Ken Bruen - Ammunition

‘Fucksakes, you’ll want paying next?’

In all their time, he’d never actually given her cash for the deed, but in a hundred ways he’d paid her through other means. Having a lethal weapon like him in your corner… priceless.

Anxiety was still in his gut so he rifled through Lynn’s handbag, not even a moment’s hesitation. He wanted something, he went for it, and hookers, they always had some tranks.

Bingo, a sheet of Valium, he took two, 5mg, knocked them back with the beer. Would have killed for a pint of Guinness, he’d been to Galway once, and man, it was a work of art to watch them build a pint, get that creamy head, and all the time, giving you lots of friendly chat.

Way to live.

As he waited for the pills to crank, he knew, knew the only cure for the gut wrenching was to take out Rodney Lewis. The guy was definitely going to take another run at him, and if Brant wasn’t real careful, the bastard might get lucky. You didn’t get to be a rich bollix like him by being stupid. Thing was, he wasted the fucker now, they’d come right after him. Who else had motive.

He was letting the problem sit when the doorbell went. He had on a white robe he’d nicked from the hospital. It was warm and smelt of comfort, it had two big pockets, and he had the gun in the right one, gripped the butt, opened the door.

A seriously dishevelled Falls stood there, pleaded:

‘Could I get some coffee?’

Jesus, he’d seen her in some states, especially in the days when she’d been living on the nose candy but now, she looked like she’d been sleeping rough, he asked

‘What, you think this is bloody Starbucks?’

Then headed back inside, said:

‘Shut the door, there’s a draught.’

She did, came in, stood, looking like a lost cat. He made a cup of instant, added a generous dollop of his fine Jameson, handed it to her, lit a smoke, and gave her that too.

Her body was trembling, she gulped the coffee, asked:

‘Is there something in this?’

He smiled, said:

‘Yeah… hope.’

She began to feel a bit better, Brant was the most unpredictable person she’d ever met, and yet, you were knee-deep in shite, he was the guy who would find you a shovel. You’d probably have to do the digging, but he’d keep you company. She said:

‘I broke a wino’s nose.’

He laughed, said:

‘Jaysus girl, they have it bad enough, you have to go round kicking the fuck out of them as well?’

She drained the coffee, said:

‘God, that was good.’

And then… the silence, Brant would wait forever when he knew you wanted something, and she as sure as hell wanted something.

Help.

She tried to buy some time, said:

‘I feel so bad about McDonald.’

Brant sat opposite her, those stone eyes holding her, reading her, and he asked:

‘Why?’

Anyone else in the world, they’d go the pseudo-route, mutter sympathetic stuff, like:

‘There was nothing you could do, there was nothing anyone could do.’

But Brant, no bullshit, right to the core.

She faltered, then:

‘I feel I should have helped, you know…?’

And he smiled, that awful smile that said:

‘Sure.’

He stretched, and she wondered if he was hurting from the shooting but ask… ask Brant… sure.

He said:

‘He was a cowardly fuck, he took the easy way out, and how many times… did he fuck you over, or have you forgotten the Clapham Rapist, McDonald as yer backup?’

She was stunned. All those years he’d never once referred to how he’d saved her life. Before she could even think of a reply, he continued, he said:

‘Reason I mention our rapist mate is he has a brother and, guess what, he’s the fuck had me shot. Funny old world… isn’t it?’

She had to know, went:

‘What are you going to do?’

He stood, said:

‘I’m going to get you another of those kick-arse coffees, and then you’re going to tell me what you want?’

He did and she did.

Told it all, the set-up of the Happy Slapper, Lane selling her out, and the reappearance of Angie.

His face lit up at the mention of the Vixen and he interrupted:

‘Well fuck me sideways, that’s great, I always felt that was unfinished biz.’

Then Lynn strolled in, wearing one of Brant’s shirts, her ample bosom spilling out. She nodded at Falls, not in an unfriendly way but more a kind of total disinterest, and for some reason, that irritated the bejesus out of Falls, like… hooker, dissing her?

Brant turned to Lynn, said:

‘Take off, babe, this is work.’

Lynngave Falls another look, one that said:

‘I’ve had him… what’s your gig?’

Then, oh so casual, leaned over, kissed Brant on the lips, said:

‘Catch you later, honey.’

He slapped her on the arse, said:

‘Long as that’s all I catch.’

And… winked at Falls.

Not for the first time, she wondered what the fuck had happened to her once bright vision of police work, some skewered notion of righting wrongs, doing the best you could, and all that good Oprah crap.

Part of her began to envy McDonald being out of the whole sorry game, and Brant, waiting till Lynn had gone, swung back to face her, said:

‘Ammunition.’

She was lost, said:

‘I’m lost.’

He near sang:

‘But now you’re found… ammo, baby. It’s all we need… or, of course…, love.’

Then, very carefully, he told her how it was going to go down.

Did it scare her?

Did it fuck?

Rodney Lewis was home, a nice log fire going, so, it was artificial, it looked the biz. And being in the financial game, he knew appearances were all. He was wearing a smoking jacket, he didn’t actually smoke but you get the drift. It had the monogram, R, on the pocket, in gold stitching. He was real proud of that:

Class.

Who said you couldn’t buy it.

Fucking Labour government is who.

They were going to get theirs, and big time, in the next election, and with the Tories back, let the good times roll. He was sipping from a snifter of brandy, a fifty-year-old cognac, and the aroma,…bliss. He’d had a lobster dinner at his private club and a rather delicious creme caramel to follow. He let out a contented belch, thought:

Life is sweet.

Except…

Brant…

The continuing problem.

He’d decided to let it sit for a while, just do… nothing and wait for inspiration to hit. It always did, why he’d made so much cash in the city. Meanwhile, he had the satisfaction of knowing the bastard had to be hurting from the gunshots. And better, knowing that Rodney was coming, Brant would be on constant alert and then, out of nowhere, when he let his guard down… bingo, he’d be hit.

Rodney wasn’t going to farm out this contract, nope, not after the last fiasco. He’d do the piece of garbage himself.

He replayed the scene in his car with the guy who’d messed up the deal, and the rush of the adrenaline when he’d shot the poor dumb idiot. And that’s how he’d do Brant, up close and personal. He owed it to his late brother to keep it in the family, and he really wanted to have that rush again. The look on the victim’s face when you shoved the shooter in his mug.

Shooter?

He laughed aloud, like something out of The Sweeney.

He was still chuckling when he felt the cold barrel in the nape of his neck and he dropped the snifter, the cognac staining his Harrods pyjamas, those suckers had cost, like a bundle. He knew it was Brant, he heard the intake of breath and knew from recent experience it was the moment before the squeeze, and he tried: