Ken Bruen - The McDead

She was just closing the door when he pounced on the club milk. Could hear him wolfing it as she moved away, muttered, ‘Hope it bloody chokes him.’

As Brant had said, ‘Getting meaner by the minute’.

There’s a narrow street connecting the Walworth Road to the east entrance of The Elephant and Castle shopping centre. It has second-hand furniture shops, a bookies, a boarded-up off licence and a taverna. The taverna is called The Spirit of Athens. It’s a dump. But it does OK, and has a minor reputation for its bacon sarnies. A hint of kebab is added to the mix and the locals like it. Gives a taste of the exotic and disguises the bacon.

Culinary delight indeed.

The owner is named Spiro Zacharopoulos. He’s a snitch and, more to the point, he’s DS Brant’s snitch. Brant looked like a thug and he was real proud of that. The Metropolitan Police believed he was a thug and were deeply ashamed of him. He’d had some major fuck-ups in his career which ensured he’d not rise above the rank of sergeant. But a number of last moment high profile case solutions had saved his career. It was always thus, thin ice to the promised land.

A mix of ruthlessness and the luck of the Irish kept him in the game. Snitches were the lifeblood of police work. Brant knew this better than most. Now sitting at a table, he said to Spiro, ‘Jaysus, would it hurt to give the place a sweep?’

‘Ah Meester Brant, help is so … how you say … diskolo … difficult to get.’

‘By the look of this joint, it’s downright impossible. Couldn’t you get a brush?’

Spiro spoke perfect English but it was useful to play it down. Gave him the edge. He said, ‘Ah Meester Brant, you make a joke.’

Brant reached into his jacket, got a pack of Weights and a battered Zippo, lit up, exhaled, said, ‘When I make a joke boyo, you won’t be in any doubt about it.’

Spiro, playing the anxious-to-please role, went and got an ashtray. Written along the side was Ouzo-12. Brant looked at it, flicked his ash on the floor, said, ‘That’s going to make all the difference, eh? What’s the twelve for?’

Now Spiro could be the true Greek, hospitable friendly sly, said, ‘Ouziko Dodika.’

‘Which tells me what exactly? Doesn’t tell me shit pal.’

‘Wait … wait one moment.’ He got up, crossed to the bar and busied himself. Five minutes on he’s back with glasses, a bottle, snacks on plates and a jug of water, says, ‘Let me demonstrate.’ Pours the ouzo, adds water and it becomes the colour of window cleaner, nods to the snacks, explains, ‘These are meze, we eat, we drink, like we’re in Greece.’

The ‘snacks’ consisted of

two Ritz crackers,

two slices of ‘rubber’,

two thin wedges of cheese.

Brant stared, then: ‘Jaysus, you broke the bank with all this grub … what’s the rubber bits?’

‘Octopu.’

‘I can only hope you’re kidding. Tell you what, I’ll feast on the others-you have the condoms.’

He took his glass and before he drank, Spiro said, ‘ Aspro pato. ’

‘Whatever.’ Knocked it back, gasped and said, ‘Paint off a fucking gate…

‘You like?’

Brant wiped his mouth, bit on a stale cracker, said, ‘Let’s cut the crap, boyo, and drop the Greek lesson … OK? You came to me pal offering yer help if I could help you with some problems. I delivered, you haven’t been shut down so, let’s hear it. You’re a snitch, so snitch.’

Now Spiro was the offended party, whined, ‘Meester Brant, ah … I thought we were friends. Friends do each other a leetle favour.’

He was into it now and would have built to operatic outrage but Brant leant over, gave him an almighty wallop to the side of the head, said:

‘You’re not paying attention, Costos.’

‘It’s Spiro.’

‘See, now you’re listening. Who’s the main player these days?’

The main player had been Bill Preston. He was on sabbatical and various villains were vying for position. Spiro glanced round the empty restaurant, then said, ‘Tommy Logan. Like you, he is Irish, I think, but he has the mind of a Colombian.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Without mercy, no … how you say…? boundaries … is why he is top because he will do anything.’

‘Well now, I’d like to meet the bold Logan.’

‘Mister Brant, be careful, this man is crazy. He has no respect for police or for anybody.’

Brant poured some ouzo, said, ‘Let’s have some more turpentine, drink to Tommy Logan.’

‘Ah, you begin to like the ouzo.’

Brant leant over and Spiro cowered, but the sergeant only put his arm round the Greek’s shoulder, squeezed, said, ‘I like you Costis, you and yer shit-hole caff.’

A handful of mourners at Tony Roberts’ funeral. The Chief Inspector, Brant, Falls, McDonald, and a wino who looked vaguely familiar, but Roberts couldn’t quite recall where from.

The vicar read, ‘Man is full of misery and has but a short time to live…

Brant nudged him, none too gently, said, ‘Jaysus, padre, something less depressing.’

The vicar said, ‘I say, do leave this to the proper authority. There are set rules and services.’

Brant gave him the look, asked, ‘Wanna be first in the hole?’

The padre looked for help but none was forthcoming, so he read an up tempo passage on light and salvation. Brant liked it fine.

A persistent drizzle was coming down, not an outright soaking but a steady wetting. As if it hadn’t the balls to just pour on bloody down. When the body had been lowered, Brant moved near to Roberts, asked, ‘All right, guv?’

‘What … oh yes … thanks … listen, I, ahm … don’t they usually have sandwiches for people after…?’

Brant smiled gently, a rare to rarest event, said, ‘I put a few quid behind the bar at The Roebuck, they do a lovely spread.’

‘Oh, do they?’

‘Well the owner’s a mick, knows about wakes. He’ll do us grand. I’ll leave you a moment, guv.’

Roberts turned, asked, ‘What will I say? I dunno what to say.’

‘Tell him goodbye, guv … oh … and that you’ll fix the fuck what done him … OK?’

Only Roberts and the wino remained. Then it came to him-the wino outside Tony’s door. The man said, ‘Sorry for your trouble, he was a gent he was. Gave me a few quid now and again.’

Roberts reached for his wallet and the man was horrified. ‘I didn’t come here for beggin’.’

‘I know, I appreciate that, but for a last one with … Tony … would you humour me?’

The wino was indignant but not stupid, took the cash, said, ‘So long’s you know I didn’t come cos o’ that.’

Roberts nodded, stood alone for a moment then whispered, ‘Goodbye Tony, I’ll fix the fuck what done you … OK, lad?’

There’s a new boot on the market. Heavy, thick-soled, menacing and highly impressive, called Wehrmacht. And, yeah, they pronounce it with a V and a tone. So, OK, it’s not actually called the Third Reich, but it’s implied. Could they give a fuck. Selling like designer sunglasses. Tommy Logan had a pair and he adored them. For good measure, he had the toes reinforced with steel. Kept them spit-shined and did those mothers gleam?

His real name was Tommy Nash but that was before. In the Scrubs, he’d drowned a guy in a toilet. Not an easy task. You have to truly want to kill somebody. Tommy did.

That evening in the recreation room, Johnny Logan won the Eurovision for the third time. The cons were allowed to watch. To be in the Eurovision three times is some awful sentence but to win it three times, that’s diabolical. One of the lifers said, ‘Hey Tommy, you know what?’