by Ken Bruen
Brant was seriously impressed. He didn’t show it of course but did concede:
‘Nice one.’
28
At the hospital, the doctor gave Andrews some painkillers after he cleaned up the bite.
He said:
‘You’re lucky, the woman who did this, she doesn’t appear to have any… how shall I say?… condition that might raise cause for concern.’
Falls, trying to suppress the rage that still boiled, said:
‘She has a condition now, all right.’
The doctor looked at her questioningly and she said:
‘Assaulting a police officer, that will get her two years. You might say she’d got a fucked condition.’
The doctor was appalled at the use of language, not to mention the glee and venom of the words, and he said:
‘I’m sure the poor woman needs help.’
Falls wanted to lash him, and she hated how, like Brant, she was starting to see liberals as a serious pain in the ass. She kept the steel in her tone and asked:
‘Are you married?’
He read it wrong and, flattered, conceded:
‘Ahm, yes, but we’ve been… ‘
Falls cut him off with:
‘And if some bitch took a chunk out of her neck, how much would your heart bleed?’
He wanted to get away and thought he might put a call through to his MP about the type of person wearing a uniform these days. He said:
‘One can’t, of course, predict one’s reaction but one likes to believe one would weigh the factors involved.’
Andrews wanted to get out of there and stood up, but Falls added:
‘Weigh this: when the bull dyke gets her biting ass in Holloway, we’ll see how one might weigh that factor.’
The doctor dismissed her, said to Andrews:
‘I strongly recommend you go home, get some rest. Is there anyone there to take care of you? You’ve had a traumatic time.’
Andrews didn’t answer him and walked away. Falls gave him the long stare and followed.
He said to a nurse:
‘God help us all if they’re the good guys.’
29
Outside, Falls asked:
‘Should I call a cab?’
‘I want a drink.’
Who was Falls to argue? But they were still in uniform and fairly bedraggled, so she hailed a black cab and asked him to go to Lonsdale Road. The driver had the ‘Knowledge’ and knew the police den there, dropped them right outside it, said:
‘You guys are getting some bad press but for my money, you’re doing good.’
And waived the fare.
How often does that happen? It was smart public relations but the gesture was meant.
Falls said:
‘If you’re ever in a jam…’
He appreciated the pun. Andrews looked at the nondescript building, asked in a sulky tone:
‘What’s this?’
Falls, invigorated, said:
‘It’s the “sorrows”, as in drown the fuckers. You don’t get to visit it until you’ve proved yourself. So many wash out now, if they last a week it’s surprising but you, you’ve certainly shown you’re here for the long haul.’
Andrews seemed singularly unimpressed but when you’ve recently been bitten, your options move. There were no bouncers on the door — at a cop joint? Come on!
A single cop sat in an alcove, reading Loaded, looked up and muttered:
‘Falls.’
Waved them in.
You’d expect a dive and you wouldn’t be more wrong. The furnishings were sedate, almost feminine, lots of fussy curtains and delicate furniture with a bright paint job. The place was jammed: uniforms, plain clothes, Special Branch, civil servants who were vaguely connected in that they did favours. A long bar running the length of one wall, and two tenders.
As they walked in, conversation stopped and then a quiet applause began. Andrews looked at Falls who said:
‘That’s for you, kid.’
‘What? How can they know?’
Falls led the way to a corner table, acknowledged the praise with a small hand gesture and said:
‘Are you joking? A cop gets hit, they know.’
Immediately a round of drinks came, and raised glasses from various tables.
Andrews asked:
‘What’s in these drinks?’
There were six shot glasses and Falls handed one over, said:
‘Scotch, these guys are no frills.’
For a moment, it seemed like Andrews was going to demur, maybe ask for vodka and slimline tonic, but as she felt the camaraderie, something in her face changed and she knocked back the shot like a good ‘un. A chorus of ‘Way to go, girl’ followed.
She was in.
30
PC McDonald had been hovering on the brink for days on end. His parents had come from Edinburgh and left in tears. Brant, Falls, Roberts had all made appearances. Then he came round with a massive headache.
The doctor asked:
‘Are you a religious man?’
McDonald, groggy but improving, stared at him, asked:
‘What?’
‘A bullet creased the very top of your brain, you should be dead… at the very least, a vegetable. I’ve never seen such a drastic turnaround. If you’re not a religious man, you better find some icon to thank because, believe you me, this is a miracle.’
McDonald didn’t feel very grateful or lucky or even miraculous; what he felt was nauseous, thirsty and a little hungry. He said so.
The doctor gave him a long look and thought: Cops, more stupid than I could have believed. He said:
‘You should make a full recovery but you’re going to have to take a time to rest and recuperate. Head wounds are very traumatic and all sorts of problems can arise so we’ll be monitoring you.’
McDonald sighed and near whined:
‘So where are we on the drink?’
The doctor stomped off and figured the worst ones always survived. He near collided with Superintendent Brown, who said:
‘Hey, watch where you’re going.’
The doctor saw the dog’s dinner of insignia on the Super’s jacket and wanted to say:
‘If you’re the top honcho, no wonder the idiot in the bed is so thick.’
The Super sat on the side of the bed and asked:
‘How are you doing?’
McDonald managed to sit up and say:
‘Bit weak but I’ll be back in jig time.’
The Super snorted, which is exactly how it sounded: the noise coming down his nose full of derision and scepticism. He drew back his shoulders as his wife was always nagging him to do and barked:
‘That’s what you think, laddie!’
McDonald was confused; he thought the Super had come to praise him.
Before he could protest, the Super continued:
‘I still have some juice despite having to eat shit over arresting the wrong suspect so I’ve persuaded the media to treat you as a hero cop. All that good nonsense about tackling an armed and highly dangerous villain — the great unwashed still love the good old British “have a go” shite. You’ll probably get a commendation.’
He paused to let this sink in and McDonald didn’t know whether to say thanks or just shut his mouth. He decided to shut his mouth.
The Super looked round and wasn’t impressed with anything he saw, then:
‘You’ll get the commendation but that’s all you’ll bloody get. I had my eye on you, was even putting you up for the Lodge, but you’re finished, you hear me? You went off on your own bat and nearly caused a huge disaster. I’ll be covering our arse for months to come, thanks to you, and worse, we have a lunatic out there with a ton of our money and a weapon.’
Brown stood up, breathed heavily, added:
‘If you do come back, you’ll be on traffic, and we can only hope you don’t make a complete bollix of that.’
Then he stomped off.
A nu
rse went over to McDonald, gave the hero her sweetest smile and asked:
‘Now, love, what would you like?’
‘Like? What would I like? I’d like you to fuck off!’
It took two orderlies to hold him down while they gave him a massive sedative.
31
Falls was sinking her third shot when Brant strode in. He was wearing a light blue suit, open white shirt and soft leather boots that screamed money. He pulled up a chair and asked:
‘Join you, girls?’
Andrews was delighted and Falls felt her heart sink. For years, she’d struggled not to become like him but the more she did, the more she seemed to blend into him.
The cops at the bar gave him grudging waves; they were afraid not to. A round of drinks soon arrived and he gave his wolf smile. He raised one, pointed the glass at Andrews, said:
‘Here’s to you losing your cherry.’
Andrews picked up hers and smiled, the flirt-filled one that lets you know you’re batting ten. Brant took out his cigs and didn’t offer, lit up, blew the smoke in Falls’ direction and said:
‘We’ve finally got a break in the case.’
The women in unison went:
‘What?’
He enjoyed the reaction, said:
‘Yeah, we know where the mysterious woman is and have a line on Ray Cross, the cop shooter. I’m picking up Porter Nash and bringing him along to meet the woman.’
Falls picked up another shot. She was chilling out and wondered why she didn’t get to this place more often;, the company of cops, it was the best. The budding chemistry between Andrews and Brant was vaguely worrying but what could she do? She asked:
‘Porter is out?’
‘Yeah, he’s raring to go and he wants Cross so bad, you know how that goes?’
Falls had a moment and knew he was referring to the rumours of her offing the cop killer. She smiled — keep it light, she told herself.
Andrews, now in her element with a man in attendance (not to mention in admiration), stood up, asked:
‘Get you guys a drink?’
Brant said:
‘My kind of girl. Get the same again and see if they have any salt ‘n’ vinegar. Some nuts for Falls, she hasn’t had any for ages.’
Andrews positively flounced off.
Falls said:
‘Any chance you’ll let this one go?’
‘Who, the suspect?’
She leaned over, took one of his cigs — and you had to know him a long time to risk that — and said:
‘Don’t be coy, I mean this WPC. Could you pass on her?’
He loved it. His eyes closed for a moment, then he said:
‘Gotta break ‘em in, you know how it goes. Here, you want me to light that?’
And leant over.
She could smell some aftershave, just a hint but superior quality. She’d been hoping it was Old Spice or some predictable crap. She crushed his cig, dropped it on the table and he gave her the lazy look, said:
‘Could cost you.’
Andrews returned with bags of crisps, drinks, said:
‘Whoops, I forgot your nuts.’
Brant stood, said:
‘Gotta run but here’s my address. Why don’t you gals come over later? We’ll make some music, how would that be?’
Andrews looked at the fresh drinks, pleaded:
‘But your drink?’
Brant handed over his card, said:
‘You keep it warm for me, hon.’
And was gone.
Falls felt something close to jealousy and tried to bite down. She wanted to warn Andrews about Brant but knew it would only come out badly. The decision was made for her by the painkillers Andrews had received in the hospital. They kicked in and, with the series of neat whiskies, Andrews’ head began to droop. Falls managed to get her address from her and called a cab.
As they left, Falls holding her by the shoulders, one of the cops shouted:
‘Give her one for me.’
The cab driver asked:
‘Is she going to throw up? Only I’ve just had the car cleaned.’
Falls showed her teeth and he shut up. Back at the address, Falls was surprised to see a tidy, two-storey house and asked Andrews for her key.
She muttered:
‘Ring the doorbell.’
She did and it was thrown open by a middle-aged woman who ranted:
‘What have you done to my daughter?’
Falls was too tired to do parents and said:
‘She got bitten today so ease up. All right?’
The woman was having none of it:
‘So you went and got her drunk. Is that modern policing?’
Andrews, meanwhile, was slumped in the doorway, whimpering. Falls tried to help her up and the woman pushed her away, shouting:
‘Don’t you put your black hands on my girl. I don’t know what the world is coming to. She wasn’t brought up to this you know; she only ever saw you people from a distance.’
Falls didn’t know if she meant cops or blacks but had a good idea. She turned to go and added as a parting shot:
‘Yeah, well guess what? She’s been up close and personal now and I think she likes it.’
The door was slammed in her face.
‘The fuck you talking about?’
‘My question is, do I cut your dick off and stick it in your mouth before I shoot you…’
‘Hey — hey, listen to me a minute, no shit-’
‘Or do I shoot you and then cut your dick off? I always wondered,’ Vincent said, ‘since I’m not up on any of your quaint guinea customs yo guys’re into, leaving the dead rat, any of that kind a shit. I think I know which way you’d prefer…’
Elmore Leonard, Glitz.
31
Brant was driving a Toyota Corolla he’d borrowed from a guy who owed him a favour. The guy, nervous at Brant having the car, had asked:
‘You’ll be careful? I mean, it’s like, almost brand new.’
Brant gave him the smile, said:
‘I’ll treat it like a woman.’
That’s what the guy was afraid of and cringed as Brant burned rubber driving away.
Porter Nash lived in Kennington, an area that — according to the posh mags at least — was coming back. Which led you to wonder, where had it been? Brant, feeling good from the encounter with Andrews, leaned on the horn until Porter appeared. He was dressed in faded jeans, police gym track-top and trainers, a light raincoat topping off the ensemble.
He asked:
‘What’s with the horn-blowing?’
‘Get the neighbours cranked, let ‘em know the boys in blue are on the job.’
Porter got in and said:
‘I’m not even going to ask where you got the car.’
‘Smart.’
Brant drove like a demented person, lethal turns and cutting off black cabs at every opportunity. Porter lit a cig and Brant said:
‘Hey, aren’t you supposed to be off those?’
‘When this case is done, then I’m done.’
They pulled up at a quiet house and saw the windows were all lit up.
Brant said:
‘They’re home.’
He ran through what he’d learned from the snitch: that Angie had been running with Ray Cross, that Ray was in Brighton. Brant was hoping for an address on him soon. Porter digested the data then asked:
‘You think she’s involved?’
‘Let’s go find out.’
Angie opened the door, asked:
‘Yes?’
They showed the warrant cards and she invited them in. Walking ahead of them, Brant took a good look at her and thought she had the moves. In the sitting room, she asked if she could perhaps get them some refreshment. They declined and she motioned them to sit. They did.
Angie was dressed like a secretary: a very low-key secretary at that. A beige suit, with a simple white blouse and low heels, a single strand of pearls around her neck. The boys
weren’t buying this.
The look in her eyes said:
‘You believe this shit?’
They didn’t.
Brant began, his notebook on his lap, as if he had to consult it. He asked:
‘You were the girlfriend of Ray Cross?’
She ran her tongue along her bottom lip, feigning nervousness, answered:
‘Yes, but I had to flee.’
In unison they went:
‘Flee?’
Brant enjoyed the image. The idea of this babe fleeing anyone or anything just didn’t gel. She folded her hands on her knees, a demure gesture and Porter thought she was close to wringing her hands.
She said:
‘I was afraid of him. He had a gun and I began to suspect he was involved in dangerous activities.’
Porter felt he should join in, asked:
‘And you didn’t think to contact the police?’
Now the hand-wringing, with:
‘Oh, he’d have found out and I don’t know what he might have done.’
Brant lit a cig, then asked:
‘Mind?’
‘May I have one?’
He offered the pack and she took it delicately, shook one loose, waited for him to move. He reached over and fired her up.
Porter watched as she let her fingers touch Brant’s, ever so fleetingly.
Brant blew out the smoke, asked:
‘And the brother, Jimmy, how’d you get on with him?’
A few tears slid down her cheeks and neither offered a hankie. She sniffed, then:
‘Oh, Jimmy was too good for this world. He was an innocent, I can’t believe he’s dead.’
Porter had been impressed with the horn-rimmed glasses she’d been wearing. She removed them now to dry her eyes. Before he could comment, they heard a moan from the bedroom, Angie tried to smile, said:
‘My flatmate, she’d come down with some bug.’
Brant stood, asked:
‘Mind if I see how she’s doing?’
Angie, alarmed, stood, said:
‘There’s no need, she’ll be fine, you’ll only disturb her.’
Brant exchanged a look with Porter who nodded and Brant said:
‘Lady, it’s what I do best: disturb people.’