Ken Bruen: Ammunition

‘Liz, sugar, you remember John… John Coleman, the poor lamb you set up or do you set up so many you forget their names. He sure won’t forget yours.’

She squeezed his thigh, his eyes never left Falls, Angie continued:

‘We have a proposition for you, love. You drop this nonsense against John, and I won’t sell my night of torrid sex with black, recently promoted sergeant. Does that sound… reasonable?’

Falls was fucked, knew it, reacted by taking on the stare of Coleman, leaned over to him, said:

‘Keep looking at me like that and I’ll take your fucking sheep’s eyes out.’

He pulled back, way back.

Angie was thrilled.

‘See, John, didn’t I tell you she was a downright tigress?’

Angie raised her glass, asked:

‘So, let’s toast our deal, what do you say, Liz, cherry pip?’

Falls threw her vodka in her face, stood up, said to the guy:

‘You ever give me a fucking look again, I’ll cut your balls off.’

And she stormed off.

Angie, in a warm tone, shouted:

‘See you at your place soon. Drinks on me, darling.’

Outside, Falls had to stand against the wall for a moment, try to get a grip on her world that was spiralling so far down the toilet, she didn’t even know if it was worth flushing. A homeless guy approached, asked in a concerned tone:

‘You okay, missus?’

‘Missus’?

She nearly laughed but was afraid if she started, she might never stop. She linked his arm, asked:

‘How about I buy you a big drink, mate, how would that be?’

He concurred it would be just dandy.

They were halfway down the street when he tried to put his hand up her skirt, and with almost reluctance, she broke his nose.

Porter Nash was sitting at home, and yeah, his place was immaculate, spotless in fact.

A gay thing?

No, he just hated dirt.

He was listening to Mozart, not that he’d be sharing that taste with the blokes at the station… they’d fucking love that.

Ask him.

‘Don’t you like to listen to Barbra Streisand?’

Right and still had his copy of ‘YMCA.’

Thing is, they’d buy it

He’d bought six bottles of that fine Belgian ale Duvel.

It sure tasted marvellous.

He needed some escape as his mind was a whirl of conflict, the nagging guilt over the death of the man at Wallace’s hand, the suicide of McDonald, Brant being shot and worse, what Brant would do in retaliation, it would definitely be biblical… and soon.

Too, his diabetes was raging unchecked, his glucose levels through the roof, and hey, who’d time to get it seen to.

Drinking… was that smart… take a wild frigging guess.

Reason it tasted so good and even… wicked.

The sex in the gay club had been a wondrous release, despite the guy asking him if he loved the New York Dolls?

Name one single by them, go on, dare you.

He’d nearly said that, but he was up to his groin in the guys arse, so it hadn’t seemed the time for a pop quiz.

He smiled.

The guy had come in a torrent and then asked:

‘Wanna do some E?’

His doorbell rang. The only caller he ever got was Brant, and he was kind of relieved. It would be good to get that lunatic to take on Wallace.

Wisn’t Brant.

Wallace.

All bonhomie, good cheer, etc. He held out a bottle of wine, said:

‘Peace?’

Porter didn’t move, snapped:

‘How’d you know where I live?’

Wallace gave that shit-eating grin, good ol boy, the gee shucks shite he did so well, said:

‘Bro, I’m in counterterror. I know where everybody lives, so do I get to come in?’

Reluctantly, Porter stood aside, nodded:

Wallace strode by, walking in as if he were the owner, but every inch the cop, his eyes checking exits, scanning the room, he set the bottle on the coffee table, said:

‘Wanna grab us some glasses. I don’t think we should drink it by the neck, and I bet you got real fine wine glasses.’

Wallace pulled off his duster, a long black one naturally, eased his huge frame into a chair, plonked his cowboy boots on the table, said:

‘This here is comfy, bit faggy but what the hell, man’s home is his castle, fairy or otherwise.’

Porter went to get some glasses and half wished they weren’t Waterford crystal, a tin cup would be more Wallace’s speed. He was arranging cheese spread on crackers and thought:

The hell am I doing, playing right into his stereotype?

He binned the crackers.

When he returned to the front room, Wallace was smoking a thin cigar, and a Glock sat on the table. Porter wondered if Wallace intended to kill him? He set the glasses and the wine bottle down carefully, asked:

‘What’s with the gun?’

Wallace was drinking one of the Belgian beers, smacking his lips in appreciation, said:

‘That brew has a bite, now see that there Glock, most folk, they figure it’s all plastic, but it’s only 17 per cent that, the barrel and the insides, they are solid steel, go on pick it up, see if I’m right?’

Not the hell sure what was going on, Porter picked it up, marvelled at how light it was, turned it over in his palms, and Wallace asked:

‘Wanna take a pop at me, Port?’

Porter put it down, opened another beer, sat down, and got ready for whatever it was was coming down the pike. Suddenly, Wallace was all motion, up, his hands holding a hanker-chief and he almost reverently wrapped the gun in it, put it in his duster, went:

‘Ah.’

Porter had a real sinking feeling, asked:

‘What’s happening here?’

Wallace drained the beer, belched, asked:

‘Got any snacks, pretzels, chips, like that?’

Porter ignored that, waited:

Wallace sighed, said:

‘Insurance, ol’ buddy, you see, you’re that rare kind of cop, don’t get me wrong, I respect it, but times, they are a-changing and thing is, I figure you might rat me out on that raghead whose ticket we punched. You can’t help it, you have morals and me, well, I got yer prints all over this here weapon, a certain scumbag gets offed, guess who’s in the frame. You keep your mouth shut, let me protect democracy, and hey, no problemo. You sure you don’t got any like, nuts or stuff, don’t faggots always have little dainty snacks and shit?’

Porter was on his feet, wondering if he could take him, get the Glock, and Wallace smiled, no warmth, the real hardarse showing, without moving a muscle, he said:

‘Forget it, bro, you wouldn’t get past the coffee table.’

Then he drained the beer, chucked the bottle on the carpet, said:

‘You pillow biters like to have crap to clean up, am I right?’

He flicked the stub of the cigar across the room, stood, said:

‘Hate to threaten and run but the enemy never sleeps. You free Friday night, I found me a club does line dancing, and serves ribs, have us a hoedown. Y’all take care now, hear.’ And he was gone.

He was right on one point, Porter was down on his knees, sweeping up the debris of the visit.

Brant had had him a fine ride, had rolled off Lynn, slapped ‘er on the arse, said:

‘You sure know what it’s for, girl.’

Lynn had made all the appropriate noises of delight as he’d gone at it, and she knew, Brant of all the men on the planet knew it was a crock but he didn’t, to coin a phase, give a fuck. He’d gone to the fridge, got some cold Heinkens, handed her one, and she chided:

‘No glass?’

He liked her, she had a lot of spunk, and it was one of the few qualities Brant appreciated, he said: