Ken Bruen - Calibre

‘Fucking A.’

Which was something he’d never thought in his life, nevermind uttered. Lifted the gun and loved the weight, he checked it and noted it held fifteen rounds. A stash of bullets also and he racked the slide, put a round in the chamber, aimed at the screen. Picking’s face in his sights, whispered, ‘Sayonara, sucker.’

Took him a real effort not to squeeze the trigger.

Falls wanted to feel good about Andrews, tried to sell herself the sisterhood bullshit, when one woman succeeds, it’s a victory for all women. Yeah, right. She was in her tattered bathrobe, sipping at tea, her day off, the papers in front of her. Andrews was on the front page of most papers, even The Big Issue had a feature on the deal. What galled Falls was how fucking humble Andrews looked. And truth to tell, she sure did have a pretty face. Next thing she’d be doing the sergeant’s exam and talking about a shoo-in. Falls had failed it countless times. McDonald was sure fucked, though. Falls didn’t see how he could possibly even stay on the force, she knew he’d been suspended and an enquiry was due. The poor bastard was gone, and she’d been so close to the door herself, she felt for him. She almost regretted the black eye she’d given him. When she’d mentioned him to Brant, who could save almost anyone, being a survivor himself, he’d sneered, said:

‘He’s gone.’

And Roberts, who’d been down the toilet a few times, who’d usually go to bat for a cop, had compressed his mouth in a hard line, said:

‘A yellow cop is a dead one.’

She thought of giving McDonald a call and say what?

‘Tough shit, I hear security are always glad to employ a policeman.’

Maybe ask him if he’d like to go out, have a few drinks, but God, what a night that’d be. No, scratch that. She detested McDonald, had had so much aggro with him, she’d lost count. But she hated to see any cop go down. She sighed, took a sip of the cold tea, and tried to figure out how she was going to rise to a level of congratulations for Andrews. She’d just begun to like her too, they’d shared a few memorable moments, but that was over now. You couldn’t hang with a hero, the light would blind you. Falls stood, picked up the papers, and dumped them in the trash.

Crew was tired, trying to figure out his next move and stay ahead of the cops was exhausting. It was like he had to think for three, himself and the two cops. They were coming and that was a given. Plus he had to show up at the goddam office. Being the boss helped, but he still had some major league pissed-off people on the phone, going:

‘When am I getting my audit?’

Accountancy shit and when money was involved, as it was here and heavy, the pissed-off factor rose accordingly.

Wouldn’t it be grand, as the Micks say, if he could tell the truth, go:

‘Hey, I’m trying to kill people here, you wanna give me some fucking slack?’

He was sorely tempted. And he had serious plans to implement if he was to win this game with the cops and stay out of the nick. His secretary, Linda, had been very upset:

‘Mr Crew, clients are demanding to know when they can get some time with you?’

Demanding!

That definitely was in the realm of bad manners. Wouldn’t that be a hoot, kill his client base. Certainly be a first. God knew, the majority of them needed killing. Money only seemed to bring out the very worst in folk. He’d reassured Linda he was on top of his game. Which particular one he didn’t specify. Mandy the treacherous cow, wasn’t taking his calls and wouldn’t answer the door either. Man, it would be a downright pleasure to punch her ticket. He locked himself in his office, began the process of escape. Took some time and when he emerged, exhausted, Linda was moaning, he said:

‘I believe it’s time we gave you a raise.’

Shut her the fuck up, money rang the changes each and every time. Enough to make a chap cynical. He was always glad to get out of the city, the financial centre bored him. He liked money for what it could do but didn’t see it as sexy or hot the way these new young guys spoke about it. Once he went with a few of the youngbloods to a wine bar and they drooled over the amounts they made, the number of dots on a pay-cheque. One of them, seeing his disinterest, asked:

‘What gets you going, Crew?’

As per public schoolboys’s rituals, they addressed you by your surname, which he considered the height of bad manners. He looked at the guy, a wanker in a very expensive suit, sweat under the arms of his Jermyn Street shirt, and replied:

‘I like to make a killing.’

They conceded he was droll and never asked him again. He steered his BMW carefully under the limit, conscious now that any infringement of laws and they’d grab him. He eased the car safely into his drive and unbuckled the seat belt, looking forward to a scotch and soda and the quiet contemplation of his future. As soon as he opened the hall door, he knew something was wrong, the sense of stillness was gone, somebody had been here. Thinking:

The bastards, breaking in while I’m at work.

Walked to the lounge and there was Brant, stretched out on the sofa, a glass balanced on his chest, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He turned, asked:

‘Hard day at the office, dear?’

He dropped his briefcase from shock. Did they have him already? Brant was smiling, said:

‘Gave you a bit of a start there, eh?’

Crew found his voice, asked:

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Intimidating you.’

Crew couldn’t get a handle on it, tried:

‘You’re breaking and entering, unless I see a warrant.’

Brant swung his legs off the sofa, said:

‘Boofhead.’

Crew had no idea what this was, asked:

‘What?’

‘Aussie, mate, means a stupid person. Are you a stupid person?’

Crew moved over to the phone, said:

‘I’m calling the police, there are rules against this sort of thing.’

Brant said:

‘Touch the phone and I’ll break your arm.’

Crew stopped, looked at him, went:

Are you serious?’

‘Try me, shit-head.’

Cew considered running for the door, going for help, but Brant moved and kicked the door shut, said:

‘Pour us a couple of stiff ones, there’s a good lad, and we’ll have a wee chin-wag.’

It was the casual violence in Brant’s tone that was chilling, almost friendly, as if breaking your arm was a gesture of no consequence at all. Crew went to the drinks, poured two large Teachers, asked:

‘Ice?’

Thinking, What am I doing? and thought, Stalling, playing for time.

He put the drink in front of Brant and gulped down a swig of his own. Brant smiled at him with something like affection.

Crew tried again:

‘This is ridiculous. You can’t just barge in, threaten me, and think you’ll get away with it.’

Brant stood up, stretched, then took a hefty swig, said:

‘Ah, that hits the spot. You don’t know me, I take it, not my rep as they say. Well, it’s a bad one, I don’t play by the rules. They investigated me twice on suspicion of killing a suspect, as if I would. What I want you to know is, I know you’re the killer, but the problemo is, it’s going to be a bitch to prove it so I’m going to take you out of the picture.’

Crew realized his glass was empty, gasped:

‘What?’

‘I’m going to kill you, and here’s the part you’ll appreciate, it’s going to seem an accident. Hey, what do you think, make it seem like the manners guy got you, wouldn’t that be a gas.’

Crew tried to get a handle on this, said: