Ammunition (15 page)

‘See, John, didn’t I tell you she was a downright tigress?’

Angie raised her glass, asked:

‘So, let’s toast our deal, what do you say, Liz, cherry pip?’

Falls threw her vodka in her face, stood up, said to the guy:

‘You ever give me a fucking look again, I’ll cut your balls off.’

And she stormed off.

Angie, in a warm tone, shouted:

‘See you at your place soon. Drinks on me, darling.’

Outside, Falls had to stand against the wall for a moment, try to get a grip on her world that was spiralling so far down the toilet, she didn’t even know if it was worth flushing. A homeless guy approached, asked in a concerned tone:

‘You okay, missus?’

‘Missus’?

She nearly laughed but was afraid if she started, she might never stop. She linked his arm, asked:

‘How about I buy you a big drink, mate, how would that be?’

He concurred it would be just dandy.

They were halfway down the street when he tried to put his hand up her skirt, and with almost reluctance, she broke his nose.

The Clock, chambered in 9mm, is capable of placing five-shot groups inside a 2.5-inch circle at a range of 25 yards

PORTER NASH WAS sitting at home, and yeah, his place was immaculate, spotless in fact.

A gay thing?

No, he just hated dirt.

He was listening to Mozart, not that he’d be sharing that taste with the blokes at the station… they’d fucking love that.

Ask him.

‘Don’t you like to listen to Barbra Streisand?’

Right and still had his copy of ‘YMCA.’

Thing is, they’d buy it

He’d bought six bottles of that fine Belgian ale Duvel.

It sure tasted marvellous.

He needed some escape as his mind was a whirl of conflict, the nagging guilt over the death of the man at Wallace’s hand, the suicide of McDonald, Brant being shot and worse, what Brant would do in retaliation, it would definitely be biblical… and soon.

Too, his diabetes was raging unchecked, his glucose levels through the roof, and hey, who’d time to get it seen to.

Drinking… was that smart… take a wild frigging guess.

Reason it tasted so good and even… wicked.

The sex in the gay club had been a wondrous release, despite the guy asking him if he loved the New York Dolls?

Name one single by them, go on, dare you.

He’d nearly said that, but he was up to his groin in the guys arse, so it hadn’t seemed the time for a pop quiz.

He smiled.

The guy had come in a torrent and then asked:

‘Wanna do some E?’

His doorbell rang. The only caller he ever got was Brant, and he was kind of relieved. It would be good to get that lunatic to take on Wallace.

Wisn’t Brant.

Wallace.

All bonhomie, good cheer, etc. He held out a bottle of wine, said:

‘Peace?’

Porter didn’t move, snapped:

‘How’d you know where I live?’

Wallace gave that shit-eating grin, good ol boy, the gee shucks shite he did so well, said:

‘Bro, I’m in counterterror. I know where everybody lives, so do I get to come in?’

Reluctantly, Porter stood aside, nodded:

Wallace strode by, walking in as if he were the owner, but
every inch the cop, his eyes checking exits, scanning the room, he set the bottle on the coffee table, said:

‘Wanna grab us some glasses. I don’t think we should drink it by the neck, and I bet you got real fine wine glasses.’

Wallace pulled off his duster, a long black one naturally, eased his huge frame into a chair, plonked his cowboy boots on the table, said:

‘This here is comfy, bit faggy but what the hell, man’s home is his castle, fairy or otherwise.’

Porter went to get some glasses and half wished they weren’t Waterford crystal, a tin cup would be more Wallace’s speed. He was arranging cheese spread on crackers and thought:

The hell am I doing, playing right into his stereotype?

He binned the crackers.

When he returned to the front room, Wallace was smoking a thin cigar, and a Glock sat on the table. Porter wondered if Wallace intended to kill him? He set the glasses and the wine bottle down carefully, asked:

‘What’s with the gun?’

Wallace was drinking one of the Belgian beers, smacking his lips in appreciation, said:

‘That brew has a bite, now see that there Glock, most folk, they figure it’s all plastic, but it’s only 17 per cent that, the barrel and the insides, they are solid steel, go on pick it up, see if I’m right?’

Not the hell sure what was going on, Porter picked it up,
marvelled at how light it was, turned it over in his palms, and Wallace asked:

‘Wanna take a pop at me, Port?’

Porter put it down, opened another beer, sat down, and got ready for whatever it was was coming down the pike. Suddenly, Wallace was all motion, up, his hands holding a hanker-chief and he almost reverently wrapped the gun in it, put it in his duster, went:

‘Ah.’

Porter had a real sinking feeling, asked:

‘What’s happening here?’

Wallace drained the beer, belched, asked:

‘Got any snacks, pretzels, chips, like that?’

Porter ignored that, waited:

Wallace sighed, said:

‘Insurance, ol’ buddy, you see, you’re that rare kind of cop, don’t get me wrong, I respect it, but times, they are a-changing and thing is, I figure you might rat me out on that raghead whose ticket we punched. You can’t help it, you have morals and me, well, I got yer prints all over this here weapon, a certain scumbag gets offed, guess who’s in the frame. You keep your mouth shut, let me protect democracy, and hey, no problemo. You sure you don’t got any like, nuts or stuff, don’t faggots always have little dainty snacks and shit?’

Porter was on his feet, wondering if he could take him, get the Glock, and Wallace smiled, no warmth, the real hardarse showing, without moving a muscle, he said:

‘Forget it, bro, you wouldn’t get past the coffee table.’

Then he drained the beer, chucked the bottle on the carpet, said:

‘You pillow biters like to have crap to clean up, am I right?’

He flicked the stub of the cigar across the room, stood, said:

‘Hate to threaten and run but the enemy never sleeps. You free Friday night, I found me a club does line dancing, and serves ribs, have us a hoedown. Y’all take care now, hear.’ And he was gone.

He was right on one point, Porter was down on his knees, sweeping up the debris of the visit.

BRANT HAD HAD him a fine ride, had rolled off Lynn, slapped ‘er on the arse, said:

‘You sure know what it’s for, girl.’

Lynn had made all the appropriate noises of delight as he’d gone at it, and she knew, Brant of all the men on the planet knew it was a crock but he didn’t, to coin a phase, give a fuck. He’d gone to the fridge, got some cold Heinkens, handed her one, and she chided:

‘No glass?’

He liked her, she had a lot of spunk, and it was one of the few qualities Brant appreciated, he said:

‘Fucksakes, you’ll want paying next?’

In all their time, he’d never actually given her cash for the deed, but in a hundred ways he’d paid her through other means. Having a lethal weapon like him in your corner… priceless.

Anxiety was still in his gut so he rifled through Lynn’s handbag, not even a moment’s hesitation. He wanted something, he went for it, and hookers, they always had some tranks.

Bingo, a sheet of Valium, he took two, 5mg, knocked them back with the beer. Would have killed for a pint of Guinness, he’d been to Galway once, and man, it was a work of art to watch them build a pint, get that creamy head, and all the time, giving you lots of friendly chat.

Way to live.

As he waited for the pills to crank, he knew, knew the only cure for the gut wrenching was to take out Rodney Lewis. The guy was definitely going to take another run at him, and if Brant wasn’t real careful, the bastard might get lucky. You didn’t get to be a rich bollix like him by being stupid. Thing was, he wasted the fucker now, they’d come right after him. Who else had motive.

He was letting the problem sit when the doorbell went. He had on a white robe he’d nicked from the hospital. It was warm and smelt of comfort, it had two big pockets, and he had the gun in the right one, gripped the butt, opened the door.

A seriously dishevelled Falls stood there, pleaded:

‘Could I get some coffee?’

Jesus, he’d seen her in some states, especially in the days when she’d been living on the nose candy but now, she looked like she’d been sleeping rough, he asked

‘What, you think this is bloody Starbucks?’

Then headed back inside, said:

‘Shut the door, there’s a draught.’

She did, came in, stood, looking like a lost cat. He made a cup of instant, added a generous dollop of his fine Jameson, handed it to her, lit a smoke, and gave her that too.

Her body was trembling, she gulped the coffee, asked:

‘Is there something in this?’

He smiled, said:

‘Yeah… hope.’

She began to feel a bit better, Brant was the most unpredictable person she’d ever met, and yet, you were knee-deep in shite, he was the guy who would find you a shovel. You’d probably have to do the digging, but he’d keep you company. She said:

‘I broke a wino’s nose.’

He laughed, said:

‘Jaysus girl, they have it bad enough, you have to go round kicking the fuck out of them as well?’

She drained the coffee, said:

‘God, that was good.’

And then… the silence, Brant would wait forever when he knew you wanted something, and she as sure as hell wanted something.

Help.

She tried to buy some time, said:

‘I feel so bad about McDonald.’

Brant sat opposite her, those stone eyes holding her, reading her, and he asked:

‘Why?’

Anyone else in the world, they’d go the pseudo-route, mutter sympathetic stuff, like:

‘There was nothing you could do, there was nothing anyone could do.’

But Brant, no bullshit, right to the core.

She faltered, then:

‘I feel I should have helped, you know…?’

And he smiled, that awful smile that said:

‘Sure.’

He stretched, and she wondered if he was hurting from the shooting but ask… ask Brant…
sure
.

He said:

‘He was a cowardly fuck, he took the easy way out, and how many times… did he fuck you over, or have you forgotten the Clapham Rapist, McDonald as yer backup?’

She was stunned. All those years he’d never once referred to how he’d saved her life. Before she could even think of a reply, he continued, he said:

‘Reason I mention our rapist mate is he has a brother and, guess what, he’s the fuck had me shot. Funny old world… isn’t it?’

She had to know, went:

‘What are you going to do?’

He stood, said:

‘I’m going to get you another of those kick-arse coffees, and then you’re going to tell me what you want?’

He did and she did.

Told it all, the set-up of the Happy Slapper, Lane selling her out, and the reappearance of Angie.

His face lit up at the mention of the Vixen and he interrupted:

‘Well fuck me sideways, that’s great, I always felt that was unfinished biz.’

Then Lynn strolled in, wearing one of Brant’s shirts, her ample bosom spilling out. She nodded at Falls, not in an unfriendly way but more a kind of total disinterest, and for some reason, that irritated the bejesus out of Falls, like… hooker, dissing her?

Brant turned to Lynn, said:

‘Take off, babe, this is work.’

Lynngave Falls another look, one that said:

‘I’ve had him… what’s your gig?’

Then, oh so casual, leaned over, kissed Brant on the lips, said:

‘Catch you later, honey.’

He slapped her on the arse, said:

‘Long as that’s all I catch.’

And… winked at Falls.

Not for the first time, she wondered what the fuck had happened to her once bright vision of police work, some skewered notion of righting wrongs, doing the best you could, and all that good Oprah crap.

Part of her began to envy McDonald being out of the
whole sorry game, and Brant, waiting till Lynn had gone, swung back to face her, said: