Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

‘East 33rd?’

‘Jaysus … the other bit.’

‘Oh … Kips Bay.’

‘Screw that babe, I’m for The Village.’

‘But it’s been arranged by the Department.’

Brant gave her his full smile, said, ‘Fuck ’em, eh? I want to stay in a ‘Y’ in The Village.’

She looked for an exit on the ramp and thought, ‘Could be worse — he might have had a hard-on for The Bronx, and then what?’

Brant watched her drive and asked, ‘This is an automatic?’

‘Yes.’

‘Stick-shift?’

‘What?’

‘Four wheel drive?’

She glanced at him and he slapped her knee. ‘Just winding yah up, babe.’

Gritting her teeth, she said, ‘I’m a sergeant in Homicide … do you have any idea of what it takes to make detective, to get my shield?’

Brant said, ‘It takes a babe … am I right?’

The Band-Aider, Josie O’Brien as she was now officially identified, was being held in the psycho ward. ‘Why?’ asked Brant.

Nancy gave the department answer. ‘Suicide watch.’

Brant gave an ugly snort. ‘She kills other people — not a snowball’s chance of her hurting herself.’

Nancy agreed but continued, ‘She saw her boyfriend shot in the face and had to beg for her own life … she could slip into depression.’

Brant shook his head, then asked, ‘So … can I see her?’

Incarceration had suited Josie. Being off the streets, a bath, nutrition, had transformed her. Her dirty blond hair was now shining and looked high-lighted. The previously scabbed, worn face was now scrubbed clean and her eyes had a sparkle.

As Brant prepared to enter the room, he turned to Nancy. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m to be present. It’s …

‘Department Regulations. Christ, will yah learn a new tune? Look, I’ll buy yah dinner if yah fuck off for ten minutes.’

Nancy, who thought she’d gotten some sort of handle on Brant, asked, ‘Ever hear of Popeye Doyle?’

‘Nope.’

‘That figures. Get it straight, I’m with you all the way.’

Brant decided to roll with it, said, ‘Yah dirty article.’

When Brant walked into the room, Josie appeared almost shy. On their previous meeting, her partner had sunk a knife in Brant’s back. She said, ‘Hiya.’

He didn’t answer, took the chair on the other side of the table. The hospital guard gave Nancy an expectant look, like, what’s going down?

She had no idea.

Brant reached in his pocket and everybody jumped. He took out his Weights and Zippo, placed them on the table.

The guard said, ‘This is a NO SMOKING ZONE,’ as if noticing him for the first time.

Brant gave him a brief glance. ‘Fuck off.’

Nancy signalled to the guard — ‘Cool it’. He tried.

Brant tapped the cigs. ‘Want one?’

‘Oh, yes please.’

He shook two free and Josie took one. As he cranked the Zippo, he seized her wrist, the flame in her face, asked, ‘Why’d ya kill the young copper?’

If Josie was spooked, she stifled it. ‘Gis a cup o’ tea, cunt.’

Brant let her go and asked, ‘What’s she on?’

Nancy looked to the guard, ‘The methadone program.’

Brant shrugged, asked Josie, ‘Why’d you want to go back?’

‘I’m homesick.’

He laughed out loud and she added, ‘I’m going to be in a mini-series, maybe Winona Ryder will play me. I’d let Brad Pitt play Sean.’

Brant played along, ‘Gonna be famous, that it?’

‘I’ve got an agent.’

‘You’ve got a hell of an imagination. You’re going to Holloway, not Hollywood. The only stars you’ll see are when the bull dykes ram yer head against the bars.’

Josie looked to Nancy, panic writ large. ‘Tell him to shut his mouth!’

Brant stood up. ‘When can I have her?’

Nancy consulted the paperwork. ‘She’s waived all extradition, so the day after tomorrow, I guess.’

Brant looked at Josie. ‘How’s that, eh? Wanna take a ride with me?’

Josie was pulling it back, spat, ‘I’ve ridden worse.’

He was delighted. ‘I believe you … do I ever!’

Back in the squad room, Nancy checked her desk for messages. Brant asked, ‘Can I use the phone?’

‘Sure.’

It took a time but eventually he was connected to Roberts. The squad room fell silent as Brant’s London accent rang loud and entrancing. To them, he sounded sooo English.

‘Guv, that you?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Brant, I’m in New York.’

‘And like it, do you?’

‘I met with the Band-Aider, she’s a piece of work.’

‘Any problems?’

‘Naw. What news of The Alien?’

Roberts knew he had to proceed carefully. He hedged, and as he did, a radio kicked into loud, sudden life with ‘Don’t Blame It On Me’ by Stevie Nicks. Nancy went to turn it down.

Roberts said, ‘Fenton’s ex-wife has been murdered.’

Deep intake of breath, then Brant said, ‘He bloody dun it … jeez!’

‘Well, he’s long gone, vanished without trace.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Falls went after that arsonist.’

‘On her lonesome?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Is she OK?’

Time to lie … ‘Yes.’

A moment as Brant tasted the answer, decided it could suffice, then asked, ‘Did you get the fuck?’

To the assembled detectives it sounded like — ‘Did yah get the fok?’ — and they loved it. In cop bars all over Manhattan, it had a brief shelf-life as the catch-phrase of the moment.

Roberts decided to play it a little humble and answered, ‘ We got him.’

‘Who, exactly?’

‘Ahm … McDonald.’

Brant gave a bitter laugh. ‘You’ll get the credit, I suppose?’

Refute that.

Before Roberts knew how to answer, Brant said, ‘Well, some of us have a job to do.’

And rang off.

Nancy took Brant to Choc Full O’ Nuts. She asked for: ‘Double decaffeinated latte,’ and looked to Brant. He said, ‘Jaysus, I’d settle for a coffee.’

The waitress and Nancy exchanged a look that read: ‘English … right!’ At least he hadn’t asked for tea.

Brant reached for his best Hollywood accent, said, ‘I’ll need your shield and weapon.’

‘What?’

‘Gis a look.’

Suspicious, she took out the blue and gold shield.

He said, ‘It looks like tin.’

‘It is tin.’

‘All we have is a warrant card … it doesn’t quite have the same effect. Show me your weapon.’ This with a leer.

She exclaimed, ‘I can’t figure you!’

‘Don’t bother. So, what are you carrying? Some dinky 22 with a mother of pearl handle?’ The coffee came and Brant stared at the double latte. ‘Looks like cappuccino with an inflated ego.’

She took a sip, went, ‘ Mmmmm … I carry a 38.’

Brant had moved on, asked, ‘What’s yer full name?’

‘Jesus H Christ, you jump all over the place. It’s D’Agostino.’

He tasted the word then asked, ‘Are you connected?’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘What are ye calling it now … mob … family … crime syndicate?’

Nancy shook her head. The man was beyond help. She tried for a total shift, said, ‘I have a list here, look … it’s the places you’ll probably want to see.’

The list:

Empire State

UN Building

Chrysler Building

Statue of Liberty

Macys.

He looked at it. ‘What’s this shit?’

‘It’s the sights.’

‘Spare me the tourist crap. I want to see the Dakota building and the Chelsea Hotel.’

‘Why?’

‘Where John Lennon lived and then where Sid and Nancy crashed. Plus, Bob Dylan wrote ‘Sad-Eyed of the Lowlands’ in the Chelsea.’

Nancy was intrigued. ‘Did you know they used the Dakota in Rosemary’s Baby ?’