls and Andrews were investigating a pub breakin on the Balham High Road. The owner was a thick fuck who shouted at them the second they walked in through the door:
‘Who’s going to pay for the damage?’
Andrews looked to Falls who asked:
‘What is the extent of the damage?’
He stared at her, as if he couldn’t believe his ears? Answered:
‘A smashed window, broken bottles, and my dog.’
Andrews went:
‘Dog?’
Now he turned to her, sneered:
‘What are you, an echo? How long have you been on the job, two days?’
Falls tried not to smile, two days was exactly right. He wasn’t finished:
‘Yeah, my dog, they smashed his head in with something, probably a baseball bat.’
Andrews tried for a professional tone, enquired:
‘What type of dog?’
‘What type of dog? A fucking dead dog.’
Falls held up a finger, cautioned,
‘Mind your language, sir. Now, how do you know they used baseball bats?’
He gave a vicious smile, seemed delighted she’d asked as if he’d been storing it up, said:
‘Yer darkies, they use bats, they can’t afford golf clubs.’
Falls wasn’t put out, she was used to this crap, said:
‘I see a space on the wall there. Was there a picture taken?’
The memory of the sale pleased him and he said:
‘Some space cadet, he was in, having a pint and he spots the painting, has to have it. I paid, like, two nicker for it at a garage sale. Have a guess how much I got the dumb bastard for?’
As Falls didn’t venture, Andrews said:
‘From your tone, obviously a lot.’
‘You betcha, sweetmeat: a hundred smackers, what do you think of that?’
Falls asked:
‘And he was black, was he?’
The guy was confused, asked:
‘Black, why?’
‘Well, you said he was dumb, so I presumed he was black, given your views.’
He stared more closely at Falls, then:
‘Are you fucking with me? You better remember who’s paying your bloody salary.’
Andrews piped up:
‘You have already been cautioned about your language.’
He gave a snort of derision, pushed past them, said:
‘Bollocks.’
Andrews caught his arm, turned him and kneed him in the balls. He fell to his knees, roaring like a bull. It was hard to guess who was more surprised, him or Falls. Andrews said:
‘Now you’re cautioned.’
Outside, Falls said:
‘I don’t think they mention that in the training manual?’
Andrews smiled, said:
‘Was I being over-zealous?’
‘Girl, you were magnificent.’
> Andrews was pleased with the praise. When Falls suggested they have a coffee, she felt she was on her way to being accepted. They went to a small cafe, got some locals staring at them till Falls stared back. A waitress came over, asked:
‘Ladies, what can I get you?’
Falls said:
‘Two large coffees and the stickiest, most calorie-laden buns you have.’
‘Would you like cream on the coffee?’
Falls looked at Andrews who grinned from ear to ear. Falls said:
‘Bring it on, pile on that sucker.’
Falls rooted in her bag, took out a pack of cigs, offered one.
Andrews was tempted, said:
‘I quit a while ago.’
Falls lit up, said:
‘Trust me, you’ll be smoking again. This is the kind of job nicotine was designed for.’
The coffee came, laden with cream, and the buns were almost obscene in their richness. Falls took a spoon, scooped a dollop of cream and put it in her mouth. She made a face of simulated orgasm, went:
‘Oh… oh… that’s the spot… oh yes… oh my God, the earth is moving.’
Andrews got the giggles and then shovelled a spoon herself. A man in a suit was taking a dim view and glared at them. Andrews signalled him to Falls who ignored him. Then they got stuck into the buns and were like two kids, their faces a riot of cream and sticky bun. The man had had enough, marched over, said:
‘This is scandalous! I mean, you’re supposed to be representing the status quo. I want your names and numbers.’
He actually took out a slim red notebook and a flash gold pen, prepared to take the details. Falls drank some coffee, wiped her mouth delicately with a tissue then fixed her gaze on him, asked:
‘Is that your car outside?’
‘What? Oh yes, it is.’
‘In about two minutes I’m going to have it towed; it matches the description of a car wanted in connection with a string of robberies. You should have it back in… oh, let’s say three weeks. I obviously can’t guarantee its condition but I’ll ask them to be careful, you being a law-abiding citizen and all.’
He stared at her, rage creasing his brow. Then he put the notebook away and he turned on his heel, walked out. Andrews asked:
‘Which car is his?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Andrews felt she’d learned a valuable lesson in dealing with the public.
When they went to the counter, the owner said:
‘No charge, ladies, I’m honoured by your custom.’
Falls wasn’t pleased, near shouted:
‘Did we ask you for anything free?’
‘No, but…’
‘But you presumed we’d be bought for a lousy stale bun.’
She threw a pile of change on the counter and headed out. Andrews felt sorry for him, tried to give him a warm smile, it didn’t seem to do much good. Outside, Falls was waiting and Andrews said:
‘Wasn’t that a bit harsh?’
‘If you’re going to have a freebie, at least make it worthwhile; for a spoon of cream, you could lose your job. And, that guy would be on the phone every opportunity, asking for his favourite officers.’
‘Maybe he just meant well.’
‘He’s the public — they never mean well.’
‘I had intended him to kill somebody… spend the rest of the story making him human… I was twenty or thirty pages in before I realised he was black. Not only black, he’s a black man who had tried, albeit inchoately, to turn himself into a white man, to live up to white values, at various times in his life, and they always collapse on him.’
James Sallis, on the creation of Lew Griffin.
13
Roberts had the team gathered in the conference room. The phone was in the centre of the desk, the deadline fast approaching. Roberts had arranged for the call to be put on the speaker so they all could hear. He had the briefcase of cash beside it.
Brant said:
‘So we’re really going to pay these assholes?’
Roberts nodded miserably.
Porter asked:
‘Have we at least a trace set on the money?’
‘We are going to try and see if we can catch them when they collect.’
The team digested this, doubt writ large on their faces. Porter said:
‘They seem very confident that they are going to get the money without any problem.’
Roberts’ face was set in stone, as if it had been achieved over his dead body. No one seemed reassured by this. The phone rang and some of the younger officers actually jumped. Brant smiled, he was looking forward to this. The robotic voice began:
‘Greetings friends, I assume I’m on speaker so I’ll take the liberty of addressing you en group.’
Roberts tried to stay cool, said:
‘The money is here.’
‘Good man, you’re a splendid errand boy. Now here’s the arrangement. Are you ready because I’ll only say it once, so pencils ready guys?’
Nobody moved, it was of course being taped. The voice began:
‘Get a large black holdall with the word “Swag” written on it. Then Roberts you, yes you — pay attention and stop sulking — you are to deliver it to the left luggage at Waterloo station before 8.00 this evening. Get a receipt in case it goes missing, Network Rail are a whore if you don’t have the ticket. That’s it guys, nice and simple, so I don’t see how you can fuck it up.’
Click.
Roberts looked round at the faces and said:
‘Get me a black holdall and write “Swag” on it.’
Two of the officers left the room.
Roberts asked:
‘Any thoughts?’
Brant leaned forward, said:
‘He sounded pretty confident.’
Roberts nodded and then Porter Nash said:
‘So, we deliver the money, stake out the place and then follow the pick-up — what’s wrong with that picture?’
Brant said:
‘It’s too fucking simple. I hate it when it’s too easy.’
They outlined various strategies and all had the feeling it was a waste of time. They thrashed out the numerous things that could go wrong and finally Roberts assigned the team to their roles. He then turned to Brant, asked:
‘What’s your gut feeling?’
‘That we’re going to lose the money and the gang.’
The officers returned with the bag, the word ‘Swag’ in huge white letters on the side.
Roberts went over the arrangements again and said:
‘I’d better go.’
Brant said:
‘I’ll drive you.’
As they left the station, the rank and file were in the corridor to watch them go, the sight of the bag causing huge merriment until Roberts shouted:
‘Get back to work.’
Traffic was heavy and Brant made some reckless moves to make time. After he’d cut up a taxi, Roberts pleaded:
‘Jeez, take it easy.’
‘No sweat, guv, I know what I’m doing.’
Roberts glanced at him, thought he looked positively demonic. To distract himself, he asked:
‘Is everything in place?’
Brant began to light a cig, taking both hands off the wheel to do so, then actually shrugged, said:
‘We have people watching the front and back, we’re setting up a camera, pulling records on the staff, and you know what? It’s all pissing in the wind.’
When they got to Waterloo, Brant pulled up in the no-parking zone just as his phone went.
He answered, said:
‘Uh, oh, mmmph, gotcha.’
And clicked off.
Roberts said:
‘You’re not giving much away?’
Brant smiled, said:
‘It’s a party and you and me, we’re going.’
‘When?’
‘After we dump the swag.’
Roberts thought that Brant truly was mad — not just wild,
out and out barking. He shook his head but Brant went:
‘Listen to me, you’re not going to hang round the station. They need you, they’ve got your number. What you need is some R and R. When was the last time you got laid?’
‘What kind of party is it?’
‘The kind where you get laid.’
Then he was off, leaving the car in the no-parking zone. Roberts struggled to catch up, asked:
‘You’re not just leaving the car? They’ll tow it.’
‘Who cares, it’s a piece of shit.’
‘But what about the party? How will we get there?’
Brant looked back, delight on his face, said:
‘See, you do want to get laid. We’ll grab a cab, arrive in style; best if we don’t have transport in case we get shitfaced.’
The station was crowded and the left luggage place was right at the rear, attended by a middle-aged guy in uniform. Roberts hefted the bag on to the counter and, without looking up, the guy asked:
‘How long?’
When Roberts didn’t answer the guy finally raised his eyes and said:
‘You deaf?’
Roberts produced his warrant card, said:
‘No, I’m the heat, now give me a ticket.’
Slowly, the guy began to punch out the ticket and without handing it over, said:
‘Five pounds.’
Roberts snapped the ticket and said:
‘You don’t want to get in the way of a police operation.’
The guy was not impressed, said:
‘That’s corruption, that is.’
He took the bag and handed it back to Jimmy who was out the back, out of Roberts’ line of vision. Jimmy immediately began to fill his overcoat with wads of money. Angie had sewn pockets all down the sides and, thanks to Her Majesty’s Prison Service, her sewing was terrific. He also carried a nondescript shopping bag, which he jammed with more wedges of cash. Finally, he produced a Network Rail shoulder bag and rammed the last few packets into it. He was ready to roll. Waited until the cops had pushed off, then shouted: