Ken Bruen: Calibre

I’ve added two since my last entry. Drowned a guy in his bath, had heard him in a shop giving large to a child who was crying, and followed him home. Checked him out for a few days then simply called at his house. He’d appeared in his bathrobe, going:

‘What the hell do you want, I’m trying to have a bath here.’

I gave him a bath.

The next was a woman who worked the till in the garage on the Clapham Road, as ugly a person as you’d ever meet. Lashing out at customers like some dervish. Watched her for a while and she took her lunch the same time every day, so I borrowed a car from the lot, plowed her down. She turned at the last moment, saw my face… and from her expression, she’d no idea who I was and I’m sure my smile didn’t help.

After that, to tell the truth, I got tired.

I’d been reckless, beginning to believe I could do whatever I liked, the sure way to get caught. I’d been incredibly lucky several times, and the cops only had to be lucky once.

So I backed off, concentrated on my work. I’m an accountant, can you credit it? My old man used all his savings to send me to college, figured I’d be the success he wasn’t. I’m very very good, found a knack for creative accountancy, crooked in other words, but smart with it. You want to hide money, I’m your man, you want to avoid the Inland Revenue (who doesn’t?), then I’m your guy. Started out with a large firm but got so busy I had to set up private practice. You’d think it was boring, but hell, it’s so exciting. Making money disappear is the ultimate trick. I’m an alchemist of the first order.

I was reading an article by Colin Wilson, he says that serial killers have an overwhelming sense of their own importance… Whoops!

He adds that after studying them for forty years, they have one thing in common: a very high level of dominance. Oh dear, has old Colin nailed me there. I have to admit I was a little down after reading him. It’s galling to be herded in with a group, and anyway, I’m pretty successful in both my areas of activity. But hey, hang on a mo… Shit, I’m doing it, trying to justify myself, a sure signal you’re wrong.

This writing game has got me knackered. I thought it would be easy. One thing is certain, if Mandy keeps up her current level of irritation, she’s history. If that’s anger, fuck it.

Brant sat back in his swivel chair and admired the title of his proposed book. Good macho ring to it. It had taken him a week to get that far, but he figured the best writers took a time. Mind you, he wondered how the hell McBain had produced over eighty books. He’d reread the 87th Precinct ones and figured if he just copied that style, he’d have the book done in a week. It looked so simple, just fill the pages with dialogue. He had Irish blood, talk was as natural as breathing, but fuck, he couldn’t for the life of him get the shit down on paper.

Now that he was studying McBain, as opposed to just reading him, he noticed how very smart the man was. Brant had been raving for years about the books, but only now was he realizing how clever they were. The Q and A seemed to fill lots of pages in the book and didn’t take up much room, that’s what Brant liked best. He’d copied one of these, substituting Roberts and himself for Carella and Hawes, but it came off like a frigging kid’s essay. Brant was rarely disappointed with himself, self-belief was his strongest asset. He knew his strengths and ignored his failings. Most things he shrugged away, muttered ‘Kiss it off.’ His history was littered with darkness, and the way he’d survived that was to keep it locked up tight. But if he was to write this goddam thing, he’d have to use the cases he knew. And they were beauties. He’d read up on ‘Noir’ and called it ‘Nora.’ He’d gone so far as to buy a book on ‘Creative Writing’ and after twenty pages of concentrated reading, slung it across the room, going:

‘You’re bloody joking.’

In the bookshop there were a heap of volumes with titles like How to Write a Bestseller, but he figured if they knew so much about it, how come they weren’t writing the winners. The authors who wrote them, he’d never heard of, and if he knew one thing, he knew a con. He’d gotten the name of an agent and sent her a letter, saying who he was and his proposal to be an English Wambaugh. He didn’t mention his real plan of wishing to be McBain. He knew most of these literary types were snobs; McBain wasn’t intellectual enough for them. He said aloud:

‘Gobshites.’

He’d had a reply and the agent said she was very excited about his project and could he send her a synopsis. What he wanted to reply was ‘lashings of violence, sex, and negroes.’

His doorbell went and he was relieved, anything to get away from the writing. Brant lived in Lorn Road, a quiet street, just a mugging from the Oval. Most people on hearing the name wanted to add ‘For’ but didn’t. He opened the door and there was Porter, looking the worst for wear.

Wearing one of those wax jackets that seemed a hundred years old, much favoured by the Royals. His suit looked like it had been slept in. Porter looked like he’d been slept in.

Brant asked:

‘Got a warrant?’

No smile from Porter, so Brant said:

‘Come in.’

Porter sat on the sofa, near sank in the depth, and gazed at the bookshelves, amazed at the amount of books. Brant and books didn’t seem to go together. Brant said:

‘McBain… I rebuilt my whole stock, took awhile.’

Porter was silent then asked:

‘Could I get some tea, some herbal if you have it?’

Brant stood over him, asked:

‘Do I look like a guy who keeps herbal tea?’

He went and got a pot of coffee going, added a little speed to the mix, just a tiny hit, get Porter cranking. Whenever Brant busted a dope dealer, he kept a little of their stock, and now had every pharmaceutical known to man. He found that a hint of amphetemine juiced up coffee like nothing else. Made some toast, piled on the marmalade, put the lot on a tray bearing the wedding of Charles and Lady Diana, then carried it to the living room. Porter had dozed off, so Brant kicked his ankle, said;

‘Hoy, no sleeping on the job.’

Porter came to with a small scream, and Brant said:

‘Incoming?’

Porter shook himself, and at Brant’s insistence, drank the coffee. He said:

‘I’m not really a caffeine fiend.’

Brant leaned over, said:

‘Yo, buddy, you’re fucked. Get some stimulant in you, that’s why they say “Wake up and smell the coffee.”’

Brant refilled the cup, asked:

‘What the hell have you been doing, cottaging?’

Porter’s eyes flashed. The notion that he’d trawl public toilets, though it was a fine British tradition, appalled him. He said:

‘I’ve been sleeping in my car, outside Trevor’s home, lest the guy comes after him.’

Brant waved his hand, went:

‘You can pack that in, I’ve got it covered.’

Porter was surprised, asked:

You have someone watching Trevor’s. How come I didn’t make them?’

Brant laughed, as if from resignation, said:

‘Well fuck, if you could see them, they wouldn’t be a whole lot of bloody use, would they?’

Porter considered-the caffeine and speed were racing along his veins, heading for a blitz on the brain-he was already sitting up, said:

‘Thanks, I mean, god, for looking out for us… for Trevor…’