Ken Bruen: Ammunition

Girlfriend,

How are you sweetie?

I’ve missed you.

Your black, creamy skin, your wild, abandoned love-making, your lovely face got me through so rough times here on her

Majesty’s Service.

Wonderful news.

I’m out.

Aren’t you delighted?

I know you are.

I know you long for me.

Patience, my black meat.

I have few a loose ends to put right, but then I’ll be round. I see you’re still at the same address.

We’ll make up for all the lost time.

Soon, my lover.

Be patient.

Xxxxxxxx

Your own fox

Falls wiped her brow, sweat was pouring off her, the gin she hoped. The bar guy was over, asked:

‘Hot enough for yah?’

Falls fixed her steel eyes on him, said:

‘Fuck off’

He loved it, said:

‘God, I love it when babes talk dirty.’

And he was gone before Falls could reply.

She couldn’t believe it, Angie was out and stalking her. Panic gripped her. Angie was among the craziest of a whole series of deranged lunatics she’d met in her time on the force.

And to say she had ammunition on Falls was putting it mildly. Falls lit a cigarette, her hands a little steadier. The only person who could really deal with this type of psycho was Brant.

Feeling the drinks, Falls got to her feet and wondered if she should call a cab, she wasn’t sure if she was in any shape to drive.

The bar guy said:

‘You come back and cheer us all up soon, you hear.’

Brant would have given him a wallop up the side of the head.

Bruen, Ken

Ammunition (Inspector Brant)

McDonald was home, shaking his head in disbelief. The events of the day had staggered him. Just when he truly believed his life was fully in the toilet, the cavalry had arrived-in the guise of an old codger.

Go figure.

After he had bashed the young hooded girl and invited the old man for a cuppa, it had never once occurred to him that his whole future was about to change. They’d gone to a transport caff, one of the few real English places still existing, the old man prattling on about the country having gone to the dogs… though he might have well said… wogs.

Which meant he had either a lisp or a serious hard-on for foreigners. They’d ordered bacon sarnies, a neon-lit nightmare of carbos, and, of course, a large pot of tea, brewed with Lipton’s real tea, none of that tea-bag shite. The sandwiches arrived, dripping fat and lard, just the way McDonald adored them. As they ate, with relish, the old man, mid bite, asked:

‘So, how come a bright young copper like yourself is pulling garbage duty?’

McDonald thought about giving him a sob story but decided to tell the truth, said:

‘There’s no tolerance any more for hands-on policing.’

This seemed to be exactly the answer the old man was hoping for. He extended his hand, said:

‘I’m Bill Traynor, fought for my country and what do I get?’

McDonald put three sugars in his tea, ventured:

‘Sweet fanny all I’d say.’

Bill was nodding, said:

‘Too bloody right, mate. Where I live, we’re tormented by young Pakis, playing loud music, insulting our wives, sneering at us as we go to the post office, and don’t even mention the darkies. They wait for us to collect our pensions, not that you could feed a frigging cat on what they give us, and they jump us after we collect.’

He was gasping for breath, took out an inhaler, said:

‘Me bloody lungs are shot but before I go, I’d like to make a stand, are you following me?’

McDonald had a fair idea but he’d let Bill spit it out, said nothing and simply stirred his tea:

Bill looked round, then said, in nearly a whisper:

‘A group of us have formed an association, a band of men to take back our streets, but we’re old, how effective can we be.’

He stared at McDonald, and seeing nothing to warrant handcuffs, took the plunge, said:

‘Now if we had a bright young ballsy fellah to lead us, we might make a difference, do you follow me so far?’

McDonald thought how complicated was it, a bunch of pensioner vigilantes, he nearly laughed but Bill added:

‘We’d pay the right man to lead us, pay him well.’

McDonald, his face neutral, asked:

‘Define well?

Bill mentioned a figure that took McDonald by surprise. The truth was, he’d have done it gratis just to have some respect, even if it was old respect.

Bill was fidgeting, nervous as a rat, asked:

‘What do you think?’

McDonald smiled, asked:

‘When would you like to begin?’

They’d decided on Friday night, that was the worst time, when the nonnationals got weeded up, doped up, boozed up, and went amok. McDonald had written down a shopping list for Bill, said:

‘This is what we’ll need for openers.’

Bill scanned the list, his dentures spreading in a wide smile.

Baseball bats

Balaclavas

Petrol

Billiard balls

Bill had hesitated at the last item, asked:

‘What’s the balls for?’

McDonald drained the last of his tea, timing being vital, said, as he stood up:

‘We’re going to make the bastards eat them.’

Bill loved it.

McDonald had picked up a fairly serious coke habit after he’d been shot and was fond of the jolt of speed too. He did a line now, swallowed a tab of speed, and as the drugs wired him, he said aloud:

‘The boy is back in town.’

Put his favourite Thin Lizzy album on the sound system, cranked it to max, punched the air in a little victory jig.

The people who lived below would have complained, but who were they going to call? The cops?

Roberts, Porter Nash, and Wallace were still in the pub. Roberts had put away twice the amount of booze as the others, then stood up, threw a slew of notes on the table, said:

‘I better hit the road, we’ve a lot of suspects to track down tomorrow.’

Porter noticed Roberts was unsteady on his feet and tried:

‘You okay to get home?’

Roberts glared at him, asked:

‘And what, you going to walk me?’

Porter recognized the sheer belligerence of the aggressive drunk, ready to lash out at anyone. He reined in, said:

‘No, just if you wanted a cab or something?’

Roberts eyed him, then said:

‘You want something to fret about, then worry about finding who shot Brant, there’s a good boy.’

And he was gone.

There was silence till Wallace asked:

‘Apart from his sergeant being shot, what’s the other bug up his ass?’

Seeing Porter smile, he realized what he’d said, went:

‘Sorry, buddy, I didn’t mean anything personal.’

Porter was used to the double entendres and let them slide, said:

‘The chief inspector lost his wife a time ago, then he hit a series of real success in his cases until he went after a villain alone.’

Wallace just loved the way the Brits talked… villains… back home they called them perps, skels but this, this was almost cosy. He asked:

‘You up for a nightcap, one for the road?’

Porter had already had way more than he should, with diabetes, he shouldn’t even be drinking but thought, what the hell, said:

‘Yeah, let’s go for it.’

Wallace went to the bar, came back with two shot glasses, full to the brim. Porter watched him carry the glasses in his huge fists, never spilling a drop, and saw the hard muscle beneath the bulk, and knew, despite Wallace’s affability, this was one hard case. Wallace put the shots on the table, said:

‘Buddy, I couldn’t believe it, they had Jim Beam. Down in one, you game?’

He was and they tossed them back, Porter waited a moment and then gave a shudder, the bourbon hit his stomach like a train, an express. His eyes watered, Wallace laughed, said: