Vixen ib-5

by Ken Bruen

  ‘Bob, I’m gonna go get us some coffees.’

  And went out the back entrance.

  He was just disappearing down the steps at the side of the station when he noticed a couple of cops watching the front of the left luggage. Angie had said they’d be there and that there’d be plenty of them.

  Ray was waiting in a taxi and Jimmy tore off the coat, put it and the bags on the seat, said:

  ‘See you later.’

  And he returned to work.

  When he got back, Bob asked:

  ‘Where’s the coffee?’

  ‘They were closed.’

  Bob said never no mind, they’d brew their own. This included adding a drop of creature comfort in the form of Highland Grouse. It improved the hell out of whatever you were drinking. The hot drinks went down so well they batched up another lot and omitted the coffee — you can have too much of a good thing. It was Friday evening and close to knocking-off time. Soon they’d wander down to the Railworkers’ Club and sink a few bitters. All in all, it was a pretty mellow way to launch the weekend. Bob was feeling very relaxed, said:

  ‘Jim, did you hear the fashion that bloody copper spoke to me?’

  ‘No, Bob, I missed that.’

  ‘Yeah, the fucker, he tried to run riot, shouting the odds about being in the Met and wouldn’t pay for the ticket.’

  Jimmy didn’t care either way and said:

  ‘But you were able for him, I’d say.’

  ‘Too bloody right, I don’t take shit from no one. What’s the big deal with the bag, do you think?’

  They looked at the bag, ‘Swag’ in white letters almost glowing. Jimmy shrugged his shoulders and Bob asked:

  ‘Swag! What’s that about? Some kind of joke, do you think?’

  ‘Gee, I don’t know, Bob.’

  The Highland Grouse was singing in old Bob and he stood, circled the bag, then bent down, said:

  ‘Let’s have a little peek; I mean, the bastards didn’t even pay so it’s not like they’re entitled to our full protection.’

  He pulled the zipper back and stared in dismay then said:

  ‘It’s empty, I could have sworn it weighed a ton, did it seem heavy to you?’

  Jimmy’s heart skipped a beat and he tried:

  ‘No, it was light as a feather.’

  Bob eyed the bottle of Grouse, laughed, said:

  ‘I better ease up, eh?’

  Jimmy felt relief flow over him, said:

  ‘Let’s have one for the road. What do you think, you being the senior man?’

  Bob liked that tone a lot and felt they could certainly risk one more. As they closed up, the watching cops noted the time and that they weren’t carrying anything.

  One said:

  ‘The only thing those guys are carrying is a feed of drink.’

  A month before, Angie had rented Jimmy a small apartment in Kennington. She’d said:

  ‘They’ll check the employees and we can’t be living together. I’ll stay with a girlfriend so they can’t connect us up.’

  Jimmy was very unhappy about being on his own but she persuaded him it was only for a short time. Once the heat died down, they’d split the money and all get back together. When Ray arrived at the Mews, he had already split the money and when he handed the cash to Angie, she said:

  ‘This seems light.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve taken half and put it someplace safe.’

  She was surprised at his balls, asked:

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Sure, but if anything happened to you, at least only half would be gone. This way, we need each other.’

  She considered getting him into bed, see if he would reveal the location. Instinct told her it wouldn’t work. He was sharper than she’d figured.

  She smiled, said:

  ‘Good thinking. When they check out the staff at the left luggage, it’s possible they’ll come talk to you as Jimmy’s brother.’

  Ray cracked a Special Brew, took a deep slug, said:

  ‘The Mews is clean, I’ve sold off the hot gear. They can search all they like. Fancy a drink, to celebrate?’

  ‘Maybe later, I have to go see about my flat.’

  Ray gave her a long look, said:

  ‘You be real careful, that’s a lot of cash you’re carrying.’

  Angie went to a small lock-up she’d rented when she’d last got out of prison. Just off Clapham Common, it held every item that was of any value to her. Some porcelain dolls she’d nicked from an old woman, designer clothes and imitation Louis Vuiton luggage she’d found in a boot sale. The tags on the handles said, ‘Florida’, for the day she made her great escape and she figured it was only a short time away now. There was a portable television, a fridge, a foldaway bed and essentials like vodka, a kettle, coffee and half a gram of coke.

  She laid the money on the floor and wondered why it didn’t make her feel good. There and then she vowed not to go anywhere until she had it all, every last penny. It was her scheme, her planning, her fucking entitlement.

  Rage enveloped her and she wanted to go back, shoot Ray in the balls, the bastard, remembering the half smile he’d given her when she’d asked:

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  Yeah, right.

  She laid out a couple of lines of coke, used a twenty from the pile to snort, and waited for the hit.

  It came fast, hit her brain running and then the ice-drip down her neck. She didn’t use very often as her insanity was sufficient to keep her stoked but, now and then, she’d have a hit and summon up the crystal-clear thinking she needed. As her body began to experience waves of wellbeing, she thought: Okay, Ray, you want to play, we’ll play.

  There were few things she liked better than to play, said aloud:

  ‘Game on.’

  She lifted a few loose boards from under the threadbare carpet and stashed the money. Then dabbed some perfume behind her ears. It was the brand Jimmy loved. He never tired of asking her what it was and she’d always reply the same:

  ‘Money.’

  Angie had absolutely no feelings about Jimmy, he was simply the means to an end. Sometimes he amused her but not in any fashion that she’d miss.

  She took a shower, the coke singing in her veins. She was looking forward to the remainder of the evening. Naked, she assessed herself: looking good, maybe she’d cut down on the booze a bit but otherwise, in fine shape.

  She selected an outfit that Jimmy usually drooled over. Stockings and suspender-belt, sheer black top and black miniskirt, add a black bomber jacket that Ray had boosted from some Europeans who’d had a place on the Balham High Road. Finally, a few lines of coke to get Jimmy off his game completely.

  Leaving the place, she double-locked it and put on the deadbolt. At the end of the street was a mini-cab office and she asked for a car.

  The driver, a Rasta, gave a low whistle of appreciation as she got in.

  ‘Yo sho looking fine, girl.’

  ‘Whatever, I need to go to Kennington.’

  He had a spliff going, asked:

  ‘You wanna get some dis good vibe?’

  ‘I don’t do drugs.’

  ‘Yo baby, dis be life, not no drug.’

  He got the car in gear and turned up the sounds. The Wailers doing their thing, he kept up a constant monologue of which Angie heard little. The music drowned him out but it didn’t put as much as a dent in his rap.

  When they got to Kennington, she asked the fare and he stroked his dreads, said:

  ‘Yo like to mebbe party with me, Fs got me a crib dat be shaking.’

  She threw a tenner at him and a look that cut through his high, said:

  ‘Keep the change.’

  He watched her saunter down the road, said:

  ‘No woman, no cry.’

  Angie let herself into the flat.

  Jimmy wasn’t back yet. The place was bare, the few items Jimmy had brought were in boxes. She unpacked them, scattered them around — it had to look
like he’d lived here. She piled cups and dishes in the sink. Then went to the bathroom, ran a hot bath, returned to the main room, picked up the one-bar electric fire and plugged it in near the bath. You’d get more heat from a cigarette but Angie wasn’t interested in getting warm.

  Then she sat down to wait. Prison had taught her how to do that, just sit and let her mind roam free. Mostly, she thought about the second half of the money — her money — and how she was going to separate Ray from it. A key turned in the lock, then she heard some fumbling and she smiled as she knew Jimmy was drunk, as he always was come evening. The door opened and he staggered in, seemed stunned to find all the lights on, then saw her and beamed:

  ‘Angie!’

  She gave a huge smile went over and put her arms round him, said:

  ‘You tease, making a girl wait.’

  He moved away from her, confusion and a hint of suspicion on his face, asked:

  ‘Why are you here, I thought you’d be with Ray, and didn’t you say we had to stay away from each other till the heat died down?’

  Irritation rose in her, like he was going to get bright now, of all the times for him to start acting like a normal person. She bit down on the emotion, went to her bag, produced a bottle of champagne, said:

  ‘But we have to have a small celebration. You did brilliant; we couldn’t have pulled this off without you. I just had to come and let you know that. I even dressed special for you. Don’t you like the way I look, Jimmy? Do you really want me to go?’

  He didn’t and she smiled to herself. There wasn’t a man alive who’d turn down sex, no matter how his instinct warned him.

  She purred:

  ‘We’re going to have us a killer of an evening.’

  ‘He wore round steel-rimmed glasses that might have made someone else look like John Lennon.

  Marshall didn’t look anything like Lennon; he looked like something that might have eaten Lennon.’

  John Sanford, Chosen Prey

  14

  Porter Nash had decided he needed a change of image, had been working on it for a time. Got his hair cut short and had them add a few lines of grey, just a few discreet streaks. Worked well and, even better, nobody had ragged him. When you’re a cop, you daren’t make major changes without them thinking you’re on the take. You start to change your appearance and, to the cop mind, it says you’re hiding something.

  The glasses though, now they’d been a mistake. He didn’t need them but he’d been watching a movie in which the guy had been wearing those steel-rimmed jobs, the type that made you look distinguished. Porter had got an identical pair and was well pleased, thought they gave an edge of seriousness with an overlay of hard-ass. Could you ask for more?

  Then Brant, who else, had asked:

  ‘Who are you… the Walrus?’

  Porter hadn’t got it until Brant had said:

  ‘The glasses, you look like John Lennon’s brother.’

  Now he was on watch at Waterloo, keeping tabs on the left luggage office. One of the cops was staring at him, said:

  ‘Them glasses, you look like the Gestapo.’

  That was it, he swiped them off, put them in his pocket and the cop had said:

  ‘Will you be able to see without them?’

  Porter sighed, said:

  ‘There’s nothing to see, the office is closed. What are they going to do, break in?’

  The cop shrugged. He had to spend the night anyway so he didn’t give a toss either way.

  Porter went to get a coffee and was outraged at the price, said to the assistant:

  ‘That’s a bit steep.’

  ‘Yeah, this is a mainline station, what do you expect?’

  Porter moved away, thinking everybody had an answer, none of them civil. He wondered where the hell Roberts was. Got out his phone, dialled the number. When it was answered, Porter could hardly hear for the background noise, asked:

  ‘Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, is that you, Porter? Has there been some action?’

  ‘Ahm, no sir, all’s quiet. I was just checking in; er, are you at a party, sir?’

  Brief flurry of talk, then Roberts bellowed:

  ‘A party, when there’s a major case in progress, are you out of your mind? Who’s got time to play?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, it just sounded busy where you are.’

  ‘’Course it’s busy, this is London, a busy town.’

  And he rang off.

  Porter muttered:

  ‘Drunk as a skunk.’

  Porter Nash moved back to the watching position and asked the constable:

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Not a button. You’d think there be more action in a train station.’

  ‘It’s Friday night, people have already gone home.’

  The guy looked at Porter Nash, considered, then went for it:

  ‘That’s why they pay you the big bucks.’

  Then to Porter’s amazement, the guy took out his cigarettes. Porter said:

  ‘Smoking? Tell me you’re kidding.’

  He put them away and resolved to tell the guys that Porter was as tight-assed as they’d suspected.

  When Roberts had followed Brant into the house at the Oval, he’d been near-deafened from the volume of the music. Worse, it sounded like that hip-hop his daughter listened to. The front room was jammed and Roberts realised it was all women. He asked Brant:

  ‘Aren’t there any men?’

  ‘I hope to fuck not.’

  Someone pushed a drink into his hand and Brant, already with one, clinked glasses, said:

  ‘Bottoms up.’

  Roberts took a large swig, felt the liquid near burn his throat, said to Brant:

  ‘Christ, what the hell is that?’

  Brant had already finished his, was looking for a refill, peered into the glass, seemed to give it serious consideration, said:

  ‘I’d guess tequila, what? You wanted the whole deal? Salt and lime?’

  Roberts put the glass aside, said:

  ‘No, a beer would have been nice.’

  Brant was gone and a woman approached, said:

  ‘Are you Brant’s boss?’

  Before he could reply, she laughed, said:

  ‘Dumb question, right? As if anybody was his boss.’

  Roberts couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was wearing one of those flimsy sheath dresses that barely covered anything. Large breasts were almost touching him, she had on killer heels and the whole outfit screamed SEX! She gave him a radiant smile, asked:

  ‘You want to go in the bedroom?’

  Brant reappeared, a barrel over his shoulder. He carefully put it down and said:

  ‘Now, you’ve got beer. Stell, a glass for over here.’

  Stell, who was wearing even less clothes than the one Roberts was leering at, brought a glass, bent down, got the barrel going and poured a half-pint with expertise. She handed it to Roberts and gave him what could only be called a come-on smile. Roberts grabbed Brant’s arm, pulled him over to a corner, said:

  ‘What the hell is going on? Some of these women look like hookers.’

  Brant’s eyes were already glazed and he seemed confused by the question, said:

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Roberts drained his glass, thought it was hot as hell in there, said:

  ‘I’m telling you, a woman just came on to me, like a hooker would.’

  Brant was staring at him and Roberts said:

  ‘Did you hear me, I think there’s a hooker here.’

  Now Brant laughed out loud, said:

  ‘They’re all hookers, it’s a hookers’ party.’

  Roberts, who’d been in all sorts of bizarre situations with Brant, couldn’t believe it, said:

  ‘You’re fucking winding me up.’

  Brant was unsure what Roberts’ dilemma was, so tried:

  ‘Didn’t I say you’d get laid?’

  ‘Yeah, but…’

  ‘Well, come on, guv, you do
n’t think normal women are going to give it up to a battered pair like us?’

  Roberts didn’t know whether to act offended or outraged. A woman came, took his glass and refilled it; he didn’t object, nodded in a dazed way and Brant clapped his shoulder, said:

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  Roberts tried to get his head round the deal. He couldn’t. Brant was having himself a hell of a time.

  Roberts asked:

  ‘This may seem a stupid question but why are we at a party thrown by hookers?’

  Brant did seem to think it was a stupid question and took another huge drink then focused, said:

  ‘They owe me and wanted to show their appreciation, and trust me, guv, there is no better appreciation than that of a grateful hooker.’

  Roberts put down his glass, tried to look like he was the boss, said:

  ‘I’ll have to go, we have a major case going down and I’m… what? Hanging out with hookers.’

  Brant forced another drink into Roberts’ hand, nodded, said:

  ‘Tell you what, we give it ten minutes and then we’re history. What can happen in ten minutes, am I right?’

  Reluctantly, Roberts agreed. Ten minutes was nothing and it wasn’t as if he was pissed or anything, though he did feel a slight buzz. Brant signalled to one of the women and indicated Roberts. She smiled, began to move in their direction. The music had increased in volume and a neighbour banged at the door to complain, said he was going to call the police. He was not happy to learn they were already present before the door was slammed in his face.

  Someone passed a spliff to Brant and he muttered that he’d have to report drugs on the premises before he inhaled enough weed to put a smile on even Edwina Currie’s face.

  He patted Roberts on the shoulder, said:

  ‘Ten and counting, right boss?’

  Falls was having a night in, she and Andrews having spent a day doing traffic and nothing, nothing on earth was as tedious as that. It also meant working with traffic wardens, and nobody moaned like those fuckers. Not even the public could rise to the level of whining achieved by wardens.

  Andrews had screamed at one:

  ‘Hey, we’re trying to help you out here, we’re not the goddamn enemy.’

  Falls was beginning to like this girl and tried hard not to. You got close to a copper, you got hurt — it was set in stone. But this girl, she had true grit and a low level of tolerance, qualities that Falls loved. The warden tried for sympathy: