Authors: Ken Bruen
The explosion was deafening in the room, the guy howled in pain, grabbed at his ruined head, blood pouring down his neck, Wallace asked:
‘You hear any better now?’
Porter cried:
‘For the love of God, what are you doing… Jesus… come on?’
The guy managed to raise his head, pain etched in his face, and with a mighty effort he said:
‘Go fuck yourself, you Yankee piece of shit.’
Wallace shot him in the face.
WALLACE WAS DRIVING fast and with a fixed determination, Porter was shocked, sitting in the bucket seat, like he’d been hit by a truck… or a Magnum.
Wallace asked:
‘Where do you stand on pity fucks?’
Took Porter a moment to find his voice, then he said:
‘I pity the poor fuck you just murdered?’
Wallace looked at him in amazement, asked:
‘Hey, you’re not gonna wimp out on me, bud, I didn’t have you down for a pussy, is it some kind of gay thing? That what’s going on with you, you on the rag?’
If Porter had been carrying, he was fairly sure he’d have shot him, he said:
‘It’s gay if you count being horrified by cold-blooded execution, how the hell do you expect to get away with it?’
Wallace laughed, said:
‘You don’t get it, do you, you poor sap. It’s Homeland Security. I can do whatever the fuck I like, and what happened there, that was a message.… They want to sip with
virgins, be bathed in milk, or whatever crap they believe, we’re letting them know we’re more than happy to send them on their goddamn way.’
Porter reached for his cigarettes. He’d nearly quit… well, down to five a day… five-ish… Menthol Lights. He fired one up and Wallace snapped:
‘Yo, earth to pillow biter, did I say you could foul up my ride with that poison. It’s like fucking manners to ask, and the answer would have been no.’
Porter took a long deep drag, let out the smoke in Wallace’s direction, said:
‘What you going to do, shoot me?’
They’d got back to the station, and Wallace asked:
‘You gonna be pissed at me for long or you gonna lighten up, fellah?’
Porter tried to keep some trace of civility in his voice. He was British after all. Said:
‘I’m going to be get pissed… not
gonna
,… g-o-i-n-g… and then I’ll consider what action to take on your murderous act.’
He was out of the car and Wallace leaned out, near whispered:
‘Well howdy-doody, thanks y’all for the lesson in that there grammar, and I tell you, pilgrim, you drop a dime on me, you is, as us rednecks say,… deep crittered.’
Porter spun back, asked:
‘You threatening me, you.…’
He couldn’t find a Brit-enough adjective to convey his rage and ended with ‘wanker.’
Wallace laughed, burned rubber off the pavement.
Porter resolved he was going to be laid, if he had to buy a frigging rent boy, but as them Yanks said,
his ashes hauled
, he was gonna get.
That evening, he dressed for sex, tight dark jeans, a pair of boots that cut slightly into his left foot but pain was okay, kept you focused, ask Wallace.
He wore a crisp white shirt, open neck, no bling… come on, keep it simple, let his body do the talking, an ultra soft leather jacket, cream colour, and a splash of Calvin Klein. Good to go.
He had a very dry martini to set himself up and smoked one menthol, everything in moderation.
He didn’t bring his car, let’s not play silly buggers.
‘Buggery’ yes, silly… no.
He went to a club in Balham named, wait for it… O-ZONE… and worse, it had the logo…
HITS THE SPOT
.
Yeah.
But he’d been there before and it was a damn certainty to get off. He wasn’t looking for a bloody relationship, he’d been there and had the scars to show. Nope, a few drinks, unwind, get fucked, go home. Two serious bouncers on the door, in the muscle T-shirts, looking like they’d escaped from Village People. He didn’t know them, these guys changed as often as
his underwear. He could flash, so to speak, his warrant card, breeze in.
From their exchanged look, they knew he was the heat, nodded at him, let him pass. Inside, he gave them the twenty-quid admission, got a smile from the drag queen taking the cash, and went in to the main bar/dance floor.
The basement was for S and M, Porter got enough of that in his job, and upstairs, well, that was private rooms for shagging. Porter prayed they wouldn’t be playing Streisand, or worse, Garland.
Nope, some heavy hip-hop beat that wasn’t the worst. He stepped up to the bar and a gorgeous guy, like a young Red-ford, smiled:
‘And what would be your pleasure, sir.’
As Brant would say, thick as two short planks and stupid with it. Times were, he sure missed having that bigot around. He ordered a Campari and soda, stay mellow, and bought the guy a drink. The guy took a White Russian and when he got the look from Porter, lisped:
‘Jeff Bridges in
The Big Lebowski
.’
Porter took his drink and took off.
Four minutes later, he scored.
Hey, you play, you gotta pay.
—Bonanno crime boss on hearing his wife had been murdered after she dropped the dime on him
BRANT WAS SHAKING, not just his hands, his whole body. He was back in his home, a small house on the aptly named… Forl Road… as in forlorn. It had amused him once, not no more, he was dressed in a track suit, a navy blue London Met job. That normally tickled him as he’d nicked it from the Super. Sticking it to his boss had been among his favourite amusements
The painkillers they’d given him at the hospital weren’t worth a shite, he said aloud:
‘These aren’t worth a shite.’
To the empty house.
The doctor had told him he was sure to experience posttraumatic stress disorder. Like it was fucking mandatory, and if he didn’t, he’d be letting the side down. Yeah, well, bloody newsflash, he was feeling it, okay, happy now, you gobshites. And the rage—he’d always operated on a blend of anger, agitation, and aggressiveness—it was who he was.
Brant had been hurt before, knifed in the back by a couple of crazy kids who’d burned his dog… and what the fuck, as
he thought of that damn animal, the dog that is. He felt a tear welling in his eye. Now he was seriously angry, to ride with the fear. Crying like a damned bitch.
Fuck no, no way.
After the knifing, he’d gone right back on the streets, meaner than ever and those two, the stabbing duo, they were dirt, literally, buried years ago and good fucking riddance. But this, this gut-twisting feeling, the sweat popping out on his brow, the tremors, Jesus.
Yeah, fine, he was of Irish descent, he knew the painkiller that never failed. Tore open his drinks cabinet, nigh splintering the wood, grabbed the bottle of Jameson, a twenty-five-year-old beauty he’d been saving, twisted the cap off as if he was twisting the neck of some bugger, got a lethal measure poured into a heavy Waterford tumbler, and drank deep, waited for the magic to light his belly.
He held the glass up to the light, sighed as the sun caught the intricate pattern. The odd time Brant had guests and, let’s face it, not many called on Brant, unless to do serious damage. Porter, when he’d been unknowingly writing Brant’s book. Brant had literally nicked the yarns and sold them as a book to a high-speed agent, and the damn thing was good to go, near ready to be published.
Fuck.
Porter had marvelled at the glass, commented:
‘What a beautiful piece of real craft.’
Fags, they were into that fancy shite.
Brant, looking away, as if he were welling up, a near choke in his voice had said:
‘Me old mum brought them over from the old country, t’was all the poor creature had to leave me when she passed.’
Truth to tell, the cunt had left him nothing but bitterness, and she spent no more money on crystal than she spent time on her son.
Porter was suitably impressed and relayed the moving story to Roberts at a later date. Roberts had laughed, said:
‘He took them off a pimp he busted on the Railton Road.’
Porter had been raging, but what, confront Brant, yeah, right so he let it slide.
Brant was feeling better, picked up the phone, let it ring, then heard:
‘Yeah?’
Tired voice, husky with cigs, bad booze, and worse men, He said:
‘How you doing, Alanna?’
This was Lynn, a hooker who’d been around almost as long as Brant and they had history, a lot of it not so bad, he’d saved her arse more than once and ridden it a lot more. She said:
‘I thought they shot you’
He laughed, genuinely amused, a rare occurrence for him. He laughed often but very rarely with conviction, he said:
‘Just a flash wound.’
Like John Wayne, shrugging off massive bullet wounds.
Brant had watched
The Shootist
more times than he’d eaten late night kebabs in Piccadilly Circus. She asked:
‘What’cha want, Sarge?’
Letting lots of the London hard leak over the question, let him know she was still a player, a tired one but hooking, you didn’t expect to be energized. He said:
‘A shag.’
She was silent and he could hear her lighter click, a gold Colibri he’d given her. She said:
‘So, what else is new, give me twenty minutes. You’re home I take it?’
‘Home and horny.’
Click.
He wasn’t horny, in fact, he never felt less like sex. The doctor had told him that gunshot victims often lost their usual appetites. He was fucked, pun intended, if he was going to let that be true. He took another wallop of the whisky, feeling better by the minute, and went upstairs, knelt down in his bedroom, and lifted up the carpet. He had a floor safe, got it opened, and took out his favourite piece.
The Sig Sauer, model 225. It had been revised to carry eight rounds of 9mm Parabellum ammo, he even had the grown-up version, the 226, which jacked fifteen rounds.
He thought:
Ammunition
.
And aloud said:
‘Yah little beauty.’
It was as close to affection as he got.
Lynn had said once:
‘Little boys and their weapons.’
He’d of course, mounted her, muttering:
‘Try this weapon.’
He could see Rodney Lewis in his mind, the big-shot city trader, smirking at him and Porter. Brother of a fucking rapist, and Brant was in, no doubt. He’d paid for the hit on him and would definitely try again.
That type always did.
Brant racked the Sig, said:
‘Mr Lewis, you are dead fucking meat.’
He felt much better, must be the Jameson, worked every time.
He put the gun in his belt, walked, no, swaggered down to wait for Lynn.
The fear, nearly abated… nearly.
ROBERTS HAD SUMMONED Falls to his office. She’d been having a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin when she got the call. Lane, the cop who’d been on the Happy-Slapper arrest with her, had got up from his table when she’d entered. That was worrying. She wasn’t sure he’d stand up, continue to maintain the lie about the set-up they’d pulled. Eyeing the muffin, she’d reassured herself:
‘Naw, he’s an old-style copper, he won’t sell out the blue.’
Or black, in her case.
‘Would he?… no, the fuckhead wouldn’t have the balls.’ He certainly wouldn’t have the balls for long if he did.
She sighed. As if this weren’t enough, she’d had another damn letter/card from Angie, the psychotic bitch.
Read:
Sweetie
Do you miss your little vixen? Don’t you fret none, I’m coming round real soon and then… you’ll be coming… in a flood… or a fall
.
Xxxxxxxxx
Ang
Thing too, it kind of turned on Falls. Christ on a bike, how fucked up was she? The old urge for a line of coke surfaced and with ferocity, she could almost feel the icy drip down the back of her throat. Eat something sweet they’d told her in rehab when the compulsion arose.
Fucking words to live on.
She could eat Angie.
That’s when the summons came, and she was relieved not to eat the muffin as her weight was definitely on the up.
Like her career, yeah?
She was a sergeant, wasn’t she… muff that.