by Leigh Barker
God knows why anyone would think that. Rocky feigned shock. “No way,” he said, shaking his head to add emphasis. “You point them out, and I’ll give them a good kicking. Least I can do for my friend.” And may God forgive the heinous lie.
Tweetie stared at him for several seconds and then began to cry.
“What?” Rocky said, showing genuine concern he didn’t feel.
Tweetie took out the well-used handkerchief, found a dry spot, and blew his nose noisily. “No one has ever been so nice to me,” he said, adding a second blow. “Not since my dear mother went away.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Rocky said, and just for once, he meant it.
Tweetie shook his head, and the wig moved independently. “No, she’s not… you know?”
Rocky didn’t know.
“She’s gone to live in Spain,” Tweetie said with a sigh. “Oh, she left me a note, so’s I’d know she’s all right.” He nodded. “That’s my mom, always finking of me and knowing how I’d worry if I didn’t know what I know now that I know what she wanted me to know…” He lost his thread, but forty-proof gin, even watered down in cranberry and red wine, is good at that. “Where was I?” he asked with a quick shake to clear his head, and failing.
“You were telling me people think you’re fick… thick,” Rocky prompted.
“Oh, yeah.” He looked around again. Same view. “They fink I fink the whole fing was about the drugs.” His finger made the journey to his nose, very, very slowly, and hey, mission accomplished. The nose was touched. “But,” he said with a midnight slur. “I seen the two big rifle boxes Curly Sue put in the van.” He nodded to confirm he’d seen them.
“Rifles?” Rocky said. “How do you know they were rifles?”
Tweetie stared at him, but it was questionable as to whether or not he saw him. Eventually he gave a little start and did the looking around thing again. “Eashy,” he said, taking his time to get the word formed. “They was in green cases what looked like rifle cases.”
Rocky frowned, surprised. “You know what a rifle case looks like?” That was pretty damned amazing.
He thought about it for a moment. “I did when Curly Sue opened one when she fort I wasn’t looking. So, yeah. Flash buggers, like you see in the movies, with telescopes and silencers and stuff.”
Mystery solved.
Rocky knew exactly what sort of rifles they were — the dubious benefit of having a brother in the marines. “What the hell does Curly Sue want with rifles?”
Tweetie shrugged and took a moment to add more gin to the gin in his glass. He took a long drink and clearly felt better, or at least felt less. “We was supposed to be just nicking the drugs, see?”
Rocky didn’t see, but also didn’t care.
“But I fink Curly Sue was really after the rifles. She loves guns, you see, on account of her being in the army once.”
Rocky’s world wobbled a little, and he had to close his eyes to regain equilibrium. “Curly Sue was in the army?” No way. He looked along the bar on which Curly Sue was leaning and talking to a middle-aged man with close-cropped, dyed black hair, an orange tan, and an upper torso that told of many hours in the gym, focused solely on arms and chest. He looked like an orange tent peg, in a lacy blouse with a pussy-cat bow and skin-tight black patent leather trousers cut off just below the calf. He leant forward over the bar to listen closely to something Curly Sue was saying, and the leather stretched across his ass. Rocky snatched his head round so quickly he risked a dislocation.
The movement caught Curly Sue’s eye, and she touched the face of the tent peg, careful not to smudge the carefully applied layers of makeup, and came swishing over.
“You still here?” she asked, arriving at the table in a cloud of Channel No 5.
“Another session,” Rocky said, trying to smile and failing.
Curly Sue looked around. “Where’s the rest of the band?”
“Taken sick,” Rocky said.
“Not surprised, that bloody awful din was giving me one of my heads.”
Not polite.
“I thought it was good,” Rocky said, trying to talk it up.
“Yeah, you would,” Curly said. “Now bugger off, you’re frightening the customers.”
Which was rich.
Rocky shifted uncomfortably, and not only because the plastic seat made his ass sweaty. “There hasn’t been… err… any payment yet.”
Curly stepped a little closer, excluding the last of the breathable oxygen. Rocky could see the sweat patches under the arms of the stripy French jumper and understood the reason for the hose-down with the perfume.
“I haven’t got much change,” Curly said. “How much money you got on you?”
Rocky fished out his wallet, opened it, and counted the notes. “About forty-five.”
“Okay,” Curly said, “that won’t cover the losses from the customers you scared off, but it’ll do.” He put out his hand.
Rocky was totally confused. “Aren’t you supposed to pay us?”
Curly reached down and took the notes out of the open wallet. “In your dreams,” she said and walked off with his cash.
Rocky glanced at his wallet and at Curly Sue departing with his money and started to stand, but Tweetie leaned over and took his arm.
“Are you a nutter or somefink?” he said and pointed at Big Betty watching from the bar. “She hasn’t been fed today, and you wouldn’t even be a taster.”
Rocky sat down and sighed. Well, the first and only Rocky and the Pebbles gig had gone down just great. And he hadn’t got any cash for the taxi home. The day was as bad it could get.
“Hello, musical boy,” a sultry deep voice said, as a huge, latex-clad biker sat down beside him, blocking his exit. “Do you take a dare?”
34
“How come I get to drive, again?” Danny said, as they made their way through the traffic along the A4 towards Kensington.
“Perks of the superior rank,” Shaun said.
“Yeah, right, by one bloody week.”
“That’s all it takes,” Shaun said, glancing at him. “Now give us a salute.”
Danny gave him the finger instead.
Shaun smiled, opened the glove box, and chocolate wrappers, squashed drink cartons, and various junk tumbled into the footwell. He did the sensible thing and closed the glove box. He looked over to see Danny’s disapproving look. “What?” he asked and looked down at the junk. “Rather this than yours. It’s like nobody has ever used it.”
“Tidy car, tidy mind,” Danny said sagely.
“Bollocks, you don’t have to be prissy to be sharp. Look at me.”
Danny did exactly that, and what he saw was an expensive suit that looked like it had been carefully stored in a shopping bag, a tie that had never come close to his top button and a shirt that didn’t need ironing — unless he wanted to get rid of the creases.
“What?” Shaun said, checking himself out and finding nothing amiss.
“If I’ve got to tell you…” Danny said in a superior tone.
“Ah, you look like a spiv,” Shaun said, looking at his immaculate partner.
“I think you’ll find the correct description is—”
“Get off here,” Shaun said, pointing at the slip road ten feet ahead.
Danny chopped across the inside lane and made it onto the slip road with a good couple of inches to spare. He ignored the blaring horns behind them, followed Shaun’s pointing finger, and took the first left. A few minutes later they turned right into a square with a railed garden in the middle. Shaun leaned forward for a better look and raised his hand for Danny to pull over.
“This it?” Danny said, also leaning forward and looking up at the four-storey houses. “Nice neighbourhood. These have to cost a bundle.”
“What’s a couple of mill to a scum-bag like Brown?” Shaun said, settling back for a bit of a rest.
Danny killed the engine and leaned back in the seat, slipping into an all-too-familiar routin
e. Waiting, surveillance, more waiting. It was what coppers did. Except this time they didn’t get a chance to demonstrate the lost art of patience, but they did get to demonstrate the art of not paying attention. The car’s back doors opened, and two men got in before they even realised what was happening.
Sad, truly sad.
“Ah-ah!” one of the men said as Shaun and Danny turned and reached into their jackets. “Leave the hardware where it is.”
“Yanks!” Shaun pointed out unnecessarily.
“See, Greg, that’s what I like about these Brit cops, they’re so sharp.”
“You know we’re cops, then?” Shaun said. “Then you won’t be doing any shooting.”
“Why not?” said the man with the attitude.
“Call it our Special Arrangement,” Shaun said without taking his eyes off the speaker. “You don’t kill us, and we don’t kill you.”
“That’d be a neat trick,” Rodriguez said with contempt.
Danny flashed them a smile, raised his hand slowly, and pointed towards the gap between the seats. They looked down and were rewarded with a fine view of Shaun’s gun.
“That there’s a Glock G36 45 automatic,” Shaun said, reciting the advert to the stunned Americans. “Bit heavy, true, but worth it for the sheer bloody stopping power.”
The Americans looked at the gun, at each other, and slowly back at Shaun, and for an eternal three seconds, nobody knew if he was crazy enough to shoot them. Not even Shaun. Finally he shrugged and put the gun back into its belt holster. The Americans relaxed, a little.
He nodded at Danny. “That’s Danny Fouillade, and I’m—”
“Do we look like people who give a shit?” the man said.
“You’re CIA, right?” Shaun said. “So that would make you Agent Black and Greg here Agent Green.”
“I’m Special Agent Walker—”
“Hey, I thought you were a Texas Ranger!” Shaun said with mock excitement. “Can I call you Chuck?” Sure enough, he was getting right up Special Agent Walker’s nose.
Tragic.
“And this is Special Agent Greg Rodriguez,” Special Agent Walker said, ignoring the interruption.
Shaun flashed a hello smile for a microsecond. “I guess you want to talk?” Nod received. “Okay, let’s go for a walk in the park. It’s a lovely day.”
It was cold, and it was raining. It was most certainly not a lovely day.
Danny started the car and moved off slowly, to avoid attracting the attention of the two black guys leaning on the railings across the gardens. They were Jamaicans, so were unlikely to be standing out in the rain for their health. Junior’s boys, but no point telling everybody.
A few minutes later, Danny pulled into a space at Holland Park, turned off the engine, and opened the door, and he and the Americans followed Shaun through the drizzle down the deserted path into the park.
“So,” Shaun said, “what’s the mighty CIA want with a small-time gun dealer like Junior, Chuck?”
“Will you quit that Chuck shit?” Special Agent Walker said. “You can call me Special Agent Walker.”
Shaun shrugged. “Then you can call me Detective Sergeant Shaun O’Conner Serious Organised Crime Agency Really Nasty Criminal Division.”
Yes, truly getting up Walker’s nose.
Walker glared at him for a full five seconds, then sighed and looked around as if he expected anyone to care what this bunch of suits was doing. “Okay, okay. Name’s Steve Walker.”
Shaun put out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Steve.” The hell it was. “Now, Steve, why are you watching Junior Brown?”
“Who says we were?” Rodriguez said.
Shaun put his hand to his chin and looked at Danny. “What do you think, Danny? Coincidence?”
“Could be,” Danny answered. “I once fell over twice on the same day and hadn’t been drinking.”
“Okay,” Shaun said in a tone that said the Special Arrangement was over. “Now what, exactly, are you doing poking around on our patch without even the courtesy of a phone call?”
Walker took the tiniest step back, but it was enough. “It was decided, way up the chain of command, that we keep this op covert.”
“Not very friendly.”
“We don’t need another fuckup,” Agent Walker said, wiping the drizzle off his face with the back of his hand.
“Yeah, I can see how you might think you’ve had enough of those,” Danny said, but kept an innocent expression.
Walker’s hand froze mid-way from his face, and he glared at him. They could see he was trying to work out if it was an intentional dig. He couldn’t, but it was.
“Don’t take this personally, but this whole country is a fuckup, your air force and army are a fuckup, your security people are a fuckup,” he squinted at them, “and your police are the mother and father of all fuckups.”
There was no way anybody could take that personally.
Shaun shrugged, and Special Agent Rodriguez stared at him with a puzzled expression. Then looked at Danny with an air of expectancy. Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t get.
Danny shrugged too. “Hey, we agree with you, man.”
That threw them.
“Why not?” Shaun said. “I’m Irish, and Danny here is French-Algerian, okay, his folks are.” He shrugged. “So why should we give a shit?”
Walker looked a little crestfallen now that his plan to unsettle the Brits had fallen on stony ground.
Shaun helped him out. “So your nice people have sent you over here to help out the poor fuckup Brits?” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”
Walker wiped the drizzle off his face again. “Can we get out of this shit? Jeez, this country is—”
“A fuckup?” Shaun smiled a totally insincere smile and pointed along the path to the mobile café.
A few minutes later, Walker put down the coffee, pulled a face like he’d been poisoned, and pushed it away.
“The way I see it,” Shaun said and sipped his hot coffee as if it were nectar. “We either work together on whatever it is you’re after Junior for, or…”
Walker squinted at him. “Or what?”
“Or me and Danny here stamp all over your surveillance and scare every bugger off.”
“We could just shoot you,” Rodriguez said.
“You tried that already,” Danny said. “How’d that work out for you?”
“There’s no way we’re going to share intelligence with you—”
“Fuckups?” Shaun suggested.
Walker exercised a little common sense. “You’re not secret service, you’re just cops. There’s no way I’d get authorisation to disclose intelligence to—”
“Fuckups?” Shaun suggested again and sipped more coffee.
“No! Jesus, will you stop doing that!”
Shaun gave up baiting the poor man, put down his coffee, and leaned across the table. “Look, this is really simple. You’re after Junior for something, and so are we. Way I see it, this is our turf, so we get first dibs.”
Walker’s expression showed he understood that only too well. “What’s he to you?”
Shaun shrugged. “Means to an end.”
Walker frowned and chewed his lip — agent thinking here, nothing to see.
“So,” Shaun continued, “we should work together and pool our resources.” He raised his hand before Walker could speak. “No need for anybody else to know about it. It would be our little secret. And you’d get the brownie points.”
Walker watched Shaun closely, continuing the agent-thinking pose.
“Man’s got a point,” Rodriguez said. “It would be easier if we had some on-the-ground helpers.”
“Partners,” Danny pointed out.
“Partners,” Rodriguez corrected.
The decision was causing Walker some mental pain, so Shaun took a flyer. “It’s no big deal. We’ve already got a pretty good idea what’s going on.”
Walker’s eyebrows rose, and he threw Rodriguez a
quick look.
“We know Junior has imported some exotic rifles, among other things. So I guess you boys are trying to find out who his customer is.”
If that was a wild throw, it came up double six.
Walker’s jaw dropped — not much, but it might as well have been cartoon-style.
Shaun nodded to confirm he knew all about it and drummed his fingers on the table, while Walker’s mind went into overdrive.
Eventually Walker sighed and raised his hand as Rodriguez started to speak words of caution. “What the hell, they know the whole deal anyway. And like you said, we could use some local help… partners.” He watched Rodriguez and got a slight nod. “Okay. You know there’s a big pow-wow going on between our president, and your prime minister, and the German chancellor?”
Shaun shrugged, sure he’d heard something on the news, but couldn’t really be arsed, it being politics.
Walker watched him for a few seconds before speaking. “Doesn’t it strike you a bit strange this Jamaican importing top-notch rifles, right when they’re about to sign an agreement to share… well, just about everything?”
Shaun and Danny exchanged glances. “Could be just a coincidence,” Danny said, without much conviction.
Shaun was just thinking, what the hell does Patrick want with that kind of firepower, except he already knew the answer. Patrick used to be the armourer for the Boys, and it looked like he was still in that line of business. Question was—
“Who’s the customer?” Walker said. “That’s what we need to find out, if only to eliminate this as a threat.”
“And if it is?” Shaun said.
Walker sipped his coffee and pulled a face. “If it is an assassination plot, then we either eliminate them or call off the signing.”
“You can do that?” Danny asked, impressed.
“No,” Walker said, raining on his parade. “But we sure as hell know a man who can.”
“But it can’t just be you two?” Danny said. “Not something this big.”
Walker shook his head. “There are others.” He shrugged to show he didn’t know who or how many.
