by Ken Bruen
The Yank went into a long query about the variety of beers, and Roberts said:
‘Hey, can you get to it, we’ve had a long fucking day. You want to drink or write a fucking column on ale?’
The Yank was delighted, hostility was his favourite gig. He said:
‘Bring me a pint of that bitter you guys drink, and any chance it might be like chilled.’
Sully said:
‘Not a chance in hell.’
Porter ordered a gin and slim-line tonic, the other two giving him a withering look.
There was a silence as they waited for the drinks, Roberts tapped his fingers on the table, irritating them all, himself most of all, but no one commented.
Porter said:
‘I’d kill for a fag.’
He had been diagnosed as diabetic so cigs were out, but it didn’t stop the craving, in fact, not being able to made it worse. Roberts laughed and Porter realized what he’d said… thought, uh-oh, Fag for a fag. It eased the tension, and the Yank put out his hand to Roberts, said:
‘We haven’t been introduced, I’m L. M. Wallace and you’re Roberts, the chief inspector?’
Roberts reluctantly took his hand, said:
‘I know who you are, you’re going to tell us how to run things, just what we need.’
The drinks came, Roberts was reaching for his wallet but Wallace beat him to it, said:
‘My treat.’
He raised the pint, inspected it, then said:
‘I’m not here to tell you jack shit, buddy. I’m here in an advisory position, not my idea I can tell you that, I could be back home, watching the Yankees having their ass handed to them.’
Porter raised his glass, said:
‘Hey, here’s to cooperation, right?’
Roberts drained his shot in one, shouted:
‘Sully, same again.’
Wallace clinked his glass against Porter’s, said:
‘Here’s looking at you, bro.’
He knocked off most of the pint in one toss, said:
‘Jesus H. Christ, that’s piss.’
Then he settled back in his chair, asked:
‘So, who shot your sergeant?’
Are we all bare-faced liars?
— Jonathan Aiken, gaoled Tory minister
7
Falls had finally left the hospital, the nurse telling her Brant was comfortable and got the look from Falls, who asked:
‘He was shot in the back a few hours ago and he’s comfortable?’
The nurse, white, was never entirely at ease with black people, they seemed so angry all the time. She ventured:
‘It’s what we say, you know, to reassure the relatives.’
Falls was beginning to enjoy the mind fuck, asked:
‘You noticed that Sergeant Brant is white?’
‘Am… yes.’
Falls took her time, then:
‘So, how do you figure I’m related to him?’
The nurse fled.
Falls headed for the pub, she had her new rank to celebrate, went to The Oval pub right beside the station, bought a copy of The Big Issue from the homeless guy, who said:
‘Sorry to hear about Brant.’
‘Course, word would have spread all over the South-East, Brant downed at last. She muttered something, and the guy interpreted it as keep the change. She liked this pub, no cops, lots of villains, but then where didn’t?
The barman, surly git, growled:
‘What will it be?’
He hadn’t twigged her for the heat, or he’d have changed his tone. Falls said:
‘Large gin and tonic and a pack of B amp; H.’
The guy sniggered, said:
‘See that machine over there, the one that says “cigarettes” in large bright letters, guess what it’s for?’
Falls was tired, and the letter in her bag was burning a hole. She leaned over to the guy, said:
‘I’m Sergeant Falls, and I’m in a real fucking bad frame of mind, so how about you bring me what I ordered. I’ll be sitting over there in the corner.’
He did.
Even had the cellophone off the packet, one of the cigs perked up, Falls gave him a tenner and poured a tiny hint of the tonic in the glass, no need to screw up perfectly fine gin with tonic. She knocked back a sizeable wallop, sat back, waited for the jolt. It came fast and she let out a barely audible sigh. The guy brought her change and she snapped:
‘Same again.’
She was going to be massacred, see what the night would produce then. She waited till she was half through her second double before she allowed herself to think about the letter.
A time back, the Vixen case, a particularly nasty psycho named Angie, who took out two brothers and countless more they only suspected. Worse, she had deliberately targeted Falls, became her friend. And Falls, she cringed, despite the gin, blushed,… Jesus, the memory… on one very drunken occasion… her lover. It had nigh on destroyed her career and only a miracle in the form of Brant had saved her arse.
Angie was caught and pulled down heavy jail time. Falls had breathed a sigh of relief and only hoped some other crazy bitch would put a shiv in Angie’s back. She opened the latter, realized her hands were shaking, read:
Girlfriend,
How are you sweetie?
I’ve missed you.
Your black, creamy skin, your wild, abandoned love-making, your lovely face got me through so rough times here on her
Majesty’s Service.
Wonderful news.
I’m out.
Aren’t you delighted?
I know you are.
I know you long for me.
Patience, my black meat.
I have few a loose ends to put right, but then I’ll be round. I see you’re still at the same address.
We’ll make up for all the lost time.
Soon, my lover.
Be patient.
Xxxxxxxx
Your own fox
Falls wiped her brow, sweat was pouring off her, the gin she hoped. The bar guy was over, asked:
‘Hot enough for yah?’
Falls fixed her steel eyes on him, said:
‘Fuck off’
He loved it, said:
‘God, I love it when babes talk dirty.’
And he was gone before Falls could reply.
She couldn’t believe it, Angie was out and stalking her. Panic gripped her. Angie was among the craziest of a whole series of deranged lunatics she’d met in her time on the force.
And to say she had ammunition on Falls was putting it mildly. Falls lit a cigarette, her hands a little steadier. The only person who could really deal with this type of psycho was Brant.
Feeling the drinks, Falls got to her feet and wondered if she should call a cab, she wasn’t sure if she was in any shape to drive.
The bar guy said:
‘You come back and cheer us all up soon, you hear.’
Brant would have given him a wallop up the side of the head.
Bruen, Ken
Ammunition (Inspector Brant)
8
McDonald was home, shaking his head in disbelief. The events of the day had staggered him. Just when he truly believed his life was fully in the toilet, the cavalry had arrived-in the guise of an old codger.
Go figure.
After he had bashed the young hooded girl and invited the old man for a cuppa, it had never once occurred to him that his whole future was about to change. They’d gone to a transport caff, one of the few real English places still existing, the old man prattling on about the country having gone to the dogs… though he might have well said… wogs.
Which meant he had either a lisp or a serious hard-on for foreigners. They’d ordered bacon sarnies, a neon-lit nightmare of carbos, and, of course, a large pot of tea, brewed with Lipton’s real tea, none of that tea-bag shite. The sandwiches arrived, dripping fat and lard, just the way McDonald adored them. As they ate, with relish, the old man, mid bite, asked:
‘So, how come a bright young copper like yourself is pulling garbage duty?’
McDonald thought about giving him a sob story but decided to tell the truth, said:
‘There’s no tolerance any more for hands-on policing.’
This seemed to be exactly the answer the old man was hoping for. He extended his hand, said:
‘I’m Bill Traynor, fought for my country and what do I get?’
McDonald put three sugars in his tea, ventured:
‘Sweet fanny all I’d say.’
Bill was nodding, said:
‘Too bloody right, mate. Where I live, we’re tormented by young Pakis, playing loud music, insulting our wives, sneering at us as we go to the post office, and don’t even mention the darkies. They wait for us to collect our pensions, not that you could feed a frigging cat on what they give us, and they jump us after we collect.’
He was gasping for breath, took out an inhaler, said:
‘Me bloody lungs are shot but before I go, I’d like to make a stand, are you following me?’
McDonald had a fair idea but he’d let Bill spit it out, said nothing and simply stirred his tea:
Bill looked round, then said, in nearly a whisper:
‘A group of us have formed an association, a band of men to take back our streets, but we’re old, how effective can we be.’
He stared at McDonald, and seeing nothing to warrant handcuffs, took the plunge, said:
‘Now if we had a bright young ballsy fellah to lead us, we might make a difference, do you follow me so far?’
McDonald thought how complicated was it, a bunch of pensioner vigilantes, he nearly laughed but Bill added:
‘We’d pay the right man to lead us, pay him well.’
McDonald, his face neutral, asked:
‘Define well?
Bill mentioned a figure that took McDonald by surprise. The truth was, he’d have done it gratis just to have some respect, even if it was old respect.
Bill was fidgeting, nervous as a rat, asked:
‘What do you think?’
McDonald smiled, asked:
‘When would you like to begin?’
They’d decided on Friday night, that was the worst time, when the nonnationals got weeded up, doped up, boozed up, and went amok. McDonald had written down a shopping list for Bill, said:
‘This is what we’ll need for openers.’
Bill scanned the list, his dentures spreading in a wide smile.
Baseball bats
Balaclavas
Petrol
Billiard balls
Bill had hesitated at the last item, asked:
‘What’s the balls for?’
McDonald drained the last of his tea, timing being vital, said, as he stood up:
‘We’re going to make the bastards eat them.’
Bill loved it.
McDonald had picked up a fairly serious coke habit after he’d been shot and was fond of the jolt of speed too. He did a line now, swallowed a tab of speed, and as the drugs wired him, he said aloud:
‘The boy is back in town.’
Put his favourite Thin Lizzy album on the sound system, cranked it to max, punched the air in a little victory jig.
The people who lived below would have complained, but who were they going to call? The cops?
Roberts, Porter Nash, and Wallace were still in the pub. Roberts had put away twice the amount of booze as the others, then stood up, threw a slew of notes on the table, said:
‘I better hit the road, we’ve a lot of suspects to track down tomorrow.’
Porter noticed Roberts was unsteady on his feet and tried:
‘You okay to get home?’
Roberts glared at him, asked:
‘And what, you going to walk me?’
Porter recognized the sheer belligerence of the aggressive drunk, ready to lash out at anyone. He reined in, said:
‘No, just if you wanted a cab or something?’
Roberts eyed him, then said:
‘You want something to fret about, then worry about finding who shot Brant, there’s a good boy.’
And he was gone.
There was silence till Wallace asked:
‘Apart from his sergeant being shot, what’s the other bug up his ass?’
Seeing Porter smile, he realized what he’d said, went:
‘Sorry, buddy, I didn’t mean anything personal.’
Porter was used to the double entendres and let them slide, said:
‘The chief inspector lost his wife a time ago, then he hit a series of real success in his cases until he went after a villain alone.’
Wallace just loved the way the Brits talked… villains… back home they called them perps, skels but this, this was almost cosy. He asked:
‘You up for a nightcap, one for the road?’
Porter had already had way more than he should, with diabetes, he shouldn’t even be drinking but thought, what the hell, said:
‘Yeah, let’s go for it.’
Wallace went to the bar, came back with two shot glasses, full to the brim. Porter watched him carry the glasses in his huge fists, never spilling a drop, and saw the hard muscle beneath the bulk, and knew, despite Wallace’s affability, this was one hard case. Wallace put the shots on the table, said:
‘Buddy, I couldn’t believe it, they had Jim Beam. Down in one, you game?’
He was and they tossed them back, Porter waited a moment and then gave a shudder, the bourbon hit his stomach like a train, an express. His eyes watered, Wallace laughed, said:
‘Gets you where you live, am I right?’
Porter didn’t know was it the alcohol or exhaustion but he liked this guy, liked him a lot, asked:
‘So what exactly are you supposed to be doing here, besides getting the locals bombed on bourbon.’
He wished he hadn’t used the term bombed with an anti-terrorist expert but it was late. If Wallace had caught it, he let it slide, said:
‘Well, I’m supposed to get you guys up to speed on how to spot suspects, how to respond, and Jesus H. Christ, god forbid, we get a situation, what the emergency measures are.’
Porter considered this, then asked:
‘Off the top of your head, what’s the best advice you can give?’
Wallace didn’t hesitate, said:
‘Shoot the motherfuckers.’
Outside the pub, Wallace said:
‘Man, I could eat me a leg of steer, anyplace open?’
Porter suggested the fish and chipper, the Chinese, and then said:
‘ ’Course, the new tradition, after you sink a fair few, is to get a kebab and come tomorrow, you’ll wish you were dead.’
Wallace was delighted, offered to treat Porter to one, but Porter cried off, said:
‘I better get home. Thanks for the company, I enjoyed it.’
Wallace gave him an odd look, then:
‘I think you mean it, buddy. You’re okay, fellah. I heard you were a pillow biter, and I don’t have any beef with that, but I wasn’t planning on hooking up with you, so yeah, it was good. You take real good care now, we got us some bad hornbres to catch.’
As Porter walked home, the booze giving him a lift, he tried to remember if Wallace was from Texas or New York. He was certainly from another planet.
This is how we get in trouble, we talk.
— John Gotti
9
For the next week, the cops did what they do best… knocked on doors, the old reliable, and checked out various tips that were phoned in. Brant had been moved out of Intensive Care and was now in a private room with two armed policemen outside. The doctors were stunned at his rate of recovery. He was on his feet by the second day but eerily silent. The Super had sent a flunkey to wish him a speedy recovery, Brant told him to get fucked. The flunkey didn’t report these exact words. He knew that in the Met, they did shoot the messenger, he simply said that Brant was healing rapidly.
The Super sighed.
Caz had met Roberts before, but was not happy to see yet another cop, especially a woman. They found him in The Warrington Arms, drinking a shandy. He looked at Roberts, ignoring Andrews, whined:
‘Who da bitch?’
He was from Croydon but affected to be from Salvador, Equador, Argentina, depending on the day of the week. Roberts sat in right beside Caz, Andrews opposite, and he stomped down hard on Caz’s right foot, saying:
‘She’s a police person. Don’t call her that again… claro, amigo? ’
Caz yelped, that was his best foot for the rumba. He said:
‘How I can operate as undercover for you, you keep exposing me to new coppers?’
The barman was heading their way but Roberts waved him off, said to Caz:
‘Drop the accent and the attitude. You fuck with that lady, you fuck with me, got it?’
Caz got it.
Andrews had never met a snitch before, and Roberts had told her that they were the poisoned life blood of policing, but you had to treat them with a delicate balance of intimidation and flattery. She had no idea of how this could work.
Mostly, it was the intimidation.
Roberts had added, when they least expect it, you bung them a few quid. Andrews was horrified, asked:
‘The Met pays them?’
Roberts let out a breath, said:
‘No, we pay them out of petty cash, off the books.’
Andrews was still of the belief that policing was a higher calling and that a certain code of morals should be followed. She said:
‘But isn’t that wrong?’
Roberts looked at her, wondering how long before she grew up, said:
‘It’s wrong if we don’t get the information.’
She watched Caz. He seemed like a totally unreliable sort. She wouldn’t believe a word he said and… him calling her a bitch, there was no cause for that. Roberts was asking:
