Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

‘Who gives a fuck?’

Nancy followed after him trying not to feel crushed, when he suddenly turned. ‘You know what the best sight would be?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You … without a stitch on.’

Nancy D’Agostino’s husband had been killed in an auto smash.

His bad luck.

Nancy had survived. She called that her bad luck.

The sole passion of Brant’s life had been his Ed McBain collection. He’d had the early green Penguin editions at 2/6 a throw. On through the author’s outings as Evan Hunter and the Matthew Hope series. Of the nigh eighty titles produced by McBain, he had close to the full collection.

For some reason, the police procedures struck a chord with Brant. As if the boys of the 87th came closest to what in his heart he believed a cop should be. When Nancy asked him, ‘Is there anything you value?’ he nearly told her.

But the Band-Aiders — Josie and Sean O’Brien — had broken into Brant’s flat, trashed it and his book collection. Thus had begun his pursuit of them which ended in the death of a young policeman and Brant’s own narrow escape.

It crossed Brant’s mind that the whole story might get him a sympathetic fuck, but he decided to forego the telling.

For his last night in New York, Nancy had taken him to the restaurant on top of the World Trade Centre. On the elevator up, he’d bitched about the SMOKE FREE ZONE. As they were seated, Nancy said, ‘Some view, huh?’

‘Better through a nicotine haze.’

Nancy ordered seafood chowder and Brant ordered steak. Rare and bleeding.

Nancy said, ‘That man you bumped into on the way in … it was Ed McBain.’

She couldn’t believe his reaction, as if he’d had a prod in the ass. ‘What? Are you serious? … Oh shit! … Is he gone?’

Like that.

When he finally calmed, he shook his head, muttering, ‘Ed McBain … Jesus!’

Nancy took a sip of her Tom Collins. ‘It was him or Elmore Leonard … I always get them crime writers confused.’

Brant was beyond comment; took out his Weights, lit one and exhaled: ‘ Ah …

Naturally, the Maitre d’ came scurrying over but Nancy flashed the tin. He wasn’t impressed. ‘There are rules.’

Brant smiled and said, ‘Hey pal, want to step outside and discuss procedure?’

He didn’t.

After, they stood outside and Nancy wondered what now ? Brant flagged a cab and held the door for her. Yet again, he’d taken her off balance. Manners were the very last thing she’d anticipated. He said to the cabbie, ‘Take the lady home,’ and they were peeling rubber. She looked back through the window to wave, or … But Brant was staring up at the World Trade.

Bill was interviewing killers. Well, would-be or wannabe ones. As usual, he held court in the end section of The Greyhound. Situated at The Oval, it’s a bar that restores pride in the business, and for as long as Bill had been kingpin in south-east London, he’d treated it as his office.

What to look for in a potential hit man.

1. Patience

2. Cool

3. Absolute ruthlessness

A hard man who’d never have to shout the odds. You didn’t ask about his rep, it had already reached you. Word was out that Fenton, The Alien, had lost it or gone to the US. Which amounted to the same thing if you clubbed in Clapham. (No, not night discos but crash-yer-skull clubs.)

Bill had already seen four guys. All young and all bananas. They wanted to be on the front page of the tabloids. Trainee psychos and apprentice sociopaths. They’d call attention. Sipping from a Ballygowan, Bill said to one of his minders, ‘I miss the old days.’

‘Guv?’

‘Get the motor, we’ll call it a day.’

‘Call it what, Guv?’

He sighed. With the Russian villains making in-roads, maybe it was time to head for the Costa and listen to Phil Collins albums. Or album. Seeing how he simply recorded the same one each time.

The minder said, ‘Guv, there’s one other bloke.’

‘Yeah?’

‘That’s him by the cider pump.’

Bill saw a guy in his early twenties, leather jacket, faded jeans, trainers. The urban uniform. There were half a million right outside the door. Nothing to distinguish him, which was a huge plus.

Bill said, ‘Send him over.’

The guy moved easily, no wasted energy.

Bill nodded, said, ‘Take a stool.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Another plus. The last time Bill had heard ‘sir’ was in an Elvis interview. He offered a drink, got, ‘No, sir.’

‘Shit,’ thought Bill. ‘This kid could surprise a bloke to death.’ He asked, ‘You got a name, son?’

‘Collie. It’s Collie, sir.’

‘What, cos you like dogs, is it?’ And got to see the kid’s eyes. Dark eyes that were ever so slightly out of alignment. They gave the sense of relief that you weren’t their focus. Nor would you ever want to be.

Now the kid smiled, almost shyly. ‘Something that happened when I was young.’

Bill smiled, like the kid had to be all of twenty three. ‘Tell me.’ Not a request.

‘Our neighbour had a dog; every time you passed he threw himself against the gate. People got a fright regular as clockwork. Like, one minute there wasn’t a sign of him, then as you passed, he’d jump snarling and barking.’ Bill didn’t comment, so the kid continued. ‘The dog got off on it.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, he got his jollies from it.’ He pronounced the word ‘yollies’, giving it a resonance of distance and disease.

Bill had to ask — ‘How did you know that?’

Now the kid gave a shrug, said, ‘I looked into his eyes.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, before I strangled him, I took a good look.’

Bill decided to ask the important question. ‘What is it you want, son?’

‘To work for you, sir.’

‘And what do you want, to be famous, get yourself a rep?’

Now the kid looked irritated, said, ‘I’m not stupid, sir.’

‘Done time, ’ave you?’

‘Once. I won’t be going back.’

Bill believed him. ‘OK … I’ll give you a trial.’ Now he reached in his jacket, took out a black and white photo, pushed it across the table. ‘Know him?’

‘No, sir.’

It showed Brant, resplendent in his Aran sweater as he boarded a flight. His face to the camera, he looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. Bill stared at it for a while then, back to biz, said, ‘That’s Detective Sergeant Brant. Due back from America any day.’ The kid waited. ‘Your predecessor, The Alien, was supposed to put some pressure on the man, persuade him to drop his interest in me. But … he fucked it up. And Brant not only didn’t lose interest, he paid me a visit.’ Bill’s face was bright red. Famous for his cool, he was close to losing it. ‘What I want is to hit him where it hurts. Not him — too much attention if he’s damaged personally. But if something he cared for got nobbled … He stopped, asked, ‘Do you follow me, son?’

‘Yes, sir. Damage where he’ll feel it.’

‘That’s it. Think you can handle it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bill reached again in his pocket, took out a thin wedge. It had the glow of fifties. He nudged it across the table. ‘To get you started; a bit of walking round money.’

The kid didn’t touch it. ‘I haven’t earned it yet.’

‘That’s what you think.’

Falls finally crashed through the surface and immediately wished she hadn’t. As soon as she opened her eyes she knew the baby was gone.

Then the event of the pool hall returned and her whole body shook. She knew if she called, a gaggle of help would arrive. Instead, she cried silently … and as the tears coursed down her face she remembered the fourth Teletubby.