by Ken Bruen
I cut the sausage, hefted a wedge and she licked her bottom lip, whispered, ‘Give it to me big boy.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘You want me to haul ass.’
‘Yeah… and give me back the bloody gun.’
‘Aw-righty,’ she said, and opened her bag.
‘Jeez, not here, what… are you outa yer tree.’
‘Well outa federal jurisdiction. I wanna make up.’
‘Make up, like stories is it?’
‘I’m hot for you Cooper. I could service you now, under the table. You just go on eating your vitals, all your appetites satisfied together.’
‘Go away’
She touched her hair, asked, ‘Do I look like Jennifer Aniston?’
‘Who?’
‘Oh Gawd. Don’t you watch TV… like, you never heard of Friends?’
‘I’ve got the Doc.’
‘JES-US… like get real. It’s a comedy series, like mega. A million women copied Jennifer’s style. There’s even a cult called “The Holy Tabernacle of Aniston The Divine”.’
‘Don’t mean shit to me but yer hair… is… I dunno… circa Cathy McGowan… the 60s… like that.’
She rolled her eyes and that closed the hair rap. Said, ‘I bought you a present.’
‘Keep it.’
‘Please Cooper just let me explain. I was jealous, it makes me crazy, I never met a man like you. Mind if I smoke.’
‘And you’ll refrain if I do.’
She took out the Camels, soft pack and crushed, shook one free, asked, ‘Can you light me?’
A couple in their twenties, laden with food, approached and asked, ‘Might we share your table?’
Cassie’s head turned, spat, ‘What, you goddamn blind, we look like we’re receiving company? Can’t you see we’re having sex here.’
I jumped up, said, ‘Sure, we’re all finished.’
And strode out. She was right on my heels as I hit the path, shouted, ‘Don’t leave me, what about the children.’
You can do just about any weird shit in Brixton and no one gives a toss. Ain’t nothing new. But she got attention, maybe it was the bloody Yank accent. A group of the brothers were hanging outside the blues music shop, one of them said, ‘No way to treat a lady, man.’
I said, without breaking my stride, ‘That’s no lady, it’s the shoplifter from hell.’
As I moved fast into Coldharbour Lane, her voice carried: ‘I love you David and Louis MacNeice.’
I dunno if it meant Louis loved me too but I doubt it. Got the car keys out and my hands were shaking. Half expected her to start shooting. The engine revved and I burned rubber, sweat dancing on my upper lip.
Back home I got right on the phone, called a mate, asked, ‘You still fitting locks?’
‘Sure.’
‘OK, can you do a rush job, like now?’
‘Naw, we’re booked solid, no can do old son.’
‘If I throw in a few ponies for yourself’
‘What time would suit you?’
‘And shoot the works OK, deadbolts, state-of-the-art shit, top of the line.’
‘It will cost.’
‘Tell me about it. What’s the best system?’
‘The three five seven.’
‘What?’
‘Magnum.’
‘Get here soonest, leave the humour at the office.’
Poured a Scotch, took a fast slug, muttered ‘crazy bloody bitch’ and rang Doc.
‘That you Coop, how’s she cutting?’
‘I found her.’
‘Good man, where?’
‘Brixton.’
‘Figures. Did you deal with her?’
‘We had lunch.’
‘What? Are you stone raving mad. Tell me at least you got the shooter back, tell me that.’
‘I managed to get away from her.’
‘I’m confused Cooper, or you’re winding me up. We’ve been hunting her, half the firm on overtime, me calling in favours from every breed of wanker and you’re saying you escaped.’
‘I’m going to change the locks.’
‘Fuck-me-pink, you need to change your bloody attitude.’
He hung up.
A large package arrived next morning. The postman had to ring as it took me ages to undo the new locks. Grunting, I pulled open the door. As he handed me the package he winked. I asked, ‘Something wrong with yer eye mate?’
‘Nothing wrong with ME.’
‘Keep that up, it will change.’
And slammed the door. Scrawled all over the paper was ‘S.W.A.L.K., a heart, I love you stallion, and LIPS’. I said, jeez, who could this be? Tore it open, praying to hell-and-gone it wasn’t incendiary. I already knew it was explosive, a book fell out. Autumn Journal by Louis MacNeice. Swore, this fuck again. I was very tired of the guy. Still, the book had a nice feel to it. Old leather cover, gold-leaf pages and one of them index fingies you see in bibles. She’d written a note, what a surprise.
‘My David, David Mia
Without you
What warehouse of the soul
awaits me now.’
Deep, I said, very friggin’ deep.
I used the index and read:
‘And I remember Spain
at Easter, ripe as an egg
for revolt and ruin
though for a tripper
the rain was worse
than the surly
or the worried or the haunted faces.’
I wasn’t getting this. Maybe he was one of those guys you had to hear aloud. So I cleared my throat, looked around a bit self-consciously and took my shot.
‘The churches full of saints
tortured on racks of marble
and the Escorial
cold for ever
within the heart of Philip
as if veneer could hold
the rotten guts
and crumpled bones together.’
Yeah, well, some people had a flair for it. The Doc, now he’d read the telephone directory and you felt moved. I reckon the Irish always sound as if they mean it, as if it’s personal. Us lot, we’ve always one ear open for the hint of ridicule.
My old man, he fancied his voice. Sunday evenings he’d read to my mother and I from the Good Book. All the Old Testament stuff. Jeez, he was hot for that fire and brimstone, unmerciful punishments and ferocious suffering. The torment of the damned got him hot. Silly fucker would drone on about begots and begats. My mother punctuating the silences with compliments and praise, she can’t have been right in the head, or could she possibly have been taking the piss? How I wish it were so. Truth is, she was the worst kind of criminal. She supported him in his tyranny of bullying and beatings, encouraged him in the nurture of those fuckin’ pigeons. The face of gentility and aspiring middle class, she was the public face of the beast. After he took his dive, she became a professional widow, leapt into black weeds and wore them like a trophy. ‘Hey – see me – not only had I a husband but I buried him and of course, there’ll be no other man.’ As if anyone would have the cow. I got the fuck away from her as soon as I was able and it wasn’t soon enough.
Long before the psychologists, the heart-juicers came trippin’ along with fancy names like dysfunctional, our family unit was full fledged fucked.
The old man’s Christian name was Alistair. Not that he’d a drop of Christianity. He had a framed tapestry in our pokey hall which said:
MAN PROPOSES
GOD DISPOSES
Yeah.
Alistair the righteous, the unholy more like. ‘Don’t think he’d planned on bein’ ‘smote’ from a three-storey building in Battersea, not a howl down from the dogs’ home. One might say he was indeed begot, or is it begat. Whatever, well creamed any road. The doorbell went. I didn’t recognise him at first, then he spoke.
‘Dave, how are you lad, have you forgotten me?’
Then it clicked. Noble, the noble savage.
‘Chief Inspector.’
; ‘One and the same, I must put my hand up, cop a plea. That’s police manual humour to put Joe Public at ease.’
‘It works, or is it to put him off his guard?’
‘Might I step in?’
‘Have you a warrant?’
Took him aback. I added, ‘Just kiddin’, come on then.’
He had a cheap raincoat and even cheaper aftershave. No, the cheapest. It comes free with the litre bottles of bleach.
‘Have a seat.’
As he did he took a full look round.
‘The decorators did you proud, very nice job, local lads are they?’
‘By means of Dublin.’
‘Expensive?’
‘Depends on your perspective Inspector. Tea, coffee, vodka. No, hold the phones, I’ve a nice bit o’ Britvic.’
He smiled, said, ‘Perhaps the tea.’
I got that done, put cups, milk, sugar on a tray and some strawberry jam delights. Put the spread before him, he said, ‘Now, isn’t this cosy.’
And took a biscuit, bit cautiously, said, ‘Mm… m… that is good, Marks and Spencers?’
‘Sainsbury’s.’
‘First class. I might go another.’
And he did. Then said, ‘Bit o’ news you’ll find fascinating.’
‘Oh yeah, and what would that be?’
‘The Met are to be issued with longer acrylic batons. The Home Secretary wanted to know if the longer length made a difference in physical impact injuries and has finally approved them.’
‘That is fascinating. Acrylic eh, and machine washable.’
‘I doubt you’d pop them in yer local laundrette. Meanwhile, the villains load up on Uzis and M-11’s.’
‘I do appreciate your hoppin’ round to tell me, Inspector but you could have phoned.’
‘And miss these treats, I do believe I’ll have another. That your Astra outside?’
‘It’s a repo, I’ll drop it off later.’
‘Don’t doubt it for a minute. Who’s going to play silly buggers eh? The reason I wished to see you is, I wondered if you’d any new ideas on those robberies.’
‘Not a one.’
‘Mm… m… you’re not having tea.’
‘Bit early for me.’
‘We know it’s the same two men. They nick a car and hit at random, almost like they stuck a pin in a map. What do you think?’
‘No idea.’
‘Well, that’s my job eh, but I’ll pop round from time to time let you know how the investigation’s going.’
He stood up, noisily drained his cup, headed for the door. I said, ‘It isn’t really necessary you know.’
‘Of course I know it isn’t fuckin’ necessary Cooper. When it gets to that, I’ll send Quinn.’
Doc was close to shouting.
‘What did you do to antagonise the prick.’
‘Do me a bloody favour Doc, I gave him tea for crying out loud.’
‘And he definitely said WHEN not IF.’
‘You think I misheard him, that it?’
‘Fuck fuck fuck.’
‘That’s a big help.’
I was round at Doc’s place. He lived off the Clapham Road in an old draughty house that never got warm. Laura, his common-law wife, was doing household shit and noisily. A small intense brunette, she’d a vicious temper. I don’t think she liked me but it wasn’t personal. She didn’t like anybody, even Doc seemed to bug her and they’d been together eighteen years. He shouted, ‘Laura, for fuck’s sake, will you stop bangin’ things.’
‘When you stop bangin’ young wans.’
He gave a huge smile, said, ‘The mouth on that woman, strip paint off a gate. Hey Laura, wet a sup o’ tea.’
‘Wet it yerself.’
They had a sixteen-year-old daughter, currently at a posh boarding school. Doc said, ‘Everyone in this house-hold does time.’
Laura sighed, ‘But I’m the only one doing life.’
Round at Lisa’s, I’d called with flowers. The logo shouts ‘Say It With Flowers’. A bunch of pink roses, they didn’t have a whole lot of chat. Lisa said, ‘They’re lovely.’
What else could she add. She’d answered the door in nowt but a slip.
‘How does the postman react?’ I asked.
‘To what.’
Well fuckit, cancel the witty repartee. She gave me a large scotch and as I got behind that, I noticed she’d a gold chain round her ankle.
‘Why do you wear a chain on yer foot?’
‘It’s called a slave bracelet.’
‘That must set women’s rights back a few years.’
Not appreciated. Anger made her face ugly, blended with the knowledge she’d suspected the very same thing.
‘Are you calling me a bimbo?’
‘Whoa, slow down babe, you can hang it from your ass, see if I could give a fuck.’
She bent down to get a book, giving me a flash that hit like hope.
‘I read things you know. Look, I’ve got Carrie Fisher’s book.’
‘One of the greats.’
‘Do you read her?’
‘Bloody hell, I can almost quote her.’
‘Do you know this bit?’
“Here’s how men think:
Sex
Work
Food
Sports
Relationships.”’
She looked so eager as she read this. I felt a complete bastard but I’d signed on, so I said, ‘Not much escapes the bold Carrie. And, how do women score.’
‘Oh she’s so right, she says women think:
“Relationships
Relationships
Relationships
Work
Sex
Shopping
Weight
Food.”’
I said, ‘Wanna sit over here babe?’
‘OK.’
I got my hand under that slip and got hot. As we got to the deposit till, she pushed me off, said, ‘Don’t be so rough.’
Alas, I’d gone a tad too far down the jackpot road, was in the area of sexual bravado, whispered, ‘You’re a slave, do what the master commands.’
And she threw a drink in my face. I roared, ‘The fuck you think you’re doing?’
‘I want to be wooed.’
‘What!’
‘Romance – and the cinema. You don’t respect me.’
I stood up, headed out, added quiet, ‘Bolix.’ I wanted only Cassie, blind to all else.
The flowers were by the door but they’d nowt to add, not even goodbye.
Outside, I experienced the sense of being stalked. I had to figure it could be cops but it was too eerie. Physically shook myself to get back on track. Muttered ‘get real’, or failing that, ‘get real bloody vicious’.
I’d been handling Cassie all wrong. Coming on hardass was where she lived. If there was a next time, I’d be Mr Diplo-fuckin’-matic till I cornered. Then, we’d rock ’n’ roll.
A wino was witnessing ‘I was never a social drinker, only a social security drinker.’ I’d asked Doc if his boozin’ had been as serious as he told it. He’d answered, ‘Lemme put it this way. I was living in Bradford for six months before I realized it was Darlington.’
Quite.
I still had the Astra, I dunno why. It’s a woman’s car in truth. If you need a second car, then it’s as good as any. But for the main event, the numero uno, the big friggin’ cheese, it’s window dressing. Got home and planned a slow evening of strong drink. The phone went.
‘Dave?’
‘Yeah… hey… Doc, is that you?’
He never called me by my Christian name, I actively discouraged it. Only when heavy shit went down did he resort to it. Right now, I’d swear he was sobbing, his voice sounded broken.
‘Dave, it’s Laura – she’s dead.’
‘What!’
‘It’s true Dave – she went under a train… oh God.’
Now he was sobbing, I said, ‘I’m on my way buddy, just hang tight… OK.’
/> ‘OK.’
The flaming Astra wouldn’t start. Then I realized I was flooding the engine and forced myself to calm down… OK… OK… try again. Burned rubber outa there.
As I drove I could hear Doc in my head, the thousand things he’d said. Once, ‘You never hear of Tom Leonard?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, you ignoramus, he proposed that long-term prisoners be given the freedom to purchase their own cells.’
The police cars were parked outside his house. I went in and came face to face with Quinn. What appeared dangerously close to a smirk was plastered on his grey-hound snout. He nodded.
Doc was sitting in an armchair, a bottle of Scotch between his legs. I crouched down, said, ‘I’m so sorry buddy.’
He looked blank, asked, ‘I dunno, should I drink whisky, Laura says it makes me cranky.’
‘How about some tea?’
‘I’d like some tea, two sugars please.’
A uniformed cop was in the kitchen, his shoulder micro-phone emitting squawky messages. I asked, ‘Do you know what happened?’
‘It seems she’d been shopping and was changing trains at the Oval for the Northern Line to Morden. She went under at approximately five forty-five. Rush hour, it didn’t half bugger up the timetable. We got her name from her handbag.’
I made the tea, the cop’s mike was eating at my nerves, I snapped, ‘Can’t you shut that bloody thing off.’
‘No can do Sir, any chance of a cuppa?’
I gave him the look, said, ‘No can do pal, know wot I mean?’
Doc took the tea but was unsure what to do. I said, ‘Drink it.’
‘OK.’
He took his reading glasses from the table before him. I thought ‘Wot, he’s going to read now,’ and he said, ‘Can I have a glass of water?’
Before I could act, he began to feverishly polish the lens, saying ‘This was not a boating accident.’
For that moment, he was Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws and then he switched channels. This is a case for the 87 Precinct, Steve Carella and Bert Kling. Meyer Meyer was as bald as an egg – ‘let’s hear it for the deaf man’ – Steve’s wife, Teddy, was a mute. Carver City and the boys of the eighty-seven. Shit, I nearly forgot Lieutenant Byrnes. I looked up and Quinn was there, said, ‘Yer mate’s losing it, the Doc’s gone doolally.’