Ken Bruen - Vixen

‘Ray?’

Donna had a serious nose-candy problem, the septum already in the final stages of disintegration. Her constant sniffle became irritating very fast. She wiped at her nostrils and Ray could see she was hurting. He laid a fat envelope on the table, said:

‘Enough there to keep you in blow for a month.’

Her hand reached out and he grabbed her wrist, asked:

‘Where’s Angie?’

‘You wouldn’t hurt her or anything, would you, Ray?’

‘Hey, Donna, she’s my old lady; I just want to get some readies to her.’

Donna couldn’t take her eyes off the envelope, tried hard and said:

‘I could deliver it for you.’

Now she got his smile and it wasn’t any relation of warmth. He tightened his grip on her wrist, said:

‘Not that I don’t trust you, doll, but I’d like to surprise her. You can understand that.’

She gave him Karen’s address and cautioned:

‘They’re looking everywhere for you. The filth say there’s good will for whoever gives you up.’

He leaned closer, whispered:

‘I’ve some nasty friends, anything happens to me, they come visit you, get my meaning?’

She attempted to act offended, said:

‘Jeez, Ray, you think I’d sell you out?’

He stood up and released her wrist, shoved the envelope across the table and said:

‘Blow hard.’

He was moving away from the table when she said:

‘Hey, what about the champagne?’

He laughed out loud.

And got to the place in time to see police and the ambulance, and Angie being shoved into the back of a cop car.

He said:

‘Ah girl, what have you been at now?’

He wasn’t unduly worried. If he knew his woman as well as he suspected, she’d be out on bail in no time.

Angie had been allowed her call and got hold of Ellen Dunne, the radical lawyer who liked nothing better than to bust the cops’ balls. As Angie sat in the interrogation room, Porter Nash said:

‘Do yourself a favour, spill the beans and we can cut you some slack.’

Angie yawned, said:

‘Fuck off.’

Outside the room, Roberts was listening to Brant’s account and asked:

‘Did you have a warrant, anything remotely like just cause or some frigging legal basis?’

Brant was offended, lit a cig and spat:

‘She’s dirty; at the very least we can have her for poisoning her mate.’

Roberts shook his head, said:

‘Look at her, she seem like she’s worried? She’ll claim the woman was self-administering. Strippers, they take all kinds of shit to clear their complexions, keep their weight down and, besides, she’s got the best defence. Why would she do it? The woman was helping her out: it doesn’t make sense and a judge would more than likely throw it out. Here’s Falls, she’s really fucked up this time.’

Falls was the worse for wear and when she heard Angie was using her as alibi, she felt her whole world collapse. Roberts came at her like a Rottweiler, demanding:

‘Tell me you weren’t with this Angie on the night Jimmy Cross got hot-wired.’

Falls looked to Brant for some signal but he was leaning against the wall, his eyes hard. She said:

‘I’m so sorry, sir.’

He exploded, his hands clenched, roared:

‘Jesus H Christ, how many times have Brant and I saved your ass, gone to bat for you against all the odds, how many bloody times?’

Before she could form a reply, he turned and went into the interview room. Brant lit a cig, blew smoke at the ceiling, said:

‘Me? I don’t give a toss what people do — shag sheep, who cares? And to tell you the truth, a little lezzie action, I can appreciate that, it’s so French. But fucking the enemy, that’s screwing the job, and without that, we’re really screwed, so if I were you, lady, I’d check the wanted ads for security guard placements.’

He pushed off from the wall and with, a rough gesture, ground the cig beneath his boot. Falls, who’d had to enlist his help so many times, felt total despair.

She tried:

‘Maybe the time-frame will help. Maybe she came to me after Jimmy got fried. Can we get the time of death?’

She knew how poor this was but hey, she was sinking and fas, t but had to try. He gave her the stare of total disinterest, the worst thing he could have done. In their time, he’d fixed those granite eyes on her with everything from hate to lust, amusement to disappointment and even on odd moments, pride, but never this. He said:

‘You’d have been drinking so how reliable are you? I’d pegged you for a lot of stuff, Falls, but a dyke, never.’

At that, the doors swung open and a heavy-set woman came striding in. Ellen Dunne, the darling of the Left and the scourge of the Met, looking something like an overweight Glenda Jackson. She had been courted by various parties but a political career would never be the fun that busting cops was. She was waving a newspaper and, fixing her gaze on Brant, said:

‘Seethe headline?’

Brant set his wolf smile, answered:

‘You know me, Ellen, I’m a pig. Would I have the sense to read papers?’

‘Let me read it for you, it’s so “up your street”… listen: “I’d like to say to all international drug dealers, if you’d be so kind as to stand up against that wall for a moment… Then I’d shout: ‘Ready, aim, fire!’.”‘

Brant shrugged and Ellen said:

‘This isn’t a tabloid hack but something written by Chief Constable Terry Grange. Is this your boys in blue? Where’s my client?’

Brant nodded towards the interview room and she pushed past.

Angie was sipping from a Diet Coke, Roberts standing near the window, Porter sitting opposite Angie.

Ellen gave them her gallows smile, said:

‘Might I have a moment to confer with my client?’

They moved to leave and Ellen looked closer at Porter, asked:

‘Hey, aren’t you Porter Nash?’

He stopped, said:

‘So?’

She studied him, then:

‘The fag? We were hoping you’d bring some light into this abyss but… You’re over-compensating. Think that if you’re more of a fascist than the rest of them, they’ll let you be one of the lads? Is that it?’

Porter was stung and snapped:

‘I expected more of you, Ms Dunne.’

Angie was enjoying this and delighted that Dunne was even better than she’d heard, said:

‘He wanted me to cop a plea.’

Ellen was still studying him, asked:

‘Didn’t you have a heart attack or something?’

Porter wanted to lash out, come up with some scathing put-down, but all he had was:

‘Like you care?’

Ellen turned to sit down, said:

‘I don’t.’

Twenty minutes later, Angie was cut loose and Ellen threatened:

‘We’ll sue your asses off.’

The assembled group — Brant, Falls, Roberts, steeped in their respective misery — were silent. Porter had disappeared.

After Angie had gone, Ellen’s arm protectively round her shoulder, Roberts turned to Falls, said:

‘Go home, you’re a complete liability. No doubt you’ll be bounced as soon as the hearing is done and you’re suspended without pay, got it?’

As Falls left the building, the desk sergeant whispered:

‘You let guys watch when you’re doing chicks? I could line up some gigs.’

She was too wretched to give him the finger.

Angie had gone to the pub, bought Ellen a large brandy and a vodka for herself.

Ellen cautioned:

‘Watch your step now. Those bastards have been badly humiliated, they’ll do anything to get you. Have you a place to stay?’

Angie, feeling powerful, adrenaline coursing through her, said:

‘I’m going home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘The Mews, where I lived with Ray and his late brother.’