Ken Bruen: Ammunition

‘Gotta go, babe. I’ve been arrested.’

She was near orgasmic in her delight, said:

‘You sweetheart, you’re such a marketing dream, this is ideal, you want me to do anything?’

‘Yeah, put up bail.’

He put the phone down, turned to Porter, asked:

‘Can I get some coffee?’

Porter produced a warrant, said:

‘This allows us to make a search of your premises and yes, while we’re conducting the search, you may make coffee, I’m afraid I’ll have to accompany you.’

Brant smiled, asked:

‘Got a fag?’

Any other place being searched would have been tossed with total disregard, the cops not giving a shit about what they damaged or ruined:

But Brant.

Uh-uh.

He might be under arrest, but he was far from gone and they knew better than to fuck with his stuff, so when they found various items of dope, porn, they ignored it, Brant had a long memory. Their brief was to find a Glock, and that’s all they searched for, if not too diligently.

Brant was savouring his coffee, drawing hard on the menthol cig Porter had given him. Porter was staring at him, asked:

‘You don’t seem too worried. This is a serious charge, and everybody knows you threatened him.’

Brant smiled, no warmth or humour, his most calculated one, said:

‘You know Porter, you were with me, so if everybody knows, you told them, I thought we were mates?’

Porter felt terrible, they were mates, if the most unlikely pairing on the planet, but Porter took his role as cop very seriously, said:

‘If you took the law into your own hands, you’re no longer a policeman.’

Brant was still smiling, asked:

‘When was he hit?’

Porter, taken by surprise, needed a moment to think, then told Brant the time and date.

Brant dropped the cig on the floor, ground it out. Porter had to fight the impulse to clean up. Brant said:

‘I’ve an alibi.’

Porter knew all about Brant’s circle of hookers, who’d do anything for him, said:

‘Your hooker crew won’t bail you on this one I’m afraid.’

Brant stared right into Porter’s eyes, said:

‘Oh, it’s not a hooker, much much better.’

Porter had to know, asked:

‘Might I know who it is?’

Brant took his sweet time, then:

‘Falls, that’s Sergeant Falls to you.’

Then he stuck out his hands, asked:

‘Wanna cuff me?’

Porter had considered it, anything to wipe that fucking smile off his face, but said:

‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary.’

Brant sighed, said:

‘Pity, I thought you gays, you were into all that S and M stuff.’

The lead search cop looked in, said:

‘We found nothing, sir.’

Porter was barely holding it in, snapped:

‘Nothing?’

‘No, sir.’

Brant looked at the cop, winked.

The press had a field day with Brant’s arrest, the killing of Rodney Lewis smacked of vigilante cop justice, and they’d been keen to nail Brant for years.

His agent, true to her word, had a high-priced lawyer ar rive, and without definite evidence, Brant was bailed. Roberts had been despatched to get over to Falls’s place, see if the alibi held up.

The Super wanted Brant to go down, shouted at Roberts:

‘You tell that black cunt to be very careful about helping Brant get out of this. If he goes down, she’s going with him.’

Roberts wisely, said nothing.

On the steps of the police station, Brant gave an impromptu press conference, replied to all questions:

‘Read it in my new book, Calibre, due next week.’

His agent was over the moon.

The man was a publishing bonanza.

Falls was in a deep stupor when Roberts came banging on her door. Took her a moment to come round, then she felt her stomach heave, a biblical headache kick in, the banging was ferocious on the door, she screamed:

‘Jesus, give me a bloody minute.’

And heard:

‘It’s the police. In a minute we’ll force the door.’

Roberts was alone but in no mood for Falls and her nonsense. Falls thought:

Oh, God. They’ve found Angie already. I’m fucked.

She opened the door, saw Roberts, and nearly threw up on him, he pushed her aside, said:

‘On the piss again, that’s a help.’

She closed the door quietly, the world spun for a moment, and she had to struggle for balance. Roberts surveyed the wreck of the room, bottles everywhere, and then took a closer look at Falls, said:

‘I like the shoes, very classy, though I’m not sure they go with the T-shirt.’

Falls gazed in horror at Angie’s shoes, how the hell did that happen, and at Snoopy on her shirt. Like her own self, he was the worse for wear. Roberts picked up a bottle of Stoli, examined the top, asked:

‘What’d you do, crack someone over the head with this?’

Before Falls could utter a word, he poured a healthy measure into a mug, said:

‘You better have some of this, hair of the dog that bit you. But I think the dog was rabid from the state of you here.’

And he offered the mug, she could hardly hold it from the shakes, but managed to get it to her lips, drank greedily. The liquid hit her like acid and she gasped, thought she was going to spew wholesale, Roberts watched with a certain detached interest. He’d been down this road himself so he wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. It was, in fact, Falls who’d hauled him back from the toilet so there was a certain symmetry in this. The battle in her stomach waged for nearly three minutes. Doesn’t seem long, but if you’re the one with the stomach, it’s eternity:

Her stomach won out and the booze settled in for another session, waiting for more of the same. Roberts said:

‘Sit down before you collapse.’

She did, sit that is.

Kicked off the shoes, Christ, soon as she was able. She was burning those fuckers.

Roberts made some coffee and as he did so, Falls recalled bits and horrendous pieces of the evening before.

Holy shit, she’d killed the Vixen.

Roberts put a steaming mug before her, said:

‘No more booze. Get that down you and let me see if I can get any sense out of you?’

She managed to speak, said:

‘I’m okay now. Why are you here?’

Roberts sat back, remembered when Falls had been the wet dream of the nick, and gung ho, believing a black WPC could really make a difference. The years had soured her beyond belief, but then he didn’t believe a whole lot in anything either. Truth was, he’d always liked her and so he went easier than he’d planned, said:

‘I’m going to give you a break, for old times’ sake, I could start asking you where you were with on a certain night, and more importantly, who you were with?’

Falls was convinced it was Angie. She was going to go down for the psycho bitch, but in truth, she didn’t feel any remorse for walloping her… killing her?… well?

Roberts said:

‘Rodney Lewis was murdered and, of course, the most likely suspect is our man Brant.’

Then he did her the favour, told her the day and time of Lewis’s demise, and asked:

‘Sergeant Falls, were you with Sergeant Brant on the day and time in question?’

Falls had no idea. She couldn’t for the life of her remember anything beyond the hazy events of the previous evening. She said, without hesitation:

‘Yes, sir, I was.’

They both knew she was lying, and it hung there for a moment, blackening whatever affection, bond, had been between them. Roberts sighed, said:

‘Be very sure you want to do this… Liz.’

She nearly laughed, the last person to use her first name was rotting in a Dumpster.

Fuck, may be she’d kill anyone who came by, sure would give the postman a turn.