by Eric Beetner
“I am a veteran police officer with more than twenty years’ service in the West Yorkshire Police and Savage PD. If you employ me, I will not only ensure technical accuracy but also liaise with traffic control and provide on-set security.”
He didn’t mention why he’d left the West Yorkshire Police or how he’d come to work in Savage, Maryland. Why he’d come to America in the first place. Hiding in plain sight was still hiding. Running away was still running. McNulty liked to think he was running toward something. He hadn’t told Larry Unger about that, either.
Right now, in a parking lot off Merrymount Parkway, running was something else Alfonse Bayard was having trouble with. That and his name, which Unger was trying to Americanize. Alfonse kept quoting the example of Arnold Schwarzenegger but Bayard was no Schwarzenegger. McNulty took him around the back of the makeup trailer.
“You’ve got to think of it as balance.”
Alfonse stood with his legs apart, feet planted. Balanced. McNulty waved for him to stop.
“Not standing-still balanced. Balanced movement.”
McNulty walked a few paces, nice and easy. Loose.
“Patrol speed.”
Then he broke into a jog.
“Ramming speed.”
Then a sprint.
“Pursuit.”
He stopped running and walked back to Alfonse. He relaxed his shoulders and let his arms sway gently at his side. An easy rhythm. In sync with the rest of his body.
“As a cop you never know what’s coming next. You’ve got to be ready at all times. Balanced. Think of it like a sportsman. You’re coiled but relaxed. On the balls of your feet, not flat-footed. Ready to fight, give chase, or chill it down. Non-aggressive aggression. Prepared to fight but ready for peace.”
Alfonse looked bemused.
“All that just for me to walk?”
McNulty exaggerated a flat-footed walk. Slapping his feet on the ground.
“Duck walk.”
Then he walked normally.
“Cop walk. Glide. Like Sean Connery as James Bond.”
Alfonse frowned.
“Not Roger Moore?”
McNulty shook his head.
“Roger Moore ran like a girl. Unless you’re gonna play the first transgender cop, stick with Sean Connery.”
Alfonse copied McNulty’s walk. He put a bit more swagger into it, swaying the shoulders. It looked pretty good. McNulty was about to say as much when he heard the commotion inside the makeup trailer. A slap and a scream.
The day turned cold. McNulty felt the short hairs bristle at the back of his neck. His troubles had started with a slap and a scream. Then a Bible and a broken nose. He didn’t want to break anyone’s nose today, but he couldn’t ignore the scream. He was around the corner and up the stairs before the trailer stopped shaking.
“Clumsy bitch. That stings.”
The man sitting opposite the wall mirror was rubbing his eyes. Amy Moore was standing next to him holding the side of her face. Her eyes were wide with shock. There were forty-eight light bulbs screwed into the frame around the mirror. They gave everything a soft light so the makeup artist could see what she was doing. The man in the chair disagreed. The woman couldn’t see for shit. Slapping her in the eye wasn’t going to improve that.
“You’re supposed to put it around the eyes. Not in them.”
He continued to rub as if that were going to make it better. Amy saw McNulty charge through the door and cringed again. McNulty toned down the anger on his face and held up a calming hand. Scaring the makeup artist was the last thing he wanted to do. The fact that he’d done exactly that gave him pause. He really needed to work on his anger management. Or at least aim it at the proper target. The proper target was the man sitting in the makeup chair. The best way was to not sound angry at all.
“Don’t rub them. It’ll make it worse.”
McNulty stood behind the chair and kept his voice calm.
“Lean back and open your eyes.”
The man leaned back but kept his eyes screwed shut.
“I can’t open my fucking eyes.”
McNulty glanced at the worktop then mimed pressing an aerosol. The makeup lady understood and handed him a cooling mist spray. McNulty nodded his thanks and waved for her to leave. She didn’t need asking twice. McNulty turned his attention to the man in the chair.
“Of course you can. It just stings, that’s all.”
The man shook his head, then wished he hadn’t.
“It’s the stinging why I can’t open ’em. She’s fucking blinded me.”
McNulty spoke as if talking to a child.
“No, she hasn’t.”
He changed the subject.
“You’re playing the crook Alfonse chases, aren’t you?”
The man nodded, more gently than he’d shook his head.
“Robber Number Two.”
McNulty smiled even though the man couldn’t see him.
“Okay, well. Number Two. Here’s how it works.”
He soothed the man’s head back against the headrest.
“Back when I was in the police, I sprayed this fella with C-S.”
“C-S?”
“Like Mace. Anyway, he had a knife and I sprayed him full in the face.”
“You didn’t shoot him?”
McNulty did the child talk thing again.
“It was in England. Police don’t carry guns.”
“No shit?”
“Yes, shit. Anyway, he drops the knife and starts rubbing his eyes. Worst thing he could have done. What you’ve got to do is open them wide and let the air get to them. Don’t rub them or wash them or reactivate the Mace.”
Number Two considered that for a moment.
“Don’t rub them?”
“No.”
“And don’t wash them?”
“That’s right.”
He paused a few more seconds then forced his eyes open. He stared at the ceiling, tears streaming from bloodshot orbs. Then McNulty emptied the cool mist water spray right into his eyes.
The scream was more of a roar and it shook the trailer. The makeup lady glanced at Alfonse Bayard then they both looked at the steps leading to the door. The door didn’t open. Amy lowered her hand from her face, revealing a red mark down one side. Alfonse noticed the mark then nodded toward the door.
“Technical adviser.”
Amy gave an embarrassed smile.
“Location security.”
They nodded then spoke in unison.
“McNulty.”
Number Two stopped screaming when he realized that the water spray hadn’t reactivated the Mace. Because it was eyeliner, not Mace. All the water did was cool his stinging eyes and give him the shock of his life. Once his courage returned, he spoke in a low hard voice.
“D’you know who the fuck I am?”
McNulty leaned against the counter, just out of Number Two’s fighting arc.
“Replaceable.”
Number Two ignored the truth of that statement.
“I am the guy going on camera in fifteen to face off against the star.”
McNulty found what he was looking for but kept it behind his back.
“You’ve been listening to Alfonse too much. He isn’t a star yet.”
Number Two forged ahead.
“He’s the hero cop in a cop movie.”
McNulty straightened against the counter.
“Yes. And I’m the guy who makes him look like a cop.”
He unscrewed the lid of the foundation cream with one hand.
“Teaches him how to deal with bad guys.”
He paused as if something had just occurred to him.
“How many lines you got?’
That seemed to bring Number Two back down to earth. His voice was smaller.
“I don’t got no lines.”
McNulty pushed off from the counter.
�
��A nonspeaking part.”
He brought the tube of cream from behind his back.
“You won’t be talking any more shit then.”
He reached over and pinched Number Two’s nose between strong fingers. Number Two’s mouth reflexed open and McNulty squeezed the tube. Thick brown cream squirted down Number Two’s throat, jerking him forward as he was sick in the washbasin. McNulty tossed the empty tube in the waste bin and walked out of the door.
There was no round of applause or hero’s welcome, but Amy Moore nodded her thanks and Alfonse Bayard looked at McNulty with newfound respect. McNulty ignored the actor and spoke to Amy.
“He wants to apologize.”
She nodded again and climbed the steps. McNulty turned to the star of the show.
“How’s the walk coming?”
Alfonse looked at the technical adviser.
“The walk’s fine. I want you to teach me what you did in there.”
McNulty walked a cop’s walk away from the trailer.
“I didn’t do anything in there. It’s for makeup.”
Alfonse fell in step with him, copying the walk and the stance and the body language. One man copying the other. The other man trying not to be himself. The sun finally broke through and signaled the restart of filming. Merrymount Parkway became a hive of activity as people shouted and the film crew hustled. Diffused arc lights came on. The camera dollied back to the start of the track. Everything changed. In the short walk to the set the actor became the cop and the cop became the hero. McNulty’s job was done. Larry Unger shouted from the camera position.
“McNulty.”
The owner of Titanic Productions broke free of the bustle and guided McNulty to one side. Once he found a quiet spot, he lowered his voice.
“We got another problem.”
TWO
McNulty considered the other problem at the Furnace Brook Diner during a break in filming. Just down the road next to Veterans Stadium, which was more like a football field than a stadium with its single stand. McNulty accepted the American propensity for exaggeration without a second thought. Saying that filming had gone well was an understatement though; Alfonse Bayard had knocked it out of the park.
The wiry detective hadn’t needed to run to catch up with the petty thief. The robber wasn’t trying to get away so much as blend in with the background extras—a crowd of spectators leaving the football stadium. The first robber had gone in the opposite direction leaving the detective following Number Two. He added a burst of speed that was no more than upping the pace as he glided toward the robber. On the balls of his feet. Like Sean Connery stalking a henchman. The henchman looked uncomfortable, his throat constricted and his face twisted in pain. He was very convincing. The tension built as the robber was about to be caught. The look on his face betrayed his discomfort. Then the detective stopped him with a harsh word and a promise of violence that proved unnecessary.
The robber stopped. Alfonse Bayard got his man. The director yelled, “Cut. Check the gate.” And Larry Unger nodded his approval. The detective wasn’t walking like a duck anymore. He wasn’t walking like John Wayne either. He was walking like a cop.
Click here to learn more about Final Cut by Colin Campbell.
Back to TOC
Here is a preview from Wrecked, the fifth Gus Dury crime novel by Tony Black.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
Chapter 1
Things were on the up.
Sort of.
Couldn’t say I was closing in on the Seven Series Beemer, but at least I had wheels. How long they stayed attached to the motor was a whole other story.
‘So what’s the problem?’ said a beer-gut, shoving a wedge in his sky-rocket that could settle a few rounds at Bilderberg.
‘It leaks oil, by the bucket. I drove it here with the temp in the red the whole time.’
Hands.
I got shown palms—and they looked suspiciously clean for a man claiming to be a grease-monkey. ‘Never leaked when it left here, mate.’
Did I tell him I wasn’t his mate? No. Better to keep something in reserve at such a delicate stage in negotiations.
He leaned on the wing of my new Golf—well, new to me, Jimmy Savile was wining and dining with Prince Charlie and Sir Cliff when this one rolled off the line. ‘Look, mate, you got a nice little run-around there. If it’s a bit greedy for oil then you should keep it topped up.’
‘It’s a leak. If I pump any more Castrol in there it’s going on my boots.’
A shrug.
I got shrugs and a shake of the head—guys like him, it’s as if they think life’s a contest for the world’s biggest bell-end. He sprung off the car, turning to walk away.
‘Well, that’s what they call “buyer beware,” son.’
I didn’t like the son bit at all. And it came with a sneer.
‘Caveat emptor…that’s what you’re giving me?’ I shoved it back at him, he looked perplexed. ‘It means buyer beware.’
He stopped, weighed me with his eyes but had no answer. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving me. He kept about an inch of air between his beer gut and myself, but I wasn’t playing ball, said, ‘Have you ever heard of caveat rectum?’
‘What?’ That look of the scoobied, the thrown.
‘Caveat rectum—that’s where the buyer investigates the seller’s arsehole with his Doc Martens because he’s so fucked off with his purchase.’
Swear, I felt that beer gut retract—maybe he sucked in a breath.
He pulled back his shoulders. I saw that he thought about it, having a go, like, but retreated. I heard Michael Caine saying, “You’re a big fella, but outta shape”. This was far from a full-time job to me, but when the radge was on I could do a good impression of the bold Carter.
‘You got the paperwork?’ he said.
‘Sure have. And pay close attention to the date I drove it away.’ I handed over the document wallet and watched him flick through.
‘And you’d be Gus Dury?’
‘That’s my handle, don’t wear it out.’
He closed the wallet and crossed hands. His expression was inquisitive now. ‘Why do I know that name?’
‘Because you recently offloaded this piece of shit on me, perhaps?’
He watched me, his stare cold.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Just wait here a moment, please.’ His demeanour changed. He turned, began to traipse back to the portacabin. If he was trying to rattle me, he’d succeeded.
There was a big window on the cabin, barred over and plastered with sale signs, but I could still see him inside. He checked over the details in the document wallet again and then started tapping at a keyboard. I kept watching as I sparked up a red top. This lad was hunting for something—I thought it might be a get out, a way of spiking my claim, until he picked up the phone and looked even more pensive.
I turned away from the portacabin, concentrated on my tab and a manky seagull sitting on another rusting VW, a Polo this time, and I bet it came with quite a few holes. I kept a guard on beer-gut. The hardy stance had gone now. He was staring at me, clearly reciting my vitals down the line to an interested party. So now he was sussing me out, but who with? The DVLA? Plod? The Leith Massive?
The thought made me shudder—my rep hadn’t improved much lately, I’d only seen more loss of cred. I was shocked to see his grimace slide as he returned the phone to its cradle. He almost skipped down the steps towards me, a wide smile pasted over his face.
Maybe I still had some friends. Maybe it was just the Leith address. Maybe I was fooling myself.
‘Sorry, mate,’ was his opener. A forced laugh erupted. ‘I saw the name and thought I recognised it…’
‘You did,’ I nodded. I wanted to talk about the car, but the conversation had clearly moved on in his mind. I was intrigued but my dander was st
ill racing about the Golf burning oil and, along the way, my coin.
Said, ‘Look, can we talk about the motor?’
‘What?’ He appeared genuinely stunned. ‘Maybe you could just follow me into the office.’
‘For a refund?’
‘God, no. I have a very interesting proposition for you, Mr Dury.’
And that is how it always starts.
The road to bruised knuckles and heartache. The sob-stories and the bad turns taken by people who should really have known better. We should all know better, shouldn’t we? I certainly should have in the past but things were different for me now. Christ, I had my job back. I had a measure of the fabled sobriety for once. Did I really want to go back over the past?
‘No, you look…and don’t call me Mr Dury, I hear that and I think you’re confusing me with my father, which is not a flattering comparison. I’d sooner talk about this bloody oil leak before we go any further.’
‘Sure. Of course, just consider it sorted. I’ll put the Golf on the ramp today and the lads will soon have it purring like a pussy cat.’
I had my doubts, considered asking for it in writing.
‘This way, come on, Mr D—I mean, Gus.’ He indicated the portacabin door, he’d left it open and the grubby, yellowed venetian blind was rattling in the breeze, scaring more manky seagulls into flight. ‘Come on, come on.’ He set off, mumbling, ‘Fancy you walking in here today when I’ve been after a man with just your particular talents since…well, we can get into that.’
Knew I would do just that. And more besides. But my focus was slipping towards the craziest about-turn I’d ever seen on a car lot. Salesmen usually only put on the charm when they want your money. This one was definitely after something but I had no clue what it was.
