Ken Bruen - Vixen

Around eleven, a van pulled up, parked on the kerb. A white van, not unlike the one every American law enforcement agency was looking for in the Washington sniper case a few years back. A tall blond guy wearing a cream leather jacket (to accessorise the van?) and black combat pants climbed out. His hair thick and long, poured over his upturned collar. Brant muttered:

‘General fucking Custer.’

The guy’s back was pumped, muscles showing through the leather: steroids and gym, the new addiction. He approached the hookers, said a few words then backhanded one. Another started to shout and he punched her in the stomach. Brant reached for a tyre iron, paused, saying, ‘Naw…’ and let it be. He got out and slammed his car door but if the guy heard, he didn’t care. Brant was delighted, he loved the stupid ones.

The guy was raising his hands again and Brant shouted:

‘Yo, Custer?’

The guy turned, in no hurry. Whatever was coming, he could deal with it. He looked at Brant, asked:

‘You calling me, prick-face?’

Brant smiled, this was better than he’d hoped. Moved to within a cigarette of the guy, said:

‘I’m Sergeant Brant. Due to recent public concern, we have to identify ourselves from the off. My name mean anything to you?’

The guy dredged up phlegm from deep in his chest, sampled it, then brought it up, letting his head back, he hawked the full load, then spat it to an inch of Brant’s left shoe, said:

‘That name don’t mean shit to me.’

Brant didn’t move, which set off an alarm in the guy’s confidence.

Brant said:

‘Oh, that’s not very nice. Watch out, she’s behind you.’

Almost never failed, the oldest ruse in the book and the shitheads went for it every time. The guy turned and Brant hit him with the low kidney shot, felling him like a sack of Galway potatoes. He moved round then with the steel caps, delivered a staccato of kicks to the body. A small cheer went up from the girls. Brant hunkered down, grabbed the blond hair with his left hand and dragged the guy’s face up, said:

‘You gotta be hurting, am I right?… No, no, don’t answer ‘cos I still have to break your nose… shshhhhhh, be done before you can shout “police intimidation”.’

And it was.

Brant straightened up, reached for his cigs, fired up, finally turned to the hookers who were gaping at him. No strangers to violence, they were stunned at the casual ferocity. Brant gave his wolf smile, said:

‘Nice evening for it.’

Then nudging the guy with the tip of his shoe, he said:

‘I see you again, you’re history.’

As he got back in the car, he enjoyed the sight of the women rolling the guy.

Falls wanted a drink; she wanted a lot of drinks. The Roebuck was usually quiet midweek and on her way to the bar she clocked a few lone drinkers. A surly barman slapped her drink on the counter. She was preparing to have his ass when a customer banged into her, said:

‘Sorry, lost my balance.’

And he veered away, heading for the door. A young woman rose from a table, grabbed him and got his arm midway on his back, put her hand in his pocket then shoved him away, snarling

‘Now, fuck off.’

He made for the door and was gone. The woman walked to Falls, held out a purse, said:

‘He dipped you.’

Falls stared at her purse in astonishment, thinking, I never felt him, then asked:

‘Can I buy you a drink? It’s the very least I can do.’

The woman, blonde, pretty, in expensive clothes gave a radiant smile, said:

‘Sure, large vodka, loads of ice.’

Falls signalled to the barman, asked her:

‘Justice?’

‘Yeah, why fuck it up?’

Falls liked her already. They moved to a table and Falls raised her glass, said:

‘Thanks so much.’

She said, ‘No big thing,’ and sank the double like a docker, raised her finger, said:

‘Yo, bar-person. Hit us again.’

Then she produced a pack of Rothmans, asked:

‘Hope you don’t mind?’

Falls couldn’t believe she’d found a kindred spirit, put out her hand, went:

‘I’m Elizabeth.’

And was amazed with herself as she never normally gave her first name.

The woman took her hand, said:

‘I’m happy to meet you.’

After another round, Falls was seriously wrecked, said:

‘I’m a cop.’

‘Yeah?’

Not interested, cool about it. Falls continued:

‘And I’ve got to say you handled that guy like you were a cop yourself.’

The woman flashed the smile, said:

‘I work the clubs. Bit of dancing, some hostessing, and a whole pile of assholes.’

Falls got out some paper, wrote her number down, said:

‘Listen, let’s get together again, my treat.’

The woman nodded and glanced at her watch, said:

‘Got to run.’

Falls went to stand, staggered, then:

‘I don’t even know your name.’

Over her shoulder, as she left, the woman said:

‘Angie.’

A car was parked up the street and Angie got in, the two brothers waiting. One asked:

‘How did it go?’

‘Piece of cake, she’s a lush.’

Ray, the smart one, asked:

‘Why did you have to be so rough when you grabbed me?’

‘Make it look real. She’s a cop, she’d smell a bogus stunt.’

Jimmy, the muscle, asked:

‘What do you want to meet a cop for?’

Angie tapped her forehead, said:

‘We want to know how the investigation is going, who better to tell us than a cop?’

Ray, negotiating traffic, was shaking his head, went:

‘Seems risky to me.’

“Course it’s risky, that’s the fucking rush.’

The second explosion was at a teenage disco, situated off Coldharbour Lane. A large hall had been converted by local builders, its aim to keep teenagers away from the main strip in Brixton. So now the kids hit the strip first, scored the dope, then went to the disco. Parents, delighted at the lack of booze, congratulated themselves on their efforts.

Two parents, acting as bouncers, were injured in the blast. The dynamite had been placed in a litter bin sited conveniently at the main entrance. The victims, covered in blood, were on the front page of all the papers with screaming headlines:

BOMBER TARGETS TEENS

Roberts, all control gone, was shouting:

‘They didn’t phone… why didn’t they bloody phone? I mean, play fucking fair, we never even got a chance to answer the ransom demand. What the hell is going on?’

No one knew. Roberts glared at his team. Porter Nash, clearing his throat, began:

‘I met with the Bomb Squad.’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s the same outfit, same MO. A few sticks of dynamite and the crude timer.’

Brant, lit a cig, exhaled, asked:

‘Any luck on the usual suspects?’

‘No, seems to be a new operator.’

Roberts slammed his hand on the table, said:

‘I’ve to meet the Super in ten minutes… is that what I tell him…? That we figure it’s a new operator? He’s going to fucking lap that up, bound to be commendations all round.’

Porter Nash felt he should say something further, tried:

‘The victims are doing well, the injuries looked worse than they actually were.’

Roberts wasn’t placated

‘Take a look at the bloody tabloids, the damage is already done.’

A silence descended and the atmosphere was thick with recrimination.

The phone rang.

Roberts grabbed the phone, said:

‘Yes?’

A robotic tone, speaking through one of those voicechangers, asked: