Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

Leigh began moving his glass, the colour didn’t improve. ‘You don’t want to be messing with that piece of work.’

Falls sighed then clamped her hand on his knee. ‘Where?’

‘You’re not playing by the rules, it has to be drawn out.’

She pinched hard and he jumped. She hissed, ‘Leigh, there are no rules … where?’

‘The snooker hall at The Elephant. Thinks he’s Paul Newman in The Hustler … He’s there all day.’

She released her grip, rooted in her bag and then palmed him a twenty. He was indignant. ‘This is supposed to buy me what? It wouldn’t pay me light bill for a week!’

Now she smiled, said, ‘I dunno, you could always hop up there, get us a few more of these drinks … oh, sorry — disguises .’

On her way out, she ignored Red and it seemed to be what he expected.

As Fenton tried not to run, he felt the adrenalin build to a point beyond mere rush. His mind roared: You did it, you did it, you bloody did it! — Then his arm was grabbed. Disbelief pounded through his body.

Caught! Already!

And turned to see a black guy, something familiar about him, the guy saying, ‘Yo, fool, you owes me a buck and a half!’

‘What?’

‘The other day, dude. I be giving yo’ sorry ass a pamphlet ’bout dem CIA …

‘Oh right … I thought it was free.’

‘Where yo’ been, dude? Ain’t nothing free on the street.’

Fenton reached for change, handed over a five. The guy wailin’, ‘What cha thinkin’, like I’m gonna make change?’

Fenton laughed, said, ‘Keep it, knock yourself out mate.’

‘Yo dissin’ me man, dat what cha thinkin’?’

Now the Alien laughed out loud, asked, ‘Is that what they’re calling it? Dissin’. What will you guys think of next?’

The Super had summoned Roberts.

These meetings were never warm; it usually meant a bollocking. When Roberts came in the Super was dunking a biscuit in tea, said, ‘Hurry up, man, shut the door.’

He didn’t offer tea or a seat; got to it. ‘I’ve had a call from across the water.’

Roberts wondered — from Ireland? … Brant? … No. Even he couldn’t be that drunk — and said neutrally, ‘Yes, sir?’

‘From Noo Yawk.’

Pronounced it thus to demonstrate he could be a kidder or simply an asshole; continued: ‘There’s been a murder — two murders — in San Francisco.’

Roberts wanted to say, only two ?

The Super brushed crumbs from his splendid uniform, noisily finished the tea. Can tea be chewed? He was giving it a good try.

‘Reason they called us is the woman is a Londoner.’ He consulted his notes. ‘A Stella Davis, but originally Stella Fenton. Ring any bells?’

‘Uh-oh.’

‘Is that an answer?’

‘Reg Fenton, “The Alien” … Did he use a bat?’

The Super was impressed, if a tiny bit miffed. Had to check the notes, then confirmed, ‘By Jove, you’re right. They expect he’ll head for home, so notify the airport chappies.’

‘Yes, sir … How did they know it was him … I mean … so quickly?’

‘He left the bat.’

Falls was a touch surprised that Leigh’s information was correct. She went to the snooker hall in the late afternoon. Round three, in there.

She’d been expecting a tide of looks and remarks.

Lone woman in the last male bastion.

Lone black woman.

But there wasn’t, as the place was empty.

It was situated above a tailors with the sign ‘ESPOKE’.

It puzzled her till she realised the ‘B’ had done a Burton, so to speak. Up two flights of badly lit stairs and she knew, in her condition, it wouldn’t be long till she wouldn’t be able to do that. The baby was beyond joy, it was up there in the realm of ecstasy.

A toilet flushed and out emerged the suspect. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, asked, ‘Fancy a quick game?’

‘Some other time.’

He was smiling. ‘On yer lonesome this trip?’

‘Am I going to need help?’ She kept it light — let’s all stay nice ’n’ loose — relaxed, even.

He spread both hands on the table, said, ‘No way, babe.’

Falls moved a little closer. ‘If you could spare me a short time to come to the station, clear up a small situation.’

He was running his hand idly over the snooker balls, exclaimed, ‘What? Now?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, it would be a great help.’

Now he had the black ball in his right hand, fisting it. ‘You speak well for a nigger, almost like a white bitch. That what you want, to be white, eh?’

She took a deep breath.

He shouted, ‘Black in right centre pocket!’ and flung it in her face. Caught her full impact on the forehead and she staggered back, felt her knees buckle. Then he was dragging her by the hair, saying, ‘I keep telling them, put-out-the-trash.’

And he dragged her through the doors, paused, then slung her, roaring, ‘Black on the way out!’

Brant was sitting in the GBC — a restaurant right in the centre of Galway. It had the mentality and kudos of a transport caff, ie lashings of food, good food, cheap and friendly. Brant liked it a lot.

A waitress asked, ‘By yourself, are you?’

‘What? … Oh yeah … No. My cousin’s coming.’

And caught himself, thought — ‘What am I doing? Jeez, I’ll be telling her the size of me socks next.’

He gave a mortified smile and she said, ‘T’will be nice for ye.’

Argue that.

Brant recalled the night before and Sheila. She had a small flat along the canal, and no sooner there, than she hopped on him. Gave him a ferocious ride. He’d lain back on the floor, exclaimed, ‘Wow, that was Trojan!’

‘You mean you’re done?’

‘Jeez, woman — one shag and I’m for a kip!’

She’d given him an elbow in the ribs, said, ‘Ary go on outta that! Two squirts and you’re calling it a night! I’ll get you roaring till the small hours.’

She did and did, till them small hours. Finally he cried, ‘I’ll give you serious money not to touch me dick again.’

She laughed out loud and climbed on. When finally she’d nodded off, he’d limped to his feet and hobbled outta there as fast as he could manage.

Pat arrived in. ‘There you are … Sheila’s looking for you.’

When he saw Brant’s alarm, he added, ‘Only coddin’ yah! Isn’t she a gas woman?’

‘Gas?’

‘She’s a widow, you know.’

‘Christ, I believe it! I’m only surprised she’s at large.’

Pat shouted across the tables, ‘Mary, bring us a nice cuppa tea and a currant bun, there’s a good girl.’ He sat down, said, ‘So you’ll be going now?’

‘Yeah, the local boyos are running me down to Shannon … see me off the premises, I suppose.’

Pat looked sad. ‘I’ll be sorry to see you go.’

Brant reached in his pocket, produced a fancy bag with ‘WILLIAM FALLER’ written in gold across it. ‘I didn’t know what else to get.’

Pat opened it fast and out fell a shining gold Zippo. He turned it over, the inscription: ‘PATEEN’. Pat said, ‘I’ll mind it like laughter.’

‘In south-east London we’re not big on hugs or that, so I’ll …

Pat got up and grabbed him in a hug that Sheila would have admired, said, ‘You be careful now, young Brant.’

On the way to Shannon, Brant reached for a cigarette and lit it carefully with a Zippo. His thumb near covered the ‘1968’.