by Ken Bruen
Roberts tried to turn his eyes away from the dripping biscuit, knew he was snookered, but went:
‘I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir, but I hate to butt into another department’s area.’
Brown rolled the soggy biscuit round his gums, his mouth open, said:
‘You let me worry about that, that’s what command is all about, just clear this up pronto.’
Roberts sighed, said:
‘Yes, sir.’
He was almost out the door when Brown said:
‘Tell my secretary to bring me another biscuit, this one was stale.’
Roberts rang the Fraud Squad, knew one of their guys named Foster, asked:
‘Got a few minutes?’
Heard a low laugh and went:
‘What?’
Foster was an okay guy, Roberts had had the odd pint with him and they’d walked the beat in the old days. Foster said:
‘Wondered how long it would take you to call.’
Roberts was a bit put out, thought he’d have to go into a long spiel about meddling in their territory and he’d try not to step on anyone’s toes, the whole grovelling gig. But here the guy was, expecting him. What was that about? Foster said:
‘We’d a pool going here as to how long before you’d call, you just earned me a few quid.’
Roberts had found it cut the shit when you admitted you’d no idea what the hell was going on, so he said:
‘What the hell is going on?’
Foster was still chuckling, asked:
‘Dodgy fifties, am I right?’
‘Yes, normally your manor.’
Foster said something to the squad in the background and there was a loud round of applause, then:
‘Yeah, we handle bent currency every day, but when a certain Super gets almost arrested for passing a counterfeit note, you know he’s going to get personal.’
Roberts nearly laughed himself, asked:
‘Brown was burned?’
‘Oh yeah, in a swanky club in Mayfair. Let’s just say there were hostesses involved and no one spots funny money as fast as those girls.’
Roberts was delighted, anything that punctured that smugness of Brown’s was good.
Foster was saying:
‘So a chief inspector assigned to funny money, what a come-down.’
Roberts wasn’t offended, asked:
‘Tell me how to fix this?’
Foster stalled till Roberts asked:
‘Okay, what do you want?’
The old barter deal, scratch my back or paddle your own canoe. Foster said:
‘Be nice to have seats for the Test Series.’
Roberts groaned but in truth wasn’t fazed, Brant usually had some spare, so said:
‘That’s asking a lot.’
Foster knew the deal was done said:
‘And a case of some hooch, keep the nip out.’
‘Sure you don’t want a car to collect you?’
‘Great idea.’
Foster then told him to grab a guy named Fitz, hung out in East Lane Market, but to tread carefully, the guy was volatile. Roberts asked:
‘How careful are we talking here?’
‘Tool up and bring back-up.’
‘Enjoy the cricket.’
Roberts didn’t think he needed back-up for some dodgy money character. Nor did he want help. What he wanted was to clear this nonsense and in jig-time. He headed for the market. Maybe buy some designer shirts too, spruce up his image; he certainly wouldn’t be buying a suit. He figured he’d nail this fast, keep up his record of near full closure on all his duties. He was smiling as he thought of Brown, ogling a hostess, tipping her with a fifty, last of the big spenders, and then the consternation when the money was found to be bogus.
27
When Falls stormed out of the Oval, leaving McDonald behind, she had a moment of total indecision. Her car was parked at the church and she debated calling a cab then said the hell with it, she’d drive. Got in the car, put the safety belt on, checked her rear mirror, then eased out into traffic. She was still seething with McDonald, the stupid bastard, carrying a piece, coked out of his tree, and mouthing off.
Then she was rear-ended.
Went:
‘The fuck is that…?’
Stopped the car, tore out, ready to cripple whoever hit her. A BMW was about a foot behind her, and a man got out, wearing a very expensive leather jacket, not unlike McDonald’s. She thought, what, there’s a goddam sale of the bloody things and the man went:
‘OH-MI-GOD, are you okay? I am so desperately sorry, all my fault… oh, you’re gorgeous.’
She didn’t know how to react, it had been so long since she’d gotten a compliment that she was completely thrown. The anger she’d readied leaked away, even as she realized that he was probably snowing her. Who cared when he was as gorgeous as he was. It was a long time since Falls had laid eyes on a truly handsome man, she’d forgotten the sheer thrill of it. He had eyes as blue as Paul Newman’s and do they come any bluer? The guy’s hair was dark brown, tossed in that way that costs a fortune. You pay the stylist a ransom to make you look like you ran your fingers through it, as if you couldn’t be bothered. She wanted to reach out and touch it. He had a square jaw, wide mouth, and he was tall, with a slender build. His voice was deep, and cliched though it was, he sounded like he was sincere. Now he said:
‘Here’s my card, my insurance will cover it, but might I be totally reckless…’
Here he paused, gave a self-conscious laugh, added:
‘Good Lord, I’ve been reckless enough with my driving, but may I go for broke and invite you to a little dinner?’
The mood of madness seemed to envelope them, on one of the busiest routes in Southeast London. As drivers honked furiously he had her answer:
‘Couldn’t I have a big dinner?’
Signed, sealed, and delivered.
She parked her car, and he said:
‘Give me your keys and your address. I’ll have one of my staff bring it for repairs and have it outside your door in the morning. How would that be?’
Staff!
Better and better.
She wanted to roar:
‘That would be fucking wonderful, you’re wonderful, shit, life is a cabaret.’
And then she was in the front seat of his car, and they were en route to eat. She thought:
‘Am I stark raving bonkers? He could be a serial killer and here I am, along for the slaughter, like a teenager.’
It gave her a delicious thrill. She hadn’t been out on the edge for so long, it was a rush of almost cocaine level. He said:
‘I’m Don Keaton, and forgive me for not shaking hands but I think I’ve had enough road accidents for one night.’
She clocked his hands, no wedding band, not that that meant a whole lot these days but it was a start. And his hands had a light tan, and looked strong, long fingers like an artist. She tried not to gush as she said:
‘I’m Elizabeth Falls.’
Another first, she almost never gave her Christian name. He asked:
‘Elizabeth, you like Italian?’
She’d have eaten vegetarian, said:
‘Love it.’
He smiled over at her, said:
‘I think you and I are going to get on good.’
She was already wondering if the sheets on her bed were clean. Wanted to say:
‘Don, you just scored, babe.’
After years of trauma, shitty luck, murderous experiences, here was the lottery all in one. He said:
‘I’ve an admission to make, Elizabeth.’
She prayed to every saint she’d ever heard of:
Don’t, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t let him be gay.
He said:
‘I don’t know any black people.’
And looked ashamed. She wanted to hug him, said:
‘I’ll be all the black you need.’
The restaurant was in Kennington, and t
he maitre’d greeted Don by name. When they were seated, he asked:
‘The usual dry martini?’
Don looked at Falls who nodded and another waiter brought massive menus. Falls asked:
‘Will you order for us?’
He did, a blaze of spaghetti alla chitarra, linguine, garganelli, taglierini, fusilli, and a whole pile of stuff she’d never heard of.
Don said:
‘The house wine is especially good, or do you want to see the wine list?’
She didn’t.
They ate like vultures, greasy, uncouth, and with passion. Half-way through, suffused with wine, he said:
‘You eat like an Italian.’
She shook her head, said:
‘No, like a person who’d been reared with hunger.’
It was the best night of her life. Don was a stockbroker and she asked:
‘You mean like rich.’
He nodded and asked:
‘And what about you, what do you do, Elizabeth?’
That moment.
Truth or dare?
Most times, she mentioned it, it distorted the balance, guys either got off on it, a weird gig about shagging a cop, a party dazzler, as:
‘This is my black girlfriend, she’s a cop.’
And the resultant queries, have you ever shot anyone or worse, the boy’s own:
‘Show me your truncheon.’
Or they got scared, took off. Mostly they took off. So she was silent for a second and he stared at her then she thought:
It’s a magical night, go for broke.
Levelled her gaze, said:
‘I’m a policewoman.’
He never faltered, straight out:
‘That’s wonderful, we need people like you.’
And so the evening of alchemy continued, she could do no wrong. Went back to his penthouse… yes, a penthouse on Mayfair, and fucked like demons. She had to put her hand on his chest, say:
‘Whoa, let me catch a breath here.’
Her pleasure was his primary concern, and when did that happen? In the morning he drove her home, said:
‘I might be falling in love with you, Elizabeth.’
She fell into her own bed, muttering:
‘God, I owe you. Like BIG TIME.’
She slept the sleep of the truly contented, smiled in her sleep and emitted little groans of pleasure.
Roberts hadn’t been down to East Lane Market for a long time and his first thought, was:
Where did all the English go?
The number of former Soviet nationals was staggering. It was packed and he recognized a pickpocket he’d arrested once. The guy named, originally enough, Dip, tried to pretend he didn’t see Roberts. He began to move quickly through the crowd but Roberts caught him up, asked:
‘Yo, what’s your hurry, buddy?’
Dip acted surprised, went:
‘Ah, Chief Inspector, good to see you.’
Roberts stared at him, the guy seemed down on his luck, shabby clothes and an air of desperation. The very last thing a guy in his line of work needed to look was desperate. Roberts said:
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.’
A stall was situated at the middle of the market, and Roberts got two roasting cups, said:
‘It’s hot, mind those fingers, eh.’
Dip took a sip, said:
‘It’s instant; I hate instant.’
Roberts laughed, he’d always had a soft spot for Dip, asked:
‘How’s business?’
Dip looked offended, tried for indignation, said:
‘I don’t do that no more.’
Roberts took a slug of the brew and burned his tongue, slung the thing away, said:
‘You’ve gone straight, that it?’
Dip looked downcast, said:
‘You can’t try your luck with those non-English, you never know what diseases they might have and if you were crazy enough to try, you’d end up like that guy last week. He dipped a Croatian, got caught, and they sliced off his fingers.’
Roberts was smiling, the careless bigotry, racism from a pickpocket, the British Empire might be fucked but the spirit lived on in its thieves. Roberts asked:
‘Do you know a guy called Fitz?’
Dip glanced around, as if they might be overheard, said:
You don’t want to fuck with him.’
Roberts realized this was the second time he’d been warned about the guy, said:
‘He’s a hard-ass, that it?’
Dip gave a grimace then:
‘He’s a bloody lunatic. You need that animal Brant with you if you’re going to see him.’
Roberts was slightly offended, his pride was on the line, said:
‘Where does this supercrook hang?’
Dip indicated the pub on the corner, gave a low whistle, said:
‘He’s always there but you’ve been fair with me, Mr Roberts, you cut me some slack before, so I’m telling you, call for back-up before you go after him.’
Roberts was moved, even if the remark came from a pickpocket. Dip made to go and Roberts asked:
‘How will I know him, in the pub I mean?’
Dip sighed, his expression saying:
I tried my best.
Said; ‘You can’t miss him, he’s the biggest fucker in there and I mean size, oh yeah.’
Roberts had been a cop a long time and over the years, he’d taken some beatings, given some too. None were in the league of the one he received in East Lane.
Went like this.
He went into the pub, full of piss and vinegar. Brimming with confidence at the successes he’d recently achieved and figuring he was about to notch up yet one more.
He was wrong.
The bar was smoky, with Johnny Cash playing loud, ‘Fol-som Prison.’ That should have alerted him. He misinterpreted it, thinking, ‘fucking shit-kickers, English rednecks.’ Men were in small packs all over the lounge and a hush descended as he entered. Not just because he was a stranger but these guys, dole scroungers, stall keepers, fugitives of all hues, smelt police. He spotted Fitz right away. He’d been told he was big, the man was huge, propping up the counter, midway through a dirty joke. He looked like a small mountain, a very mean one. Wild black hair, a grey beard, and and boiler suit. Not that he especially chose these outfits but little else fit his bulk. Like a Western, men began to move away from the encounter. Roberts, feeling powerful, asked:
‘Fitz?’
The guy turned slowly, he had large brown eyes, with a mark below the left, as if someone had tried to gouge it out. His voice was surprisingly gentle, he said:
‘Who’s asking?’
Roberts smiled, it was classic, like the old days, everyone knew their role. He was going to enjoy hustling this moron into the nick by the collar, to fit the image. He said:
‘Chief Inspector Roberts, I need a word.’
The barman poured a fresh pint of mild and placed it before Fitz, who went:
‘That don’t mean shit to me, pal.’
Loud nervous laughter from the hordes. This enraged Roberts, who’d been enjoying the whole scene, and worse, Fitz lifted the pint and downed it in one fluid swallow, paused, then belched. Mild is wildly misnamed. It’s usually the dregs of other beers, cheap and lethal. Roberts reckoned it was time to flex the blue muscle, said:
‘Get your arse outside, I’m taking you in.’
And got the most ferocious wallop of his life, up under the chin, from left field. It lifted him clear off the floor, dropped him on his ass. Then Fitz wiped the stout from his upper lip, said to the barman:
‘Have another pulled, I won’t be long.’
Without effort, he leaned down and picked Roberts up by his shirt, buttons flying in all directions, threw him over his shoulder and walked out to the back of the yard. He threw Roberts aside like a doll, said:
‘This is going to hurt like fuck, but you won’t ever diss me again.’
Then he began to give Robe
rts the beating of his life. It didn’t take long but it was relentless. Before he blacked out, Roberts heard Johnny go:
‘ “I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die…” ‘
28
Brant rolled over in his bed, stared at the tousled head of Linda Gillingham-Bowl, man she looked old. But what a ride, she’d fucked him every which way but loose. And came back for more. He’d finally roared:
‘Enough, I’ll sign with you.’
Now all he had to do was get Porter to the flat, lace his coffee with speed, and get some more chapters out of him. Piece of cake. The phone shrilled and Brant shook his head, he was feeling the blaze of a medieval hangover but he’d enough medication to kick its ass. He lifted the receiver, croaked;
‘Yeah?’
Heard Roberts was in the hospital and in bad shape. He jumped out of bed, got to the shower, and scalded the bejaysus out of his skin. Then to the medicine cabinet, got Solpadeine, a hint of speed, some Alka-Seltzer, and piled it in a glass with GALWAY BAY on the front. Added water and sunk it. His system fought like a demon to process the concoction. A moment between heaven and hell and then his stomach decided to go quietly and accept the verdict. He heard:
‘Darling, where are you, sweet pea?’
He strode into the bedroom and she stared at his naked body, whistled low, went, ‘You beast.’
He began to dress for combat. A battered leather jacket, faded jeans, and steel-toed boots. He said:
‘There’s coffee and shit in the kitchen, I gotta go.’
She reached out her withered arms and he suppressed a shudder, asked:
‘Come pleasure me, you animal.’
He was already heading for the door, said:
‘Keep it on max, babe.’
When Roberts opened his eyes, he felt an avalanche of hurt. Took a time to focus and then registered Brant and Porter Nash. Brant said:
‘You stupid fuck.’
Roberts felt agony all over, tried:
‘This is to console me?’
Porter looked angry, went:
‘How could you go without back-up?’
Roberts didn’t want to go there, said:
‘It’s a long story’
Brant leaned over, said:
‘Your nose is broken, your arm, countless ribs, and you have bruises on your face to make a cat laugh.’
