Ken Bruen - Ammunition

Porter hadn’t anything to reply to this. He felt as if Roberts was testing him, see if he was the type who, given the right circumstances, would fuck over another policeman. He settled his face in what he hoped was a look of… Me?… shit, I’d never give up one of our own.

Roberts said:

‘Andrews, she’s got a bee in her bonnet. She might be about to shop someone.’

Porter wanted to ask who but settled for:

‘She’s young, she’ll learn.’

Roberts face was a mask of restrained fury, he said:

‘She fucking better.’

There was an uneasy silence and Porter was unsure where to go. Roberts asked

‘What’s the story with Brant?’

So Porter filled him in, gave the breakdown on their encounter with Rodney Lewis.

Roberts was smiling, not a smile of warmth or humour but the one that said it was exactly what he expected from Brant. He said:

‘This Lewis, he has juice I’d say.’

Guys who worked in the city, they usually had an in with the Super: money, Freemasons, golf, all the usual old boys’ network. Porter said:

‘If he reports Brant and I’d imagine he will, Brant might be up the creek.’

Roberts mulled it over, said:

‘Brant is always up the creek.’

No argument there.

Roberts asked:

‘Your own instinct, is Lewis the guy, the one who contracted the shooting?’

Porter considered carefully. With Roberts, you committed yourself, he’d hold you to it. He said:

‘He sure has motive and certainly has the cash to hire a shooter.’

Roberts went through some files, said:

‘The dead shooter, Terry Dunne, he had a girlfriend. Go see her, find out what she knows, maybe she can shed some light on the deal.’

Porter thought it wasn’t a bad idea, and before he could say so, Roberts snapped:

‘You still here, she isn’t going to come and see you, get your arse in gear.’

Porter had a lot of responses to this but none that wouldn’t involve violence, he stood said:

‘Right away, sir.’

And he was at the door when Roberts added:

‘You see Andrews, you put her straight, got it.’

He did.

Outside, he muttered:

‘Fuck.’

The American cop, Wallace was striding down the corridor, a large Starbucks in his fist. He went:

‘Porter, what’s up?’

Porter looked at him and, on impulse, asked:

‘Want to see how we intimidate would be witnesses?’

Wallace lobbed his Styrofoam in a long wide arc and… slam dunk, it landed in the waste bin, he said:

‘What are we waiting for, intimidation is my speciality.’

They got a car from the pool, and to Porter’s disgust, only a Volvo was available. He said:

‘Might as well write Cops on the front.’

Wallace asked if he could drive.

He could.

He made a grinding mess of the gear shift, asked:

‘The fuck is the matter with you guys? Didn’t you ever hear of automatics?’

Porter was amused, said:

‘We heard of them, we just like to do things the hard way.’

Wallace finally got the swing of it, said:

‘Yeah, I’ve had piss you guys call beer.’

Wallace ’s bulk took up most of the front seats, and Porter had to squeeze himself against the window. He asked:

‘Shouldn’t you be doing counterintelligence stuff?’

Wallace gave him a look, impossible to read, asked:

‘What makes you think I amn’t?’

Falls paid a visit to McDonald, she’d checked the duty roster, it was his day off, she got to his place early, checked the names of the apartments, he was on the ground floor, she rang his bell and smiled, thinking:

I’ll be ringing his bell in more ways than one.

Her smile was grim, tinged with foreboding. She heard:

‘Yeah?’

He sounded half asleep, she said:

‘It’s Falls, I need to speak to you.’

A pause, then:

‘Can’t it wait?’

She said:

‘Only if you’re not worried about going to jail.’

He buzzed her in.

He opened his door, cautiously, looked her over, she registered the thin white line of powder on his upper lip, thought:

Uh-oh.

He waved her in and looked down the corridor before closing the door. She asked:

‘How paranoid are you?’

His face was the ashen grey of the habitual coke fiend, the eyes but pinpoints, his movements jerky, and the set of his body wired. She knew it from bitter experience.

He was wearing track bottoms and a T-shirt that had the logo: THUGS GET LONELY TOO

Tupac.

She wondered if he knew that.

Then she noticed the Browning in his right hand, and chided herself, losing it. She should have spotted that right off. She asked:

‘Expecting company?’

He looked at the pistol as if seeing it for the first time, said:

‘They’re shooting cops out there.’

Theapartment was a tip, takeout food containers strewn everywhere, clothes on the floor, empty bottles lining the walls, and a smell of weed mixed with desperation. He said:

‘Take a seat.’

She perched precariously on the edge of a chair. He was pacing, asked:

‘Get you something?’

To buy some time, she said:

‘Tea, a nice pot of tea would be good.’

Hegave a crazed laugh, said:

‘How fucking British is that, and you… black as me boots. I love it, want a nice shot of rum?’

Where did he think she was from… fucking Jamaica.

The gun was still in his right hand, held loosely but there. She kept her tone neutral, said:

‘I’d be easier if you put the weapon away.’

He zoned out for a moment, his eyes with that lost look, and she considered taking the Browning from him. He clicked back, said:

‘Tea…, right, won’t be a mo.’

And disappeared into the kitchen. Newspapers were spread on the coffee table, to the Situations Vacant section. Ads for security personnel red lit.

She figured the only job he was getting was in the nick.

To her surprise, he returned with a tray, a clean cloth on it, and a pot of tea, two cleanish cups. He seemed more composed, and she reckoned he’d done a line… or two in the kitchen. He smiled, asked:

‘Whasssup?’

She levelled her eyes on him, said:

‘You’re in a shitload of trouble.’

Didn’t faze him, she knew the coke was whispering:

‘No biggie.’

She gave him the whole nine, the testimony of Tim Peters, the vigilante debacle, the seriousness of a charge of inciting vigilantes, and, worse, organizing and leading them. He listened, said:

‘They can’t prove shit.’

She leaned over, said:

‘You stupid prick. The guy got a photo of you.’

This got his attention, and he shouted:

‘Jesus, who’s seen it, where is it?’

She was tempted to let him sweat it, but he was far enough gone already. She said:

‘I got it and it’s at the bottom of the Thames.’

Took him a minute to digest that, then he asked:

‘Why would you help me out. You’ve always hated me.’

Hated.

She wanted to say:

‘Listen fuckhead, you’d have to get an awful lot more important for me to hate you.’

She said:

‘You’re a cop, I don’t want to see any of our own go down.’

The coke went to another level, and he sneered:

‘Mighty white of you.’

She thought she should just leave him to it, fuck him, but tried:

‘You’re not out of the woods yet. There’s going to be an investigation, your description has been given, and the duty roster has you outside the shopping centre the day Bill said he met you.’

His face took on a scared hue, but he fronted with:

‘Fuck ‘em, bring it on.’

She stood up, said:

‘I’ve covered for you, but if there’s a full investigation, I don’t know if anyone can save you.’